Memoir of Francis Hodgson
Robert Bland to John Herman Merivale, 9 August 1805
Many and the most sincere thanks for your very kind letter. I
really am obliged to you for being so happy as you mention, although I think
you might have been so without endeavouring to make me envious. And so you wish
me to follow your example.1 If any person would
accommodate me with the trifling sum of a cool £10,000, I would really do
so. But if you only reflect on the treasures contained in my table drawer, you
might find 1,000 pounds worth of reasons for remaining as I am—stupid,
flat, dull and solitary. . . . You will excuse the gloom of this letter, when
you consider the solemn hour at which I write, and the more so as you know that
I seldom, if ever, write to entertain others, but only when I am a burthen to
myself, and wish to lay part of the load on some one else. But, what is the
best excuse of all, I have this evening returned to London from
———, where I have been leading the life of a god for these
five days. On Friday ———’s birthday, concert, fire and
water works, ball, supper; so that Friday was certainly not so bad; though, to
my mind, all the squibs and crackers and rockets and
what-d’ye-call-’ems, produced by gunpowder, together with set
concerts, suppers, balls, and nicknackeries, are not worth this
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pinch of snuff. No, sir. It was
Saturday, passed on the lawn, with a soft, sick, languid, and amiable headache,
charmed away by a late breakfast and vocal music (particularly by hearing
myself sing),1 dance on the green, dinner, music, dance
again, singing again till two in the morning, and all in a private family
party—it was this, continued for three or four days, that did the
business, and made me what I am—gloomy, and discontented. Mrs.
——— recited several beautiful scraps of poems; I retaliated
with your ‘Clarissa,’ your ‘O’er the Smooth Main,’ and Hodgson’s ‘Moderate Wishes.’ The sensation was so great, that, drunk as
I was with pleasure at hearing my friends applauded, I was on the verge of
reciting something of my own and should have done so—but (luckily) I
forgot everything, and so was saved the disgrace of being hissed off the stage.
The lines of my own which I was near venturing, were the description of the
wood, and hags that haunted it, in ‘Edwy and Elgiva,’ which are the best
lines I have written. Very luckily I forgot the second verse, and consequently
could not begin the first with any propriety. There is a charm, my dear
Merry, in that house, which sets a
man at ease in a moment. No vul-1 All his contemporaries agreed in admiring his
singing. |
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| 234 | MEMOIR OF REV. F. HODGSON. | |
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garity, no quizzing, but the most elegant persons with the
most elegant manners—music the most celestial, and, as one cannot get
higher than celestial, manners the most engaging. Had the whole business of
their lives been to please, and they had studied their profession from their
births, they could not have succeeded better. And here I must not omit
mentioning that flattery is one source of pleasure. None of your stiff, awkward
compliments that break the teeth of the speaker, and make the hearer look like
a fool; but kind, good-natured hints of approbation, that encourage people to
talk, to amuse and be amused. I really cannot fix my eye upon any five days
that have been so varied with all manner of delights. I would change the
subject which, however interesting to myself, can have no great share of
interest to you, only, as you talked of nothing but yourself (and I like you for it), do let me talk of
———. Then we dined in a wood—pretty
thought!—‘our seat the turf, our canopy the sky.’
All the oreads, dryads, and naiads were delighted with our music.
‘Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, peeping from out their alleys
green.’ The evening passed in reading, recitation, music, supping
(pro formâ—that is to say, as an excuse
for assembling round a table, rather than ![]()
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for the sake of gross eating and drinking). After
singing and all the etceteras, we went to our repose, each highly satisfied
with the day, and with the quota of entertainment that each had contributed.
The poet sought his pillow, delighted and perfectly satisfied with his own bad
verses; the rebus, riddle, and conundrum-makers with their subtleties; the
explainers of the same with their acuteness; the vocal performers with their
voices; the instrumental with their fingers; and, most of all,
——— by the applauses (loud and frequent) which remunerated
him for making faces and playing the buffoon. At breakfast this morning, a
flash or two, a recitation, and a remark or two, and the charm was to be
dissolved, was to be exchanged for—London.
Francis Hodgson (1781-1852)
Provost of Eton College, translator of Juvenal (1807) and close friend of Byron. He wrote
for the
Monthly and
Critical Reviews, and was
author of (among other volumes of poetry)
Childe Harold's Monitor; or
Lines occasioned by the last Canto of Childe Harold (1818).
John Herman Merivale (1779-1844)
English poet and translator, friend of Francis Hodgson, author of
Orlando in Ronscevalles: a Poem (1814). He married Louisa Drury, daughter of the
headmaster at Harrow, and wrote for the
Monthly Review while
pursuing a career in the law.
