CHAPTER XLIV._The sexagenarian; or, the recollections of a literary life (Volume 2 of 2)

We have now to introduce a Bookseller of a very singular description, who

in our notes is termed the Exotic Bookseller. He was the introducer of a

new æra in the profession of which he was so successful a member, and the

anecdotes of his rise, from a humble station to great opulence, and to a

familiar communication with the noble and the great, would of themselves

form a very interesting and entertaining narrative. Equidem plura audivi

quam credo, sed nec affirmare sustineo de quibus dubito, nec subducere

quæ accepi.

His father honourably and successfully pursued the occupation, which

descended to the son, in a remote provincial town, and had deservedly

obtained great reputation from the elegance and neatness of his bindings.

If the intelligence received by the Sexagenarian be not fallacious, he

was the inventor of the art of painting landscapes on the edges of the

external leaves of a book, which only became visible when unfolded to a

certain distance.

Be the above as it may, the son was the first person who professedly

displayed in the metropolis shelves of valuable books in splendid

bindings, and having taken a large house in one of the most frequented

and fashionable streets, it soon became the resort of the gay morning

loungers of both sexes. At the same time also invitation was held out to

students and scholars, and persons of real taste, from the opportunity of

seeing and examining the most curious and rare books, manuscripts, and

missals.

His success at home of itself seemed sufficient to satisfy any ordinary

speculator in this sort of commerce, but this was not enough for the

personage of whom we are speaking. He determined to make a circuit of

Europe, and proceeding from his native island with abundance of money,

great acuteness, the most intimate and familiar acquaintance with the

objects of his research, and above all, choosing the most auspicious

moment for his purpose, when by following the rear of the French armies,

he might on easy terms obtain his choice of what he most wanted, he had

abundant cause on his return to felicitate himself on his success. Other

speculations also connected with his profession, proved alike fortunate,

and ere long elevated the subject of these remarks to considerable

distinction and opulence. He became a sort of literary oracle, and was

consulted by the grave and the gay, the lively and severe, the scholar

and the sciolist; and truth to say, his manner was so inimitably fine,

that he had as much to say on an illuminated missal, and an Etruscan

vase, as on the books printed at the Sabiaco monastery, or the Florence

Homer of 1488.

The solemn hour of retirement from the world at length approached, that

crisis of such rare occurrence, when the votary of wealth exclaims with

sincerity, “Have I not enough?” Mr. ⸺ married, and became a country

gentleman. Many whimsical stories are to be found in books, which detail

particular cases of hypochondriacal and nervous disorders, of men who

having been occupied in the vigorous part of life in active business,

have found retirement from employment not only tedious and uncomfortable,

but exceedingly painful.

One is recorded of a great shoemaker, who purchased a villa upon

Blackheath, to which he retired with great exultation and delightful

views of promised pleasure. A summer-house was to be erected, in

which our friends from Aldgate were to enjoy their refreshing pipes;

fruit-trees of every kind were to be planted; the flag held out on

Sundays as a signal of welcome to all old acquaintances passing that

way; politics discussed, and the nation saved from almost irretrievable

ruin. Alas! alas! how soon a thing when once in our possession, loses

its lustre, its beauty, and its value. After the short experiment of a

few months, Mr. Last began to think that something was the matter with

him, though he did not know exactly what. The walk on the heath lost its

interest, the views from Greenwich-hill ceased to delight, the appetite

was not so good, sleep was broken, and a general low-spiritedness ensued,

which began to wear a formidable appearance.

A celebrated physician was sent for from the metropolis. His sagacity

soon found out the cause of the malady, and prescribed a simple but

certain remedy. It appeared evident to the medical gentleman, that the

mischief originated in the privation of those employments for which the

mind of the patient was so constituted, as to be not only the best, but

alone adapted. After a minute enquiry into what hands the business, so

inauspiciously quitted, had fallen, and ascertaining the practicability

of the patient’s being thankfully welcomed as an occasional visitor, to

give the benefit of his advice and experience, it was determined that he

was regularly to go to town by the stage three times a week, to assist

in “cutting out.” The experiment succeeded, and health and cheerfulness

were restored.

It is by no means intended to insinuate, that our retired bookseller

became a victim of similar infirmities, or if he had the propensity to

imbibe the miasma, he took care to guard against its pernicious effects.

He continued now and then, at intervals, by way of amusement, and at

the desire of friends, to dabble a little in the way of his former

occupation, and was said, on some critical occasion, to have made a trip

to the Continent, partly on the account of declining health, and partly

to avail himself of a tempting opportunity to pick and choose, from a

very select collection of rare things _in his way_.

Who shall pretend to say that there was any harm in all this? But does

it not serve to verify the old and homely proverb, “What is bred in the

bone is never out of the flesh?” And does it not tend to prove the almost

impossibility of blending the love of gain, inherent in a tradesman, with

the disregard of it, which is the proud distinction of the gentleman?

As to external manners, the person in question was both courteous and

courtier-like. They who were less favourably inclined towards him,

complained that his enunciation was affectedly soft, and that he had

too much of the air and grimace of a Frenchman; and by the shrug of his

shoulders, and his facility in speaking the language, has more than

once been mistaken for a native of that country. But his peculiarities

were harmless, his knowledge of all the mysteries of his craft, more

extensive, perhaps, than that of any of his contemporaries, his merits

considerable, and death might easily have spared a less amiable character.

The few remaining scraps on the subject of booksellers may be summarily

brought together. There is some account of a Snuffy Bookseller, a man

of great singularity of life and manners. He had a university education

originally, with a view of taking orders. Why he changed his purpose is

unknown. It has been whispered that an eminent female personage, long

since deceased, to whom he had been useful in collecting and arranging

books of prints and engravings, had promised to procure him preferment.

His next occupation was that of an engraver, in which art he became no

mean proficient. His final employment was that of a bookseller, in which

mystery also he had obtained no inconsiderable degree of knowledge. The

last fatal catastrophe of his life was truly lamentable, occasioned in

all probability from disappointed hopes, and the horrors of approaching

penury.

There was also a bookseller to whom the epithet of B⸺d is attached, but

anecdotes of vulgar rudeness, over-reaching cunning, and total disregard

of the civilities of life, would only deform these pages.

Some remarks are also to be found on a Cunning Bookseller, who, at a

very early period of life, had obtained the most extensive knowledge of

his business in all its branches, which he did not fail to turn to good

account.

Attention also is invited to a sketch of a Godly Bookseller, a worthy and

conscientious man, whose principal dealings were in religious books and

tracts, and chief correspondence with individuals of that description.

In conclusion, there are some not unentertaining notices of a Superb

Bookseller. This personage seems not altogether to have disdained

genius in its humbler garb and more retired walks, yet the whole of his

establishment, his mansion, his furniture, his symposia, seemed intended

for the noble and the great alone. A great and popular house, he was well

aware, would at any time sell a considerable impression of any thing. On

such occasions he was splendidly liberal; and as theatrical managers,

when they get up a new play, are careless of the expence of decorations,

dresses, and scenery, so would our Superb Bookseller give a great and

noble author every advantage of the finest wire-wove paper and Bulmer’s

typography, He nevertheless had the character of a disposition to drive

a hard bargain with such authors as were untitled, unbeneficed, (or if it

may be permitted to coin a word) unincomed. He is said to have laboured

under the imputation of having sacrificed at the shrine of _greater_

friends, it may not be said on the score of lucre, the claims of an

individual, whose worth, talents, and amiable manners, had been long

known and acknowledged by continued experience of their value. He was

accused of having sanctioned, at least by his connivance, an _ex post

facto_ attack, written in all the gall of bitterness, and dictated by

personal spleen, rather than by an ingenuous spirit of fair criticism,

upon a work of great labour and merit, which has hitherto stood, and will

continue to stand, the test of time.

Here our manuscript seems brought to a conclusion, for after a few

desultory hints, of which some are perfectly unintelligible to the

Editor, the following quotation occurs in a larger hand-writing.

Habeo Neptune gratiam magnam tibi

Quam me amisisti a te vix vivum modo

Verum si posthac me pedem latum modo

Scio imposisse in undam, haud causa ilico ’st

Quod nunc voluisti facere, quin facias mihi.

Apage, apage te a me—nunc jam post hunc diem

Quid crediturus tibi fui, omne credidi.

PORSONIANA.

Quanquam non commisi quidem ut defensore mihi opus sit adversus

obtrectatos, neminem enim dicto quidem læsi, sed adversus obtrectatores,

quibus orbis literatus passim infestatur, sicuti suis via insidiatoribus,

forum vililitigatoribus, militia provocatoribus.

By far the greater part of the pieces which follow are printed from

Professor Porson’s own manuscripts. Those which are not so, were either

written from his personal dictation, or copied by his permission.

The subjoined is, perhaps, the earliest specimen of Porson’s Latinity

which has hitherto appeared. The Proemium to the Notes, which, at the

request of Maps, alias Nicholson, the Cambridge Bookseller, and which

commences facetiously “Lectori si quis erit” was written two years

afterwards. This Oration was probably delivered in the Chapel of Trinity

College, at the time when it is dated.

MAII 29ᵒ 1784.

Quamvis super Caroli secundi meritis hodie privatorum hominum multæ sint

et discrepantes sententiæ, tamen si publicum istius sæculi Ecclesiæ

totiusq; populi suffragium respicimus, hunc diem non modo cretâ notandum

sed et dignum judicabimus, qui solenni gratiarum actione quotannis

celebretur. Et cum nulla neq; lex neq; consuetudo altius radices agat,

aut diutius floreat, quam quæ religionis nomen prætendat; operæ pretium

sit propius inspicere et exigere Caroli mores atq; ingenium; sine irâ et

studio inquirere, quantum reipublicæ contulerit; quibus sive privatim

sive publice virtutibus eminuerit; quantis libertatem et religionem

beneficiis auxerit; quam bene denique cum regis tum hominis partes

impleverit.

Si qui rex unquam fuit, qui optimis et felicissimis avibus regnum suum

auspicatus est, is profectò fuit Carolus, qui tanto tamq; unanimi totius

imperii consensu, in solium hæreditarium escenderit. Et quemadmodum

amantium iræ (aiunt) amoris integratio est, quicquid in Carolum

patrem populus deliquerat, aut quodcunq; in officio erga eum fungendo

desiderari potuerat, id omne effusissimâ est, quâ filium prosequebatur

benevolentiâ pensare aut supplere adnixus. Qui per tot annos sub crudelis

et suspicacis tyranni dominatione gemuissent, expectatione melioris

fortunæ nunc se consolabantur, si princeps ab exilio revocaretur;

satiusq; duxerunt, etiam si tyranni potestatem iterum experiri necesse

esset, ejus arbitrium agnoscere, ad quem lege hereditariæ successionis

regnandi jus aliquatenus pertinere videretur. Cromwello igitur tandem

mortuo, omnes sectæ et factiones certatim se regi restituendo accinxêre.

Sperabant scilicet, fore, ut novus rex, quantum patriæ favori deberet,

gratus memoriæ mandaret, et aliquando tam re quam verbis ostenderet; ut

patris sui miserabili fortunâ et immaturo exitu admonitus, scopulos et

syrtes in quas ille impegisset, ipse gubernator factus, cautâ et prudenti

navigatione evitaret; ut neq; communia jura deminueret, neq; præter jus

fasq; prærogativæ suæ fines propagaret; ut adversis rebus diu multumq;

conflictatus, humanè et sine insolenti lætitiâ secundis frueretur.

His freti cogationibus regni hæreditatem stabilem et perpetuam videntur

reddidisse; tantamq; vectigalium partem regiis sumptibus suppeditandis

destinâsse, quanta magni principis splendori et dignitati non solum

tutandæ, sed etiam ostentandæ sufficeret. Neq; de suo tantum largiti

sunt, quippe qui hæc præclara propensæ in regem voluntatis argumenta

ediderint, ne minimâ quidem conditionum ab ipso servandarum mentione

factâ. Adeo enixe studium, suum et obedientiam probare aggressi sunt,

ut quid majorum suorum memoriæ, quid sibi ipsi, quid posteritati

deberent, pariter obliti essent. Sed ne quicquam requiri posset, quo

se regi dicto audientes et morigeros præberent, iidem homines penes

quos potissimum restituti regis gloria esset, totius gentis personâ

susceptâ perduellionis erga beatum (quem vocabant) martyrem se ipse

reos profitebantur et admissi facinoris a clementissimo domino veniam

impetrabant. Non tamen rex eo usq; clementiâ suâ abusus est, ut neminem

omnino veniâ indignum judicaret, sed lenitatem suam justâ severitate

temperavit, in eosq; judices qui ex animi sententiâ et quoniam è rep.

fore censuerunt, patrem suum capitis damnâssent, omnibus exemplis

animadvertendum statuit. Qui autem temporis causâ hoc parricidium

perpetrâssent, iis quod sibi videretur fidelibus consiliorum suorum

ministris olim usurus, generosâ et sapienti sententiâ pœnam condonavit.

Sed ut quod sentio liberè et sine ambagibus dicam; fatendum est ab

iis quorum affectus in neutram partem proclivior est, contra regiam

dignitatem, contra civilem prudentiam peccâsse Carolum, quod non

præteritorum omnium facinorum memoriam penitus aboleret. Sin autem hoc

fautores Stewartorum negabunt; illud certè non negabunt (neq; enim vel

possunt vel audent;) suppliciorum qua a perduellibus leges exigunt,

crudeliorem partem, utpote exempli parum memoris legum humanarum, remitti

oportuisse.

Quanquam autem, ut supra demonstravimus, quod satis superq; esset frugali

regiæ donâsset, tamen ut amoris quo novum regem amabant, locupletissimum

darent testimonium, plures extraordinarias pensiones in ipsius fratrisq;

loculos contulerunt. Ac nè quid deesset quod civium bene sentientium

animos indicaret, decreto incertum magis ridiculo an absurdo, omnia

quæ Senatus aut Cromwellus per viginti annos egerant, abrogabantur. Si

historici hujus temporis audiendi sunt, hæc flagitia quodammodo excusari

possunt, propterea quod ab ebriis ferè et discinctis nebulonibus admissa

essent, quanquam facilitas ea, quæ hujusmodi homines in supremum pene

gentis concilium adsciverit, non omnino laudanda videtur.

Est et alia res, levicula quidem illa, neq; tamen prorsus negligenda,

cædis nempe cupido quædam et aviditas, quâ per totum regni tempus

Carolus tam vehementur flagravit, ut vix suspicari possis in genitâ

ejus crudelitate factum ut tot innocentes homines contra leges sanctas

et jura imo interdum contra ipsius pollicitationes capite plecterentur.

Verisimilius videtur talia spectacula huic principi ludi jociq; instar

fuisse. Neq; equidem valdè miror, si Carolus, qui Galliæ sæpe vidisset,

quantâ ibi facilitate rex morte, exilio, aut bonorum publicatione cives

afficiat, quemq; Angli non minori adulatione, quam Galli Ludovicum

mulcere solerent, regis Gallici potestatem in hâc quoq; parte usurpare

vellet. Certè nisi pondus aliquod his excusationibus subesse concedamus,

agnoscendum erit vix quicquam in omni historiâ, quod ab humanitate

alienius sit de pessimis et odiosissimis tyrannis narrari, neq; quod

ab omni lenitate et prudentià, ut legum violationem omittam, magis

abhorreat. Inter nobiles hujus temporis reos, Vanius, Russelius et

Sidneius præcipuè eminent, quorum injusta et crudelis mors Caroli

memoriæ æternam dedecoris atq; intamiæ notam inuret. Si horum exemplorum

atrocitatem eâ quâ par est, indignatione contemplabimur, Tiberii alterius

aut Neronis scelera legere videbimur.

Quod si de domestica rerum administratione nihil quod quereremur,

haberemus, bellorum à Carolo gestorum et fœderum ictorum tanta est

ignominia, quantam vix Joannes noster suscepit cum a Pontifice Romano

coronam precario acciperet. Misso primum contra Belgas, a quibus

magnificentissimo fuerat hospitio exceptus, exercitu, avaræ et ingratæ

mentis justissimas pœnas persolvit. Cum enim res Belgarum superior

evasisset, iniquis Carolus est pacis conditionibus acquiescere coactus.

Ut bellum gereret, spoliorum cupiditas, si verum amamus, primo regem

pepulerat, quam non frustatus est eventus. Quamvis enim ex Belgio

Fœderato nihil præter dedecus, reportaret, pecuniam quam in sumptus belli

erogandam civium liberalitas dedisset, in rem suam ipse catus convertit.

Multa vero delicta, quæ in alio quovis flagitia essent, ut in Carolo

leviore nomine notentur, facit præcipuorum ejus facinorum magnitudo;

quorum in numero principem locum merito obtinet, quod duo maxima totius

imperii robora et firmamenta, Dunquercam et Tingen hosti turpiter

prodiderit. Illud autem consilium palmam cœteris præripit, quod inter eum

et Ludovicum mercenariis conditionibus convenerat.

Satis jam notum est regem clam se eidem religionis sectæ, cui fratrem

Jacobum, Romanæ nempe, addixisse: Hanc quoq; per Britanniam, Ludovici

auxilio, ubicunq; tempus sineret, propagare, veterem constitutionem

delere, pro libertate tyrannidem, pro reformatâ religione, Catholicam

invehere decreverat. Sed tam timide gelideq; hanc rem ministravit, tantâ

solertiâ dicam an malitiâ, animi cogitata celavit, ut multis Catholicorum

gravissimis suppliciis afficerentur, ipso rege, qui eandem fidem amplexus

erat, approbante.

Hæc pauca ex innumeris publicarum Caroli virtutum exempla selegimus.

Videamus si privati mores cæteros defectus compensent. Etiam pater ejus,

regni errores cæteris virtutibus partim redemit. Sed in hâc parte valdè

dissimilem et degenerem filium reliquit. Vix ullam Europæ regionem

peragravit, quin ex eâ novas ineptias, nova vitia reportaret. Avus ejus

Jacobus ab adulatoribus suis appellari solitus est Salomon secundus. Quæ

una res ei defuit ad perfectam similitudinem Carolus supplevit, quem nemo

Salomonis simillimum fuisse negabit, qui immensum utriusq; concubinarum

numerum reputaverit. Cum hujusmodi mulierculis et viris non honestioribus

otium suum omni luxus et libidinis genere oblectavit. Qualis vir fuisset,

indicio fuerunt, (ut quidam non ineptè observavit) ultima ejus extremâ

in morte verba, quibus neq; reip. neq; amicorum cujus aut propinquorum,

sed meretricis meminerat. At forsan, inquies, opum suarum facultatibus

ad patris suiq; comitum et defensorum inopiam sublevandam usus est, et

hanc occasionem testandi quam bene adversus omne qui alterius utrius

causam fortunis, manu, scriptis adjuvissent, avidè arripuit. Nihil minus;

fidelissimos regiæ potestatis servos aut neglexit, ut inter mille alios

Couleium et Butlerum nominem, aut, sicut Clarendonum, à se et patriâ

removit, exiliiq; periculis et laboribus objecit.

Qui omnes nervos contendunt, ut Caroli memoriam qua jure qua injuriâ

aliquatenus ab infamiâ quâ premitur liberent, regis comitatem atq;

hilaritatem prædicant; quamq; facetus et lepidus conviva esset, libenter

narrant. Et sanè disertus fuit leporum et facetiarum, si modo pro

leporibus et facetiis scurrilis dicacitas sumatur. Hujus enim uberrimâ

abundabat copiâ; nihil unquam facetè dixit, quod salvo pudore; nec

liberè, quod salvâ religione dici posset. Per totum hujus principis

regnum, modestiæ, pudoris, sinceritatis, temperantiæ, religionis deniq;

nulla habita est ratio; neq; certior aut expeditior ad regis favorem

patebat aditus, quam si quis, scurra, impius, vinosus et prodigus

audiret. Ut quisq; ipse erat simillimus, ita carissimus. Ut breviter

absolvam, antequam coronam adeptus esset, mendicus fuit; postquam adeptus

esset, rex non fuit: sine dignitate sapientiâ aut fortitudine; sine

amicitiâ; sine fide et amore connubiali; sine fraternâ pietate, atheus

vivebat, Papista moriebatur. Talis fuit Carolus secundus.

⸺manibus date lilia plenis;

Purpureos spargam flores, animamq; tyranni

His saltem accumulem donis⸺

The subjoined Preface is printed from the Professor’s first copy, in his

own hand-writing, which he permitted to be prefixed to Toup’s Emendations

of Suidas.

LECTORI

Cum nuper audivissem, TOUPII Emendationes in Suidam prælo Oxoniensi

mox prodituras, Viros doctissimos, qui laborem edendi suscepissent,

certiores feci, me non indiligenter opus illud aureum perlegisse, et

notarum mearum, quas hic illic adscripsissem, modo dignæ viderentur, quæ

TOUPII scriptis pro appendice adjungerentur, copiam iis facturum. Habes

igitur breves hasce notas; quas tu, qualescunque tandem sunt fructu

leges. Sed duo sunt, quæ abs te mihi ignosci pervelim. Unum est, quod

plerumque censoris personam gero, sæpiusque TOUPIUM reprehendo, quam

laudo; alterum, quod libros alios haud raro indicavi, in quibus idem

jam ante TOUPIUM observatum sit. De priori, ita res erat, faciundum

fuit. Neque enim hoc juvenili jactantia feci, nec quo viris me longe

majoribus vellicandis laudem mihi comparare vellem; sed semper ab eorum

consuetudine valde abhorrui, qui nihil aliud quam _pulchre_, _bene_,

_recte_, tertio quoque verbo ingerunt. Ego sane, nisi TOUPII ingenium et

doctrinam maximi facerem, nunquam in eum, ne hæc quidem, quantulacunque

sunt, scriberem. Sed editoris aut commentatoris officium esse duco,

auctoris sui errores corrigere, delectus supplere. Vix unquam igitur

TOUPII sententiam calculo meo comprobavi, nisi ubi novis argumentis

confirmari posse, aut ab aliis criticis nullo jure impugnata esse

videretur. Quod ad alterum attinet, neminem opinor adeo iniquum fore, ut

credat me TOUPIO, quoties ejus cum aliis consensum memoro, plagii vel

minimam suspicionem inustam velle. Sed cum duo scriptores idem tradant,

mihi non alteruter, ab altero ideo sumpsisse, sed uterque rem recte

reputantes, veritatis vi coacti, in eandem sententiam devenisse videntur.

_Omnes enim_, inquit BENTLEIUS[4], _in multa incidimus, nescientes, illa

jam ab aliis esse occupata_. Quæ observatio ut et mihi prosit rogo, si

quid in his notulis, quod dictum sit prius, ipse dixisse inveniar.

_Dabam Londini, 1 Julii, 1787._

* * * * *

The Professor once kindly undertook to write down, for a young friend who

was preparing to make a collection of classical and philological books, a

list of such works as he conceived to be indispensable in a well-chosen

library.

A paper book was provided, in which the Professor first wrote, Libri

Desiderati in Museo. A.B.

The two first pages of this Manuscript are subjoined.

Euripidis Hippolytus Valckenærii cum Diatribe in perditas

Tragædias, &c.

Euripidis Phœnissæ Valckenærii Ursini Collatio Græcorum cum

Virgilio, cui accedunt Valckenærii Epistola ad M. Röverum et

Dissertatio de Scholiis in Homerum ineditis, &c.

Ammonius de differentia Vocum et alia ad Grammaticam spectantia

cum Animadversionibus Valckenærii.

Thomas Magister Bernardi, Oudendorpii et aliorum.

Gregoriùs Corinthi Episcopus de Dialectis per Gisbertum Koënium.

B. Brissonius de Formulis et solennibus verbis populi Rom.

Dion Cassius J. A. Fabricii et H. S. Reimari, 2 vol. fol.

Hamburgi.

Fax Artium Gruteri, 7 vol.

Selecta Theocriti Idyllia, a Valckenærio.

Gatakeri Opera Critica Trajecti ad Rhen. 2 vol. fol. interdum

in 1.

Dion Chrysostomus Reiskii, 2 vol. 8vo.

Arnobius Heraldi, 4to.

Clemens Alexandrinus Potteri.

Eusebii Præparatio } Evangelica a Fr. Vigero

Eusebii Demonstratio }

Ecclesiasticæ Historiæ Scriptores a Valesio, 3 vol. fol. (ed.

opt. Reading)

Pollux Hemsterhusii.

Philostratus Olearii.

Libanius.

Miscellaneæ Observationes a Britannis cœptæ, a Belgis

continuata.

Aristides Jebbii, 2 vol. 4to.

Beausobre Histoire du Manicheisme, 2 vol. 4.

Menagiana, 4 vol. ed. opt. 1729.

Mœris Atticista, 1759, Piersoni.

Ursini Fragmenta Lyricorum.

Artemidorus Rigaltii, Par. 1603. 4to.

* * * * *

The subjoined are specimens of Porson’s familiar Letters. The person

to whom they were addressed negotiated, at Porson’s desire, with the

bookseller, for the publication of the Letters to Travis. It is correctly

stated in the Athenæum that the prize given was thirty pounds. That the

publisher lost money by it can hardly be conceived. The book is now out

of print and numbered among the scarcer books.

Dear ⸺

Settle the matter of publication for me in any way that you

think reasonable, or that would be satisfactory to yourself.

If you agree upon the terms that you mention in your letter,

inform me when they would wish to begin. For, as the Preface

will of course be printed last, I could send them a copy of

the Letters in the Magazine, properly corrected, within a few

days. With respect to the Lay Fellowship, I thank you for the

information, but if it is already vacant, you need not doubt of

its being given away. If you see the Rev. Mr. W. tell him the

same from me, which will be equivalent to an acknowledgement of

his letter, and tell him besides that Mr. Goodall is extremely

flattered by the attention of a person so much his superior in

dignity: συγκαθημενων, I would render the women who live with

him. The literal sense is, without doubt, “who sit together;”

but this expression refers to what was generally the case,

not what was the case in this particular instance, for we

are informed that it was quite the contrary. See Dorville on

Chariton, which I have not by me here.

I am, with compliments to ⸺

Your’s,

R. PORSON.

_Eton, 17 Sept. 1789._

The Clergyman alluded to in the above Letter, was the Rev. Dr. Wingfield,

for a time head master of Westminster School, and since that period,

Prebendary of Worcester, with whom Porson subsequently spent a great deal

of his time. Mr. Goodall is the present worthy Provost of Eton College.

Dear ⸺

I think you may tell Mr. Egerton that I accept his proposals,

which appear to me liberal enough. I find upon a review of my

Letters in the Magazine, that besides changing the form of the

Address, I shall make several alterations and additions that

will render it necessary for me to write the whole over again.

I shall return to London some time next week with the first

part, fairly written for the press. I suppose that will be time

enough. Συγκατημένων is Ionic, as κατιεις for καθιεις, &c. Your

⸺ packed up in a small parcel, and directed as before, will

come safe.

I am, with compliments to ⸺

Your’s, &c.

R. PORSON.

_Eton, 28 Sept. 1789._

There are two things obvious from the above short Epistle, namely, that

the Professor did not accustom himself to overrate the value of his

talents, and that he was ready, at all times, to communicate, to those

who required it, the benefit of his superior erudition.

Dear ⸺

I wrote to you last Monday, but as I suppose my Letter might

miscarry, I shall repeat the substance of it. I authorized you

to accept Mr. Egerton’s terms; to which I shall only add, what

I then omitted through haste, a request that you would stickle

for half a dozen copies to be thrown into the bargain. As I am

obliged to write over all my Letters that have been printed,

to prevent mistakes and confusion, I cannot let them have

any part of the copy before next week, when I expect to have

the pleasure of seeing you and ⸺ in town, to whom present my

compliments, and believe me to be

Your’s sincerely,

R. PORSON.

_Eton, 30 Sept. 1789._

PORSONIAN LEVITIES.

ÆNIGMA.

Ex eo genere quod ex duabus vocibus monosyllabis unam vocem disyllabon

efficit.

Primum, secundum, tertium, sive totum, sive integrum.

Te primum incauto nimium, propiusque tuenti

LAURA, mihi furtim surrippuisse queror,

Nec tamen hoc furtum tibi condonare recusem

Si pretium simili solvere merce velis

Sed quo plus candoris habent tibi colla secundo

Hoc tibi plus _primum_ frigoris intus habet,

Jamque sinistra cava cantavit ab ilice _totum_

Omina, et audaces spes vetat esse ratas.

_On the Publications of_ Mrs. THRALE (PIOZZI), Mr. BOSWELL, _and_ Sir

JOHN HAWKINS, _on the Subject of_ Dr. JOHNSON.

Lexiphanem fatis functum, qua fœmina, qua vir

Certain indignis dedecorare modis,

Hic quantum in Scotos fuerit testatus amorem

Enarrat, fatuos vendidit illa sales.

Fabellas Eques ede tuas, seu Musice mavis,

Si famæ Herois vis superesse nihil.

At Johnson’s death both sexes join,

His character to undermine,

Proclaim his courtesy to Scots,

And print his stupid anecdotes,

’Tis now thy turn musician knight,

Publish and damn his fame outright.

Porson one day visiting his brother-in-law Mr. P⸺, who at that time lived

in Lancaster-court, in the Strand, found him indisposed, and under the

influence of medicine. On returning to the house of a common friend, he

of course expected to be asked after the health of his relation. After

waiting with philosophic patience, without the expected questions being

proposed, he reproached the company for not giving him an opportunity of

giving the following answer, which he had composed on his walk.

My Lord of Lancaster, when late I came from it,

Was taking a medicine of names not a few,

In Greek an emetic, in Latin a vomit,

In English a puke, and in vulgar a ⸺.

The following humourous verses were undoubtedly composed by Porson, but

they are not copied from his own hand-writing, which most of the things

here inserted are. He, however, repeated them to the person from whose

manuscript they are now printed.

ON THE POPULAR PLAY OF PIZARRO.

As I walked through the Strand so careless and gay,

I met a young girl who was wheeling a barrow,

Choice fruit, Sir, said she, and a bill of the play,

So my apples I bought, and set off for Pizarro.

When I got to the door, I was squeezed, and cried dear me,

I wonder they made the entrance so narrow,

At last I got in, and found every one near me

Was busily talking of Mr. Pizarro.

Lo! the hero appears, what a strut and a stride,

He might easily pass for a Marshal to-morrow,

And Elvira so tall, neither virgin nor bride,

The loving companion of gallant Pizarro.

But Elvira, alas! turned so dull and so prosy,

That I longed for a hornpipe by little Del Caro;

Had I been ’mong the Gods I had surely cried Nosy,

Come play up a jig, and a fig for Pizarro.

On his wife and his child his affection to pay,

Alonzo stood gazing, and straight as an arrow;

Of him I have only this little to say,

His boots were much neater than those of Pizarro.

Then the priestess and virgins, in robes white and flowing,

Walked solemnly on like a sow and her farrow,

And politely informed the whole house they were going

To entreat heaven’s curses on noble Pizarro.

Rolla made a fine speech with such logic and grammar,

As must sure raise the envy of Counsellor Garrow;

It would sell for five pounds were it brought to the hammer,

For it raised all Peru against valiant Pizarro.

Four acts are tol lol, but the fifth’s my delight,

Where history’s traced with the pen of a Varro,

And Elvira in black, and Alonzo in white,

Put an end to the piece by killing Pizarro.

I have finished my song if it had but a tune,

Nancy Dawson won’t do, nor the sweet banks of Yarrow,

I vow I would sing it from morning till noon,

So much am I charmed with the play of Pizarro.

Porson’s fondness for Algebra was universally known, but perhaps a more

singular proof of this can hardly be adduced than is exhibited in the

following equation, composed by him in Greek. The original is comprized

in one line.

Τις ὁ αριθμος ον τεμνομενον εις δυο ανισεις μερεις η του

μειζονος μεριδος δυναμις μετα του ελαττονος μεταλαμβανομενη

ισος εσσεται του ελαττονος δυναμει μετα του μειζονος

μεταλαμβανομενῃ.

Required the number, which being divided into two unequal parts, the

square of the greater added to the less shall be equal to the square of

the less added to the greater. Let the numbers be _x_ and _y_.

_x_² × _y_ = _y_² × _x_

_x_² - _y_² = _x_ - _y_

_x_ + _y_ = _1_.

CHARADES AND RIDDLES.

If Nature and Fortune had plac’d me with you,

On my first, we my second might hope to obtain;

I might marry you, were I my third, it is true;

But that marriage would only embitter my pain.

II.

My first is the lot that is destin’d by fate,

For my second to meet with in every state:

My third is by many philosophers reckoned,

To bring very often my first to my second.

III.

My first, though your house, nay your life, he defends,

You ungratefully name like the wretch you despise;

My second, I speak it with grief, comprehends

All the brave, and the good, and the learn’d, and the wise.

Of my third I have little or nothing to say,

Except that it tells the departure of day.

IV.

The child of a peasant, Rose thought it no shame

To toil at my first all the day;

When her father grew rich, and a farmer became,

My first to my second gave way:

Then she married a merchant, who brought her to town;

To this eminent station preferr’d.

Of my first and my second unmindful she’s grown,

And gives all her time to my third.

My first is the nymph I adore,

The sum of her charms is my second,

I was going to call it my third,

But I counted a million and more,

Till I found they could never be reckoned;

So I quickly rejected the word.

VI.

My first in ghosts, ’tis said abounds,

And wheresoe’er she walks her rounds,

My second never fails to go,

Yet oft attends her mortal foe.

If with my third you quench your thirst,

You sink for ever in my first.

VII.

My first is expressive of no disrespect,

Yet I never shall call you it while you are by;

If my second you still are resolv’d to reject,

As dead as my third I shall speedily lie.

VIII.

My first of unity’s a sign;

My second ere we knew to plant,

We us’d upon my third to dine,

“If all be true that poets chant.”

IX.

Your cat does my first in your ear,

O that I were admitted as near;

In my second I’ve held you my fair

So long that I almost despair;

But my prey if at last I o’ertake,

What a glorious third I shall make.

My first with more than quaker’s pride,

At your most solemn duty,

You keep, nor deign to throw aside,

E’en though it veils your beauty.

My second on your cheek or lip,

May kindle Cupid’s fire,

While from your eye or nose’s tip

It ne’er provokes desire.

But if your third you entertain

For your unhappy poet,

In mercy Chloe spare his pain,

Not ever let him know it.

The following specimens of good-natured levity and humour were also

produced by him, without any study or previous meditation.

The little girl, who was his favourite, as has before been mentioned,

one day led him by the hand into the kitchen, to deliver a message to a

servant. A young woman who had lived long in the family, and was much

respected, was ironing linen. Her name was Susan, and the child desired

Porson to write some verses upon her. Porson, as soon as he returned to

the parlour, pronounced the following lines.

When lovely Susan irons smocks,

No damsel ere looked neater,

Her eyes are brighter than her box,

And burn me like a heater.

On the extravagant terms of flattery, which Mr. Hayley and Miss Seward

used in compliments to one another, Porson frequently indulged much

satirical observation. The following dialogue is supposed to take place

between the parties.

MISS SEWARD _loquitur_.

Tuneful Poet, Britain’s glory,

Mr. Hayley that is you.

HAYLEY _respondet_.

Ma’am, you carry all before you,

Trust me Lichfield Swan you do.

MISS SEWARD.

Ode, didactic, epic, sonnet,

Mr. Hayley you’re divine.

MR. HAYLEY.

Ma’am, I’ll take my oath upon it,

You yourself are all the Nine.

Copied from Porson’s Manuscript, but whether his own or not is uncertain.

LIEU

DIEU

SORT

MORT

SORT

FORT

DUR

MAIS

TRES

SUR

Qu a d t d p

os nguis irus risti ulcedine avit.

H sa m Ch m l

Mors mortis morti mortem nisi morte dedisset,

Aeternae vitæ janua clausa foret.

FRENCH CHARADES.

A Lise fais tu mon premier,

Qui prend le vrai pour le grossier,

Ne traite ne de gris ses yeux,

Ni de mon second ses cheveux,

On Lise en mon tout se mettra,

Et tes cheveux arrachera.

CHARADE BACCHIQUE.

Je reçu hier de mon cousin,

Pour etrennes tonneau de vin,

C’est mon premier lui m’en repond,

Pour la douceur et pour l’esprit,

Mais puisqu’au au moins c’est mon second,

Car c’est gratis comme j’ai dit.

Ouvrons mon tout, rien ne me coute,

Et buvons jusque a ne voir goutte.

...

Quand vous me fites mon premier,

En ravissant mon cœur, Iris,

Je jurai de vous adorer,

Malgre votre orgueilleux mepris,

Et voici ce que je promis,

J’amuserai jusqu’au dernier point.

Maintenant je ne songe point,

Aux sermens que je violés,

Ai je tort? vous en jugerez

Vous etes mon entier toujours.

Plus mon entier encor que belle,

Vous me jouez cent mauvais tours,

Du beau sexe trop vrai modele,

Doit ma constance etre eternelle?

ON THE ENQUIRIES MADE AFTER THE WRITER OF A CERTAIN LEARNED PREFACE.

Perturbed spirits spare your ink,

Nor beat your stupid brains no longer,

Soon to oblivion then shall sink

Your persecuted Preface-monger.

INCERTI AUCTORIS.

RIDDLE.

In every gift of Fortune I abound,

In me is every vice and virtue found,

With black and blue and green myself I paint,

With me an atheist stands before a saint;

Far above Nature, I make Art precede,

And before sovereigns give the poor the lead.

Many who bear the name of learned and wise,

Did I not help them, you would oft despise;

Nay more, within my grasp together bound

The king, the beggar, and the harlot’s found;

In one thing I excel the proudest lords,

You always may depend upon my words.

RIDDLE.

I’m sometimes very honest, sometimes not,

And less sincere at court than in a cot;

Sometimes I pleasure give, and sometimes pain,

And now I praise bestow, and now disdain;

The lovelier I appear when small my throne,

Enlarge but this, and all my beauty’s gone;

Sullen and silent when my friends are gone,

I’m e’en invisible if left alone;

Few things there are, at least but few I know,

Which cost so little, and so much bestow.

RIDDLE.

Tho’ so light is my weight that no strength is required,

They who take me about are oftentimes tired;

Short, long, narrow, broad, of materials not strong,

The forms I assume to rude fingers belong;

Under thousands of names I am every day seen,

And of very great use to dull people have been;

Nay! often the vulgarest creatures on earth

Take me from the hands of the noblest in birth;

Me the folks of the country in general disown,

So civil and gay, I’m fit only for town;

In the coldest of winters my back is quite bare,

Yet so little I find of compassion or care,

That as soon as I’m seen I’m thought worthy of none,

My service is past, and my business is done.

RIDDLE.

What could man do without my aid?

Or what each fair industrious maid?

I lead the first o’er sea and land,

The second takes me by the hand,

Presses me close with care and skill,

And makes me do whate’er she will.

I cannot boast of many charms,

I’ve neither feet, nor legs, nor arms,

But all allow I have an eye

So fine, it may with beauty vye;

I fear I many wounds impart,

Shed blood, but never touch the heart.

They who would contemplate my end,

For that’s the point where I offend,

Sharply to look about must mind,

Or me much sharper they will find.

It has been mentioned that Porson wrote some notes for Nicholson, to be

prefixed to the edition of Xenophon’s Anabasis, published at Cambridge,

in 1786. One of the copies of that work, given him by the bookseller,

he presented to the writer of this article, with an inscription in

Latin, written in his most beautiful manner, and expressed in the most

flattering terms. A great many years afterwards he happened to take this

particular Volume into his hands, and on looking at the inscription,

hastily tore it out, promising the owner to write another. He never

could be prevailed upon to explain his motive for this act, but it was

conceived that some particular form of expression or disposition of

the words had appeared erroneous to his better judgment. His friendly

sentiments were certainly unchanged, which he manifested by subsequently

writing another inscription in the book, expressed in terms, to the full

as flattering as those which preceded. The words were these.

Viro doctissimo

atque

Amicissimo

Amicitiæ

Ergo

Donat.

RICARDUS PORSON.

1789.

That he was friendly and social, many examples have already been adduced,

sufficiently strong and numerous to prove that Gilbert Wakefield’s

application to him of the term “Misanthrope” was absurd and unjust. But

he was occasionally very playful, and once in a very merry mood, being

in company with the young lady, of whom we have before spoken, and for

whom he wrote most of the Charades, (printed in this work) he offered a

trifling wager, that he could carry her round the room in his teeth. This

was accordingly accepted. He fixed a handkerchief round her waist, and

by first obtaining a nice balance he actually accomplished his purpose,

without any seeming inconvenience.

Upon the tendency of his politics it is not intended to expatiate. It

never interrupted an harmonious intercourse of more than twenty years

with him, who pays this tribute to his memory, and to whom, in a moment

of confidence, he gave, in his own hand-writing, a Pamphlet written in

answer to Mr. Burke’s Reflections on the French Revolution. It is termed,

A new Catechism for the use of the Natives of Hampshire. It is written

with much vivacity and humour, but strongly marks the incorrigible

bitterness of his political prejudices.

The humour of the Tract consists in playing upon the expression of the

Swinish Multitude, said to have been applied by Burke to the common

people. The beginning and conclusion are inserted as a sufficient

specimen.

_Q._ What is your name?

_A._ _Hog_ or _Swine_.

_Q._ Did God make you a _Hog_?

_A._ No. God made me man in his own image; the _Right Hon._

SUBLIME BEAUTIFUL made me a _Swine_.

_Q._ How did he make you a Swine?

_A._ By muttering obscure and uncouth spells. He is a dealer in

the black art.

_Q._ Who feeds you?

_A._ Our Drivers, the only real _men_ in this COUNTY.

_Q._ How many Hogs are you in all?

_A._ Seven or eight millions.

_Q._ How many Drivers?

_A._ Two or three hundred thousand.

_Q._ With what do they feed you?

_A._ Generally with husks, swill, draff, malt, grains, and now

and then with a little barley-meal and a few potatoes, and when

they have too much butter-milk themselves they give us some.

The following must be allowed not to be destitute of humour.

_Q._ What are the _Interpreters_[5] called?

_A._ The BLACK LETTER SISTERHOOD.

_Q._ Why do they give the office to women?

_A._ Because they have a fluent tongue, and a knack of scolding.

_Q._ How are they are dressed?

_A._ In gowns and false hair.

_Q._ What are the principal orders?

_A._ Three—_Writers_, _Talkers_, and _Hearers_, which last are

also called _Deciders_.

_Q._ What is their general business?

_A._ To discuss the mutual quarrels of the hogs, and to punish

their affronts to any or all of the drivers.

_Q._ If two hogs quarrel, how do they apply to the sisterhood?

_A._ Each hog goes separately to a _Writer_.

_Q._ What does the _Writer_?

_A._ She goes to a _Talker_.

_Q._ What does the _Talker_?

_A._ She goes to a _Hearer_ (or _Decider_.)

_Q._ What does the _Hearer_ decide?

_A._ What she pleases.

_Q._ If a hog is decided to be in the right, what is the

consequence?

_A._ He is _almost_ ruined.

_Q._ If in the _wrong_, what?

_A._ He is _quite_ ruined.

After some facetious sneers at the clergy, who are termed peace-makers,

the dialogue proceeds.

_Q._ How are these peace-makers rewarded?

_A._ With our potatoes.

_Q._ What with all?

_A._ Ten per cent. only.

_Q._ Then you have still ninety left in the hundred?

_A._ No, we have only forty left.

_Q._ What becomes of the odd fifty?

_A._ The drivers take them, partly as a small recompence for

their trouble in protecting us, and partly to make money of

them, for the prosecution of law-suits with the neighbouring

farmers.

_Q._ You talk very sensibly for a hog; whence had you your

information?

_A._ From _a learned Pig_.

The following is given by way of answer to the question by what ceremony

the hog is disenchanted, and resumes his natural shape.

_A._ The hog that is going to be disenchanted, grovels before

the _Chief Driver_, who holds an iron skewer over him, and

gives him a smart blow on the shoulder, to remind him at once

of his former subjection and future submission. Immediately

he starts up, like the devil from Ithuriel’s spear, in his

proper shape, and ever after goes about with a nick-name. He

then beats his hogs without mercy, and when they implore his

compassion, and beg him to recollect that he was once their

_Fellow Swine_, he denies that ever he was a hog.

This curious dialogue thus concludes:—

_Q._ What is the general wish of the hogs at present?

_A._ To save their bacon.

Chorus of hogs.

Amen.

It may be observed of Porson, as Junius heretofore remarked of himself,

that perhaps his own recollection could not always bring before him

the numerous things he had written at various times, and on different

occasions. Two learned articles of great judgment and acute criticism,

may be pointed out, which not improbably Porson never communicated,

except to the individuals for whose immediate service they were intended;

more particularly as those individuals proudly pursued and sturdily

avowed principles and sentiments, in the most determined opposition to

those with whom the Professor lived with greater familiarity and intimacy.

The first of these was an article containing very learned and ingenious

observations on the Codex Theodori Bezæ Cantabrigiensis, published by Dr.

Kipling in 1793.

The reader may remember, that this MS. was so printed, that every page,

line, word, letter, and point, as far as types can imitate hand-writing,

corresponded with the original. Dr. Woide had done the same thing before

with respect to the celebrated Alexandrian MS. But of the two works, the

Professor remarks, “that as much as Kipling’s work is superior to Dr.

Woide’s in its outside, so does it appear to be below it in intrinsic

merit.”

The Professor objects, in the first instance, to the title prefixed by

Dr. Kipling, viz. Codex Theodori Bezæ Cantabrigiensis. It is argued that

an ambiguity is here involved, and that the natural construction of the

words would make Bezæ, a Cambridge man at least, if not a member of the

University. The whole, however, forms a fair and candid specimen of

criticism, though the writer persists to the last in assigning the higher

rank in point of merit to Dr. Woide’s most valuable publication.

The other Critical Essay, to which the Professor materially contributed,

was a series of remarks on Wakefield’s Lucretius. It could not escape the

discernment of so sagacious an observer as Porson manifestly was, that

even when performing the office merely of editing a classical author,

Wakefield could not resist the impulse he always obeyed of obtruding

his opinions on subjects no more connected with Lucretius than with the

history of China; and this has extorted the following sentence, sharp

enough it must be acknowledged, but unquestionably true. “Mr. W.’s notes

are very numerous and various; philological, critical, illustrative, and

political, such as he always pours forth with a facility which judgment

sometimes limps after in vain.”

It is well known to scholars, that the undertaking of collating

manuscripts is very far from being an easy task, but in this labour

the Professor was remarkably well skilled. It will appear from the

observations here alluded to, that Porson actually submitted to the

drudgery of collating three of the manuscripts employed by Wakefield.

These MSS. were as follows:—

A MS, belonging to the public library at Cambridge, designated in

Wakefield’s edition by the Greek letter Ω.

A MS. belonging to Edward Poore, Esq. of no great value or antiquity,

referred to by Ο.

And three Harleian MSS. preserved in the British Museum, respectively

called in the edition Δ. Π. Σ.

These three last MSS. being immediately within his reach, the Professor

carefully collated, and the result of his conclusion was, that Wakefield

cannot receive the palm of a skilful and scrupulously accurate collator.

It is not intended to assert that the passage which follows, came from

Porson’s pen, but it is so perfectly true in itself, and characteristic

of Wakefield, that it is here inserted.

“In thus examining the present Edition of Lucretius, we feel a strong

confidence that we shall not be suspected of being actuated by any

resentment against a person, who must himself feel the chief evils of

a restless, impatient, intolerant, mind. We think it, indeed, most

lamentable, that a man, whose proper occupations are study and polite

literature, should be so little able to command himself, as to fall into

extravagances of political conduct, injurious ultimately to himself and

family. Too many instances of this spirit appear completely out of their

places in this Edition of Lucretius, in the form of political verses,

allusions to the glories of France, and aspirations after similar changes

here, with prophetic intimations of their approach.

“In such a farrago, abuse of us and our work, as supporting all that

Mr. W. wishes to see overthrown, is virtually the highest compliment,

and though we owe no gratitude to the author, we cannot but approve the

tendency of his conduct towards us.

“We see, however, in his pages not the slightest tincture of that

character, which he has, very early in his Preface, bestowed

upon himself. ‘Si quis unquam diffidens mei.’ A most extravagant

self-confidence, on the contrary, is every where conspicuous, except in

a few of the prefatory flourishes; and though his maturer judgment has

enabled him to see in his own ‘Silva critica plurima quæ sint juveniliter

temeraria απροσδιονυσα prorsus et homine critico indigna,’ yet the very

same character unimproved, will be found to prevail in his critical

conjectures, scattered abundantly throughout the notes to his work, and

readily accessible by means of his critical index. No author escapes his

rage for correction, and Horace and Virgil in particular would have as

little knowledge of their own works, were they presented to them reformed

à la Wakefield, as we should of the British constitution were it given

to his emendation. We can, however, pity while we censure, and most

sincerely wish that with a more temperate mind, even in literature, he

would give himself exclusively, and without mixture, to those studies,

in which, with all his failings, he has certainly made a proficiency not

common among scholars of this country.”

Whether the miscellaneous articles which follow be worthy of insertion,

may by some be doubted, but they are genuine, and asperity may be

softened by the consideration that they are the last.

If the reader will refer to the edition of Demosthenes, by Wolfius,

printed at Frankfort, 1604, at p. 470, he will find the Oration of

Æschines contre Ctesiphontem to conclude thus:

Και ειμεν καλως και αζιως του αδικηματος κατηγορηκα, ειπον ως

εβουλομην, ειδε ενδεεστερως ως εδυναμην.

Porson has noted a singular coincidence of expression to be found in the

38th verse of the last chapter of the second book of Maccabees.

“And if I have done well and as fitting the story it is that which I

desired, but if slenderly and meanly, it is that which I could attain

unto.”

Part of a humourous and satirical copy of verses addressed to Dr. W⸺, on

his being appointed Tutor to the D⸺ of G⸺ by some attributed to Porson,

by some to a hand now Right Reverend.

A POETICAL ADDRESS.

PART I.

Sage W⸺, Royal William’s Tutor,

Thou reverend dilettanti Fluter,

His voice an humble poet raises

To celebrate thy Pupil’s praises;

The lovely Boy and senior Gloster,

Shall condescend my muse to foster

With praise—not pay; for you and I know

Our patron’s not too full of rhino;

You for a paltry pimping payment,

That scarce will find you food and raiment,

Give up your talents, freedom, leisure,

To do the Royal folks a pleasure;

_I_, for we poets in all ages,

Have scorned to do our work for wages,

Waste pen, wit, rhyme, and why? the cause is

An hungry hope of lean applauses.

...

Now W⸺ swears, so goes the rumour,

These squibs more scandal have than humour.

“Oh! curse the rascal, did I know him, (_aside_)

“I’d maul him for his doggrel poem[6].”

Yet W⸺, should ill-tempered satire,

Prince William’s character bespatter,

Fret not, but check thy rising choler,

For I’ll defend thy Royal Scholar.

END OF PART I.

* * * * *

The Essay which succeeds was discovered after his decease among the

manuscripts of the elegant and accomplished youth, whose character will

be found in Vol. I. p. 173, et seq. It is supposed to be descriptive of

his own particular situation.

Goodness wounds itself,

And sweet affection proves the spring of woe.

SHAKESPEARE.

The character of Timon of Athens presents a delineation of sudden

change in the principles of human action, which, though drawn by the

pen of Shakespeare himself, whose knowledge of the heart appears almost

intuitive, has been censured as extravagant and unnatural. The glowing

generosity, the indefatigable friendship, the expansive openness of

soul, which mark the earlier features of the character of Timon, are

suddenly, on a change of fortune, which discover treachery in his

supposed friends, subverted to their foundation. The whole mental scene,

shifting with rapidity and violence, presents in their room the most

inveterate and ferocious detestation directed against all mankind. In my

mind, the poet has here only afforded another proof of the keenness of

that penetration, which, glancing through all the springs and mazes of

the human soul, fixes the changing features of the mental portrait, and

holds a mirror to nature herself. He perceived that on the ruins of our

best feelings the temple of misanthropy is ever erected, the force of

this truth he has exemplified by characters stamped with the kindliest

affections of nature, containing those propensities on which the fairest

structure of human happiness is raised, in which those benefits, so far

from tending to their proper end, ill-managed and abused, involve their

possessors in delusion and misery, and naturally end in a frame of mind

inimical to mankind, and incapable of felicity.

Of these Timon is one; although inconsiderate ostentation forms a

striking feature in the delineation of Shakespeare, the violence of

misanthropy is to be traced to other causes, and we are led to exclaim,

from a thorough knowledge of his character, with the faithful Flavius,

Poor honest Lord, brought low by his own heart;

Undone by goodness.

To follow the general idea of the poet more closely, to apply it more

generally to human nature at large, will probably reward our labour. For

this purpose, we may call up before our eyes the painful, though too

common picture, which the mind, where the glow of fancy triumphs over

reason, and the mere impulse of sensibility supersedes reflection and

settled principle, exhibits in its progress through the world.

To a mind of high wrought feelings, and heated imagination, the entrance

of life is fairy ground. The objects which solicit attention, viewed

through the medium of that elevated hope which youth alone inspires,

shine with a brilliancy of tint not their own. The face of universal

nature impresses the soul with secret influence, a delicious rapture,

which gives a new charm to being, and the heart, intoxicated with its own

sensations, expands with an unbounded warmth to all existence.

The desert of the world is decorated with the fleeting visions of a

raised and glowing fancy, while the eye rests, with unsuspicious wonder,

on the splendid prospects which the magic of early expectation calls

up on every side. Filled with that strong enthusiasm which elevates

whilst it deludes, the mind soon is taught to feel, that in the crowd

of pleasures, which court her acceptance, something is still deficient.

The finer and more exalted ideas, which stimulate incessantly to action,

are still without an object worthy of all their energy. The powers of

the soul languish, and are depressed, from the narrowness of the sphere

in which they have yet moved, the master strings of the heart are yet

untouched, the higher, stronger passions of the breast are to be rouzed

before the keenness of expectation can be gratified. The charms of

friendship, the delicate and intoxicating sensations which attend the

first delicious emotions of the tender passion, rush on the imagination

with violence, to which even the energy of youthful ambition is feeble

and impotent in comparison. It seems that but a dream of pleasure, a

prospect of bliss, has been presented to the view, which friendship and

love alone can realize and render perfect.

The enthusiast now looks eagerly around for the objects, which a heart,

yet unacquainted with the realities of things, and wound up to its

highest pitch, tells him are alone able to fill that void which still

aches within the bosom. In the moment of delusion, the connections are

formed which are to stamp existence with happiness or misery in the

extreme. A blind impulse overpowers deliberation, and the heart expands

itself for the reception of inmates, whose value it has not for a moment

paused to ascertain. The measure of happiness is now for a moment full.

The mind, conscious that the energy of sentiment no longer languishes

in inaction, feels those wishes compleated, which the vividity of

imagination had before but imperfectly suggested, and yields without

reserve to the novel emotions, which begin to make part of its existence.

On every side the heart is cheered by the smile of affection, on every

side the arms of friendship are expanded with inviting openness.

The wand of deception creates a little world around, where nothing meets

the eye but the mutual efforts of emulative exertion, and the smile of

beneficence exulting over its own work. And love! sacred love! who that

has truly felt thy first pure, and delicious influence, but learns, even

if the object be delusion, that the few moments which thy power can

confer, are of more value than whole existences unanimated by thy holy

and vital flame.

But this rapture is not to last. The time is to come when the prospect

which depended on the influence of passion, however noble, and prejudice,

however honest, shall melt away from the view. The mind, raised to a

pitch of enjoyment above the reality of sublunary happiness, is in

danger when the faces of things appear at once in their proper colours,

of sinking to a degree equally below it. He, who in the glow of his

earlier feelings, feasted his eye with increasing transport, on the gay

and captivating scenery, with which the creative power of an ardent

imagination had overspread the barrenness of reality, now begins to find

a thousand little deceptions wear away. The insipidity and nakedness of

many an object, which, at a distance, had attracted his eagerness, and

roused the keenness of his passions, press so close upon him, that even

prejudice and enthusiasm fail to operate the accustomed delusion.

The little vanity, so often interwoven with the best natures, receives

a variety of unexpected and grievous wounds. As the mists which clouded

his better judgment retire, on every side he discovers with astonishment,

that a dupe to self-deception, he has, like a blind idolator, fallen

prostrate before the gaudy images his own hands have formed and

decorated. He perceives that he has walked in a world of his own

creation, that life and man are still before him to study, and he only

recovers his cooler reason to feel the loss of that mental elevation,

that brilliant perception of things, which, though ideal, were so dear to

him.

But perhaps this is not all, nor does the discovery which scourges

vanity, and detects the harmless fallacies of judgment, alone await him.

Perhaps the hour of deception has treasured up disappointment more heavy

and intolerable. What are his sensations, if the truth he now begins

anxiously and fearfully to learn, is brought immediately home to his own

bosom, and he is doomed to feel that the exalted and glowing ideas of

friendship, which first expanded his soul, shrink even in his view, and

leave his breast void and desolate. When in the heart, which his earliest

ideas had imaged as the residence of that sacred passion, the trial of

experience detects hollowness and falsehood. When it is his bitter lot

to mark the progress of alienated affection, to watch the subsidence

of cooling attachment, to feel the ties connected in an honest and

unsuspicious bosom with all his first enjoyments of happiness, beginning

one by one to untwine. When he is to groan under the pang of the heart,

which accompanies the tearing out of the thousand little habits of

confidence, the innumerable kindly affections, which long custom had

rooted in the soul, and made a part of the pleasantness of existence; or

when he is to experience the agony of the moment, when he, in whom the

bosom fondly trusted, insults the confidence he has cruelly violated, and

aggravates by unfeeling mockery the distress his perfidy has excited.

But if this can be borne, perhaps the last and most fearful shock awaits

him; the tenderest strings of his soul are to be more cruelly rent, and

the wound, which before smarted almost to madness, rendered at once

incurable. There are finer and more exalted ties, comprehending the

best feelings, the dearest relations of which our natures are capable.

Their severing is accompanied by sensations to which the wound of

violated friendship itself is feeble, and, to minds of a certain frame,

communicates that deadly stroke, to which the power of all other human

evils, would have been inadequate. Such are those which unexpected

treachery, from that quarter where the soul had gathered up its best

and tenderest hope, must call forth, and few are the hearts, round the

ruggedness of whose nature so little of the softer feelings are entwined,

as not to feel the full keenness of that wound which the tearing of the

ties of love inflicts, though its firmness had been inaccessible to the

force of common calamities. The distress is more complicated and hopeless

from its nature than any other, and the pangs of a thousand discordant

passions are crouded and concentrated into that terrible moment which

discovers infidelity, where the confiding heart had fondly rested all its

prospects of happiness. Under other strokes of calamity the soul gains

force and dignity from the greatness of unmerited misfortunes, and rouses

every latent power to combat against evil fate.

In the school of distress the energies of the mind are disclosed, and,

learning our own powers, we combat against the impression of adversity

till we are able to contemn it. But here the sufferer finds himself as it

were waked suddenly from a dream of happiness to intolerable misery; with

his mind unnerved and weakened by passion, all the resources of fortitude

lying dormant, every tender sensation doubly acute, every softening

feeling alive. From the object of tenderness and idolatry of one, who

was the world to him, he at once finds himself a deserted and despised

being; he sees his best and finest feelings blasted for ever, his honest

sources of pleasure and peace cut off at one stroke, with the terrible

aggravation that the hand to which alone he could look for comfort and

healing under the wound of calamity, instead of being stretched out to

save him, itself lodges the dagger in his breast.

He is now alone. The ties which bound him to existence, cruelly loosened

before, are torn for ever by this last, worst stroke. The prospect which

before warmed his heart, is narrowed and darkened on every side. The

journey of life is before him dreary and comfortless. The weary path

of rugged labour remains to be trodden, when the motives of activity

and the rewards of exertion have ceased to exist, when the keenness of

expectation can no longer be stimulated, and the spirit of enterprize

has subsided into sullen indifference. While he ruminates with agony

on the past, he cheerlessly looks forward to a gloomy futurity, and

his foreboding mind sees, in the ruin of his first and fondest hopes,

the nothingness of the visions of imagination, the destruction of the

thousand little schemes and prospects suggested by an honest ambition,

which the exultation of an heart untouched by calamity had fondly and

fearlessly indulged. The recollection of those delusions, which cheated

his unsuspecting youth, whispers for ever that safety is alone compatible

with _apathy_, and cases his heart in impenetrable suspicion. A line of

separation is drawn between him and his species.

_Deceived, insulted, wounded, from that quarter where his heart had

treasured up all hope_, where his ideas of human excellence had all

concentred confidence in mankind, is in his eyes the weakness of

despicable folly, or the extreme of desperate madness. The principles of

the soul, already unsettled, are soon shaken to their foundation. The

milk of human kindness turns fast to gall; while those very passions,

that frame of mind, which operated the first delusion, which stamped the

features of unbounded friendship, of enthusiastic beneficence, now all

subverted, are applied to exalt the violence of the opposite character.

Under this stroke the self-love, which might bear up against the common

weight of calamity, receives an incurable and rankling wound, over which

the soul gloomily broods. The passions of the misanthrope still flaming

with violence, tend, as to a centre, to the aggravation of abhorrence

and distrust of his species, and he hates with a keenness and acrimony

proportioned to the strength of disappointed feeling which marked his

entrance into life.

H⸺

The following Imitations of the Ancients, by Milton and Pope, are printed

from a Manuscript of Gilbert Wakefield’s, dated Warrington, April 20,

1783.

MILTON’S IMITATION OF THE ANCIENTS.

Book I. l. 594.

As when the sun

In dim eclipse, _disastrous twilight sheds_

_On half the nations_—

LUCAN. PHARSAL. I. 542.

Involvetque _orbem tenebris, gentesque coegit_

_Desperare diem_—

Book I. v. 665.

The sudden blaze

Far round illumined hell; highly they raged

Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms

Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war.

LUCRET. L II. 325.

Fulgur ibi ad cœlum se tollit, totaque circum

Ære renidescit tellus, subterque, virûm vi,

Excitur pedibus sonitus, clamoreque montes

Ictei rejectant voces ad sidera mundi.

Book II. 220.

This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.

SOPHOC. AJAX. 397.

Ιω σκοτος εμον φαος·

Ερεβος ω φαεννοτατον.

Book III. v. 39.

As the wakeful bird

Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid

Tunes her nocturnal note—

MOSCHUS. Id. III. 9.

Αδονες αἱ πυκινοισιν οδυρομεναι ποτι φυλλοις.

Book III. v. 217.

He asked, but all the heavenly quire stood mute,

And silence was in heaven.

IL. κ. 218.

Ὡς ἔφαθ. οι δε αρα παντες ακην εγενοντο σιωπῆ.