MR. BEMERTON'S FIRST BED BOOK BRINGS US INTO THE COMPANY OF QUAINT
AND LEARNED GENTLEMEN
The older I grow, the less, I find, do I want to read about anything
but human beings. (The proper study of matured mankind is certainly
man.) But human beings as human beings are not enough: they must, to
interest me, have qualities of simplicity or candour or quaintness.
A few such I have found in Mr. Bemerton's first highly-commended bed
book--the _Literary Anecdotes_ of John Nichols, a series of volumes,
very unpromising at first, and truly as dull as Mr. Lecky told my
friend that a bed book should be, descriptive of the attainments of
the principal contributors to _The Gentleman's Magazine_ (best of
periodicals) in the second half of the eighteenth century (a period
when to be an antiquary and a gentleman was so easy) when that
publication belonged to Bowyer the printer.
For the most part these old dry-as-dust clergymen and scholars had
little enough to recommend them to any one but Bowyer, who seems to
have basked with equal satisfaction in the friendship of all; but
when one looks deeper one finds treasure.
Sir Hildebrand Jacob, for example, one does not soon forget. Sir
Hildebrand was a bibliophile and a minor poet and dramatist, who died
in 1790. "As a general scholar, he was exceeded by few; in his
knowledge of the Hebrew language he scarcely had an equal. In the
earlier part of his life, one custom which he constantly followed was
very remarkable. As soon as the roads became pretty good, and the
fine weather began to set in, his man was ordered to pack up a few
things in a portmanteau, and with these his master and himself set
off, without knowing whither they were going. When it drew towards
evening, they inquired at the first village they saw, whether the
great man in it was a lover of books, and had a fine library. If the
answer was in the negative, they went on farther; if in the
affirmative, Sir Hildebrand sent his compliments, that he was come to
see him; and there he used to stay till time or curiosity induced him
to move elsewhere. In this manner Sir Hildebrand had very nearly
passed through the greatest part of England, without scarcely ever
sleeping at an inn, unless where town or village did not afford one
person civilised enough to be glad to see a gentleman and a scholar."
Sir Hildebrand reminds one a little of the Don, though lacking
utterly in any suggestion of the pathos which so beautifully cloaks
that sublime figure. To seek books comes, however, next to the
search for adventures and wrongs to redress. A good author might
found a very charming story on this literary knight-errant and his
encounters with the rural collector. It is not the least loss
brought to us by railroads and motor cars that the problem of the
lodging for the night is so easily solved to the exclusion of chance
hospitality. One wants to know more of Sir Hildebrand--how he went
to work to become a guest and what misconceptions he had to live down.
Another of Nichols' heroes is the Rev. William Budworth, the
schoolmaster who so nearly engaged the young Samuel Johnson as an
usher and who was the instructor of the learned Bishop Hurd, the
friend of Warburton. Mr. Budworth, who taught the Free Grammar
School at Brewood, was a precisian of the first water. He made no
mistakes. "His person, which was rather above the middle height, was
formed with the nicest symmetry; and he had, perhaps, as fine a
presence as almost any man in the kingdom. His air, deportment,
language, voice, in short, every word and every action, announced the
accomplished gentleman. He had not the fine eagle-eye of a Condé,
nor, askaunt, did it flash conviction and terror like Chatham's;
there was nothing tremendous in his aspect; he never spoke like
thunder, nor did he command with the pomp of a bashaw; but there was
an irresistible and indescribable something, which always commanded
respect, and for ever inspired the beholders with awe; his look and
his voice pierced to the very inmost soul."
I imagine that, which is the work not of Nichols but of a
contributor, to be the perfect description of the perfect
schoolmaster. One sees what a terror would such a man strike into
the heart and knees of the young. It was a dull day for English
readers (I think) when the description of the person was first
considered unnecessary. We rarely get it now.
Among the anecdotes of Mr. Budworth (and I may say here that Nichols'
_Literary Anecdotes_, in spite of its title, is poorer in anecdotes
than almost any book I ever opened) is this, referring to a social
and more or less unbending, if not convivial, evening at that model's
house. Mr. Budworth, I should first say, was a vegetarian. "Among
other topics of conversation, Mr. Martin took the freedom to ask Mr.
Budworth, what his sentiments were respecting the lawfulness or
unlawfulness of eating blood. His reply was nearly in the following
terms: 'I have read the authors on both sides of the question; those
who wrote in favour of the prohibition had the greatest weight with
me, and therefore I have always abstained from eating it.'"
Boswell, I suppose, made the record of this kind of conversation
possible. I wish it had not gone out; but with hero-worship (of
which it was a symptom) it has passed. We seem to have grown too
critical for such hero-worship any more; the minor dictator, being no
longer able to induce people to take him at his own valuation, has
either become merely a grumbler or has diminished into a man and a
brother.
Another possessor of the higher dignity--but a very different man
from Mr. Budworth, although his contemporary--was John Baskerville
(noble name!), the Birmingham printer of the Bible whose spacious
page one occasionally and very joyfully observes on the lectern of
such village churches as one has the luck to find open. Baskerville
printed the Bible like an angel, but he did not esteem its matter.
He was, in fact, a very determined agnostic, and in his last will and
testament he provided for the persistence of his hostility to
accepted dogma. John Baskerville is thus described by a friend of
Nichols: "In regard to his private character, he was much of a
humorist, idle in the extreme; but his invention was of the true
Birmingham model, active. He could well design, but procured others
to execute: wherever he found merit, he caressed it: he was
remarkably polite to the stranger, fond of show; a figure rather of
the smaller size, and delighted to adorn that figure with gold lace.
Although constructed with the light timbers of a frigate, his
movement was stately as a ship of the line."
From the printer we pass to a printer's friend--to Mr. James
Elphinstone the grammarian, the friend of Benjamin Franklin and also
of Johnson and Jortin. Mr. Elphinstone had a very agreeable gentle
eccentricity. "The colour of his suit of clothes was invariably,
except when in mourning, what is called a drab; his coat was made in
the fashion that reigned, when he returned from France, in the
beginning of the last century, with flaps and buttons to the pockets
and sleeves, without a cape; he always wore a powdered bag-wig, with
a high toupée; and walked with a cocked hat and an amber-headed cane;
his shoe-buckles had seldom been changed, and were always of the same
size; and he never put on boots. It must be observed, however, that
he lately, more than once, offered to make any change Mrs.
Elphinstone might deem proper: but in her eyes his virtues and worth
had so sanctified his appearance, that she would have thought the
alteration a sacrilege. Mr. Elphinstone's principal foibles
originated, some in virtue itself, and others in the system he had
early laid down for preserving the purity of the English tongue. As
an instance of the former, when any ladies were present in company
whose sleeves were at a distance from their elbows, or whose bosoms
were at all exposed, he would fidget from place to place, look
askance, with a slight convulsion of his left eye, and never rest
till he approached some of them, and, pointing to their arms, say,
'Oh yes, indeed! it is very pretty, but it betrays more fashion than
modesty!' or some similar phrase; after which he became very
good-humoured."
Another gentle humorist (in the old sense of the word, which is far
better than the new) was Dr. John Taylor, Registrar of Cambridge
University, editor of Demosthenes and Æschylus, and Canon
Residentiary of St. Paul's, who died in 1766. A friend sent to
Sylvanus Urban an admirable account of this old scholar, containing a
very pleasant picture of his patience with visitors--more than
patience, his sweet cordiality. "You have mentioned that Dr. Taylor
was too busy a man to be idle. This is too shining a particular in
the Doctor's temper and abilities not to be a little more insisted
upon. If you called on him in College after dinner, you were sure to
find him sitting at an old oval walnut-tree table entirely covered
with books, in which, as the common expression runs, he seemed to be
buried: you began to make apologies for disturbing a person so well
employed; but he immediately told you to advance, taking care to
disturb as little as you could the books on the floor; and called
out, 'John, John, bring pipes and glasses;' and then fell to
procuring a small space for the bottle just to stand on, but which
could hardly ever be done without shoving off an equal quantity of
the furniture at the other end; and he instantly appeared as
cheerful, good-humoured, and _dégagé_, as if he had not been at all
engaged or interrupted. Suppose now you had stayed as long as you
would, and been entertained by him most agreeably, you took your
leave, and got half-way down the stairs; but, recollecting somewhat
that you had more to say to him, you go in again; the bottle and
glasses were gone, the books had expanded themselves so as to
re-occupy the whole table, and he was just as much buried in them as
when you first broke in on him. I never knew this convenient faculty
to an equal degree in any other scholar."
It seems to me that Dr. John Taylor in his study would make a good
picture for an artist of interiors.
But my favourites among Bowyer's friends are William Clarke, the
Sussex parson, and Richard Gough, the antiquary of Enfield. Mr.
Gough's particular line was topography, and in addition to a work of
his own on the topography of Great Britain, he translated and edited
Camden's _Britannia_. Having considerable wealth, he was able to
employ illustrators to enrich his text very thoroughly, and when he
died he left all his MSS. and drawings to the Bodleian, where they
may be seen by the curious to-day. But the trait in the character of
this amiable scholar which has most attracted me is his kindness to
animals--more than kindness, for any one can feel that, but gratitude
too, which found expression in the minute and thoughtful epitaphs
which he wrote for the gravestones of his pets. Here is one upon
Toby--perhaps a sparrow:--
To immortalise the memory
of Merit and Innocence, which, having long since left the
abodes of men, shine forth among brutes, and to perpetuate
the unhappiness of Favourites,
is this monument erected.
He who is here deposited was, like all the good, removed from future
evils, though his character was such as might alone procure him
esteem. His station was sufficient to protect him from those insults
which his equals continually bear; and his greatest recommendation
was to have been taught at home. He was no wise inferior to the
fam'd favourite of Lesbia, though all his praise is confined to this;
but he owed his death to a different cause, the sportive jealousy of
another object of partiality having sent hither the unfortunate Toby.
Pretty if heavy pleasantry, is it not? Here follows an epitaph upon
a cat:--
After a life spent in the useful
purposes of peopling the world with
my own race, defending my
friends from intruding
animals, and entertaining
them in my youth
with wanton tricks,
here rest I
in peace,
the old TORTOISE-SHELL CAT.
Had I died in Egypt, an immortal sepulchre and religious veneration
had remembered me to posterity; but now, such is the change of time,
it is owing to Mr. Jarvis and a plate of lead that you hear any more
of me, since compassionate man put an end to the calamities of life,
which others of his species would have but augmented. As the Gods
are said to have considered their faithful votaries by an easy death,
the same reward have I obtained for my services; and thus have I
closed a scene of great revolutions, though few of these affected me.
So Priam, father of an endless race,
His happiness and honour, while his Troy
Remain'd and flourish'd, dropt into his tomb
By great Achilles' hand; and not a stone
Tells where the bones of Asia's Monarch rest.
Finally, let me quote what is perhaps the only inscription extant on
the grave of a pheasant, a bird which most county gentlemen, even the
kindest, first kill for sport and then honour in death in a totally
different way. I am not blaming them: I wish only to point the
contrast. Mr. Gough composed this epitaph on a pheasant that he had
tamed:--
Beneath
this humble but grateful monument rests all that remains of one
who, after having, amidst the changes and vicissitudes of this
mortal life, preserved a heart as superior to them as his condition
would admit, paid his debt to Nature, Oct. --, 1756.
Many years ago he left his native air
to breathe in British Freedom;
and resigned his extensive territories in the East
for less ample possessions, where his reception
was more suitable to his merit.
Exalted above the ignoble crowd which surrounded him,
he maintained that native dignity which became a consciousness
of his superior excellence.
Endowed by nature with all the advantages
of person, he despised the arts of dress.
The same easy temper which softened the solitude of celibacy
heightened his relish of the married state; and the same
benevolence which distinguished him in society would have taught
him the just discharge of parental duties had the care of
posterity demanded.
He never plumed his wings to lofty flights,
nor sought the refinements of Art where Nature's
bounty could be obtained.
As he lived superior to ambition or interest, he fell no
sacrifice to party rage or political malice; but, after the
long enjoyment of unsullied reputation, withdrew
from the stage on which he had performed
his part so well.
Blush not, whosoever thou art, that with the poring eye of
P. Gemsegel or W. Toldervey[1] does decypher these
letters, to receive instruction from the example of a
PHEASANT.
[1] Two old and respectable correspondents of Mr. Urban (in _The
Gentleman's Magazine_).
Only a man of singular thoughtfulness and sweetness of nature would
thus go to the trouble of celebrating his pets.
Modern poetry contains many such tributes, notably Matthew Arnold's
poems on Geist and Max, and Matthias the canary; but little of
Gough's tenderness and solicitude had come between his own day and
that of the bereaved gentlemen of the Greek Anthology, how many
centuries earlier. That is to say, in literature; but, in fact, I
suppose, men have always loved their pets with equal depths. There
is a dead partridge in the Greek anthology:--
No longer, poor partridge migrated from the rocks, does thy woven
house hold thee in its thin withies, nor under the sparkle of
fresh-faced Dawn dost thou ruffle up the edges of thy basking wings;
the cat bit off thy head, but the rest of thee I snatched away, and
she did not fill her greedy jaw; and now may the earth cover thee not
lightly but heavily, lest she drag out thy remains.
That pairs off with Mr. Cough's pheasant, and indeed may have given
him his inspiration.
And here are two epitaphs on favourite dogs, also in Mr. Mackail's
beautiful translation:--
Here the stone says it holds the white dog from Melita, the most
faithful guardian of Eumelus; Bull they called him while he was yet
alive; but now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the
night.
And
Thou who passest on the path, if haply thou dost mark this monument,
laugh not, I pray thee, though it is a dog's grave; tears fell for
me, and the dust was heaped above me by a master's hands, who
likewise engraved these words on my tomb.
Richard Gough of course knew these, and, as I say, he very probably
took his inspiration from them; but the circumstance does not
diminish the beauty of his own affectionate thoughtfulness in
composing epitaphs of his own and having them cut in the stone.
Nichols, who, of course, after his quaint manner, buries all the
human characteristics of his antiquarian and scholastic friends in
the small type of the footnotes, gives also a model address of a
candidate to his constituents as prepared by Mr. Gough for a friend
who thought to contest a seat. It is a brief but amusing document,
obviously the work of a golden-hearted, pure-minded recluse, removed
by nature and circumstances far from the turmoil of ambitious men.
It runs thus:--
"I offer myself a Candidate to represent the County [or Borough] of
----, with a determined resolution neither to solicit, nor influence,
the votes of the free electors. Superior to such influence myself, I
cannot condescend to bribe or intimidate my countrymen. I stand
forth, therefore, on no other ground than public virtue. If there is
so much left in this place as to direct your choice to me, I shall be
happy in calling it forth, whether I succeed in my election or not.
I shall neither make nor authorize any other application than this.
As I have no ends of my own to serve, I profess myself of no party;
and resolved to follow the dictates of my own conscience, with
respect to my duty, to my Country, my Sovereign, and my Constituents."
When Mr. Gough himself came to die, his learned friend Dr. Sherwin
said of him in _The Gentleman's Magazine_ that "his cellar was as
open to the necessities of afflicted industry as his noble library to
the wants and wishes of literary men." A noble epitaph. Those great
days have passed away. Gentlemen no longer have a Magazine, and many
of them cut a fine enough figure without either library or cellar.
Indeed, I am not sure that the tendency of the cellar to dwindle into
a Tantalus is not the most lamentable sign of the times.