In turning over the pages of the manuscript which has afforded the
materials for these Volumes, it excited no little surprize, that in a
literary life so extended and diversified, there seemed to be no mention
of poetry or poets. It was notorious that the Sexagenarian had a sort of
propensity for the art, and had dabbled in it himself; but it seemed odd
that having lived with most of those, who, in his day, were considered as
more or less accomplished in this way, he should no where notice either
them or their productions.
But surprize had hardly subsided, when in one of the covers, carefully
secured by a wafer, some memoranda on this subject were discovered, to
which the motto which heads this Chapter was prefixed. They were written
in a very small hand, and like many other portions of the manuscript,
appeared like hasty notes to be revised at some more favourable
opportunity. They are, however, subjoined with little, indeed with no
other alteration, than not allowing the introduction of the first person.
It is remarkable, observes the writer, in the experience of a tolerably
protracted life, how few examples have presented themselves of
individuals avowing a devotion to the poetic art, and cultivating it with
persevering diligence, who have really deserved the appellation of poets.
Cicero thus remarks—“Sæpe audivi poetam bonum neminem id quod a Democrito
et Platone in scriptis relictum esse dicunt, sine inflammatione animorum
existere posse et sine quodam afflatu quasi furoris.”
The “Furor” has been sufficiently conspicuous within the last thirty
years, but the genuine “Afflatus” has been rarely communicated.
From what principle, or rather from what infirmity of man’s nature can it
proceed, that the writer of poetry is endowed with a greater portion of
self-complacency, with respect to his own compositions, than any other
author. Yet the fact is so, and the affirmation that it is, is as old as
the age of Augustus. May not the appeal too safely be made, even to the
present æra, whether the same self-confidence does not still characterize
the poetic tribe.
Cicero had no possible pretensions to the character of a poet, yet
there is sufficient evidence that he thought very well of his own
poetical compositions. It is his remark, that every poet thinks his own
productions better than those of any other person.
After relating the beautiful story of Damocles and the tyrant Dionysius,
speaking of the latter he says,
“Musicorum vero perstudiosum accepimus, poetam etiam tragicum: quam bonum
nihil ad rem. In hoc enim genere nescio quo pacto magis, quam in aliis
suum cuique pulchrum est. Adhuc neminem cognovi poetam, et mihi fuit cum
Aquinio amicitia, qui sibi non optimus videretur. Sic se res habet. Te
tua, me delectant mea.”
But enough of this digressive excursion. The following are rough outlines
of modern poets, personally known to, and more or less familiarly
connected with the author.
With respect to one or two of the first and earliest, there appears no
manner of necessity for concealment or disguise. They have long settled
their accounts with respect to reputation, and their names are not yet
quite forgotten.
The first introduction of the kind was to John Home, the author of
Douglas, who was then, on account of the success of this tragedy, in
considerable reputation as a dramatic author. He was an enlightened
and agreeable man; and though he had not the dexterity or the power to
conciliate the good graces of Garrick, he had the better fortune of
being complimented by Hume the historian on his rivalling Shakespeare in
genius. Alas! neither his contemporaries, nor posterity acceded, or will
accede to this eulogium. He wrote other things for the stage, but this
of Douglas alone succeeded, and this, it is to be apprehended, will not
perpetuate his name.
The communication with the amiable and accomplished translator of Ariosto
and Tasso, was much more frequent, as well as more familiar. When his
disadvantages of early education are taken into consideration, for as
Dr. Johnson facetiously observed, he was _regularly_ brought up in Grub
street, it may reasonably excite surprize, that his progress in knowledge
should be so considerable and so diversified.
He was a very respectable scholar, and his acquaintance with the Italian
language in particular was remarkably accurate. His versions of the three
great Italian poets, still retain no contemptible portion of the public
favour; his Metastasio more than either, attracted notice and obtained
applause. But his original compositions were few, and not very much
distinguished by the animation of genius. His name has not undeservedly
found a place in the annals of modern biography, but they who are most
partial to his memory, however they may have been delighted with his
mild and engaging manners, must be satisfied with having their favourite
comprehended in the class of our minor poets.
The next person who was classed among the poets of his day, and rather in
the first rank than the second, should perhaps in point of accuracy have
preceded those who are here placed before him. This was Soame Jenyns. It
would be superfluous to say any thing here of his literary character or
pretensions. The public taste has long since decided upon the station to
which he is entitled among authors. But he was a poet, and personally
known to the Sexagenarian, and therefore not improperly introduced on
this occasion.
His appearance, dress, manner, and conversation, were very eccentric, and
those of his wife, who generally accompanied him on his visits, were no
less so. The lady here alluded to was his second wife, who entertained so
exalted an idea of her husband’s accuracy and propriety of conversation,
that she acquired the habit of always repeating the last sentence of any
thing he said. Thus when the gentleman observed, we had a disagreeable
journey to town, the roads were bad, we were sadly jolted, the lady would
immediately repeat the observation, “Yes, as Mr. Jenyns says, we were
sadly jolted.”
But we have nothing to do here but with his merits as a poet, and
his claims to permanent reputation in that character. His poems were
published collectively in the volumes of Dodsley, and whoever pleases,
may judge of their value. But they excited no great interest when
originally written; they excite less at the present period, and will
probably glide down the stream of time, till, with the mob of gentlemen
who write with ease, they sink into the waters of oblivion.
Much of the same class and pretensions as to poetical merit, though in
other respects with less various, and much more limited intellectual
powers, was Jerningham.
With this gentleman there was a personal acquaintance of many years
continuance, and it was impossible not to be pleased with his amiable and
elegant manners. Whilst he lived he was highly respected for his very
cultivated mind, and for a long series of years he was ranked in the
first class of his contemporary poets. Unluckily for the fabric of his
poetical fame, two ill-betiding lines from a wicked satirist overset it
almost in a moment.
Nobody was presumptuous enough to praise the versification of this
unfortunate bard, after reading in the Baviad,
“See snivelling Jerningham at fifty weep
O’er love-lorn oxen and deserted sheep.”
Yet perhaps this was somewhat too harsh. Jerningham did write some
things which were marked with good sense, good feeling, and polished
versification. Unhappily he was considered as forming one of the
fraternity, whose labours in this way tended to the corruption of the
public taste, and the scythe of the all-potent satirical mower, cut him
down with the rest, never to rise again.
Nevertheless, in opposition to the censures, which it cannot be denied,
were injurious to his reputation, the poet had to produce the strong and
powerful commendation of Burke; no mean testimony surely. Neither can it
be supposed that living familiarly as he did, and continued to do till
the end of his life, in familiar intimacy with the noble and the great,
his tranquillity was materially discomposed by an assault, to which every
literary adventurer is alike exposed.
Οινος τοι χαριεντι μεγας πελει ιππος αοιδῳ
Υδωρ δε πινων χρηστον αν ουδε τεκης.