"The Reverend Mr. Sackville Bayle, his worthy parish priest*, and ever faithful friend, administered the solemn office of the sacrament to him, reading at his request the prayers for a communicant at the point of death. He had ordered all his bed curtains to be opened and the sashes thrown up, that he might have air and space to assist him in his efforts; what they were, with what devotion he joined in those solemn prayers, that warn the parting spirit to dismiss all hopes that centre in this world, that reverend friend can witness. I also was a witness and a partaker: none else was present at that holy ceremony. "A short time before he expired, I came by his desire to his bed-side, when taking my hand, and pressing it between his, he addressed me, for the last time, in the following words: 'You see me now in those moments, when no disguise will serve, and when the spirit of a man must be proved. I have a mind perfectly resigned, and at peace within itself. I have done with this world, and what I have done in it, I have done for the best: I hope and trust I am prepared for the next. Tell not me of all that passes in health and pride of heart; these are the moments, in which a man must be searched, and remember that I die, as you see me, with a tranquil conscience and content."" * A clergyman of the Established Church. That penetrating eye, which once saw so keenly the innermost recesses of the human heart, was now closed for ever. His Lordship expired on the 26th August 1785. Cumberland followed his remains to the family vault at Withyham, contiguous to the Park, wherein they were deposited among other illustrious branches of the Dorset family. From Quiet, rural, peaceful is the spot. Tunbridge Wells the ride thither is delightful, through a luxuriant, picturesque country, pleasingly diversified by hills, dales, and sloping woodlands. A solemnity reigns around as you approach the sacred sanctuary. All is a pensive solitude. It was a fine autumnal evening when I entered the village, and the setting sun tinged with his parting rays the clouds, the woods, and the meadows. The fine old oaks had not yet begun to shed their foliage, but were clothed in all that rich variety of light and shade peculiar to the season. The sons and daughters of health and content were returning home from their daily toil, with happiness depicted in every countenance. The blacksmith's hammer alone was heard. The church at Withyham is simple, but standing on rising ground is a conspicuous object. The village, consisting only of a few cottages, is interesting, because it was the scene of his Lordship's benevolence, and because se veral of the inhabitants are yet alive, who bear ample testimony to his goodness. Buckhurst Park, where he spent the evening of his life, and where he paid the debt of nature, is, upon the whole, the finest I ever entered. It is still kept up in most excellent order, the poor villagers being constantly employed by Lord Whitworth in repairing the paths and roads. The mansion appears to have been formerly an abbey, but has of late undergone considerable alterations. It is delightfully situate, commanding an extensive view over the adjacent country, Crowborough, Hartfield, and the Forest. The Reverend Mr. Sackville Bayle, who administered the sacrament to his Lordship in his last moments, is still living. Through the politeness of that gentleman I obtained the keys of the church, with liberty to descend the family vault. In the former, there are but few monuments, nor would a stranger suppose that all which now remains of the generous, the accomplished, and the brave, is fast mouldering beneath him but on entering the chamber of death, the number and magnificence of some of the coffins forcibly arrest the attention. You are surrounded on either side by the ashes of those who once figured on the stage of life, and who were justly ranked among the honourable of the earth. Some of the coffins are crumbling to decay, one of which is so far gone that you can discern the skeleton: another contains only an embalmed heart. I explored the catacombs of Paris with far less interest than this vault. The ideas associated with that charnel are too horrible, from their connection with the terrors of the Revolution: here, the mind pauses, and reverts back to scenes both domestic and political, with which we are all conversant, and wherein the lifeless tenants once formed so prominent a feature in our own history. The inscriptions were difficult to read, the ravages of time having effaced some and rendered others nearly illegible. I traced that of Lionel Duke of Dorset, who was five times Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in the reign of George the Second and at his feet discovered that of his son, denominated by Mr. Pitt, the Agamemnon of the day, and by Lord North, the mighty Boar of the Forest. A brass plate with the following simple inscription, is the only distinguishing mark THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE VISCOUNT SACKVILLE, AND BARON BOLEBROOK, DIED August 26th, 1785, aged 69 YEARS. There is nothing further to perpetuate his 382 MEMOIRS OF LORD VISCOUNT SACKVILLE. memory or to record the worth of this distinguished character. No encomium, no comment: there he lies in the sepulchre of his forefathers; a lesson to survivors of the instability of all human greatness: neither is there any stone, or tablet, or monument in the church. I quitted this plain unadorned structure with the impression, that as his labours instruct and enlighten mankind, none now is wanting, for Junius has left a name behind him, that will be transmitted. to posterity, when kings and ministers are forgotten: a name that will be immortalized, "When granite moulders, and when records fail." THE END. G. Woodfall, Printer, Angel Court, Skinner Street, London. |