I began life unluckily by being the wag and bright fellow at
school; and I had the farther misfortune of becoming the great
genius of my native village. My father was a country attorney,
and intended that I should succeed him in business; but I had too
much genius to study, and he was too fond of my genius to force
it into the traces. So I fell into bad company and took to bad
habits. Do not mistake me. I mean that I fell into the company of
village literati and village blues, and took to writing village
poetry.
It was quite the fashion in the village to be literary. We had a
little knot of choice spirits who assembled frequently together,
formed ourselves into a Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical
Society, and fancied ourselves the most learned philos in
existence. Every one had a great character assigned him,
suggested by some casual habit or affectation. One heavy fellow
drank an enormous quantity of tea; rolled in his armchair, talked
sententiously, pronounced dogmatically, and was considered a
second Dr. Johnson; another, who happened to be a curate, uttered
coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the Swift of our
association. Thus we had also our Popes and Goldsmiths and
Addisons, and a blue-stocking lady, whose drawing-room we
frequented, who corresponded about nothing with all the world,
and wrote letters with the stiffness and formality of a printed
book, was cried up as another Mrs. Montagu. I was, by common
consent, the juvenile prodigy, the poetical youth, the great
genius, the pride and hope of the village, through whom it was to
become one day as celebrated as Stratford-on-Avon.
My father died and left me his blessing and his business. His
blessing brought no money into my pocket; and as to his business
it soon deserted me: for I was busy writing poetry, and could not
attend to law; and my clients, though they had great respect for
my talents, had no faith in a poetical attorney.
I lost my business therefore, spent my money, and finished my
poem. It was the Pleasures of Melancholy, and was cried up to the
skies by the whole circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, the
Pleasures of Hope, and the Pleasures of Memory, though each had
placed its author in the first rank of poets, were blank prose in
comparison. Our Mrs. Montagu would cry over it from beginning to
end. It was pronounced by all the members of the Literary,
Scientific, and Philosophical Society the greatest poem of the
age, and all anticipated the noise it would make in the great
world. There was not a doubt but the London booksellers would be
mad after it, and the only fear of my friends was, that I would
make a sacrifice by selling it too cheap.
Every time they talked the matter over they increased the price.
They reckoned up the great sums given for the poems of certain
popular writers, and determined that mine was worth more than all
put together, and ought to be paid for accordingly. For my part,
I was modest in my expectations, and determined that I would be
satisfied with a thousand guineas. So I put my poem in my pocket
and set off for London.
My journey was joyous. My heart was light as my purse, and my
head full of anticipations of fame and fortune. With what
swelling pride did I cast my eyes upon old London from the
heights of Highgate. I was like a general looking down upon a
place he expects to conquer. The great metropolis lay stretched
before me, buried under a home-made cloud of murky smoke, that
wrapped it from the brightness of a sunny day, and formed for it
a kind of artificial bad weather. At the outskirts of the city,
away to the west, the smoke gradually decreased until all was
clear and sunny, and the view stretched uninterrupted to the blue
line of the Kentish Hills.
My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola of St. Paul’s
swelled Dimly through this misty chaos, and I pictured to myself
the solemn realm of learning that lies about its base. How soon
should the Pleasures of Melancholy throw this world of
booksellers and printers into a bustle of business and delight!
How soon should I hear my name repeated by printers’ devils
throughout Pater Noster Row, and Angel Court, and Ave Maria Lane,
until Amen corner should echo back the sound!
Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most fashionable
publisher. Every new author patronizes him of course. In fact, it
had been determined in the village circle that he should be the
fortunate man. I cannot tell you how vaingloriously I walked the
streets; my head was in the clouds. I felt the airs of heaven
playing about it, and fancied it already encircled by a halo of
literary glory.
As I passed by the windows of bookshops, I anticipated the time
when my work would be shining among the hotpressed wonders of the
day; and my face, scratched on copper, or cut in wood, figuring
in fellowship with those of Scott and Byron and Moore.
When I applied at the publisher’s house there was something in
the loftiness of my air, and the dinginess of my dress, that
struck the clerks with reverence. They doubtless took me for some
person of consequence, probably a digger of Greek roots, or a
penetrator of pyramids. A proud man in a dirty shirt is always an
imposing character in the world of letters; one must feel
intellectually secure before he can venture to dress shabbily;
none but a great scholar or a great genius dares to be dirty; so
I was ushered at once to the sanctum sanctorum of this high
priest of Minerva.
The publishing of books is a very different affair now-a-days
from what it was in the time of Bernard Lintot. I found the
publisher a fashionably-dressed man, in an elegant drawing-room,
furnished with sofas and portraits of celebrated authors, and
cases of splendidly bound books. He was writing letters at an
elegant table. This was transacting business in style. The place
seemed suited to the magnificent publications that issued from
it. I rejoiced at the choice I had made of a publisher, for I
always liked to encourage men of taste and spirit.
I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical port that I had
Been accustomed to maintain in our village circle; though I threw
in it something of a patronizing air, such as one feels when
about to make a man’s fortune. The publisher paused with his pen
in his hand, and seemed waiting in mute suspense to know what was
to be announced by so singular an apparition.
I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt that I had but to
come, see, and conquer. I made known my name, and the name of my
poem; produced my precious roll of blotted manuscript, laid it on
the table with an emphasis, and told him at once, to save time
and come directly to the point, the price was one thousand
guineas.
I had given him no time to speak, nor did he seem so inclined. He
Continued looking at me for a moment with an air of whimsical
perplexity; scanned me from head to foot; looked down at the
manuscript, then up again at me, then pointed to a chair; and
whistling softly to himself, went on writing his letter.
I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing he was making up
his mind; but he only paused occasionally to take a fresh dip of
ink; to stroke his chin or the tip of his nose, and then resumed
his writing. It was evident his mind was intently occupied upon
some other subject; but I had no idea that any other subject
should be attended to and my poem lie unnoticed on the table. I
had supposed that every thing would make way for the Pleasures of
Melancholy.
My gorge at length rose within me. I took up my manuscript;
thrust it into my pocket, and walked out of the room: making some
noise as I went, to let my departure be heard. The publisher,
however, was too much busied in minor concerns to notice it. I
was suffered to walk down-stairs without being called back. I
sallied forth into the street, but no clerk was sent after me,
nor did the publisher call after me from the drawing-room window.
I have been told since, that he considered me either a madman or
a fool. I leave you to judge how much he was in the wrong in his
opinion.
When I turned the corner my crest fell. I cooled down in my pride
and my expectations, and reduced my terms with the next
bookseller to whom I applied. I had no better success: nor with a
third: nor with a fourth. I then desired the booksellers to make
an offer themselves; but the deuce an offer would they make. They
told me poetry was a mere drug; everybody wrote poetry; the
market was overstocked with it. And then, they said, the title of
my poem was not taking: that pleasures of all kinds were worn
threadbare; nothing but horrors did now-a-days, and even these
were almost worn out. Tales of pirates, robbers, and bloody Turks
might answer tolerably well; but then they must come from some
established well-known name, or the public would not look at
them.
At last I offered to leave my poem with a bookseller to read it
and judge for himself. “Why, really, my dear Mr.—a—a—I forget
your name,” said he, cutting an eye at my rusty coat and shabby
gaiters, “really, sir, we are so pressed with business just now,
and have so many manuscripts on hand to read, that we have not
time to look at any new production, but if you can call again in
a week or two, or say the middle of next month, we may be able to
look over your writings and give you an answer. Don’t forget, the
month after next—good morning, sir—happy to see you any time you
are passing this way”—so saying he bowed me out in the civilest
way imaginable. In short, sir, instead of an eager competition to
secure my poem I could not even get it read! In the mean time I
was harassed by letters from my friends, wanting to know when the
work was to appear; who was to be my publisher; but above all
things warning me not to let it go too cheap.
There was but one alternative left. I determined to publish the
poem myself; and to have my triumph over the booksellers, when it
should become the fashion of the day. I accordingly published the
Pleasures of Melancholy and ruined myself. Excepting the copies
sent to the reviews, and to my friends in the country, not one, I
believe, ever left the bookseller’s warehouse. The printer’s bill
drained my purse, and the only notice that was taken of my work
was contained in the advertisements paid for by myself.
I could have borne all this, and have attributed it as usual to
the mismanagement of the publisher, or the want of taste in the
public: and could have made the usual appeal to posterity, but my
village friends would not let me rest in quiet. They were
picturing me to themselves feasting with the great, communing
with the literary, and in the high course of fortune and renown.
Every little while, some one came to me with a letter of
introduction from the village circle, recommending him to my
attentions, and requesting that I would make him known in
society; with a hint that an introduction to the house of a
celebrated literary nobleman would be extremely agreeable.
I determined, therefore, to change my lodgings, drop my
correspondence, and disappear altogether from the view of my
village admirers. Besides, I was anxious to make one more poetic
attempt. I was by no means disheartened by the failure of my
first. My poem was evidently too didactic. The public was wise
enough. It no longer read for instruction. “They want horrors, do
they?” said I, “I’faith, then they shall have enough of them.” So
I looked out for some quiet retired place, where I might be out
of reach of my friends, and have leisure to cook up some
delectable dish of poetical “hell-broth.”
I had some difficulty in finding a place to my mind, when chance
threw me in the way Of Canonbury Castle. It is an ancient brick
tower, hard by “merry Islington;” the remains of a hunting-seat
of Queen Elizabeth, where she took the pleasures of the country,
when the neighborhood was all woodland. What gave it particular
interest in my eyes, was the circumstance that it had been the
residence of a poet. It was here Goldsmith resided when he wrote
his Deserted Village. I was shown the very apartment. It was a
relique of the original style of the castle, with pannelled
wainscots and gothic windows. I was pleased with its air of
antiquity, and with its having been the residence of poor Goldy.
“Goldsmith was a pretty poet,” said I to myself, “a very pretty
poet; though rather of the old school. He did not think and feel
so strongly as is the fashion now-a-days; but had he lived in
these times of hot hearts and hot heads, he would have written
quite differently.”
In a few days I was quietly established in my new quarters; my
books all arranged, my writing desk placed by a window looking
out into the field; and I felt as snug as Robinson Crusoe, when
he had finished his bower. For several days I enjoyed all the
novelty of change and the charms which grace a new lodgings
before one has found out their defects. I rambled about the
fields where I fancied Goldsmith had rambled. I explored merry
Islington; ate my solitary dinner at the Black Bull, which
according to tradition was a country seat of Sir Walter Raleigh,
and would sit and sip my wine and muse on old times in a quaint
old room, where many a council had been held.
All this did very well for a few days: I was stimulated by
novelty; inspired by the associations awakened in my mind by
these curious haunts, and began to think I felt the spirit of
composition stirring within me; but Sunday came, and with it the
whole city world, swarming about Canonbury Castle. I could not
open my window but I was stunned with shouts and noises from the
cricket ground. The late quiet road beneath my window was alive
with the tread of feet and clack of tongues; and to complete my
misery, I found that my quiet retreat was absolutely a “show
house!” the tower and its contents being shown to strangers at
sixpence a head.
There was a perpetual tramping up-stairs of citizens and their
families, to look about the country from the top of the tower,
and to take a peep at the city through the telescope, to try if
they could discern their own chimneys. And then, in the midst of
a vein of thought, or a moment of inspiration, I was interrupted,
and all my ideas put to flight, by my intolerable landlady’s
tapping at the door, and asking me, if I would “jist please to
let a lady and gentleman come in to take a look at Mr.
Goldsmith’s room.”
If you know anything what an author’s study is, and what an
author is himself, you must know that there was no standing this.
I put a positive interdict on my room’s being exhibited; but then
it was shown when I was absent, and my papers put in confusion;
and on returning home one day, I absolutely found a cursed
tradesman and his daughters gaping over my manuscripts; and my
landlady in a panic at my appearance. I tried to make out a
little longer by taking the key in my pocket, but it would not
do. I overheard mine hostess one day telling some of her
customers on the stairs that the room was occupied by an author,
who was always in a tantrum if interrupted; and I immediately
perceived, by a slight noise at the door, that they were peeping
at me through the key-hole. By the head of Apollo, but this was
quite too much! with all my eagerness for fame, and my ambition
of the stare of the million, I had no idea of being exhibited by
retail, at sixpence a head, and that through a key-hole. So I
bade adieu to Canonbury Castle, merry Islington, and the haunts
of poor Goldsmith, without having advanced a single line in my
labors.
My next quarters were at a small white-washed cottage, which
stands not far from Hempstead, just on the brow of a hill,
looking over Chalk farm, and Camden town, remarkable for the
rival houses of Mother Red Cap and Mother Black Cap; and so
across Cruckskull common to the distant city.
The cottage is in no wise remarkable in itself; but I regarded it
with reverence, for it had been the asylum of a persecuted
author. Hither poor Steele had retreated and lain perdue when
persecuted by creditors and bailiffs; those immemorial plagues of
authors and free-spirited gentlemen; and here he had written many
numbers of the Spectator. It was from hence, too, that he had
despatched those little notes to his lady, so full of affection
and whimsicality; in which the fond husband, the careless
gentleman, and the shifting spendthrift, were so oddly blended. I
thought, as I first eyed the window, of his apartment, that I
could sit within it and write volumes.
No such thing! It was haymaking season, and, as ill luck would
have it, immediately opposite the cottage was a little alehouse
with the sign of the load of hay. Whether it was there in
Steele’s time or not I cannot say; but it set all attempt at
conception or inspiration at defiance. It was the resort of all
the Irish haymakers who mow the broad fields in the neighborhood;
and of drovers and teamsters who travel that road. Here would
they gather in the endless summer twilight, or by the light of
the harvest moon, and sit round a table at the door; and tipple,
and laugh, and quarrel, and fight, and sing drowsy songs, and
dawdle away the hours until the deep solemn notes of St. Paul’s
clock would warn the varlets home.
In the day-time I was still less able to write. It was broad
summer. The haymakers were at work in the fields, and the perfume
of the new-mown hay brought with it the recollection of my native
fields. So instead of remaining in my room to write, I went
wandering about Primrose Hill and Hempstead Heights and
Shepherd’s Field, and all those Arcadian scenes so celebrated by
London bards. I cannot tell you how many delicious hours I have
passed lying on the cocks of new-mown hay, on the pleasant slopes
of some of those hills, inhaling the fragrance of the fields,
while the summer fly buzzed above me, or the grasshopper leaped
into my bosom, and how I have gazed with half-shut eye upon the
smoky mass of London, and listened to the distant sound of its
population, and pitied the poor sons of earth toiling in its
bowels, like Gnomes in “the dark gold mine.”
People may say what they please about Cockney pastorals; but
after all, there is a vast deal of rural beauty about the western
vicinity of London; and any one that has looked down upon the
valley of Westend, with its soft bosom of green pasturage, lying
open to the south, and dotted with cattle; the steeple of
Hempstead rising among rich groves on the brow of the hill, and
the learned height of Harrow in the distance; will confess that
never has he seen a more absolutely rural landscape in the
vicinity of a great metropolis.
Still, however, I found myself not a whit the better off for my
frequent change of lodgings; and I began to discover that in
literature, as in trade, the old proverb holds good, “a rolling
stone gathers no moss.”
The tranquil beauty of the country played the very vengeance with
me. I could not mount my fancy into the termagant vein. I could
not conceive, amidst the smiling landscape, a scene of blood and
murder; and the smug citizens in breeches and gaiters, put all
ideas of heroes and bandits out of my brain. I could think of
nothing but dulcet subjects. “The pleasures of spring”—“the
pleasures of solitude”—“the pleasures of tranquillity”—“the
pleasures of sentiment”—nothing but pleasures; and I had the
painful experience of “the pleasures of melancholy” too strongly
in my recollection to be beguiled by them.
Chance at length befriended me. I had frequently in my ramblings
loitered about Hempstead Hill; which is a kind of Parnassus of
the metropolis. At such times I occasionally took my dinner at
Jack Straw’s Castle. It is a country inn so named. The very spot
where that notorious rebel and his followers held their council
of war. It is a favorite resort of citizens when rurally
inclined, as it commands fine fresh air and a good view of the
city.
I sat one day in the public room of this inn, ruminating over a
beefsteak and a pint of port, when my imagination kindled up with
ancient and heroic images. I had long wanted a theme and a hero;
both suddenly broke upon my mind; I determined to write a poem on
the history of Jack Straw. I was so full of my subject that I was
fearful of being anticipated. I wondered that none of the poets
of the day, in their researches after ruffian heroes, had ever
thought of Jack Straw. I went to work pell-mell, blotted several
sheets of paper with choice floating thoughts, and battles, and
descriptions, to be ready at a moment’s warning. In a few days’
time I sketched out the skeleton of my poem, and nothing was
wanting but to give it flesh and blood. I used to take my
manuscript and stroll about Caen Wood, and read aloud; and would
dine at the castle, by way of keeping up the vein of thought.
I was taking a meal there, one day, at a rather late hour, in the
public room. There was no other company but one man, who sat
enjoying his pint of port at a window, and noticing the
passers-by. He was dressed in a green shooting coat. His
countenance was strongly marked. He had a hooked nose, a romantic
eye, excepting that it had something of a squint; and altogether,
as I thought, a poetical style of head. I was quite taken with
the man, for you must know I am a little of a physiognomist: I
set him down at once for either a poet or a philosopher.
As I like to make new acquaintances, considering every man a
volume of human nature, I soon fell into conversation with the
stranger, who, I was pleased to find, was by no means difficult
of access. After I had dined, I joined him at the window, and we
became so sociable that I proposed a bottle of wine together; to
which he most cheerfully assented.
I was too full of my poem to keep long quiet on the subject, and
began to talk about the origin of the tavern, and the history of
Jack Straw. I found my new acquaintance to be perfectly at home
on the topic, and to jump exactly with my humor in every respect.
I became elevated by the wine and the conversation. In the
fullness of an author’s feelings, I told him of my projected
poem, and repeated some passages; and he was in raptures. He was
evidently of a strong poetical turn.
“Sir,” said he, filling my glass at the same time, “our poets
don’t look at home. I don’t see why we need go out of old England
for robbers and rebels to write about. I like your Jack Straw,
sir. He’s a home-made hero. I like him, sir. I like him
exceedingly. He’s English to the back bone, damme. Give me honest
old England, after all; them’s my sentiments, sir!”
“I honor your sentiments,” cried I zealously. “They are exactly
my own. An English ruffian for poetry is as good a ruffian for
poetry as any in Italy or Germany, or the Archipelago; but it is
hard to make our poets think so.”
“More shame for them!” replied the man in green. “What a plague
would they have?” What have we to do with their Archipelagos of
Italy and Germany? Haven’t we heaths and commons and high-ways on
our own little island? Aye, and stout fellows to pad the hoof
over them too? Come, sir, my service to you—I agree with you
perfectly.”
“Poets in old times had right notions on this subject,” continued
I; “witness the fine old ballads about Robin Hood, Allen A’Dale,
and other staunch blades of yore.”
“Right, sir, right,” interrupted he. “Robin Hood! He was the lad
to cry stand! to a man, and never flinch.”
“Ah, sir,” said I, “they had famous bands of robbers in the good
old times. Those were glorious poetical days. The merry crew of
Sherwood Forest, who led such a roving picturesque life, ‘under
the greenwood tree.’ I have often wished to visit their haunts,
and tread the scenes of the exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clym of
the Clough, and Sir William of Coudeslie.”
“Nay, sir,” said the gentleman in green, “we have had several
very pretty gangs since their day. Those gallant dogs that kept
about the great heaths in the neighborhood of London; about
Bagshot, and Hounslow, and Black Heath, for instance—come, sir,
my service to you. You don’t drink.”
“I suppose,” said I, emptying my glass—“I suppose you have heard
of the famous Turpin, who was born in this very village of
Hempstead, and who used to lurk with his gang in Epping Forest,
about a hundred years since.”
“Have I?” cried he—“to be sure I have! A hearty old blade that;
sound as pitch. Old Turpentine!—as we used to call him. A famous
fine fellow, sir.”
“Well, sir,” continued I, “I have visited Waltham Abbey, and
Chinkford Church, merely from the stories I heard, when a boy, of
his exploits there, and I have searched Epping Forest for the
cavern where he used to conceal himself. You must know,” added I,
“that I am a sort of amateur of highwaymen. They were dashing,
daring fellows; the last apologies that we had for the knight
errants of yore. Ah, sir! the country has been sinking gradually
into tameness and commonplace. We are losing the old English
spirit. The bold knights of the post have all dwindled down into
lurking footpads and sneaking pick-pockets. There’s no such thing
as a dashing gentlemanlike robbery committed now-a-days on the
king’s highway. A man may roll from one end of England to the
other in a drowsy coach or jingling post-chaise without any other
adventure than that of being occasionally overturned, sleeping in
damp sheets, or having an ill-cooked dinner.
“We hear no more of public coaches being stopped and robbed by a
well-mounted gang of resolute fellows with pistols in their hands
and crapes over their faces. What a pretty poetical incident was
it for example in domestic life, for a family carriage, on its
way to a country seat, to be attacked about dusk; the old
gentleman eased of his purse and watch, the ladies of their
necklaces and ear-rings, by a politely-spoken highwayman on a
blood mare, who afterwards leaped the hedge and galloped across
the country, to the admiration of Miss Carolina the daughter, who
would write a long and romantic account of The adventure to her
friend Miss Juliana in town. Ah, sir! we meet with nothing of
such incidents now-a-days.”
“That, sir,”—said my companion, taking advantage of a pause, when
I stopped to recover breath and to take a glass of wine, which he
had just poured out—“that, sir, craving your pardon, is not owing
to any want of old English pluck. It is the effect of this cursed
system of banking. People do not travel with bags of gold as they
did formerly. They have post notes and drafts on bankers. To rob
a coach is like catching a crow; where you have nothing but
carrion flesh and feathers for your pains. But a coach in old
times, sir, was as rich as a Spanish galleon. It turned out the
yellow boys bravely; and a private carriage was a cool hundred or
two at least.”
I cannot express how much I was delighted with the sallies of my
new acquaintance. He told me that he often frequented the castle,
and would be glad to know more of me; and I promised myself many
a pleasant afternoon with him, when I should read him my poem, as
it proceeded, and benefit by his remarks; for it was evident he
had the true poetical feeling.
“Come, sir!” said he, pushing the bottle, “Damme, I like
you!—You’re a man after my own heart; I’m cursed slow in making
new acquaintances in general. One must stand on the reserve, you
know. But when I meet with a man of your kidney, damme my heart
jumps at once to him. Them’s my sentiments, sir. Come, sir,
here’s Jack Straw’s health! I presume one can drink it now-a-days
without treason!”
“With all my heart,” said I gayly, “and Dick Turpin’s into the
bargain!”
“Ah, sir,” said the man in green, “those are the kind of men for
poetry. The Newgate kalendar, sir! the Newgate kalendar is your
only reading! There’s the place to look for bold deeds and
dashing fellows.”
We were so much pleased with each other that we sat until a late
hour. I insisted on paying the bill, for both my purse and my
heart were full; and I agreed that he should pay the score at our
next meeting. As the coaches had all gone that run between
Hempstead and London he had to return on foot, He was so
delighted with the idea of my poem that he could talk of nothing
else. He made me repeat such passages as I could remember, and
though I did it in a very mangled manner, having a wretched
memory, yet he was in raptures.
Every now and then he would break out with some scrap which he
would Misquote most terribly, but would rub his hands and
exclaim, “By Jupiter, that’s fine! that’s noble! Damme, sir, if I
can conceive how you hit upon such ideas!”
I must confess I did not always relish his misquotations, which
sometimes made absolute nonsense of the passages; but what author
stands upon trifles when he is praised? Never had I spent a more
delightful evening. I did not perceive how the time flew. I could
not bear to separate, but continued walking on, arm in arm with
him past my lodgings, through Camden town, and across Crackscull
Common, talking the whole way about my poem.
When we were half-way across the common he interrupted me in the
midst of a quotation by telling me that this had been a famous
place for footpads, and was still occasionally infested by them;
and that a man had recently been shot there in attempting to
defend himself.
“The more fool he!” cried I. “A man is an idiot to risk life, or
even limb, to save a paltry purse of money. It’s quite a
different case from that of a duel, where one’s honor is
concerned. For my part,” added I, “I should never think of making
resistance against one of those desperadoes.”
“Say you so?” cried my friend in green, turning suddenly upon me,
and putting a pistol to my breast, “Why, then have at you, my
lad!—come, disburse! empty! unsack!”
In a word, I found that the muse had played me another of her
tricks, and had betrayed me into the hands of a footpad. There
was no time to parley; he made me turn my pockets inside out; and
hearing the sound of distant footsteps, he made one fell swoop
upon purse, watch, and all, gave me a thwack over my unlucky pate
that laid me sprawling on the ground; and scampered away with his
booty.
I saw no more of my friend in green until a year or two
afterwards; when I caught a sight of his poetical countenance
among a crew of scapegraces, heavily ironed, who were on the way
for transportation. He recognized me at once, tipped me an
impudent wink, and asked me how I came on with the history of
Jack Straw’s castle.
The catastrophe at Crackscull Common put an end to my summer’s
campaign. I was cured of my poetical enthusiasm for rebels,
robbers, and highwaymen. I was put out of conceit of my subject,
and what was worse, I was lightened of my purse, in which was
almost every farthing I had in the world. So I abandoned Sir
Richard Steele’s cottage in despair, and crept into less
celebrated, though no less poetical and airy lodgings in a garret
in town.
I see you are growing weary, so I will not detain you with any
more of my luckless attempts to get astride of Pegasus. Still I
could not consent to give up the trial and abandon those dreams
of renown in which I had indulged. How should I ever be able to
look the literary circle of my native village in the face, if I
were so completely to falsify their predictions. For some time
longer, therefore, I continued to write for fame, and of course
was the most miserable dog in existence, besides being in
continual risk of starvation.
I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, with a sad heart
and an empty stomach, about five o’clock, and looked wistfully
down the areas in the west end of the town; and seen through the
kitchen windows the fires gleaming, and the joints of meat
turning on the spits and dripping with gravy; and the cook maids
beating up puddings, or trussing turkeys, and have felt for the
moment that if I could but have the run of one of those kitchens,
Apollo and the muses might have the hungry heights of Parnassus
for me. Oh, sir! talk of meditations among the tombs—they are
nothing so melancholy as the meditations of a poor devil without
penny in pouch, along a line of kitchen windows towards
dinner-time.
At length, when almost reduced to famine and despair, the idea
all at once entered my head, that perhaps I was not so clever a
fellow as the village and myself had supposed. It was the
salvation of me. The moment the idea popped into my brain, it
brought conviction and comfort with it. I awoke as from a dream.
I gave up immortal fame to those who could live on air; took to
writing for mere bread, and have ever since led a very tolerable
life of it. There is no man of letters so much at his ease, sir,
as he that has no character to gain or lose. I had to train
myself to it a little, however, and to clip my wings short at
first, or they would have carried me up into poetry in spite of
myself. So I determined to begin by the opposite extreme, and
abandoning the higher regions of the craft, I came plump down to
the lowest, and turned creeper.
“Creeper,” interrupted I, “and pray what is that?” Oh, sir! I see
you are ignorant of the language of the craft; a creeper is one
who furnishes the newspapers with paragraphs at so much a line,
one that goes about in quest of misfortunes; attends the
Bow-street office; the courts of justice and every other den of
mischief and iniquity. We are paid at the rate of a penny a line,
and as we can sell the same paragraph to almost every paper, we
sometimes pick up a very decent day’s work. Now and then the muse
is unkind, or the day uncommonly quiet, and then we rather
starve; and sometimes the unconscionable editors will clip our
paragraphs when they are a little too rhetorical, and snip off
twopence or threepence at a go. I have many a time had my pot of
porter snipped off of my dinner in this way; and have had to dine
with dry lips. However, I cannot complain. I rose gradually in
the lower ranks of the craft, and am now, I think, in the most
comfortable region of literature.
“And pray,” said I, “what may you be at present!” “At present,”
said he, “I am a regular job writer, and turn my hand to
anything. I work up the writings of others at so much a sheet;
turn off translations; write second-rate articles to fill up
reviews and magazines; compile travels and voyages, and furnish
theatrical criticisms for the newspapers. All this authorship,
you perceive, is anonymous; it gives no reputation, except among
the trade, where I am considered an author of all work, and am
always sure of employ. That’s the only reputation I want. I sleep
soundly, without dread of duns or critics, and leave immortal
fame to those that choose to fret and fight about it. Take my
word for it, the only happy author in this world is he who is
below the care of reputation.”
The preceding anecdotes of Buckthorne’s early schoolmate, and a
variety of peculiarities which I had remarked in himself, gave me
a strong curiosity to know something of his own history. There
was a dash of careless good humor about him that pleased me
exceedingly, and at times a whimsical tinge of melancholy ran
through his humor that gave it an additional relish. He had
evidently been a little chilled and buffeted by fortune, without
being soured thereby, as some fruits become mellower and sweeter,
from having been bruised or frost-bitten. He smiled when I
expressed my desire. “I have no great story,” said he, “to
relate. A mere tissue of errors and follies. But, such as it is,
you shall have one epoch of it, by which you may judge of the
rest.” And so, without any farther prelude, he gave me the
following anecdotes of his early adventures.