WILLIAM PATTISON was a young poet who perished in his twentieth year;
his character and his fate resemble those of Chatterton. He was one
more child of that family of genius, whose passions, like the torch,
kindle but to consume themselves.
The youth of Pattison was that of a poet. Many become irrecoverably
poets by local influence; and Beattie could hardly have thrown his
"Minstrel" into a more poetical solitude than the singular spot which
was haunted by our young bard. His first misfortune was that of having
an anti-poetical parent; his next was that of having discovered a spot
which confirmed his poetical habits, inspiring all the melancholy and
sensibility he loved to indulge. This spot, which in his fancy
resembled some favourite description in Cowley, he called "Cowley's
Walk." Some friend, who was himself no common painter of fancy, has
delineated the whole scenery with minute touches, and a freshness of
colouring, warm with reality. Such a poetical habitation becomes a
part of the poet himself, reflecting his character, and even
descriptive of his manners.
"On one side of 'Cowley's Walk' is a huge rock, grown over with moss
and ivy climbing on its sides, and in some parts small trees spring
out of the crevices of the rock; at the bottom are a wild plantation
of irregular trees, in every part looking aged and venerable. Among
these cavities, one larger than the rest was the cave he loved to sit
in: arched like a canopy, its rustic borders were edged with ivy
hanging down, overshadowing the place, and hence he called it (for
poets must give a name to every object they love) 'Hederinda,' bearing
ivy. At the foot of this grotto a stream of water ran along the walk,
so that its level path had trees and water on one side, and a wild
rough precipice on the other. In winter, this spot looked full of
horror--the naked trees, the dark rock, and the desolate waste; but in
the spring, the singing of the birds, the fragrancy of the flowers,
and the murmuring of the stream, blended all their enchantment."
Here, in the heat of the day, he escaped into the "Hederinda," and
shared with friends his rapture and his solitude; and here through
summer nights, in the light of the moon, he meditated and melodised
his verses by the gentle fall of the waters. Thus was Pattison fixed
and bound up in the strongest spell the demon of poetry ever drew
around a susceptible and careless youth.
He was now a decided poet. At Sidney College, in Cambridge, he was
greatly loved; till, on a quarrel with a rigid tutor, he rashly cut
his name out of the college book, and quitted it for ever in utter
thoughtlessness and gaiety, leaving his gown behind, as his _locum
tenens_, to make his apology, by pinning on it a satirical farewell.
Whoever gives himself the pains to stoop,
And take my venerable tatters up,
To his presuming inquisition I,
In _loco Pattisoni_, thus reply:
"Tired with the senseless jargon of the gown,
My master left the college for the town,
And scorns his precious minutes to regale
With wretched college-wit and college-ale."
He flew to the metropolis to take up the trade of a poet.
A translation of Ovid's "Epistles" had engaged his attention during
two years; his own genius seemed inexhaustible; and pleasure and
fame were awaiting the poetical emigrant. He resisted all kind
importunities to return to college; he could not endure submission,
and declares "his spirit cannot bear control." One friend "fears the
innumerable temptations to which one of his complexion is liable in
such a populous place." Pattison was much loved; he had all the
generous impetuosity of youthful genius; but he had resolved on
running the perilous career of literary glory, and he added one
more to the countless thousands who perish in obscurity.
His first letters are written with the same spirit that distinguishes
Chatterton's; all he hopes he seems to realise. He mixes among the
wits, dates from Button's, and drinks with Concanen healths to
college friends, till they lose their own; more dangerous Muses
condescend to exhibit themselves to the young poet in the park; and
he was to be introduced to Pope. All is exultation! Miserable
youth! The first thought of prudence appears in a resolution of
soliciting subscriptions from all persons, for a volume of poems.
His young friends at college exerted their warm patronage; those in
his native North condemn him, and save their crowns; Pope admits of no
interview, but lends his name, and bestows half-a-crown for a volume
of poetry, which he did not want; the poet wearies kindness, and would
extort charity even from brother-poets; petitions lords and ladies;
and, as his wants grow on him, his shame decreases.
How the scene has changed in a few months! He acknowledges to a
friend, that "his heart was broke through the misfortunes he had
fallen under;" he declares "he feels himself near the borders of
death." In moments like these he probably composed the following
lines, awfully addressed,
AD COELUM!
Good heaven! this mystery of life explain,
Nor let me think I bear the load in vain;
Lest, with the tedious passage cheerless grown,
Urged by despair, I throw the burden down.
But the torture of genius, when all its passions are strained on the
rack, was never more pathetically expressed than in the following
letter:--
"SIR,--If you was ever touched with a sense of humanity, consider
my condition: what _I am_, my proposals will inform you; what _I
have been_, Sidney College, in Cambridge, can witness; but what _I
shall be_ some few hours hence, I tremble to think! Spare my
blushes!--I have not enjoyed the common necessaries of life for
these two days, and can hardly hold to subscribe myself,
"Yours, &c."
The picture is finished--it admits not of another stroke. Such was the
complete misery which Savage, Boyse, Chatterton, and more innocent
spirits devoted to literature, have endured--but not long--for they
must perish in their youth!
HENRY CAREY was one of our most popular poets; he, indeed, has
unluckily met with only dictionary critics, or what is as fatal to
genius, the cold and undistinguishing commendation of grave men on
subjects of humour, wit, and the lighter poetry. The works of Carey do
not appear in any of our great collections, where Walsh, Duke, and
Yalden slumber on the shelf.
Yet Carey was a true son of the Muses, and the most successful writer
in our language. He is the author of several little national poems. In
early life he successfully burlesqued the affected versification of
Ambrose Philips, in his baby poems, to which he gave the fortunate
appellation of "_Namby Pamby_, a panegyric on the new versification;"
a term descriptive in sound of those chiming follies, and now become a
technical term in modern criticism. Carey's "Namby Pamby" was at first
considered by Swift as the satirical effusion of Pope, and by Pope as
the humorous ridicule of Swift. His ballad of "Sally in our Alley" was
more than once commended for its nature by Addison, and is sung to
this day. Of the national song, "God save the King," it is supposed he
was the author both of the words and of the music.[73] He was very
successful on the stage, and wrote admirable burlesques of the Italian
Opera, in "The Dragon of Wantley," and "The Dragoness;" and the mock
tragedy of "Chrononhotonthologos" is not forgotten. Among his Poems
lie still concealed several original pieces; those which have a
political turn are particularly good, for the politics of Carey were
those of a poet and a patriot. I refer the politician who has any
taste for poetry and humour to "The Grumbletonians, or the Dogs
without doors, a Fable," very instructive to those grown-up folks,
"The Ins and the Outs." "Carey's Wish" is in this class; and, as the
purity of election remains still among the desiderata of every true
Briton, a poem on that subject by the patriotic author of our national
hymn of "God save the King" may be acceptable.