|
For many a lad I knew is dead,
And many a lass grown old;
And when I think upon the past
My weary heart is cold.—Captain Morris.
|
Biography! Memoirs of Self! The I substituted for the We, during so many years my familiar and protective critical plural, is a change of more importance than I could have expected.
I have had, it is true, some practice and experience in biographical
writing, and was well acquainted with the difficulties with which it was beset; but, until
I took the pen in hand for my autobiography, I had not the faintest conception of the
embarrassments and obstacles which stood in the way of a satisfactory performance of the
altered task. The consideration and reserve due to others, the candour and veracity due to
the public, and the fairness and justice due to myself, formed a combination of elements
not easily to be reconciled
| 2 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
Still I have to plead several other inducements, including the ancient
barefaced one,—of the earnest request of friends, who have thought that my varied career,
intimately mixed up with every prominent class of society during the period of half a
century, must furnish materials for a pleasant and instructive production. I am myself more
than half persuaded of the truth of this; and if memory and talent do not fail me, I
ambitiously trust to leave a few volumes behind me, which may be a more enduring monument
than could be raised from any multitude of my efforts dispersed in periodical literature,
which seldom can be analysed and condensed to the credit of even the most gifted
contributor, who has not adopted more solid forms for the exercise of his abilities. Were
this likely or possible, I should be willing to rest my name, for a short era, and yet as
much as I could expect of posthumous remembrance, upon my numerous essays in various
esteemed publications, and, especially, upon my labours in the “Literary Gazette” for thirty-four years; but as there is
no chance of such a distinct separation of the wheat from the chaff, I am the better
inclined to the endeavour to connect my pathway and doings in the world with matters of
general interest, and persons respecting whom their country must long desire to learn as
much as can be told. When I state that my juvenile associates numbered among others not
unknown to fame, such individuals as the late Lord High Chancellor
| INTRODUCTORY. | 3 |
With regard to that perplexing subject, myself,
I should certainly have avoided it more than I shall do, had I not a great object in view,
and, as I feel, a paramount duty to perform, in executing the purpose I have undertaken. My
life has been one of much vicissitude, of infinite struggle, and latterly of very grave
misfortune. On looking back from the harassed, would it were the calm untroubled goal of
three-score and ten years, I can trace with a faithful pencil much that has been owing to
mistakes, to errors, to faults, and to improvidence on my own side; and more to
misconceptions, injustice, wrongs, and persecutions, unprovoked by any act of mine, on the
part of others. I believe that the retrospect may be very serviceable to my
fellow-creatures, and most signally so to those who have embarked, or are disposed to
embark, in the pursuits of literature as a provision for the wants of life. Of all the
multitude I have known who leant upon this crutch as a sole support, I could not specify
ten who ever attained
| 4 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
What I have done and undergone may teach a lesson of pointed instruction; and if I rescue even a few from the too certain fate, I shall not regret where I have confessed my transgressions and opened my heart for their guidance. I am conscious that productions of this kind are rarely more than popular for a limited period; and then are to be found in libraries for future references, perhaps, by authors who may be investigating portions of the literary history of past times. In this way they are occasionally and partially revived again and again, and are so far useful; but even within my own experience of noticing autobiographical memoirs in the “Literary Gazette,” it is but poor encouragement to confess that I do not remember any example of one of the class creating aught beyond a temporary sensation. In fact very few biographies, and only of important personages, do last long enough to have any effect upon succeeding generations. It seems as if the good and the evil were barely sufficient for their own date; and that whatever grandchildren might attempt to teach their grandmothers, they are quite inapt to receive instruction from their venerable progenitors of either sex.
My small hope to prolong my vitality and memory a little farther, rests on
the foundation of my having known and been associated, as I have stated, with many
memorable persons, and having been concerned in some remarkable events, such as rarely
occur within the sphere of individuals of my station, besides being entrusted with the
confidence of others, so as, I think, to enable me to throw some new lights on some very
interesting topics. But for these con-
| INTRODUCTORY. | 5 |
——found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further— For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self murther. |
And this quotation leads me to state in this prefatory chapter, that I foresee my narrative must be of a very mixed, and almost incongruous character: for the grave and gay have alternated so rapidly with me, that I never can keep them far asunder. With Gay I would not state (especially on a tombstone) that Life was a jest: but I am free to affirm, that even amidst its most grievous afflictions and deepest tragedies, there always runs a series of accompaniments allied to the jocular and ridiculous, which would almost create laughter under the ribs of Death. For myself I can say that not many men have enjoyed so much of pleasure and endured so much of pain as I have done. I have drained the Circe-cup to the lees, but I still gratefully acknowledge the enchanting draught of its exquisite and transporting sweetness, in spite of the emptiness of its froth, and the bitterness of its dregs.
Yet is there much of sadness in the reflection of bygone years, protracted
to the span which mine have now reached. In looking back, it appears to me as if I had gone
through circles of society, and cycles of events. I look around and ask, Where are they who
began their hopeful career with me? Where are they? Oh, how few have threaded the trying
path, and are now among the living! How many have perished and are forgotten; or, at most,
but momentarily recalled by the converse of old friends, who are so shortly to follow them
into a like oblivion! No need have
| 6 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
In this melancholy mood I stop to ask myself who will be the readers, who
the judges and critics, of what I am about to record? Will even those who have known me
find interest in the re-awakened memories of scenes which we have shared together. Will
those to whom the writer is but a name, bestow a thought or a care upon his joys and
sorrows, for the sake of analogous joys and sorrows of their own, which his narrative may
recall. I shall resolve, however, that such themes must occupy no more than a small portion
of it. For it may be that the former have grown too old, or cold, and too much changed for
the emotion; and that the latter will be too little touched by what is strange to, and does
not concern them, to lend a listening ear to so simple and so universal a tale. The
vicissitudes of the literary man have no striking points to attract the world’s
attention; he has no incidents, like those of the warrior, to fix the sense on perils,
wonderful escapes, and dreadful catastrophes. His perils and catastrophes run on a dead
level; and the only wonder would be how he could ever have any escape. Feelingly do I find
it written by L. E. L. (in 1833): “The Poet
may lament the flower that blows unseen in the desert, or the gem that is covered in
the unfathomed caverns of ocean; but it is man himself
| INTRODUCTORY. | 7 |
Nevertheless the sufferers long to unburden memory of its load, as the ill in health fly to a physician, or the sick in soul to a confessor.
In my own case I seek neither medicine nor absolution. What my own hand is now writing may not, in human probability, meet the eye of the friendly, the unknown, or the inimical (if any such remain after the grave has closed), till the author is alike unconscious of the blessing of sympathy, the coldness of apathy, or the injustice of enmity. The eulogy, the neutrality and the insult will be of equal value to him, and only of some importance to those near and dear to him who inherit his blood and cherish his memory.
| NEXT ≫ |
