Byles is a patronymic of extraordinary rarity. It will be sought for, without success, in the voluminous record of Alexander Chalmers. It is not in the Biographia Britannica; though, even there, we may, occasionally, discover names, which, according to Cowper, were not born for immortality—

“Oh fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble, born to be forgot!”

Even in that conservative record of choice spirits, the Boston Directory for 1849, this patronymic is nowhere to be found.

Henry Byles came from Sarum in England; and settled at Salisbury in this Commonwealth, as early as 1640. I am not aware, that any individual, particularly eminent, and bearing this uncommon name, has ever existed among us, excepting that eccentric clergyman, who, within the bounds of our little peninsula, at least, is still occasionally mentioned, as “the celebrated Mather Byles.” I am aware, that he had a son, who bore the father’s prÆnomen, and graduated at Harvard, in 1751; became a doctor of divinity, in 1770; was a minister, in New London, and dismissed from his charge, in 1769; officiated, as an Episcopal clergyman, in Boston, for several years; went to St. Johns, N. B., at the time of the revolution; officiated there; and died, March 12, 1814.

But my dealings, this evening, are with “the celebrated Mather Byles,” who was born of worthy parents, in the town of Boston, March 26, 1706. His father was an Englishman. Through the maternal line, he had John Cotton and Richard Mather, for his ancestors. He graduated, at Harvard, in 1725; was settled at the Hollis Street Church, Dec. 20, 1733; created D. D. at Aberdeen, in 1765; was, on account of his toryism, separated from his people, in 1776; and died of paralysis, July 5, 1788, at the age of 82. He was twice married; a niece of Governor Belcher was his first, and the daughter of Lieut. Governor Tailer, his second wife.

I should be faithless, indeed, were I to go forward, without one passing word, for precious memory, in regard to those two perennial damsels, the daughters of Dr. Byles. How many visitations, at that ancient manse in Nassau Street! To how many of the sex—young—aye, and of no particular age—it has occurred, at the nick of time, when there was nothing under Heaven else to be done, to exclaim—“What an excellent occasion, for a visit to Katy and Polly!” And the visit was paid; and the descendants of “the celebrated Mather Byles” were so glad to see the visitors—and it was so long since their last visit—and it must not be so long again—and then the old stories, over and over, for the thousandth time—and the concerted merriment of these amiable visitors, as if the tales were quite as new, as the year itself, upon the first January morn—and the filial delights, that beamed upon the features of these vestals, at the effect, produced, by the recitation of stories, which really seemed to be made of that very everlasting of which the breeches of our ancestors were made—and then the exhibition of those relics, and heir looms, or what remained of them, after some thirty years’ presentation to all comers, which, in one way and another, were associated with the memory of “the celebrated Mather Byles,”—and then the oh don’t gos—and oh fly not yets—and when will you come agains!

The question naturally arises, and, rather distrustingly, demands an answer—what was “the celebrated Mather Byles”—celebrated for? In the first place, he was SanctÆ TheologiÆ Doctor. But his degree was from Aberdeen; and the Scotch colleges, at that period, were not particularly coy. With a cousin at court, and a little gold in hand, it was somewhat less difficult, for a clergyman, without very great learning, or talent, to obtain a doctorate, at Aberdeen, in 1765, than for a camel, of unusual proportions, to go through the eye of a very small needle. Even in our cis-atlantic colleges, these bestowments do not always serve to mark degrees of merit, with infallible accuracy—for God’s sun does not more certainly shine, upon the just and upon the unjust, than doctorates have, in some cases, fallen upon wise men, and upon fools. That, which, charily and conservatively bestowed, may well be accounted an honor, necessarily loses its value, by diffusion and prostitution. Not many years ago, the worthy president of one of our colleges, being asked, how it happened, that a doctorate of divinity had been given to a certain person of ordinary talents, and very little learning; replied, with infinite naivetÉ—“Why —— had it; and —— had it; and —— had it; and we didn’t like to hurt his feelings.”

Let us not consider the claims of Mather Byles as definitely settled, by the faculty at Aberdeen.—He corresponded with Pope, and with Lansdowne, and with Watts. The works of the latter were sent to him, by the author, from time to time; and, among the treasures, highly prized by the family, was a presentation copy, in quarto, from Pope, of his translation of the Odyssey. This correspondence, however, so far as I was ever able to gather information from the daughters, many years ago, did not amount to much; the letters were very few, and very far between; on the one side complimentary, and bearing congratulations upon the occasion of some recent literary success; and, on the other, fraught with grateful civility; and accompanied, as is often the case, with copies of some of the author’s productions.

Let me here present a somewhat disconnected anecdote: At the sale of the library of Dr. Byles, a large folio Bible, in French, was purchased, by a private individual. This Bible had been presented to the French Protestant Church, in Boston, by Queen Anne; and, at the time, when it came to the hands of Dr. Byles, was the last relic of that church, whose visible temple had been erected in School Street, about 1716. Whoever desires to know more of these French Protestants, may turn to the “Memoir,” by Dr. Holmes, or to vol. xxii. p. 62, of the Massachusetts Historical Collections.

Dr. Byles wrote, in prose and verse, and quite respectably in both. There is not more of the spirit of poetry, however, in his metrical compositions, than in his performances in prose. His versification was easy, and the style of his prose works was unaffected; his sentences were usually short, and never rendered unintelligible, by the multiplication of adjuncts, or by any affectation of sententious brevity. Yet nothing, that I have ever met with, from the pen of Dr. Byles, is particularly remarkable for its elegance; and it is in vain to look, among such of his writings, as have been preserved, for the evidences of extraordinary powers of thought. Some dozen of his published sermons are still extant. We have also several of his essays, in the New England Weekly Journal; a poem on the death of George I., and the accession of George II., in 1727; a sort of monodial address to Governor Belcher, on the death of his lady; a poem called the Conflagration; and a volume of metrical matters, published in 1744.

If his celebrity had depended upon these and other literary labors, he would scarcely have won the appellation of “the celebrated Mather Byles.”

The correspondent of Byles, Isaac Watts, never imagined, that the time would arrive, when his own voluminous lyrics and his address to “Great Gouge,” would be classed, in the Materia Poetica, as soporifics, and scarcely find one, so poor, as to do them reverence; while millions of lisping tongues still continued to repeat, from age to age, till the English language should be forgotten,

“Let dogs delight
To bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions
Growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to.”

Dr. Byles himself could not have imagined, while putting the finishing hand to “The Conflagration,” that, if he had embarked his hopes of reaching posterity, in that heavy bottom, they must surely have foundered, in the gulf of oblivion—and that, after all, he would be wafted down the stream of time, to distant ages, astride, as it were, upon a feather—and that what he could never have accomplished, by his grave discourses, and elaborate, poetical labors, would be so certainly and signally achieved, by the never-to-be-forgotten quips, and cranks, and bon mots, and puns, and funny sayings, and comical doings of the reverend pastor of the Hollis Street Church.

The reader must not do so great injustice to Dr. Byles, as to suppose, that he mingled together sacra profanis, or was in the habit of exhibiting, in the pulpit, that frolicsome vein, which was, in him, as congenital, as is the tendency, in a fish, to swim in water.

The sentiment of Horace applies not here—

——————ridentem dicere verum
Quid vetat?

The serious writings of Dr. Byles are singularly free from everything, suggestive of frivolous association. In his pulpit, there was none of it; not a jot; while, out of it, unless on solemn occasions, there was very little else. I have heard from those, who knew him well, that he ransacked the whole vocabulary, in search of the materials for punning. Yet of his attempts, in this species of humor, few examples are remembered. The specimens of the wit and humor of this eccentric divine, which have been preserved, are often of a different character; and not a few of them of that description, which are called practical jokes. Some of these pleasantries were exceedingly clever, and others supremely ridiculous. It is now more than half a century, since I listened to the first, amusing anecdote of Mather Byles. Many have reached me since—some of them quite as clever, as any we have ever had—I will not say from Foote, or Hook, or Matthews; for such unclerical comparisons would be particularly odious—but quite as clever as anything from Jonathan Swift, or Sydney Smith. Suppose I convert my next number into a penny box, for the collection and safe keeping of these petty records—I know they are below the dignity of history—so is a very large proportion of all the thoughts, words, and actions of Kings and Emperors—I’ll think of it.