There were political sympathies, during the American Revolution, between that eminent physician and excellent man, Dr. James Lloyd, and Mather Byles; yet, some forty-three years ago, I heard Dr. Lloyd remark, that, in company, the Reverend Mather Byles was a most troublesome puppy; and that there was no peace for his punning. Dr. Lloyd was, doubtless, of opinion, with Lord Kaimes, who remarked, in relation to this inveterate habit, that few might object to a little salt upon their plates, but the man must have an extraordinary appetite, who could make a meal of it.

The daily employment of our mental powers, for the discovery of words, which agree in sound, but differ in sense, is a species of intellectual huckstering, well enough adapted to the capacities of those, who are unfit for business, on a larger scale. If this occupation could be made to pay, many an oysterman would be found, forsaking his calling, and successfully competing with those, who will not suffer ten words to be uttered, in their company, without converting five of them, at least, to this preposterous purpose.

No conversation can be so grave, or so solemn, as to secure it from the rude and impertinent interruption of some one of these pleasant fellows; who seem to employ their little gift upon the community, as a species of laughing gas. A little of this may be well enough; but, like musk, in the gross, it is absolutely suffocating.

The first story, that I ever heard, of Mather Byles, was related, at my father’s table, by the Rev. Dr. Belknap, in 1797, the year before he died. It was upon a Saturday; and Dr. John Clarke and some other gentlemen, among whom I well remember Major General Lincoln, ate their salt fish there, that day. I was a boy; and I remember their mirth, when, after Dr. Belknap had told the story, I said to our minister, Dr. Clarke, near whom I was eating my apple, that I wished he was half as funny a minister, as Dr. Byles.

Upon a Fast day, Dr. Byles had negotiated an exchange, with a country clergyman. Upon the appointed morning, each of them—for vehicles were not common then—proceeded, on horseback, to his respective place of appointment. Dr. Byles no sooner observed his brother clergyman approaching, at a distance, than he applied the whip; put his horse into a gallop; and, with his canonicals flying all abroad, passed his friend, at full run. “What is the matter?” he exclaimed, raising his hand in astonishment—“Why so fast, brother Byles?”—to which the Dr., without slackening his speed, replied, over his shoulder—“It is Fast day!”

This is, unquestionably, very funny—but it is surely undesirable, for a consecrated servant of the Lord, thus lavishly to sacrifice, upon the altars of Momus.

The distillery of Thomas Hill was at the corner of Essex and South Streets, not far from Dr. Belknap’s residence in Lincoln Street. Dr. Byles called on Mr. Hill, and inquired—“Do you still?”—“That is my business,” Mr. Hill replied.—“Then,” said Dr. Byles—“will you go with me, and still my wife?”

As he was once occupied, in nailing some list upon his doors, to exclude the cold, a parishioner said to him—“the wind bloweth wheresoever it listeth, Dr. Byles.”—“Yes sir,” replied the Dr. “and man listeth, wheresoever the wind bloweth.”

He was intimate with General Knox, who was a bookseller, before the war. When the American troops took possession of the town, after the evacuation, Knox, who had become quite corpulent, marched in, at the head of his artillery. As he passed on, Byles, who thought himself privileged, on old scores, exclaimed, loud enough to be heard—“I never saw an ox fatter in my life.” But Knox was not in the vein. He felt offended by this freedom, especially from Byles, who was then well known to be a tory; and replied, in uncourtly terms, that he was a “—— fool.”

In May, 1777, Dr. Byles was arrested, as a tory, and subsequently tried, convicted, and sentenced to confinement, on board a guard ship, and to be sent to England with his family, in forty days. This sentence was changed, by the board of war, to confinement in his own house. A guard was placed over him. After a time, the sentinel was removed—afterwards replaced—and again removed—when the Dr. exclaimed, that he had been guarded—regarded—and disregarded. He called his sentry his observ-a-tory.

Perceiving, one morning, that the sentinel, a simple fellow, was absent, and seeing Dr. Byles himself, pacing before his own door, with a musket on his shoulder, the neighbors stepped over, to inquire the cause—“You see,” said the Dr., “I begged the sentinel to let me go for some milk for my family, but he would not suffer me to stir. I reasoned the matter with him; and he has gone, himself, to get it for me, on condition that I keep guard in his absence.”

When he was very poor, and had no money to waste on follies, he caused the little room, in which he read and wrote, to be painted brown, that he might say to every visitor—“You see I am in a brown study.”

His family, having gone to rest, were roused one night, by the reiterated cry of thieves!—thieves! in the doctor’s loudest voice—the wife and daughters sprang instantly from their beds, and rushed into the room—there sat the Dr. alone, in his study chair—“Where, father?” cried the astonished family—“there!” he exclaimed, pointing to the candles.

One bitter December night, he called his daughters from their bed, simply to inquire if they lay warm.

He had a small collection of curiosities. Some visitors called, one morning; and Mrs. Byles, unwilling to be found at her ironing board, and desiring to hide herself, as she would not be so caught, by these ladies, for the world, the doctor put her in a closet, and buttoned her in. After a few remarks, the ladies expressed a wish to see the Dr’s curiosities, which he proceeded to exhibit; and, after entertaining them very agreeably, for several hours, he told them he had kept the greatest curiosity to the last; and, proceeding to the closet, unbuttoned the door, and exhibited Mrs. Byles.

He had complained, long, often, and fruitlessly, to the selectmen, of a quagmire, in front of his dwelling. One morning, two of the fathers of the town, after a violent rain, passing with their chaise, became stuck in this bog. As they were striving to extricate themselves, and pulling to the right and to the left, the doctor came forth, and bowing, with great politeness, exclaimed—“I am delighted, gentlemen, to see you stirring in this matter, at last.”

A candidate for fame proposed to fly, from the North Church steeple, and had already mounted, and was clapping his wings, to the great delight of the mob. Dr. Byles, mingling with the crowd, inquired what was the object of the gathering—“We have come, sir,” said some one, “to see a man fly.”—“Poh, poh,” replied the doctor, “I have seen a horse-fly.”

A gentleman sent Dr. Byles a barrel of very fine oysters. Meeting the gentleman’s wife, an hour or two after, in the street, the doctor assumed an air of great severity, and told her, that he had, that morning, been treated, by her husband, in a most Billingsgate manner, and then abruptly left her. The lady, who was of a nervous temperament, went home in tears, and was quite miserable, till her husband returned, at noon, and explained the occurrence; but was so much offended with the doctor’s folly, that he cut his acquaintance.

A poor fellow, in agony with the toothache, meeting the doctor, asked him where he should go, to have it drawn. The doctor gave him a direction to a particular street and number. The man went, as directed; and, when the occupant came to the door, told him that Dr. Byles had sent him there, to have his tooth drawn. “This is a poor joke, for Dr. Byles,” said the gentleman; “I am not a dentist, but a portrait painter—it will give you little comfort, my friend, to have me draw your tooth.” Dr. Byles had sent the poor fellow to Copley.

Upon the 19th of May, 1780, the memorable dark day, a lady wrote to the doctor as follows—“Dear doctor, how do you account for this darkness?” and received his immediate reply—“Dear Madam, I am as much in the dark, as you are.” This, for sententious brevity, has never been surpassed, unless by the correspondence, between the comedian, Sam Foote, and his mother—“Dear Sam, I’m in jail”—“Dear Mother, So am I.”

He had, at one time, a remarkably stupid, and literal, Irish girl, as a domestic. With a look and voice of terror, he said to her, in haste—“Go and say to your mistress, Dr. Byles has put an end to himself.” The girl flew up stairs, and, with a face of horror, exclaimed, at the top of her lungs—“Dr. Byles has put an end to himself!” The astonished wife and daughters rushed into the parlor—and there was the doctor, calmly walking about, with a part of a cow’s tail, that he had picked up, in the street, tied to his coat, or cassock, behind.

From the time of the stamp act, in 1765, to the period of the revolution, the cry had been repeated, in every form of phraseology, that our grievances should be redressed. One fine morning, when the multitude had gathered on the Common, to see a regiment of red coats, paraded there, who had recently arrived—“Well,” said the doctor, gazing at the spectacle, “I think we can no longer complain, that our grievances are not red dressed.” “True,” said one of the laughers, who were standing near, “but you have two ds, Dr. Byles.” “To be sure, sir, I have,” the doctor instantly replied, “I had them from Aberdeen, in 1765.”

These pleasantries will, probably, survive “The Conflagration.” Had not this eccentric man possessed some very excellent and amiable qualities, he could not have maintained his clerical relation to the Hollis-Street Church and Society, for three and forty years, from 1733 to 1776; and have separated from them, at last, for political considerations alone.

Had his talents and his influence been greater than they were, the peculiarities, to which I have alluded, would have been a theme, for deeper deprecation. The eccentricities of eminent men are mischievous, in the ratio of their eminence; for thousands, who cannot rival their excellencies, are often the successful imitators of their peculiarities and follies.

I never sympathized with that worthy, old lady, who became satisfied, that Dr. Beecher was a terrible hypocrite, and without a spark of vital religion, because she saw him, from her window, on the Lord’s day, in his back yard, gymnasticising, on a pole, in the intermission season; and thereby invigorating his powers, for the due performance of the evening services. Yet, as character is power, and as the children of this generation have a devilish pleasure in detecting inconsistencies, between the practice and the profession of the children of light—it is ever to be deplored, that clergymen should hazard one iota of their clerical respectability, for the love of fun; and it speaks marvels, for the moral and religious worth of Mather Byles, and for the forbearance, intelligence, and discrimination of his parishioners, that, for three-and-forty years, he maintained his ministerial position, in their midst, cutting such wild, unpriestly capers, and giving utterance to such amusing fooleries, from morning to night.