Pugh, the honest and intelligent author of Hanway’s life, tells us an anecdote connected with our traveller’s history, which I will relate in his words:—“To one of his books written for the use of the poor he prefixed a description of the frontispiece, in which he says to the gentle reader, ‘Here you see the grass grow and the sheep feed.’ The reviewers fastened on this unfortunate sentence. ‘We remember,’ said they (I quote from memory after a lapse of several years), ‘a miller, who quitted his trade to take a public-house, and sent for a painter to paint him the sign of the _mill_. “I must have the miller looking out of the window.”—“It shall be done,” said the painter. “But I was never seen to be idle; you must make him pop his head in if any one looks at him.” This also the artist promised, and brought home the sign. “’Tis all well; but where’s the miller?”—“Sir, he popped his head in when you looked.” Even so,’ said the reviewers, ‘when we look on the benevolent author’s frontispiece, the grass ceases to _grow_, and the sheep leave off _feeding_.’”
Hanway died on the 5th of September, 1786. His last moments were those of a Christian and a philosopher, calm and tranquil, indicating the firmest reliance on the mercy and goodness of God, and a consciousness of a life honestly and usefully spent. It might not be difficult to collect from the history of his life materials for forming a correct notion of his character; but in addition to the information to be derived from this source, Pugh enjoyed the advantage of having lived with him in the same house on terms of considerable familiarity. For this reason, I prefer the adopting of the character which he has drawn, and which appears to be sufficiently impartial, to the maintaining of an appearance of originality, by conveying the same idea in different words:—“Mr. Hanway in his person was of the middle size, of a thin spare habit, but well shaped; his limbs were fashioned with the nicest symmetry. In the latter years of his life he stooped very much, and, when he walked, found it conduce to his ease to let his head incline towards one side; but when he went first to Russia, at the age of thirty, his face was full and comely, and his person altogether such as obtained for him the appellation of the ‘handsome Englishman.’ His features were small, but without the insignificance which commonly attends small features. His countenance was interesting, sensible, and calculated to inspire reverence. His blue eyes had never been brilliant, but they expressed the utmost humanity and benevolence; and when he spoke, the animation of his countenance and the tone of his voice were such as seemed to carry conviction with them even to the mind of a stranger. When he endeavoured to sooth distress, or point out to any wretch who had strayed the comforts of a virtuous life, he was peculiarly impressive; and every thing that he said had an air of consideration and sincerity. In his transactions with the world he was always open, candid, and sincere; whatever he said might be depended on with implicit confidence. He adhered to the strict truth, even in the manner of his relation, and no brilliancy of thought could induce him to vary from the fact. But although so frank in his own proceedings, he had seen too much of life to be easily deceived by others; and he did not often place a confidence that was betrayed. He did not, however, think the world so degenerate as is commonly imagined; ‘and if I did,’ he used to say, ‘I would not let it appear; for nothing can tend so effectually to make a man wicked, or to keep him so, as a marked suspicion.’ He knew well how much the happiness of mankind is dependent on honest industry, and received a pleasure but faintly described in words when any of the objects of his charity, cleanly apparelled, and with cheerful and contented countenances, came to pay their respects to him. He treated them as his acquaintance, entered into their concerns with a paternal affection, and let them know that on any real emergency they might apply with confidence to him. It was this rather than the largeness of his gifts that endeared him so much to the common people. He never walked out but he was followed by the good wishes, silent or expressed, of some to whom he had afforded relief. To meet the eye of the person he had served was to him the highest luxury; and no man enjoyed it oftener. His own misfortunes, I believe, never caused him to shed tears; and if the miseries of others had that effect, which was very rare indeed, he was particularly careful to conceal it.