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A Graybeard’s Gossip about his Literary Acquaintance. No. XINew Monthly MagazineSmith, Horace, 1779-1849LondonJanuary 18488214-20
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NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. A GRAYBEARD’S GOSSIP ABOUT HIS LITERARY ACQUAINTANCE.No. XI.Forsan et hæc olim meminisse
juvabit.
John Taylor—His Tale of “Monsieur
Tonson”—His Bad Puns and forgotten Jests—His Autobiographical Records—The King of
Grief—James Cobb—Silencing a Newspaper.
Of the merry crew whom I used to encounter in Hill’s Court of Momus, at Sydenham, I shall only notice one more—the late John Taylor, commonly called Jack
Taylor, and sometimes SunTaylor, from his having been, during many years, the proprietor of
that newspaper. At different times, he was also part owner of the True Briton, and editor of the Morning Post; at every
period he was Prologue and Epilogue writer in general for all the theatres of London,
which, however, were not so nu-merous in his days as they have since
become. After this preamble, it is hardly necessary to state, that he had an almost
universal acquaintance with authors, artists, actors, and actresses of all
denominations—a fact, of which abundant evidence may be found in the two pleasant
volumes of autobiography, published after his decease, and entitled “Records of my Life.” By some
accident, the lines which he had intended for the title-page, were omitted; but, as they
were subsequently sent to me by his widow, I insert that portion which describes the scope
and purpose of his work.
Go, faithful Record of my former days, Regard not censure, and expect not praise. To rescue merit from Oblivion’s shade, That else unknown might there in darkness fade, Such is thy purpose, such thy leaves will show, To honour friends, but not to wound a foe.
“Thus much may serve by way of proem,” for, though there might be
perfect truth in the further assertion that he had mingled largely in the haunts of men,
and that virtue might read his work without a fear, the averments were hardly made in a
sufficiently poetic form to justify further quotation.
They who could have divined his mental character from his personal
appearance, must have read him backwards like a Hebrew book. Somewhat rusty was the suit of
black which always invested his tall lean figure, carelessly powdered was his hair, deeply
furrowed were his cheeks, dark and saturnine were his features, husky and sepulchral was
his voice; yet, this lugubrious-looking personage was always ready, however late the hour,
for a freak or a jollification, and rarely opened his mouth, except to relate an anecdote,
to repeat a witticism of others, or to attempt one of his own. Nothing, in short, could be
more grave than his aspect and outward showing, nothing less so than his discourse and his
occasional pursuits. Let it not be supposed, however, that Mr.
Taylor was a frivolous character, thinking of nought but social dissipation,
and the retailing of facetiæ. His
companionable qualities warranted a much higher ambition than that of being a successful
punster, and even they who smiled at his occasional failures as a wag, could not help
respecting him as a well-conducted, honourable, and kind-hearted man. That he should have
exercised his editorial functions during so many years, with so little cause of offence, is
doubly creditable to him, if there be any truth in his own averment, when speaking of
Sir Henry Bate Dudley, the proprietor of the
Morning Post, that
it is almost impossible for those who have not been occupied as newspaper editors, to
imagine the folly, depravity, and offensive qualities which must inevitably be brought
within their cognizance; and that they ought, therefore, to stand excused if their temper
sometimes become soured, and their strictures assume a tone of splenetic reproof. Let it be
recorded, to the honour of John Taylor, the editor of so many papers,
that he needed no vindication of this sort, the natural amenity of his disposition having
resisted all the embittering influences of his pursuits.
And yet he had some reason for mistrusting his fellow-creatures, his
hard-earned savings of many years having been lost by the misconduct of his partner in one
of the newspapers; a reverse of fortune that induced him, in the year 1827, to publish two
volumes of “Poems on Various
Subjects,” for which the wide circle of his acquaintance enabled him to
procure an extensive list of subscribers. In the whole long array
of prologues, epilogues, sonnets, epistles, imitations, elegiacs, tales, and rhyming
effusions upon all sorts of occasions, there were but rare exceptions from that order of
poetical mediocrity, which, according to Horace, is
equally repudiated by gods, men, and bookstalls. Prolific as was his muse, it is very
possible that the reader may never have encountered any other of her bantlings than the
comic tale of “Monsieur
Tonson,” which became so popular that it was often recited at the
Freemasons’ Tavern, by Fawcett, and was always
received with applause; a success which so deeply endeared it to the writer, that he
records himself in the title-page of his biography as the “Author
of Monsieur Tonson,” and subjoins the same badge of distinction to the
portrait with which the work is embellished. How fondly he doted upon this poetical
bantling, the only one of a most numerous family that ever became known to fame, may be
judged by the following extract from his “Records,”—
“Several of the actors, among whom were Mr. John Palmer, Mr. Burton, and many provincial
performers, called on me, requesting that I would read it to them that they might
better understand the conceptions of the author. They should rather have applied to
Mr. Fawcett, whose example would have been a
more instructive lesson. As I was one morning knocking at the door of a friend, a
decent looking person, but with a rough manner, addressed me abruptly, saying,
“‘Are you the author of ‘Monsieur Tonson?’
“I simply answered, ‘I own my guilt.’
“‘I thought so,’ said he, and went away with equal
abruptness. And if this may be considered a species of fame, I have seen myself pointed
at in coffee-houses on the same account.”*
In another place he is careful to tell the reader that the tale is founded on
an actual occurrence of former days, and that the Tom
King who forms its hero was not Tom
King the actor, of whom Churchill
says, “’Mongst Drury’s sons he comes and shines in brass.”
Indeed, one can hardly read his numerous and complacent allusions to this subject, and the
effect produced by his tale, without being reminded of Swift’s “Memoirs
of P. P., Clerk of this Parish.”
Mr. Northcote, however, no incompetent critic, to
judge by Hazlitt’s published conversations with him, thought
very favourably of the theatrical poems, if the following extract from an epistle to their
writer is to be taken au pied de la lettre:—
“I can scarcely find words to express to you my admiration of your excellent
Prologues, and Epilogues, so various, so witty, so moral, so natural, and so poetic. I
wish the whole work had contained nothing else, it would then indeed have been a jewel
of the first water; but when you make verses on Mr. ——, Mr. ——,
Mr. Northcote, and Mr. ——, my G—d! what a change! I no longer know
the same author. It seems to me like a change in a farce, where we see a regal throne
quickly turned into a wheelbarrow, &c., or as if somebody had blown your brains
out! If ever you write any more verses upon me, pray suppose me to be either a Tragedy
or a Comedy, and make a Prologue or an Epilogue for me. But I can easily account for
the great difference. When you write a Prologue or an Epilogue, you feel all the terror
of that powerful and re-
* “Records,” vol. ii., p. 27.
morseless beast, a full assembled audience before your eyes, which
keeps you tremblingly alive in fear of immediate public shame. But when you write
verses to flatter a fool, you sleep over them, and think any thing is good
enough.”
As the subject of this notice had his pet comic tale, to which he delighted
to refer, so had he two or three favourite puns of his own concoction, to each of which he
thought he might apply the decies repetita
placebit. More than once or twice have these old friends revisited mine
ear. Methinks I now see their fond parent as he used to reiterate them in days of yore. A
smile wrenches his cast-iron features out of their forlorn grimness: with his fore-finger
and thumb he flicks away the snuff from his shirt frill, as he huskily exclaims, or rather
croaks, “I think you knew Ozias Humphrey, the
artist, if not, you must have heard of him. He was fond of raillery, and one day, I think
it was at Opie’s, in Berners-street, when a
little sportive contest took place between him and me, he said, ‘Taylor, you are an every-day
man.’
“‘Very well,’ said I, ‘and you are a weak one.’ “This retort excited a loud laugh, as you may
well suppose, and completely silenced my friendly opponent. Some people call this my best
pun, but I myself don’t think it so good as one that I made to Sheridan, who you know, married a Miss Ogle. Well, we were supping together, on burned bones
and claret, at the Shakespeare Tavern, in Covent Garden, when the conversation turning on
Garrick, I asked him which of his performances
he thought the best. “‘Oh,’ said he, ‘the Lear, the Lear.’
“‘No wonder,’ said I, ‘you were fond of a Leer,
since you married an Ogle:”
From these specimens of his best puns the reader may guess the quality of
the myriad others constantly popping out of a melancholy-looking mouth that seemed little
fitted for emitting such sportive frivolities. It was Saturn pelting you with sugar plums.
Such, however, was his store of pleasant anecdote, so wide had been his
acquaintance with men and measures, that his hearers were well content to forgive a
twice-told tale, a wretched pun, or his too liberal use of what Gibbon calls the vainest and most disgusting of the pronouns. They could
pardon him for remembering a joke too well, but it required a greater degree of forbearance
when he insisted, as was occasionally the case after his memory had become less retentive,
upon relating anecdotes that he had forgotten. “My dear friend,” I once
heard him say to James Smith, “did I ever
tell you of my famous repartee to Dubois? Some
allusion having been made to my original profession of an oculist, he said, no wonder
that you failed in that pursuit, for a man must have been blind indeed who could think
of coming to you for a cure. Well, that made a laugh against me, but I quickly turned
the tables upon him, blew him to atoms, demolished him, annihilated him on the spot by
a retort I made. I don’t recollect just now what it was, but you may depend upon
it, my dear Smith, it was a capital thing, and was received with a
loud roar.” Such slips of memory may easily happen, especially to an elderly
man, in the excitement of social intercourse; but in the following extract it will be seen
that Taylor could deliberately commit to writing a
repartee of which he had forgotten the point, taking care, moreover, to add a voucher for
its probable sharpness. “The Baron de Wenzel, in the earlier part of his life, had been the pupil of my
grandfather (the Chevalier Taylor), who, on
hearing of the baron’s extraordinary fame in London, privately hinted to him that
when he was his pupil he had not discovered such docility as to promise so high a
degree of professional repute. The baron, piqued at this remark, pointed to his shoes,
which were decorated with brilliant diamonds. What answer the chevalier made I know
not, but it was probably very sharp, as he was well known to excel in
repartee.”* Numerous must have been the jokes obliterated from the
tablet of his memory. Pity that he did not collect the good things which had thus escaped
his recollection, and publish them under the title of “Unremembered Memorabilia; or,
the Forgotten Joe Miller.” We may depend upon the “capital hits,” whose
oblivion it would have commemorated.
Enough, however, and more than enough, were preserved in the “Records of my Life,” by the late
John Taylor, Esquire, author of “Monsieur Tonson,” to make the volumes very
pleasant reading, at least, for a graybeard contemporary like myself. Among the many
advantages of old age, it is not the least that we can sit in our fireside corners, chew
the cud of thought, and recall the pleasures, while we forget the dangers and anxieties of
our by-gone years. Youth lives in the future, age in the past, and I rather think we
seniors have the best of it. When Taylor, for
instance, showed me the room in old Slaughter’s Coffee-house, where he had so often
enjoyed merry meetings with Holman, Morton, Reynolds,
Fawcett, and other boon companions, it was
manifest that the actual occurrence of these symposia could hardly have been more
delightful than their recollection, which was free, moreover, from all apprehension of a
morning head-ache. As his ”Records” are not very widely known, I will glean
from them two or three anecdotes that may not be uninteresting to the general reader.
The original of Kenney’sJeremy Diddler in the admirable
farce of “Raising the
Wind,” was a man of the name of Bibb, who had once been
an engraver, and after renouncing that occupation, without adopting any other, had
contrived to support himself by borrowing half-crowns from all whom he could prevail upon
to lend them, a practice which procured for him the nick name of
“half-crown Bibb,” and was supposed to have put in his
pocket, first and last, not much less than 2000l. His solicitations,
however, were judiciously apportioned to the supposed means of his victims. When Taylor was young, and not very flourishing in
circumstances, he met Bibb, and commenced a modest panegyric upon
Dr. Johnson, whose death had been announced in
the papers of that day, an eulogium which was quickly interrupted by the exclamation
of—“Oh! never mind that old blockhead. Have you got such a thing as
ninepence about you?” The same party encountering Morton, the dramatist, after the success of one of his plays, and
concluding that a prosperous author must have plenty of cash, ventured to ask him for the
loan of a whole crown. Morton assured him that he had no more silver
than three and sixpence, which the applicant readily accepted, of course, but said on
parting,—“Remember, I intended to borrow a crown, so you owe me
eighteen-pence.”
Lewis, a provincial actor, and no relation to the celebrated comedian
of
* “Records,” vol. i., p. 15.
Covent Garden, published a small volume of poems with the following
motto:— The Muses forced me to besiege ’em, Necessitas non habet legem. He was generally known by the title of “The King of Grief,” as he had
watery eyes, which made him always appear to be weeping, and was continually predicting
misery to himself. Of this tristful grumbler, Taylor
relates the following anecdote. ”Mr. Younger, who was a very friendly man, invited
old Lewis to dine with him at Liverpool. Lewis declined the
invitation, alleging the indifferent state of his attire. Mr.
Younger desired him to go into the wardrobe of the theatre, and gave
orders he should receive any suit of clothes that fitted him. As soon as he was
properly accommodated, he rejoined Mr. Younger at dinner. After a few glasses of wine,
which, instead of raising his spirits, depressed him, he began weeping. Mr. Younger, with great kindness, asked him the cause
of his sudden grief—‘Why,’ said he, ‘is it not lamentable that
such a man of genius as myself should be obliged to such a stupid fellow as you are for
a suit of clothes, and a dinner?’ Far from being offended, Mr. Younger only
laughed at his ludicrous and untimely ingratitude.”
Mr. James Cobb, whose operas and dramatic works were
so long and «o deservedly popular, was requested by Sheridan, after the destruction of Drury Lane Theatre, to write a prelude
on the removal of the company of actors to the King’s Theatre. This was done,
Sheridan introducing one whimsical stroke. One of the characters
describing the difficulty of removing the scenes, properties, &c., said there was so
pelting a storm at the moment, that they were obliged to carry the rain under an umbrella.
Let me not record the name of James
Cobb without a passing tribute of respect to his memory. During the latter
years of his secretaryship to the East India Company I knew him well, and often shared the
hospitalities which he so liberally dispensed in Russell-square, especially on the nights
of a new piece at either of the theatres, when he invariably had a box. His better-half,
who always accompanied him, was apt to be behind-hand with her toilet, and on one occasion,
when the servant brought a message from his mistress that she would be down as soon as she
had changed her cap, his master replied,
“Oh, if that’s all, you may bring another bottle of port.”
Mr. Cobb was a man of business, a successful
dramatist, a good musician, a pleasant companion, a warm friend, and in every respect a
most estimable person. His industry must have been not less signal than his other good
qualities, for while he punctually discharged the duties of a most responsible office, he
found time to compose upwards of twenty farces, operas, and musical dramas, some of which,
such as “Paul and Virginia,”
“the Haunted Tower,”
“The Siege of Belgrade,”
and others, retained their popularity for many years, and are not yet entirely banished
from the stage.
To return to John Taylor. As he was a
man of strict veracity it may not be uninteresting to give his authority for the mode in
which troublesome newspapers were silenced in the good old days of our own times, when the
Prince of Wales, afterwards George the Fourth (of happy
and pious memory!) was seeking to be appointed Regent. The reader will instantly see that
the allusions in the following cautiously worded extract refer to Mrs. Fitzherbert and the Prince of
Wales:—
“It appeared that a lady, supposed to be in great favour with a high
personage, and not merely connected by the ties of mutual affection, had determined to
assert claims not sanctioned by law, but which, if openly developed, or rather promulgated,
would perhaps have been attended by a national agitation. It was stated in the Morning Post, that the
lady in question had demanded a peerage and 6000l. a year, as a
requital for the suppression of a fact which might have excited alarm over the empire, and
have put an effectual stop to all further proceedings on the subject of the pending
regency.”
Permanently to silence such ill-timed paragraphs, Taylor was requested, by a confidential servant of the
“high personage,” to inquire whether the person who farmed the paper, and who was also part proprietor, would dispose of his share,
and also of the term for which he was authorised to conduct it. “The party in
question,” writes Taylor, “struck while the iron was hot,
received a large sum for his share of the paper, another for the time that he was to hold a
control over it, and an annuity for life. The Morning Post was purchased for the allotted period, and I
was vested with the editorship. I may here mention a circumstance that illustrates the
character, or rather the opinion of Dr. Wolcot. When
the confidential agent to whom I have alluded first communicated to me the extravagant
claims of the lady in question, and the public commotion which she was likely to occasion,
if she persevered in her pretensions, the doctor, who was present, laughed, and said,
“‘Oh! there is no reason to be alarmed, the matter is easily
settled.”
“When I asked him what was to be done, his answer was,
“‘Why, poison her.”
“‘What, doctor,” said I, “commit murder?”
“‘Murder!” rejoined he, “there is nothing in it; it
is state policy, and is always done.”
“He certainly had no intention to suggest such an expedient upon the
present occasion; but if there were any temptation for a joke it was impossible for him to
resist it.”*
John Taylor was profoundly loyal, which explains his
appointment as editor, but when, at a later period, the life-involving charges against the
persecuted Queen Caroline were sought to be
established per fas aut nefas, he may, perhaps,
have thought that their manifest object was hardly more justifiable than the expedient
suggested by the doctor.
As it would not be fair to dismiss two volumes, containing more than 600
pages, of Taylor’s poetry without quotations,
I will cite the following lines, which are doubly entitled to selection as forming the
shortest of all his poems, and as bearing reference to another of my “literary
acquaintance.”
on hearing thatj. w. croker, esq., secretary to the admiralty, had fallen from his horse. Learn from this danger to beware Of horses of the vulgar breed, And hence unbend from public care, By mounting thy Parnassian steed. Then, if o’er sea or land† he course, He’ll ne’er thy skilful guidance spurn, But taste will regulate his force, And Fame shall welcome his return.
* “Records,” vol. ii., p. 267.
† See the beautiful poems of “Trafalgar” and “Talavera,” written by Mr. Croker.