Another portrait hangs amongst the many in my memory'spicture gallery. It is that of his successor to thevicarage, the chaplaincy, and the librarianship, at Holkham -Mr. Alexander Napier - at this time, and until his deathfifty years later, one of my closest and most cherishedfriends. Alexander Napier was the son of Macvey Napier,first editor of the 'Edinburgh Review.' Thus, associatedwith many eminent men of letters, he also did some goodliterary work of his own. He edited Isaac Barrow's works forthe University of Cambridge, also Boswell's 'Johnson,' andgave various other proofs of his talents and his scholarship.
He was the most delightful of companions; liberal-minded inthe highest degree; full of quaint humour and quick sympathy;an excellent parish priest, - looking upon Christianity as alife and not a dogma; beloved by all, for he had a kindthought and a kind word for every needy or sick being in hisparish.
With such qualities, the man always predominated over thepriest. Hence his large-hearted charity and indulgence forthe faults - nay, crimes - of others. Yet, if taken aback byan outrage, or an act of gross stupidity, which even theperpetrator himself had to suffer for, he would momentarilylose his patience, and rap out an the straiter-laced gentlemen of his own cloth, or anoutsider who knew less of him than - the recording angel.
A fellow undergraduate of Napier's told me a characteristicanecdote of his impetuosity. Both were Trinity men, and hadbeen keeping high jinks at a supper party at Caius. Thefriend suddenly pointed to the clock, reminding Napier theyhad but five minutes to get into college before Trinity gateswere closed. 'D-n the clock!' shouted Napier, and snatchingup the sugar basin (it was not EAU SUCREE they weredrinking), incontinently flung it at the face of theoffending timepiece.
This youthful vivacity did not desert him in later years. Anold college friend - also a Scotchman - had become Bishop ofEdinburgh. Napier paid him a visit (he described it to mehimself). They talked of books, they talked of politics,they talked of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, ofBrougham, Horner, Wilson, Macaulay, Jeffrey, of Carlyle'sdealings with Napier's father - 'Nosey,' as Carlyle callshim. They chatted into the small hours of the night, as booncompanions, and as what Bacon calls 'full' men, are wont.
The claret, once so famous in the 'land of cakes,' had givenplace to toddy; its flow was in due measure to the flow ofsoul. But all that ends is short - the old friends had spenttheir last evening together. Yes, their last, perhaps. Itwas bed-time, and quoth Napier to his lordship, 'I tell youwhat it is, Bishop, I am na fou', but I'll be hanged if Ihaven't got two left legs.'