Celebrity and eccentricity combined to make Porson the subject of countless stories, many of which were exaggerated or apocryphal; but there remains enough of trustworthy testimony to supply a tolerably clear picture of the man. His personal appearance is described in Pryse Lockhart Gordon's ‘Personal Memoirs’ (i. 288). He was tall—nearly six feet in stature; the head was a very fine one, with an expansive forehead, over which ‘his shining brown hair’ was sometimes combed straight forward; the nose was Roman, and rather long; the eyes ‘keen and penetrating,’ and shaded with long lashes. ‘His mouth was full of expression; and altogether his countenance indicated deep thought.’ There are two portraits of him at Cambridge; one by Hoppner (in the university library), the original of a well-known engraving; another, by Kirkby, in the master's lodge at Trinity College. Two busts of him also exist: one by Chantrey, which, in the opinion of his nephew, Siday Hawes (the writer of the article ‘Porson’ in Knight's ‘English Encyclopædia’), was not a good likeness; and another—which the same authority commends as excellent—by Ganganelli, from a cast of the head and face taken after death. The engraving prefixed to Porson's ‘Adversaria’ (1812) is from Ganganelli's bust. His ‘gala costume,’ according to Mr. Gordon, was ‘a smart blue coat, white vest, black satin nether garments and silk stockings, with a shirt ruffled at the wrists.’ But, according to Maltby, ‘he was generally ill-dressed and dirty.’ Dr. Raine, indeed, said that he had known Porson to be refused admittance by servants at the houses of his friends. Dr. Davis, a physician at Bath, once took Porson to a ball at the assembly rooms there, and introduced him to the Rev. R. Warner, who has described the horror felt by the master of the ceremonies at the strange figure ‘with lank, uncombed locks, a loose neckcloth, and wrinkled stockings.’ It was in vain that Warner tried to explain what a great man was there (Warner, Literary Recollections, ii. 6).
As a companion, Porson seems to have been delightful when he felt at home and liked the people to whom he was talking. ‘In company,’ says Thomas Kidd, ‘R. P. was the gentlest being I ever met with; his conversation was engaging and delightful; it was at once animated by force of reasoning, and adorned with all the graces and embellishments of wit.’ Gilbert Wakefield, on the other hand—who, at least after 1797, disliked Porson—assigns three reasons why their intercourse had not been more frequent: viz. Porson's ‘inattention to times and seasons,’ which made him an inconvenient guest; his ‘immoderate drinking;’ and ‘the uninteresting insipidity of his conversation.’ The last charge means, probably, that Porson stubbornly refused to be communicative in Wakefield's company. A less prejudiced witness, William Beloe [q. v.], says of Porson that, ‘except where he was exceedingly intimate, his elocution was perplexed and embarrassed.’ But Dr. John Johnstone, the biographer of Dr. Parr, has described what Porson's talk could be like when he felt no such restraint. They met at Parr's house in the winter of 1790–1. Porson was rather gloomy in the morning, more genial after dinner, and ‘in his glory’ at night. ‘The charms of his society were then irresistible. Many a midnight hour did I spend with him, listening with delight while he poured out torrents of various literature, the best sentences of the best writers, and sometimes the ludicrous beyond the gay; pages of Barrow, whole letters of Richardson, whole scenes of Foote, favourite pieces from the periodical press.’ His memory was marvellous, not only for its tenacity, but also for its readiness; whatever it contained he could produce at the right moment. He was once at a party given by Dr. Charles Burney at Hammersmith, when the guests were examining some old newspapers which gave a detailed account of the execution of Charles I. One of the company remarked that some of the particulars there given had not been mentioned, he thought, by Hume or Rapin. Porson forthwith repeated a long passage from Rapin in which these circumstances were duly recorded. Rogers once took him to an evening party, where he was introduced ‘to several women of fashion,’ ‘who were very anxious to see the great Grecian. How do you suppose he entertained them? Chiefly by reciting an immense quantity of old forgotten Vauxhall songs.’ As a rule, Porson declined invitations of this nature. ‘They invite me merely out of curiosity,’ he once said, ‘and, after they have satisfied it, would like to kick me downstairs.’ One day Sir James Mackintosh, with whom he was dining, asked him to go with him the next day to dinner at Holland House, to meet Fox, who wished to be introduced to him. Porson seemed to assent, but the next morning made some excuse for not going. He was a proud man, of high spirit, who resented the faintest suspicion of patronage; and he also disliked the restraints of formal society. With regard to his too frequent intemperance, the facts appear to be as follows. It was not believed by his friends that he drank to excess when he was
