William Gifford,
FROM THE SHOEMAKER'S STOOL TO THE EDITOR'S CHAIR.
"Not mine the soul that pants not after fame--
Ambitious of a poet's envied name,
I haunt the sacred fount, athirst to prove
The grateful influence of the stream I love."
--_The Baviad; William Gifford._
"It is on all hands conceded, that the success which attended the
'Quarterly' from the outset was due, in no small degree, to the ability
and tact with which Gifford discharged his editorial
duties."--_Encyclopædia Britannica._
"I am not more certain of many conjectures than I am that he never
propagated a dishonest opinion, nor did a dishonest act."--_Writer in
the Literary Gazette._
WILLIAM GIFFORD.
The field of literature seems always to have had a special charm for
shoemakers. If the reader will glance for a moment at the list of names
given at the end of this book, this fact will be at once apparent. Half,
or more than half, the names given in that list are in some way or other
connected with literature. The connection is but slight in many
instances, perhaps, and the reputation it conferred only local and
temporary. Few of our shoemakers, even though we have thought well to
style them "illustrious," can be said to have made a great and lasting
name in the world of letters; and none of them it must be confessed have
attained to first rank as prose or poetical writers. But there are
worthies in our list, associated alike with the humble craft of
shoemaking and the higher walks of literature, whose names the world
will not willingly let die, and we venture to think that the subject of
this sketch is one of the number.
William Gifford was the first editor of the _London Quarterly Review_.
The high and influential position held by this journal was mainly due in
the first instance to Gifford's talent and excellent management. The
_London Quarterly_ was started in opposition to the famous _Edinburgh
Quarterly_; George Canning, the celebrated statesman, and Sir Walter
Scott, the great novelist, being the prime movers and early patrons of
the enterprise, for the _Edinburgh_, under the clever management of
Jeffrey, and supported by such writers as Sydney Smith and Brougham, was
then too liberal in its tone to suit the taste of the brilliant Foreign
Secretary and his Tory friends. It was no slight testimony to the
abilities of the man who was chosen as the first editor of the new
_Quarterly_ that his election should have been cordially approved by the
first of Scottish novelists, and one of the most influential of English
statesmen.
Gifford was the author of two satirical poems, the "Baviad" and
"Maeviad," directed against the tawdry and sentimental rhymesters of a
certain school which flourished in his day.[25] His scathing satire
succeeded in putting an end to their trash. Gifford published also a
translation of the Latin poets, Juvenal and Persius. To the latter he
prefixed the story of his own early life as a poor cobbler's apprentice.
From this interesting autobiography the materials for the following
sketch have been chiefly selected. William Gifford's best title to fame
was, no doubt, his edition of the "Early English Dramatists"--Ford,
Massinger, Shirley, and Ben Jonson. His generous and able vindication of
Jonson reflects credit both upon the critic and the poet. It should be
added that Gifford's editorship of the _Quarterly_ extended over fifteen
years, and that during the whole of this period he was the writer of a
large number of its most able articles.
[25] The "Della Cruscan school." See below.
Having taken a glimpse of the work accomplished by William Gifford as a
critic, a scholar, and an editor in the latter years of his life, let us
turn to look at his circumstances in boyhood and youth, when, as a
miserable cobbler's apprentice, he began to yearn after knowledge and to
cherish ambitious dreams. The contrast between the first and last scenes
in the drama of life could hardly be more wonderful than that which is
presented in the history of the man who passed from the cobbler's stool
to the editor's chair.
William Gifford was born at the small town of Ashburton, in South Devon,
in 1757. His father, who was a man of spendthrift and profligate habits,
died of the effects of his evil conduct before he had attained the age
of forty. In twelve months afterward Gifford's mother died, leaving
William, and a little brother two years old, orphans, and, it would
seem, penniless. As no home could be found for the infant, he was sent
to the workhouse. William, then thirteen years of age, fell into the
hands of a man named Carlisle, who had stood as his godfather, a
worthless fellow, who had appropriated the few things left by the
mother, on pretence of claiming them for debt. This man put William to
school, where he began to show signs of ability; but he was allowed no
chance of making progress; for, at the end of three months, grudging the
slight cost of his tuition, Carlisle took the boy from his books and
playmates, and put him to the plough. It was soon found that he was too
weak for such heavy work. His guardian now tried to get the boy out of
hand altogether, by sending him off to Newfoundland as an errand-boy in
a grocery store. This unkind project, however, being doomed to failure,
it was resolved that the troublesome charge should be got rid of by
making him a sailor.
We give the account of what happened at this period in his own words:
"My godfather had now humbler views for me, and I had no heart to resist
anything. He proposed to send me on board one of the Torbay
fishing-boats. I ventured, however, to remonstrate against this, and the
matter was compromised by my consenting to go on board a coaster. A
coaster was speedily found for me at Brixham, and thither I went when
little more than thirteen years of age. It will easily be conceived that
my life was a life of hardship. I was not only a ship-boy on the high
and giddy mast, but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to
my lot. Yet if I was restless and discontented it was not so much on
account of this as of my being prevented reading, as my master did not
possess a single book of any description, excepting a Coasting Pilot."
Gifford was on board this vessel for about twelve months, a time of
untold suffering and degradation. In fact, his position was so
deplorable that some women from Ashburton, who went down to Brixham to
buy fish, shocked to see the boy running about the beach in ragged
clothes, spoke so plainly on their return home about the hardship of his
lot, that his godfather was compelled for very shame to send for him
home again. He was once more put to school, and now made such rapid
strides in arithmetic that on an emergency he was invited to assist the
school-master. He goes on in his own narrative to say that these
encouragements led him to entertain the idea that he might be able to
get his own living by teaching, and as his first master "was now grown
old and infirm, it seemed unlikely that he should hold out above three
or four years, and I fondly flattered myself," he adds, "that
notwithstanding my youth I might possibly be appointed to succeed him."
It is worth while to notice that he was but a boy in his teens when he
first began to feel the noble spirit of ambition stir within him, and to
cherish the laudable desire to rely upon his own efforts for his
maintenance. It was this lofty and self-reliant spirit which carried him
past all his difficulties; and, truth to tell, no one has ever done
anything remarkable in the world without it. The youth who is altogether
destitute of ambition, and is ever on the look-out for the help of
friends, lacks the first elements of success in life. But Gifford's
bravery and persistence of mind had to be severely tested before meeting
with their due reward.
Proceeding with his pathetic story, he says: "I was about fifteen years
of age when I built these castles in the air. A storm, however, was
collecting, which unexpectedly burst upon me and swept them all away. On
mentioning my plan to my guardian, he treated it with the utmost
contempt, and told me he had been negotiating with his cousin, a
shoemaker of some respectability, who had liberally consented to take
me, without fee, as an apprentice. I was so shocked at this intelligence
that I did not venture to remonstrate, but went in sullenness and
silence to my new master, to whom I was bound till I should attain the
age of twenty-one. At this period I had read nothing but a romance
called 'Parismus,' a few loose magazines--the Bible, indeed, I was well
acquainted with; these, with the 'Imitation of Thomas à Kempis,' which I
used to read to my mother on her death-bed, constituted the whole of my
literary acquisitions."
The account which follows has few things to equal it in the records of
struggling genius. It will serve to show how abject and apparently
hopeless was his condition as a student at this time of his life, and
will show also, what it may be hoped no youth who reads these pages will
fail to learn, how marvellous is the power of energy and perseverance to
triumph over apparently insuperable obstacles.
"I possessed," Gifford writes, "at this time but one book in-the world;
it was a treatise on algebra given to me by a young woman who had found
it in a lodging-house. I considered it a treasure; but it was a treasure
locked up, for it supposed the reader to be acquainted with simple
equations, and I knew nothing of the matter." He then speaks of meeting
with a book called Fenning's "Introduction" belonging to his master's
son, who, by the way, was discovered afterward to have been all through
this time a secret rival for the head-mastership. This "Introduction"
gave Gifford just the information required to carry him forward into the
study of algebra. But he was compelled to study it by stealth, lest it
should be taken from him, and he goes on to say: "I sat up for the
greater part of several nights successively and completely mastered it.
I could now enter upon my own, and that carried me pretty far into the
science. This was not done without difficulty. I had not a farthing on
earth, nor a friend to give me one; pen, ink, and paper, therefore, were
for the most part as completely out of my reach as a crown and sceptre.
There was, indeed, a resource, but the utmost caution and secrecy were
necessary in applying to it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as
possible and wrought my problems on them with a blunted awl; for the
rest my memory was tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a
great extent."
Strange to say, although he displayed so much ability and zeal in the
study of mathematics, he was not destined to achieve distinction in that
department of study. A very trifling incident led to the exercise of new
gifts, and turned the tide of his evil fortune. A shopmate had made a
few verses on the blunder of a painter in the village who was engaged to
paint a lion for a sign-board, and had produced a dog instead. Gifford
thought he could beat the verses of his shopmate, and accordingly tried
his hand at rhyme. His associates all agreed in pronouncing young
Gifford's verses the better of the two. This encouraged him to try
again, and in the course of a short time he had composed about a dozen
pieces. He says: "They were talked of in my little circle, and I was
sometimes invited to repeat them out of it. I never committed a line to
paper--first, because I had no paper; and, second, because I was afraid,
for my master had already threatened me for inadvertently hitching the
name of one of his customers into a rhyme." The rest of this account of
his poetical adventures would be amusing if it were not for the pathos
which underlies it, and the fact that it is the prelude to one of the
most painful incidents in the sad story of Gifford's early life.
Referring to these recitals of his poetical pieces he says: "These
repetitions were always attended by applause, and sometimes by favors
more substantial; little collections were now and then made, and I have
received sixpence in an evening(!). To one who had long lived in the
absolute want of money such a resource seemed a Peruvian mine. I
furnished myself by degrees with paper, etc., and, what was of more
importance, with books of geometry and of the higher branches of
algebra, which I cautiously concealed. Poetry even at this time was no
amusement of mine. I only had recourse to it when I wanted money for my
mathematical pursuits. But the clouds were gathering fast. My master's
anger was raised to a terrible pitch by my indifference to his concerns,
and still more by my presumptuous attempts at versification. I was
required to give up my papers, and when I refused, was searched, my
little hoard of books discovered and removed, and all future repetitions
prohibited in the strictest manner. This was a severe stroke, I felt it
most sensibly, and it was followed by another, severer still, a stroke
which crushed the hopes I had so long and fondly cherished, and
resigned me at once to despair. Mr. Hugh, Smerdon, the master of the
school on whose succession I had calculated, died and was succeeded by a
person not much older than myself, and certainly not so well qualified
for the situation."
Poor Gifford! hard, indeed, was thy lot; an orphan without friends,
helpers, or sympathizers, having no proper leisure or means for study or
recreation, and even the little pleasure and profit wrung from a few
ciphering books and doggerel verses snatched away by cruel hands;
trodden down like a worm in the mire, and every particle of talent and
ambition threatened with extinction! For six long years this misery
lasted in one form or another, while he strove to hope on against hope,
and found himself compelled to labor at a trade which he declares he
hated from the first with a perfect hatred, and never, consequently,
made any progress in. What could be more miserable and disheartening?
But to the industrious and patient, as "to the upright, _there ariseth
light in the darkness_." No darker hour occurred in all Gifford's
miserable boyhood and youth than that which is described in the
sentences just quoted. And now the light is about to appear. A friend
comes upon the scene, to whose generous interference the unhappy cobbler
owed the educational advantages he afterward enjoyed. His obligations to
this benefactor were always most readily and warmly expressed; for
whatever faults Gifford might have, he was never charged with the
meanness of forgetting his lowly origin, and the generous friend by whom
he had been rescued from a wretched condition and introduced to a
happier state of life. He speaks of his benefactor as bearing "a name
never to be pronounced by him without veneration." This gentleman, Mr.
Cooksley, was a surgeon in the neighborhood. He had accidentally heard
of the young cobbler's poetry, and sought an interview with him. Gifford
went down to the surgeon's house, and, encouraged by the kindness he
received, told the story of his attempts at self-culture, and of the
hardships he had undergone. Deeply moved by the touching story, and
convinced of the young man's natural abilities and desert of
encouragement, Mr. Cooksley resolved, there and then, on liberating the
youth from the thraldom of his situation. The first thing was to free
him from the bonds of his apprenticeship, and the next to give him the
advantages of regular instruction. He was then twenty years of age, and
he says, "My handwriting was bad, and my language very incorrect."
Accordingly, a subscription was started to furnish funds for this
twofold purpose. It read as follows: "A subscription for purchasing the
remainder of the time of William Gifford, and for enabling him to
improve himself in writing and English grammar." The kindness of
Cooksley and a few other friends, whose sympathies were enlisted by his
generous zeal for the youth, enabled him to receive two years'
instruction from a clergyman, the Rev. Thomas Smerdon, who resided in
the locality. Such was the progress made by Gifford, that at the end of
that time his instructor pronounced him quite prepared for the
university. Again Mr. Cooksley proved a friend. By his efforts and
promises of support Gifford was entered at Exeter College, Oxford.
Unfortunately his noble patron died before Gifford could take his
degree. But he was not suffered to leave Oxford on account of Mr.
Cooksley's death. He found a second patron in Lord Grosvenor, by whose
aid the grateful undergraduate was enabled to finish his term. The
culture which he received in the university must have been very thorough
and complete, evincing itself in refinement of manner as well as
scholarship of no ordinary degree, for in the course of a few years
after leaving Ashburton, we learn that the late shoemaker was taken into
the family of Lord Grosvenor as private tutor and travelling companion
to his son Lord Belgrave. The circumstance which led to Lord Grosvenor's
patronage of Gifford was remarkable, and deserves to be recorded as an
illustration of the fact that an accident may lead to the most important
events in our history. But we must premise, first of all, as a safeguard
against a false inference or false hopes, that _such_ accidents are sure
to come in the way of _industrious, clever_ and _deserving_ men. If they
occur to men of a different stamp they are of no avail. If William
Gifford had not been a hard-working student, such a circumstance as the
accidental perusal of one of his letters by a person for whom it was not
intended could not have helped his fortunes in the least. It appears
that he had been in the habit of corresponding with a friend in London
on literary matters. His letters to this friend were sent under covers,
and in order to save postage were left at Lord Grosvenor's. One day the
address of the literary friend was omitted, and his lordship, supposing
the letter to be for himself, opened and read it. The contents excited
his admiration, and awakened his curiosity to know who the author could
be. He was sent for, and after an interview, in which, for the second
time in his life, he told the story of his early struggles to willing
and sympathizing ears, he was invited by Lord Grosvenor to come and
reside with him.
It is deeply gratifying to record instances of disinterested generosity
of this kind, and to read the glowing language in which the thankful
young student refers to the kindness of his noble patron. Referring to
the invitation to live with Lord Grosvenor, and his promise of honorable
maintenance, Gifford says, "These were not words of course, they were
more than fulfilled in every point. I did go and reside with him, and I
experienced a warm and cordial reception, and a kind and affectionate
esteem that has known neither diminution nor interruption, from that
hour to this, a period of twenty years."
In 1794, his "Baviad" was published, in imitation of the satires of
Persius, and in the following year the "Mæviad," after the style of
Horace. These names were taken from the third Eclogue of Virgil--
"He may with foxes plough and milk he-goats,
Who praises _Bavius_ or on _Mævius_ dotes."
These terribly virulent satires, like those of Boileau and Pope, were
aimed at contemporary poets of an inferior order, and like them, too,
were most crushing in their effect. The _Della Cruscan School_[26] never
smiled, or rather smirked, again after the issue of the Baviad and
Mæviad. But it is a rare thing to meet with a critic or a satirist who
escapes the danger of committing a fault in condemning one. Gifford did
not escape this danger. His lines certainly did not answer to the
epigram--
"Satire should, like a polished razor keen,
Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen."
[26] The name Cruscan was taken from the Florentine
Academy, by Robert Merry, the founder of this school of mawkish
and affected poetasters.
His unhappy victims were hacked and hewed in pieces in a merciless and
barbarous manner; while the spectators enjoyed the savage sport, and
accorded the cruel executioner a wreath of laurel for the vigor and
talent displayed in his unenviable task. These satires first made
Gifford's name in the world of letters. But his fame as a scholar was
established chiefly on his translations of Persius and Juvenal, and his
excellent editions, with valuable notes, of the early "English
Dramatists." Speaking of Gifford's edition of Ben Jonson's dramatic and
other works, John Kemble, the most accomplished actor of his day, says,
"It is the best edition, by the ablest of modern commentators, through
whose learned and generous labors old Ben's forgotten works and injured
character are restored to the merited admiration and esteem of the
world."
The celebrity thus obtained, along with the friendship of the leading
Tory politicians of the day, secured for Gifford the position of editor
of the _London Quarterly_. It ought to be stated that when Mr. Channing
started the _Anti-Jacobin_ in 1797, Gifford was entrusted with the
conduct of that journal, and had thus acquired a little experience of
journalism. His connection with this paper, which came out weekly,
lasted only for a year. But he managed the _Quarterly_, as we have said,
for fifteen years, that is, from 1809, the date of its commencement, to
1824, when ill-health compelled him to lay his pen aside.
The plan of this new journal had originated with John Murray, the famous
publisher, and had received the hearty support of Walter Scott, Egbert
Southey, Canning, Rose, Disraeli, and Hookham Frere. The first number,
containing three articles by Walter Scott, was published on the 1st
February, 1809, and was immediately sold out, a second edition being
called for. Canning wrote for the second number, and Southey became a
constant and most prolific contributor. "For the first hundred and
twenty-six numbers he wrote ninety-four articles, many of them of great
permanent value."[27] At John Murray's "drawing-rooms," where the
leading literary men of the day were wont to assemble at four o'clock,
Gifford met with a brilliant assemblage of poets, novelists, historians,
artists, and others. Murray the publisher delighted "to gather together
such men as Byron, Scott, Moore, Campbell, Southey, Gifford, Hallam,
Lockhart, Washington Irving, and Mrs. Somerville; and, more than this,
he invited such artists as Lawrence, Wilkie, Phillips, Newton, and
Pickersgill, to meet them and paint them, that they might hang forever
on his walls."[28] It was in reference to one of Murray's "publishers'
dinners" Byron wrote the lines in which occurs the following allusion to
Gifford:
"A party dines with me to-day,
All clever men who make their way;
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey
Are all partakers of my pantry.
My room's so full--we've Gifford here,
Reading MS. with Hookham Frere,
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles
Of some of our forthcoming articles."
[27] "History of Booksellers." H. Curwen. Chatto &
Windus. P. 175.
[28] Ibid., pp. 180, 181.
A writer in the _Literary Gazette_,[29] who had the pleasure of
Gifford's personal acquaintance, has made the following interesting
notes upon his private character, and his conduct as an editor. "He
never stipulated for any salary as editor; at first he received £200,
and at last £900 per annum, but never engaged for a particular sum. He
several times returned money to Murray, saying 'he had been too
liberal.' Perhaps he was the only man on this side the Tweed who thought
so! He was perfectly indifferent about wealth, I do not know a better
proof of this than the fact that he was richer, by a very considerable
sum, at the time of his death than he was at all aware of. In unison
with his contempt of money was his disregard of any external
distinction; he had a strong natural aversion to anything like pomp or
parade. Yet he was by no means insensible to an honorable distinction,
and when the University of Oxford, about two years before his death,
offered to give him a doctor's degree, he observed, 'Twenty years ago it
would have been gratifying, but now it would only be written on my
coffin.'
[29] Quoted in "The Lives of Eminent Englishmen."
Fullarton _&_ Co., Glasgow, 1838. Vol. viii. pp. 317, 318.
"His disregard for external show was the more remarkable, as a contrary
feeling is generally observable in persons who have risen from penury to
wealth. But Gifford was a gentleman in feeling and in conduct, and you
were never led to suspect he was sprung from an obscure origin except
when he reminded you of it by an anecdote relative to it. And this
recalls one of the stories he used to tell with irresistible drollery,
the merit of which entirely depended on his manner. It was simply this:
At the cobblers' board, of which Gifford had been a member, there was
but one candle allowed for the whole coterie of operatives; it was, of
course, a matter of importance that this candle should give as much
light as possible. This was only to be done by repeated snuffings; but
snuffers being a piece of fantastic coxcombry they were not pampered
with: the members of the board took it in turn to perform the office of
the forbidden luxury with their finger and thumb. The candle was handed,
therefore, to each in succession, with the word '_sneaf_' (Anglice,
snuff) bellowed in his ears. Gifford used to pronounce this word in the
legitimate broad Devonshire dialect, and accompanied his story with
expressive gestures. Now on paper this is absolutely nothing, but in
Gifford's mouth it was exquisitely humorous. I should not, however, have
mentioned it, were it not that it appears to me one of the best
instances I could give of his humility in recurring to his former
condition.... He was a man of very deep and warm affections. If I were
desired to point out the distinguishing excellence of his private
character, I should refer to his fervent sincerity of heart. He was
particularly kind to children and fond of their society. My sister, when
young, used sometimes to spend a month with him, on which occasions he
would hire a pianoforte, and once he actually had a juvenile ball at his
house for her amusement."
Speaking of the spirit he displayed as editor of the _Quarterly_, the
same writer says: "He disliked incurring an obligation which might in
any degree shackle the expression of his free opinion. Agreeably to
this, he laid down a rule, from which he never departed, that every
writer in the _Quarterly_ would receive at least so much per sheet. On
one occasion, a gentleman holding office under Government sent him an
article, which, after undergoing some serious mutilations at his hands
preparatory to being ushered into the world, was accepted. But the usual
sum being sent to the author, he rejected it with disdain, conceiving it
a high dishonor to be paid for anything--the independent placeman!
Gifford, in answer, informed him of the invariable rule of the _Review_
adding, that he could send the money to any charitable institution, or
dispose of it in any manner he should direct, but that the money must be
paid. The doughty official, convinced that the virtue of his article
would force it into the _Review_ at all events, stood firm in his
refusal; greatly to his dismay the article was returned. He revenged
himself by never sending another."
Speaking of his relation to the Tory Government of the day, the writer
says: "It is true his independence of opinion might seem to be
interfered with by the situations he held, but they were bestowed on him
unsolicited, and from motives of personal regard. I am sure every one
acquainted with him will admit that he would have rejected with scorn
any kindness which could be considered as fettering the freedom of his
conduct in the smallest degree. I am not more certain of many
conjectures than I am that he never propagated a dishonest opinion nor
did a dishonest act.... If the united influence of the _Anti-Jacobin_
and the _Quarterly_ be considered, we may probably be justified in
assigning to Gifford's literary support of Government a rank second only
to Burke."
William Gifford died worth a considerable fortune, which he left, as a
token of undying gratitude, to Mr. William Cooksley, the son of his
first generous patron and benefactor.
We append a few selections from Gifford's poetical works, as samples of
his style and quality as a writer. The first is from the "Baviad," and
represents him in the character of a satirist exposing the vanities of
the "Delia Cruscan" school of poets; and the second, taken from the
"Mæviad," exhibits him in the more genial light of a faithful friend,
commemorating his early intercourse with his companion and
fellow-student, Dr. Ireland, Dean of Westminster:
"For I was born
To brand obtrusive ignorance with scorn;
On bloated pedantry to pour my rage,
And hiss preposterous fustian from the stage.
Lo, Delia Crusca! In his closet pent,
He toils to give the crude conception vent.
Abortive thoughts that right and wrong confound,
Truth sacrificed to letters, sense to sound,
False glare, incongruous images combine;
And noise and nonsense clatter through the line,
'Tis done. Her house the generous Piozzi lends,
And thither summons her blue-stocking friends;
The summons her blue-stocking friends obey,
Lured by the love of poetry--and tea.
The bard steps forth in birthday splendor drest,
His right hand graceful waving o' er his breast,
His left extending, so that all may see
A roll inscribed, 'The Wreath of Liberty.'
So forth he steps, and with complacent air,
Bows round the circle, and assumes the chair;
With lemonade he gargles first his throat,
Then sweetly preludes to the liquid note:
And now 'tis silence all. 'Genius or muse'--
Thus while the flowery subject he pursues,
A wild delirium round th' assembly flies;
Unusual lustre shoots from Emma's eyes;
Luxurious Arno drivels as he stands;
And Anna frisks, and Laura claps her hands.
* * * * *
Hear now our guests:--'The critics, sir, they cry,
Merit like yours the critics may defy;'
But this indeed they say, 'Your varied rhymes,
At once the boast and envy of the times,
In every page, song, sonnet, what you will,
Show boundless genius and unrivalled skill.'
* * * * *
Thus fooled, the moon-struck tribe, whose best essays
Sunk in acrostics and in roundelays,
To loftier labors now pretend a call,
And bustle in heroics one and all.
E'en Bertie burns of gods and chiefs to sing--
Bertie who lately twittered to the string
His namby pamby madrigals of love,
In the dark dingles of a glittering grove,
Where airy lays, wove by the hand of morn,
Were hung to dry upon a cobweb thorn!
Happy the soil where bards like mushrooms rise,
And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies!
Happier the bards who, write whate'er they will,
Find gentle readers to admire them still!
* * * * *
Oh for the good old times! when all was new,
And every hour brought prodigies to view,
Our sires in unaffected language told
Of streams of amber, and of rocks of gold;
Full of their theme, they spurned all idle art;
And the plain tale was trusted to the heart.
Now all is changed! We fume and fret, poor elves;
Less to display our subject than ourselves:
Whate'er we paint--a grot, a flower, a bird,
Heavens! how we sweat, laboriously absurd!
Words of gigantic bulk, and uncouth sound,
In rattling triads the long sentence bound;
While points with points, with periods periods jar,
And the whole work seems one continued war!"
Not less poetical, and certainly much more pleasant in its tone, is this
reminiscence of his early friendship with Dr. Ireland:
'Chief thou, my friend! who from my earliest years
Hast shared my joys, and more than shared my cares,
Sure, if our fates hang on some hidden power,
And take their color from the natal hour,
Then, Ireland, the same planet on us rose,
Such the strong sympathies our lives disclose!
Thou knowest how soon we felt this influence bland,
And sought the brook and coppice, hand in hand,
And shaped rude bows, and uncouth whistles blew,
And paper kites--a last great effort--flew:
And when the day was done, retired to rest,
Sleep on our eyes, and sunshine in our breast.
In riper years, again together thrown,
Our studies, as our sports before, were one.
Together we explored the stoic page
Of the Ligurian, stern though bearless sage!
Or traced the Aquinian through the Latine road,
And trembled at the lashes he bestowed.
Together, too, when Greece unlocked her stores,
We roved in thought o'er Troy's devoted shores,
Or followed, while he sought his native soil,
'That old man eloquent' from toil to toil;
Lingering, with good Alcinous o'er the tale,
Till the east reddened and the stars grew pale."
The tenderness of his nature is also shown in the lines he wrote for the
tombstone of his faithful servant Ann Davies:
"Though here unknown, dear Ann, thy ashes rest,
Still lives thy memory in one grateful breast,
That traced thy course through many a painful year,
And marked thy humble hope, thy pious fear.
Oh! when this frame which yet while life remained,
Thy duteous love with trembling hand sustained,
Dissolves--as soon it must--may that blest Power
Who beamed on thine, illume my parting hour!
So shall I greet thee where no ills annoy,
And what was sown in grief is reaped in joy;
Where worth, obscured below, bursts into day,
And those are paid whom earth could never pay."