Robert Millhouse was born at Nottingham the 14th of October, 1783, and
was the second of ten children. The poverty of his parents compelled
them to put him to work at the age of six years, and when ten he was
sent to work in a stocking-loom. He had been constantly sent to a Sunday
school, (the one which was under the particular patronage of that truly
philanthropic ornament of human nature, the late Mr. Francis Wakefield,)
till about the last-mentioned age, when a requisition having been sent
by the rector of St. Peter’s parish, Dr. Staunton, to the master of the
school, for six of his boys to become singers at the church, Robert was
one that was selected; and thus terminated his education, which merely
consisted of reading, and the first rudiments of writing.
When sixteen years old he first evinced an inclination for the study of
poetry, which originated in the following manner.--Being one day at the
house of an acquaintance, he observed on the chimney-piece two small
statues of Shakspeare and Milton, which attracting his curiosity, he
read on a tablet in front of the former, that celebrated inscription--
“The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a wreck behind!”
Its beauty and solemnity excited in his mind the highest degree of
admiration At the first opportunity he related the occurrence to me
with apparent astonishment, and concluded by saying, “Is it not
Scripture?” In reply, I told him it was a passage from Shakspeare’s play
of the “Tempest,” a copy of which I had in my possession, and that he
had better read it. For, although he had from his infancy been
accustomed to survey with delight the beautiful scenery which surrounds
Nottingham, had heard with rapture the singing of birds, and been
charmed with the varied beauties of the changing seasons; and though his
feelings were not unfrequently awakened by hearing read pathetic
narratives, or accounts of the actions and sufferings of great and
virtuous men, yet he was totally ignorant that such things were in any
wise connected with poetry.
He now began to read with eagerness such books as I had previously
collected, the principal of which were some of the plays of Shakspeare,
Paradise Lost, Pope’s Essay on Man, the select poems of Gray, Collins,
Goldsmith, Prior, and Parnell, two volumes of the Tatler, and
Goldsmith’s Essays, all of the cheapest editions. But, ere long, by
uniting our exertions, we were enabled to purchase Suttaby’s miniature
edition of Pope’s Homer, Dryden’s Virgil, Hawkesworth’s translation of
Telemachus, Mickle’s version of the Lusiad, Thomson’s Seasons, Beattie’s
Minstrel, &c. These were considered as being a most valuable
acquisition; and the more so, because we had feared we should never be
able to obtain a sight of some of them, through their being too
voluminous and expensive.
In 1810 he became a soldier in the Nottinghamshire militia, joined the
regiment at Plymouth, and shortly afterwards made an attempt at
composition.
It will readily be expected that now, being separated, we should begin
to correspond with each other; and one day, on opening a letter which I
had just received from him, I was agreeably surprised at the sight of
his first poetical attempt, the “Stanzas addressed to a Swallow;” which
was soon after followed by the small piece written “On finding a Nest of
Robins.” Shortly after this the regiment embarked at Plymouth, and
proceeded to Dublin; from which place, in the spring of 1812, I received
in succession several other efforts of his muse.
Being now desirous of knowing for certain whether any thing he had
hitherto produced was worthy to appear in print, he requested me to
transmit some of them to the editor of the Nottingham Review, with a
desire that, if they met with his approbation, he would insert them in
his paper; with which request that gentleman very promptly complied.
Having now a greater confidence in himself, he attempted something of a
larger kind, and produced, in the summer of 1812, the poem of
“Nottingham Park.”
In 1814 the regiment was disembodied, when he again returned to the
stocking-loom, and for several years entirely neglected composition. In
1817 he was placed on the staff of his old regiment, now the Royal
Sherwood Foresters; and in the following year became a married man. The
cares of providing for a family now increased his necessities; he began
seriously to reflect on his future prospects in life; and perceiving he
had no other chance of bettering his condition than by a publication,
and not having sufficient already written to form a volume, he resolved
to attempt something of greater magnitude and importance than he had
hitherto done; and in February, 1819, began the poem of “Vicissitude.”
The reader will easily conceive that such a theme required some
knowledge of natural and moral philosophy, of history, and of the vital
principles of religion. How far he has succeeded in this poem is not for
me to say; but certain it is, as may be expected from the narrowness of
his education, and his confined access to books, his knowledge is very
superficial: however, with unceasing exertions, sometimes composing
while at work under the pressure of poverty and ill-health, and at other
times, when released from his daily labour, encroaching upon the hours
which ought to have been allotted to sleep, by the end of October, 1820,
the work was brought to a conclusion.
* * * * *
To his brother’s narrative should be added, that Robert Millhouse’s
“Vicissitude,” and other poems, struggled into the world with great
difficulty, and were succeeded by the volume of “Blossoms.” The
impression of both was small, their sale slow, and their price low; and
nearly as soon as each work was disposed of, the produce was exhausted
by the wants of the author and his family.
Fresh and urgent necessities have required fresh exertions, and the
result is “The Song of the Patriot, Sonnets, and Songs,” a four-shilling
volume, “printed for the Author and sold by R. Hunter, St. Paul’s
Church-yard, and J. Dunn, Nottingham.” The book appeared in the autumn
of last year, after poor Millhouse had suffered much privation from the
bad state of the times. It was published with a slender list of
subscribers--only seventy-seven!--and, though intended to improve his
situation, has scarcely defrayed the bills of the stationer and printer.
The author of “The Song of the Patriot” anticipated the blight of his
efforts. In the commencement of that poem, he says:--
---- ’Tis difficult for little men
To raise their feeble pigmy heads so high,
As to attract the glance of passing ken
Where giant shoulders intercept the sky;
And ah! ’tis difficult for such as I,
To wake fit strains where mighty minstrels sing;
Perhaps, even this, shall but be born and die:
Not fated to enjoy a second spring,
But like some hawk-struck bird, expire on new-fledg’d wing.
In this poem there are stanzas expressed with all a poet’s fire, and all
a patriot’s heartfelt devotion to his country.
Land of my fathers! may thy rocky coast
Long be the bulwark of thy free-born race;
Long may thy patriots have just cause to boast
That mighty Albion is their native place;
Still be thy sons unequall’d in the chase
Of glory, be it science, arts, or arms;
And first o’erweening conquerors to disgrace;
Yet happier far, when Peace in all her charms,
Drives out from every land the din of war’s alarms.
Potent art thou in poesy--Yet there still
Is one thing which the bard hath seldom scann’d;
That national, exalting local thrill,
Which makes our home a consecrated land:
’Tis not enough to stretch the Muses’ wand
O’er states, where thy best blood has purchas’d fame;
Nor that thy fertile genius should expand
To cast o’er foreign themes the witching flame:
This hath thy lyre perform’d, and won a glorious name.
Be every hill and dale, where childhood wanders,
And every grove and nook, the lover knows,
And every stream, and runlet that meanders,
And every plain that covers freedom’s foes
The dwelling-place of Song,--and where repose
The great immortal worthies of our isle
Be hallow’d ground--and when the pilgrim goes
To hail the sacred dust, and muse awhile,
Be heard the free-born strain to blanch the tyrant’s smile.
The patriotism of that people, traces of whose victories are observable
in many of our customs, has been well discriminated. “In the most
virtuous times of the Roman republic their country was the idol, at
whose shrine her greatest patriots were at all times prepared to offer
whole hecatombs of human victims: the interests of other nations were no
further regarded, than as they could be rendered subservient to the
gratification of her ambition; and mankind at large were considered as
possessing no rights, but such as might with the utmost propriety be
merged in that devouring vortex. With all their talents and their
grandeur, they were unprincipled oppressors, leagued in a determined
conspiracy against the liberty and independence of mankind.”[304] Every
English patriot disclaims, on behalf of his country, the exclusive
selfishness of Roman policy; and Millhouse is a patriot in the true
sense of the word. His “Song of the Patriot” is a series of energetic
stanzas, that would illustrate the remark. At the hazard of exceeding
prescribed limits, two more are added to the specimens already quoted.
A beacon, lighted on a giant hill;
A sea-girt watch-tower to each neighbouring state;
A barrier, to control the despot’s will;
An instrument of all-directing fate
Is Britain; for whate’er in man is great,
Full to that greatness have her sons attain’d;
Dreadful in war to hurl the battle’s weight;
Supreme in arts, in commerce unrestrain’d;
Peerless in magic song, to hold the soul enchain’d.
In wealth and power stupendous is our isle!
Obtain’d by Labour’s persevering hand:
And heaven-born Liberty extends her smile
To the remotest corners of our land:
The meanest subject feels her potent wand;
Peasant and peer are by one law controll’d;
And this it is, that keeps us great and grand:
This is the impulse makes our warriors bold,
And knits more close the bond our fathers seal’d of old.
The prevailing feature in Robert Millhouse’s effusions is of a domestic
nature. He loves his country, and deems his birthplace and the hearth of
his family its brightest spots. One of his sonnets combines these
feelings:--