"Sheltered, but not to social duties lost;
Secluded, but not buried; and with song
Cheering his days."
The productions of Mr. Barton are doubtless familiar to most of our
readers, and from them they have learnt much of the amiable turn of
the poet's character. Mr. Barton's compositions afford indications of
genuine feeling, of deep affection, of benevolence, sympathy, taste, and
integrity; he seems to have an ear ever on the listen for the accents of
charity, patriotism, and religion; where human anguish causes the tear
to start, there he would fain be to soothe and alleviate. Such is the
character of the poet, and in the following sketch such will be proved
to be the character of the man.
Bernard Barton was born in the vicinity of London, on the 31st of
January, 1784. His father was in trade in the metropolis, whither he had
come from his native place, Carlisle. Bernard had the misfortune to lose
his mother one month after his birth: her maiden name was Mary Done, and
she was a native of Rockcliffe, Cumberland; she died at the early age of
thirty-two. The following lines _To a Profile_ evince the feelings with
which our poet still cherishes her memory, or rather the recollection of
what has been told him respecting her:--
"I knew thee not! then wherefore gaze
Upon thy silent shadow there,
Which so imperfectly portrays
The form thy features used to wear?
Yet have I often looked at thee,
As if those lips could speak to me.
I knew thee not! and thou couldst know,
At best, but little more of one
Whose pilgrimage on earth below
Commenced, just ere thy own was done;
For few and fleeting days were thine,
To hope or fear for lot of mine.
Yet few and fleeting as they were,
Fancy and feeling picture this,
They prompted many a fervent prayer,
Witnessed, perchance, a parting kiss;
And might not kiss, and prayer, from thee,
At such a period, profit me?
Whether they did or not, I owe
At least this tribute to thy worth;
Though little all I _can_ bestow,
Yet fond affection gives it birth;
And prompts me, as thy shade I view,
To bless thee, whom I never knew!"[1]
His father died before Mr. Barton was seven years old; but his second
marriage, which took place a few months before his death, provided an
excellent parent for his children: to her, and to his two sisters,[2]
both several years older than himself, our author owed infinite
obligations.
His education at one of the quaker seminaries was, of course, plain and
circumscribed, being pretty much confined to useful, indeed necessary,
branches of knowledge. But his father had been a man of greater natural
and more cultivated intellect than many; he had read much, and on the
abolition of slavery, in which he was one of Clarkson's earliest
associates, he had, on several occasions, proved that he could write
well, though, we believe, he was never avowedly an author. He had left
no despicable collection of books, so that in his school vacations ample
means were afforded to his son of indulging his taste for reading. A
pleasing tribute to the memory of Mr. Barton's father will be found in
his _Napoleon and other Poems_.
In the year 1806, Mr. Barton took up his residence in the pleasant town
of Woodbridge, in Suffolk, and commenced business as a merchant; but
an unlooked-for domestic affliction of the severest kind was about to
visit him, and his wordly prospects were to receive an irrecoverable
shock,--the loss of his amiable wife, before they had been married
a twelvemonth, and soon after the birth of her child! This excellent
woman, to whom our poet was, for so short a time, united, gave rise to
some of his best pieces, particularly to the poem beginning, _The heaven
was cloudless_,[3] and that entitled _A Portrait, _in _Napoleon and
other Poems_. In this last piece the poet no less beautifully than truly
observes,--
To sympathies, which soothe and bless
Our life from day to day,
Which throw, with silent tenderness,
Fresh flowers across our way,
The heart must ever fondly cling:
But can the poet's sweetest string
Their loveliness display?
No--nor could Titian's self supply
Their living presence, once gone by.
The air, in which we breathe and live,
Eludes our touch and sight;
The fairest flowers their fragrance give
To stillness, and to night;
The softest sounds that music flings,
In passing, from her heaven-plumed wings,
Are trackless in their flight!
And thus life's sweetest bliss is known
To silent, grateful thought alone.
This mournful event, combined with discouraging prospects of a
mercantile nature, induced our author to retire from commercial pursuits
on his own behalf; and in 1810 he obtained a situation as a clerk in the
Woodbridge bank, which he still holds.
Soon after Mr. Barton had entered upon his present situation, he
began "to commit the sin of rhyme," and a new provincial paper being
established about this time, it became the vehicle of his effusions: by
degrees our young poet became bold enough to send a short piece now and
then to a London paper, and at last, in 1812, ventured on an anonymous
volume, entitled _Metrical Effusions_, 250 copies of which were printed
by a bookseller of Woodbridge, and sold within the immediate circle of
our author's acquaintance. In 1818, Mr. Barton printed, by subscription,
an elegant volume, in elephant octavo, of _Poems by an Amateur_,
of which 150 only were struck off, and none ever sold at the shops.
Encouraged by the very flattering manner in which these impressions of
his poems were received by his friends, our author at last ventured to
publish, in a small volume, _Poems, by Bernard Barton_, which was very
favourably noticed by the literary journals, and, being afterwards made
still more known by an article in the _Edinburgh Review_, has now
reached a _third_ edition. He afterwards published, in a handsome octavo
volume, his _Napoleon and other Poems_; and subsequently a volume of
poems, entitled _A Widow's Tale_, which appeared in an early month of
the present year.
Such has been the literary career of Bernard Barton. If it have not left
behind it the brilliant track of other poetical comets, it has been less
erratic in its course; and if it have not been irradiated by the full
blaze of a noonday sun, it has nevertheless been illumined by the silver
lustre of the queen of night; and his Parnassian vespers may be said to
possess all the mild and soothing beauties of the evening star. If his
muse have not always reached the sunward path of the soaring eagle,
it is no extravagant praise to say, that she has often emulated the
sublimity of his aërial flight. But the great charm thrown around the
effusions of the Suffolk bard is that "lucid veil" of morality and
religion which "covers but not conceals"--that "silver net-work,"
through which his poetic "apples of gold" shine with an adventitious
beauty, which even the gorgeous ornaments so profusely lavished by
a Byron or a Moore would fail to invest them.
There is a fame which owes its spell
To popular applause alone;
Which seems on lip and tongue to dwell,
And finds--in others' breath--its own;
For such the eager worldling sighs,
And this the fickle world supplies.
There is a nobler fame--which draws
Its purer essence from the heart;
Which only seeks that calm applause
The virtuous and the wise impart:
Such fame beyond the grave shall live:
But this the world can never give.
--B. BARTON.
We have alluded to the amiable character of our poet; that his modesty
is equal to his merit, the following extract, from a letter to a friend,
will afford a pleasing evidence. Speaking of his literary career, he
says, "it has been marked by an indulgence on the part of the public,
and the dispensers of literary fame, which I never anticipated. When I
consider that only about three years have elapsed since I avowed myself
an author, I am really surprised at the notice my trivial productions
have received, and the numerous acquaintance to which they have, by
correspondence, introduced me. Much of this, I dare say, is owing to
my quakerism; and to that, unquestionably, I was indebted for the
article in the _Edinburgh Review_, and the more recent passing notice
in the _Quarterly_. Still, as I do not believe that any _outré_ or
_adventitious_ source of attraction would have alone procured me the
attention I have found, I would hope it may partly have arisen from
their simple, unaffected appeal to those quiet, domestic, secluded
feelings, which endear the still undercurrent of existence--in short,
to my being content to make the best I could of the homely and confined
materials to which my situation has given me access, without affecting
scholarship, or aiming at romantic embellishment. There is nothing like
simple truth and nature, after all; and he who is satisfied with simply
and faithfully describing what he actually sees, feels, and, thinks, may
always hope to appeal successfully to the unsophisticated heart."[4]
We here conclude our notice of the bard of Woodbridge; and should
this brief account excite the interest of our readers to become better
acquainted with this "living author," we refer them to the whole-length
portrait painted by himself, and held up to view in every page of his
poems.
[1] _Poems_, by B. Barton, p.190, 3rd edit.
[2] One of these sisters is the present _Mrs. Hack_, favourably
known as the authoress of several useful and highly interesting
works for children. See some introductory verses to her, prefixed
to the third edition of Mr. Barton's "Poems." His brother John
has also distinguished himself by one or two judicious pamphlets
on the situation and circumstances of the poor.
[3] _Poems_, by B. Barton, p. 133, 3rd edit.
[4] _Time's Telescope_, p. 18, vol. xi.
* * * * *