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The Ballad on Sir John MooreMorning ChronicleTaylor, J. Sydney (John Sydney), 1795-1841London11 November 182417,338
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THE MORNING CHRONICLE.
No. 17,338.LONDON, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1824. Price Sevenpence.
THE BALLAD ON SIR JOHN MOORE. TO EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE,
Sir—Having originally vindicated the claim of the late
Rev. Charles Wolfe to the honourable distinction of
being the author of the Ode on Sir John
Moore, I may now fairly submit to the public, that the accuracy of my statement has
been placed beyond dispute. The letter of mine which appeared in The Chronicle on the 29th ult. was never
fairly opposed in any of its particulars. The general assertions of
adverse claimants left the circumstantial account which I then gave
still unimpeached. I knew that if any one really doubted the conclusive nature of that
statement, other testimony would soon appear to satisfy the most sceptical of the validity of
my conclusion. That testimony has been adduced in abundance from sources with which I had no
communication, and from Gentlemen of whom I had no personal knowledge, several of those
authorities have written from remote places, at a date when they could not have possibly seen
my letter, and yet by an exact coincidence they have verified the most minute circumstances
which it detailed. The question must now be set at rest as a matter of controversy, however it
may live as a subject of curious interest in the history of literature.
I believe there never occurred an instance in which so small a work was contended
for by so many ambitious claimants, but in no instance have the rivals of
Wolfe supported their assertions by the evidence of talents above
mediocrity, or been enabled to shew any thing but a contrast between the humility of their
known works, and the solitary excellence to which they had laid claim.
It is highly deserving of observation, that all the spurious candidates have
aspired to the fame of the spurious copy of the verses. In my original letter I explained the
absurdity into which they had fallen. I corrected from memory the many errors which Captain Medwin’s copy gave to the world; some of these
so marred the beauty and fire of the original as to bring down the inspiration of the poet to
the level of no very musical prose. Indeed, if the person who first made the alterations in
Wolfe’s poem, had himself undertaken to indite an epic on
military affairs, his work might well deserve the name which was given to a former unpoetic
enterprize of the kind, and which obtained the descriptive appellation of a Gazette in Verse. Some of Wolfe’s lines had been so
mutilated and debased, as to be more worthy of a pedagogue, with a sprig of birch about his
temples, than of the poet with his immortal laurel. The man who spoiled these verses was indeed
guiltless of any commerce with the Muses. Apollo would acquit him of the charge of having
stolen fire from heaven, yet this was the author whom the spurious claimants for the authorship
of the Ode on Sir John Moore have chosen to
follow. Such is their taste, that the crime which he has committed against poetry appears to
have enchanted them; they honor his delinquency, because it has debased genius to the level of
the mediocrity which they practise. They look for literary fame while they venerate instinctive
vandalism.
The corrections which I made in the Ode, and by which it has been restored to its
original excellence, did not, at first, seem to daunt those intrepid candidates for notoriety.
It was of little consequence to them what essential differences existed between the original
and the copy, though should any of them make out a claim to the latter, it would be the most
conclusive evidence that he never wrote the former. He who metamorphosed the verses into the
state in which Lord Byron found them, acted in the same
manner as one who would place a nose of wax and a flaxen wig on a statue by Praxiteles.
Since my statement was published in The Chronicle, the Paper called The Dublin Mail has corroborated all which
I had advanced; I mentioned that I had heard, long ago, the Verses were first published in an
Irish Newspaper, but that I had never seen them so published. The writer in The Dublin Mail states that the Paper was The Newry Telegraph, and that they were published
there some time in the month of April, 1817, that is about two months before on Gentleman says
he saw Lord Byron write them, and more than two years after
they had been recited to me by Wolfe.—That Lord
Byron took a copy of them, I believe, but it is to be regretted that the
original, in its perfect state, had not fallen into his hands.
Mr. Stewart, the Editor of the Belfast News-letter, has also written on the
subject to the Editor of the Courier, in consequence of having seen the mutilated copy of the verses in
that Journal. The respectable evidence of this Gentleman minutely substantiates my
statement—he having been Editor of the Newry
Telegraph when the poem was inserted in that Paper on its first
publication. He mentions the exact date, which also gives the poem in a corrected state,
according to the original copy, which he received from an intimate friend of
Wolfe—he laments the bad taste which injured those beautiful
lines. His corrections from the copy agree in all essential points with those which I had made
from memory. I gave the lines as Wolfe recited them to me long before they
were published; that he altered a word or two in transcribing them afterwards is consonant with
the practice of Poets, and that is all the difference that exists between Mr.
Stewart’s copy and mine, making an alteration, not in the sense, but in
the melody of two lines. In publishing this Gentleman’s letter, The Courier, which became at first the dupe of a silly and
malicious imposture against the fame of Wolfe, has made adequate reparation to his memory.
However dull and ridiculous the letter signed “H.
Marshall, M.D.” appeared, it was copied with alacrity into several Papers,
which have since, very properly, felt ashamed of the cause into which some stupid pretenders to
wit betrayed them. But however despicable that composition was, I felt it right to have its
calumny repelled in every vehicle of intelligence, in which I could learn that it had been
inserted, for some Papers had given a conspicuous place in their columns to that precious
specimen of ignorance and folly, who had not done me, as well as the public, the justice of
copying my answer.—The Editor of The Times, on inserting the short note
which I addressed to him on the subject, annexed a comment, observing that I ought to have sent
it privately to Dr. or Mr. Marshall; I thank him for his advice, but I
know when a private communication is necessary, without applying for instruction to his code of
honour; there is no use in fighting with shadows. The Editor of The Times knew well, when he volunteered this opinion, that
the letter which he had too readily copied was a paltry deception; that the signature was
fictitious, and that there were no responsible parties but the publishers. The Chronicle had detailed the
particulars of the hoax two days before this advice was given to me; but as The Times had circulated the offensive matter, I
thought it fair that its readers should know with what contempt I treated the Dr.’s
letter, and with what terms I branded any one who would avow himself to be its author. Were it
even a case for private communication, I should still have thought it right to repel the
grossness of the charge as publicly as it had been applied. Where a public attack is made, it
ought to be as openly confuted; when an insult is blown with a trumpet, I do not like to answer
it merely in a whisper.
I am not, however, surprised that other Papers were deceived by this letter at
first, from the ostensible manner in which The Courier put it forward. It was printed in the same
type with the leading article of that paper, and the more elegant passages of the epistle were
honoured with the emphatic distinction of Roman capitals. I saw at once the writer was an
ignorant quack, incapable of higher minstrelsy than what is accustomed to delight the literati of the Seven Dials—but I was bound to answer the letter,
since the press gave it circulation, and I had appeared in the lists, for
Wolfe, against all claimants. I, however, made inquiries on the
subject, and was informed of particulars, which have since been explained in The Durham Chronicle. Out of several
letters, which I received on this subject, I shall take the liberty of subjoining the
following, dated from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, the 6th of November, 1824:
“Sir—Being well acquainted with the city
of Durham, I have no hesitation in stating, that there is no Dr.
Marshall, M.D., residing there, nor do I believe there is such a
person as the Reverend Mr. Adderson, of Battersby, that
place being merely an old farm-house. I am satisfied, therefore, the letter in
The Courier is altogether a hoax. Just as I am writing this, a Durham paper has
reached me, which developes the whole mystery, and which I shall transmit to
you. Your letters are conclusive and satisfactory to every one with whom I have
conversed. I have the honour to be, Sir, your very obedient servant,
“JOHN TROTTER
BROCKETT.” “To John Sydney Taylor,
Esq.”
So much for the Durham letter, which has, however, been productive of some good,
as it has provoked much of the evidence which the friends of Wolfe have
since given to the public on this interesting subject. It has also served to elicit the clever
and humorous parody which first appeared in The Globe and Traveller, and which is
likely to survive the occasion, which called it forth, like the Ode on which it is s felicitous
a burlesque. A letter has also appeared in The St. James’s Chronicle, from
the high authority of Dr. Miller, known to
literature by his Lectures on the Philosophy of History, which he delivered in the College
of Dublin, where Wolfe was a student; his testimony in favour of the
latter is not merely expressed in terms of affectionate friendship; it conveys the
sentiments of a mind full of admiration of his genius, and his virtues; his letter was
written at Armagh, on the same day that mine was published in The Morning Chronicle, so that he could
not possibly have seen my statement, yet he draws the character of
Wolfe with the closest resemblance to the sketch which I had given
of him. He laments his untimely death, as a loss to religion and letters, in the language
of one who knew how to estimate the qualities of mind and heart which the grave too early
closed upon.
I will now add, that however competent the evidence on behalf of
Wolfe is to produce a clear and satisfactory conviction on every
rational mind, yet but a small part of the testimony has been advanced that is possible to be
adduced on this question. There are several of the contemporaries and intimate friends of the
lamented author, whose statements, if it were necessary to have recourse to them in this case,
would alone constitute moral demonstration. He who gave the gallant and traduced Moore his merited fame, ought to have the unimpaired enjoyment
of his own. He who, when detraction was busy in depriving the martyred soldier of his last
great reward—the good opinion of his country—planted the laurel on his forsaken
grave, should not in his own tomb be deserted and forsaken. Poetic talent but too often stoops
below the loftiest ambition, to ——“Heap the shrine of luxury and pride, With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.”
But when its splendour is given to the last asylum of departed worth, which the
ingratitude of man had darkened, it fulfils the noblest purpose of its mission upon earth. It
gives a new charm to truth, and makes even successless virtue attractive. Though the Spartan
devotion with which Moore bled for his country was long
denied the honours of impartial history, his fame was, at once, and splendidly, avenged, by the
inspired retribution of the Poet. I remain, Sir,
Your obedient humble Servant,JOHN SYDNEY TAYLORNo. 1, Garden-court, Middle Temple.