| 242 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
|
Come on, ye Critics, find one fault who dares;
For read it backwards, like a witch’s prayers,
’Twill do as well.
As skilful divers to the bottom fall
Sooner than those who cannot swim at all;
So, in this way of writing without thinking,,
I have a strange alacrity in sinking.
|
Among my endeavours to promote useful undertakings, I wrote much
in favour of an Equitable Trade Society for the adjustment of disputed accounts, the
prevention of law suits, and the benefit of the commercial and trading interests, which
unfortunately never could be carried into execution, to substitute cheap and honest
arbitration for costly and lottery-like decisions. The public has not yet become wise
enough to mature such a plan, and the county and other courts continue to do the old work,
though so far happily, in a partially reformed manner. I also strove for the establishment
of free drawing schools, and schools for the cultivation of design, throughout the kingdom:
I was then before the age, but am rejoiced to have seen the recommendation acted upon
within the last few years, and I trust it will spread to the magnitude and encouragement of
the fine arts which I
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 243 |
These were labours of love, and pursued with a lover’s fervour; and I was not less gratified by making my way gradually in the opening of scientific and learned institutions for the general benefit, by procuring admission to their sittings and leave to make known their proceedings, hitherto the sealed mysteries of a few individuals, till perhaps a tardy volume, appearing after the lapse of years, told us of something that had grown stale by keeping. The contrast now, in consequence, is astonishing: assuredly I contributed mainly to remove the bushel from over the candle, so that its light might be diffused over the land: and see
“How far this little candle throws that light; So shines a good deed in a naughty world.” |
Nor was my pen idle in the way of fanciful pleasantries, of which, as not yet obsolete or too stupid for a good-humoured perusal, I take leave to insert here a specimen:—
“The being one of those gifted individuals who possess the second sight, or faculty of peeping into futurity, would, I am sure, constitute a sufficient introduction to your columns; but the marvellous manner in which I have recently had my prognosis confirmed, furnishes a still more irresistible claim to your attention.
| 244 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
“Walking on the 30th of February, sir, upon the seaside, I beheld at about the distance of three furlongs, upon a small tabular-shaped rock which just emerged from the bosom of the heaving wave, one of those extraordinary creatures, the existence of which has been almost as much doubted by sceptics as the existence of the second sight itself, I mean a Mermaid, if I may so call that which appeared to be a Mother,* for she was suckling a little innocent with a tail like a gold fish, and not longer than eighteen or twenty inches. Both mother and child were surpassingly beautiful. The former had a fine oval countenance, and not the less lovely from being inclined to green, like some of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s pictures, in which the colours are most evanescent. Her hair was purplish, as you may have seen the carrot-locks of mortals who had in vain attempted to die them black, and so long that it floated on the water like a sea-weed. The bust was the finest I ever gazed upon; and though I cannot so much approve of her extremities, it is but justice to acknowledge that the whole of the fish department was radiant as a dolphin playing in the sunbeams, elastic as the flying-fish, and shapely as the salmon. Earnestly engaged in her maternal office, the oceanic lady did not heed my approach, and when she began to sing her offspring to sleep—ye gods! it was the music of the spheres or fabled cadences of the expiring swan. Never was mortal man so raptured as I was. I stood transfixed in a trance of delirium, chained, like another Prometheus, to the rock nearest that of the enchanting Mermaid. In this posture it seems I first caught her eye, and whether it was that, being susceptible of flattery as earthly females are said to be, or influenced by any other consideration I know
* “In terrene affairs this species of misnomer is not uncommon.” |
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 245 |
“It were needless, sir, to occupy you with the entire conversation that ensued. Suffice it to say, that a perfectly good understanding arose between the prophetess of the sea and the seer of the earth. The Mer-child was gracefully laid to slumber upon the fin of its accomplished parent while she unfolded to me the drama of the future.
“It may be proper to explain to you that my sight is limited to somewhere about seven hundred and
thirty days, beyond which my perceptions of futurity are dim and uncertain. But
my fair companion darted her easy glance into years, it may be into ages, far
removed. Curiosity is most excited by proximate objects. I cared little for
1920, but 1820 arrived just at the end of my own vista, and I regarded with
peculiar attention the exposition of that year as successive seasons were
unfolded to me in the glass of my wonderful acquaintance. This glass, by the
way—and I am happy to set at rest so important a point in natural history—is a
perfect sphere, and not an oval piano, as hitherto represented by the
pretenders to Mermaidal intercourse. Upon its transparent face the lines of
January, 1821, were just opening upon my eye, when the report of a duck-gun
startled my ear. In an instant my instructress vanished beneath the billow, and
what became of her glass I know not, though from the unwelcome entrance of
about an ounce of shot (No. 1, Mr. Editor!) into my body, I am inclined to
suspect that she also got a few drops too much, and that her glass was
shivered. For some moments I was not aware of being wounded; but when the
sportsmen started from behind a precipice where they had couched for the
benefit of a surer aim, I perceived the whole nature and
| 246 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
“But no more of this. I hasten to lay before you as much of the history of the year Eighteen Hundred and Twenty as I can recollect; many important matters having I fear, slipped my memory during the three months I have been smarting under the hands of the surgeon, and those benevolent friends who have from time to time had the kindness to devote an hour to the amusement of picking the shots out of the carcase of your unfortunate humble servant,
* “The King’s palace looked quite bare and unfurnished; there had been a clamour against the expense of chairs and tables for it, and the Sovereign had reduced his establishment to Spartan plainness. I naturally took a peep to observe how wretched the prisons must now be; but judge my surprise on finding every gaol glittering with mirrors, rich with Turkey carpets and sofas, and some of them even adorned with noble corridors and the most transcendent paintings, with lawns for exercise, theatres for concerts and private performances, and all that taste could devise for the gratification of luxury. On inquiry, I found
* “Our correspondent’s letter here assumes the form of loose notes, apparently the result of his examination of the glass, and the explanations of its proprietor.” |
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 247 |
“I turned to examine the church. Astonishing! Each venerable pile was surrounded by a number of appendage buildings, like a hen and chicken daisy; these were chapels of ease which had been added at the suggestion of the Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1817. St. Paul’s cut a most extraordinary figure with its adjuncts, which reached all over what was once Paternoster Row, and Satan was now defied where Printers’ Devils had reigned so long. The interior of the National Church was however even more transformed than the exterior. The light of reason had at last succeeded in attaining perfect toleration. The Archbishop of Canterbury was a very zealous Roman Catholic; the Chancellor of the Exchequer a worthy Jew, with a fine beard, and a great financier; the first Lord of the Admiralty an Anabaptist, who baptised the crew of his fleets over the ship’s sides; the first Lord of the Bedchamber a strict Methodist; the Lord Chancellor a Southcotian, with the guardianship of many Shilohs; and the Commander-in-Chief a Quaker!
“A grand reform had taken place in Parliament. There was a general election every month. Men had two votes, children one, and women three. Nine-tenths of the members were consequently females, a few males standing for the boroughs. The Speaker this month (April) was Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke, whose intrigues had elevated her to that high situation.
“There was a levee. I took a peep. The chief
presentations consisted of missionaries returned from prose-
| 248 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
“At the Cabinet Council after the ceremony, dispatches from Tombuctoo were laid before his Majesty. A storm had wrecked several vessels in the Niger between Wangara and Bergou, and a gang of carpenters were ordered to be dispatched to assist the King of Tuarick in repairing them. There was also indifferent intelligence from Nubia and Darfur. The canal for carrying the Nile out of its course so as to avoid the cataracts, had however been completed under the inspection of that able engineer, Mr. ——.
“The provincial halls for the meetings of political delegates were just roofed in; a letter from America offered to bet 100 dollars that the writer would return to England by next fall,
“The exhibition of the Royal Academy was open, and consisted entirely of portraits, an essay from the pen of the learned Sir Sycophant Flatter, Knt., having proved to the conviction of the nation that portraiture was the truest, highest, nicest, and most interesting branch of the art. The sculpture-room was full of busts—that of architecture, with plans of prisons and elevations of monuments to living merit.
“Drury-Lane Theatre, after being shut two seasons, was
opened for three sermons to be preached by Mr.
Chalmers. Boxes, pit, and galleries, a bumper. At Covent Garden
there was a piece performed by dogs and monkeys; it was bespoke by
Prince George Augustus Coburg, now nearly three years
old, who was rapturously
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 249 |
“An advertisement announces that Professor Davy has nearly perfected his recent invention of the ‘Salamander Great Coat, which enables the wearer to walk at his ease through the flames of burning houses.’ The happiest results are expected from this discovery. The same paper notices that the steam apparatus for working questions in fluxions and algebra, has already sold nineteen thousand; the steam wings are ready for the new expedition, and General —— has almost recovered from the bursting of his boiler.
“Bridges with the arches inverted are not so universal as they would be, as tunnels seem to meet with greater encouragement. That from Dover to Calais is not expected to be complete for some time.
“The greatest improvement in politics seems to be the system of legislating entirely through the medium of newspapers. Oratory has certainly declined in consequence of this alteration; but then printing has greatly improved, and the steam compositors and editors may be reckoned the perfection of human ingenuity.
“Dancing on all fours is now the only fashionable style. The missionaries’ ladies who introduced it still surpass native artists; but some of our belles go near to rival them, not only in the camel, buffalo, and beaver steps, but even in the tiger spring, squirrel frisk, and ape gambol. What will not British talent accomplish!
“Examinations for public employments of every kind, as
| 250 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
“In consequence of the universal use of iron paving, the city of Edinburgh has been ruined; and the port of Leith, which was wont to carry on so brisk a trade in the staple commodity furnished by Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat paving stones, is now a desert.
“The Grand Seignior, the Emperor of Pernambuco, and
* * * * *
oh! * *
May I add, from many more in my earliest numbers of the “Literary Gazette,” these brief morceaux:—
|
ΔΗΜΗΤΡΙΌΥ
ΚΩΝΣΤΑΝΤΊΝΟΥ,
Είς τά έν τω
Μουσειω
Βρεταννίκω
συντηρούμενα
άγάλματα,
Έπίγραμμα.
Έλλάς έμή,
πολεμοισι
καταϕθιμένη
πτολίπορθοις,
Χαιρε, καί έν
ϕέρετρω τοισι
τέκεσσι ϕίλη.
Σωμα τεόν
θνμτόν πόλεμοι
έδύναντʹ
άπόλεσσαι
Άθανάτον
ψυχήν ούκ όλέσαι
δυνατόν.
Ζήσεται
άθανάτοισιν άεί
έπέεσσιν
Όμηροςʹ
Φείδιου
εμψυχοις πνευμ
ετʹ ενεστι
λίθοις.
Έν Λονδίνω τη
κέ Ίουλίου.
|
|
Hail, Greece! my loved, my native land,
The ruthless desolate thy strand:
In death, dear to thy filial band!
Thy mortal part the foe might spoil:
The immortal mocked his barbarous toil!
And till of human kind is none,
In deathless verse shall Homer
live;
And Phidias’ spirit shall
survive
In every breathing stone.—W. J.
|
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 251 |
|
O’er Wechabites the Pacha’s fame
A wondrous trophy rears:—
Tongues other conquerors proclaim;
His deeds are told by Ears!
|
|
A paradox is his campaign:
No town does he attack,
Yet his foes’ capitals are
ta’en,
And all given up to sack!—Teutha.
|
The Moslem Bridal Song, Czerni George, Rosolia, the Death Song, on a Portrait of the Queen of Prussia, on Stewardson’s beautiful Painting of an Indian Girl charming a Serpent, on Nelson’s pillar at Yarmouth, on Portraits by J. P. Davis and Macquerier, and other poems, by Dr. Croly, first appeared in the Gazette within the few months over which I have run, besides others hitherto unpublished, from which it is my purpose to select a few examples. At the same time Barry Cornwall first imped his wing in my grateful pages, and long continued a most welcome guest. In publishing their collected works, neither of my old friends have stated these circumstances, which I thought, though I care about it no longer, rather unkind to the cradle in which they were nursed. It is therefore the more my duty, as the rocker thereof, to restore some of their early utterances in the bygone and almost forgotten times.
The following are by Croly in 1817:—
|
The wind blows chill across those gloomy waves—
Oh! how unlike the green and dancing main!
The surge is foul, as if it rolled o’er graves;—
Stranger! here lie the Cities of the
Plain!
|
| 252 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
|
Yes; on that waste, by wild waves covered now,
Rose palace proud, and sparkling pinnacle:
On pomp and festival beam’d morning’s glow;
On pomp and festival the twilight fell.
|
|
Lovely, and splendid all;—but Sodom’s soul
Was stained with blood, and pride, and perjury;
Long warned, long spared, till her whole heart was foul,
And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh.
|
|
And still she mocked, and danced, and taunting spoke
Her sportive blasphemies against the Throne:—
It came!—the thunder on her slumber broke,
God spake the word of wrath—her dream was done!
|
|
Yet, in her final night, amid her stood
Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven
Pleaded with man, but she was quite embrued;
Her last hour waned, she scorned to be forgiven!
|
|
’Twas done!—down poured at once the sulphurous shower;
Down stooped in flame the heaven’s red canopy;
Oh, for the arm of God in that fierce hour!
’Twas vain; nor help of God or man was nigh.
|
|
They rush, they bound, they howl! the men of sin!
Still stooped the cloud, still burst the thicker blaze:
The earthquake heaved! then sank the hideous din—
Yon wave of darkness o’er their ashes strays.
|
|
Paris! thy soul is deeper dyed with blood,
And long and blasphemous has been thy day;
And, Paris, it were well for thee, that flood
Or fire could cleanse thy damning stains away.
|
|
The sun went down in beauty—Not a cloud
Darkened its radiance,—yet there might be seen
A few fantastic vapours scatter’d o’er
The face of the blue heavens;—some fair and slight
As the pure lawn that shields the maiden’s bosom;
Some shone like silver—some did stream afar
(Faint and dispersed) like the pale horse’s mane
Which Death shall stride hereafter, some were glittering
Like dolphin’s scales,—touched out with wavering hues
Of beautiful light—outvying some the rose,
And some the violet, yellow, and white, and blue,
Scarlet, and purpling red.
|
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 253 |
|
One small, lone ship
Was seen, with outstretch’d sails, keeping its way
In quiet o’er the deep,—all nature seem’d
Fond of tranquillity,—the glassy sea
Scarce rippled—the halcyon slept upon the wave,
The winds were all at rest,—and in the east
The crescent moon (then seen imperfectly)
Came onwards with the Vesper star, to see
A summer day’s decline.
|
|
The sun went down in “beauty,—but the eye
Of ancient seamen trembled, when they saw
A small, black, ominous spot, far in the distance:—
It spread and spread—larger and dark—and came
O’ershadowing the skies—the ocean rose—
The gathering waves grew large—and broke in hoarse
And hollow sounds—the mighty winds awoke,
And scream’d and whistled thro’ the cordage;—birds
That seem’d to have no home, flock’d there in terror,
And sat with quivering plumage on the mast—
Flashes were seen,—and distant sounds were heard,
Presages of a storm.
|
|
The sun went down in beauty,—but the skies
Were wildly changed.—It was a dreadful night—
No moon was seen in all the heavens, to aid
Or cheer the lone and sea-beat mariner—
Planet nor guiding star broke through the darkness;—
But the blue lightnings glared along the waters,
As if the Fiend had fired his torch to light
Some wretches to their graves,—the tempest-winds
Raving came next, and in deep hollow sounds,
(Like those the spirits of the dead do use
“When they would speak their evil prophecies),
Mutter’d of death to come,—then came the thunder
Deepening and crashing, as ’twould rend the world;
Or as the Deity pass’d aloft in anger,
And spoke to man—Despair.
|
|
The ship was toss’d
And now stood pois’d upon the curling billows,
And now ’midst deep and wat’ry chasms (that yawn’d,
As ’twere in hunger) sank;—behind there came
Mountains of moving water,—with a rush
And sound of gathering power, that did appal
The heart to look on,—terrible cries were heard,
Sounds of despair some,—some like a mother’s anguish,—
|
| 254 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
|
Some of intemperate, dark, and dissolute joy—
Music, and horrid mirth (but unallied
To joy)—madness might be heard amidst
The pauses of the storm;—and when the glare
Was strong, rude, savage men were seen to dance
In frantic exultation on the deck—
Though all was hopeless.—Hark—the ship has struck,
And the forked lightning seeks the arsenal—
’Tis fired!—and mirth and madness are no more.
’Midst column’d smoke, deep-red the fragments fly,
In fierce confusion—splinters, and scorched limbs,
And burning masts, and showers of gold, (torn from
The heart that hugg’d it ev’n till death.)—Thus doth
Sicilian Etna in her angry mood,
Or Hecla ’midst her wilderness of snows,
Shoot up their burning entrails, with a sound
Louder than that the Titans utter’d from
Their subterranean caves, when Jove enchain’d
Them daring and rebellious.—The black skies,
Shock’d at excess of light, return’d the sound
In frightful echoes—as if an alarm
Had spread through all the elements,—then came
A horrid silence—deep—unnatural,—like
The quiet of the grave.
|
Barry Cornwall, I believe, made his débût in print, or very nearly so, at the same time in the
“Literary Gazette;” and his
genius was so vivid, that I think I can put my finger on some twenty of his pleasing
contributions in the year 1818. The first I observe are lines on “Uriel,” a beautiful picture painted by Allston, and the next, “The Comet,” both, as far as I know, otherwise
unpublished. “The Marriage of Peleus
and Thetis” was a yet more expansive flight, and more clearly evinced the
characteristic classical traits of the writer, so finely developed in many a succeeding
composition. “Magic,” a
dialogue between Angeline and Prospero, indicated in an equally decisive manner the writer’s
dramatic turn; and a jeu
d’ esprit on the celebrated dancer Fanny Bias, displayed versatility and playfulness, whilst a few lines of
satire on a coarse Political exhibited great force of powerful language. I was much
delighted
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 255 |
|
Sweet lady! by that deep blue eye,
Behind whose fringed canopy
Love himself doth lie—
And from that throne of living light
Flings his dangerous arrows bright—
By that red and swelling lip
(With what a tremulous charm it glows!)
Whose spiced dews I long to sip,
Fresh and sweet as the bursting rose,
Or the half hidden violet,
When the morning sun revisits it—
By that form, and by that face,
Where loveliness is mixed with grace,
And every beauty hath in turn its place—
Whose angel look (void of all sin)
Speaks of the angel mind within—
I swear I love thee truly. I
Have sworn—Now what is my destiny?
|
A longer piece of perhaps a superior cast appeared in the same number, entitled “Portraits,” and in a few weeks a fine production for “St. Cecilia’s Day,” in which, after alluding to the genius of our most celebrated bards, he says, with feeling and taste—
|
Oh! ye the master spirits of my time,
Forgive, forgive that I have dared to talk
Of ye, and in your temple walk,
And trifle with your names or themes sublime!
I am a wanderer on the sacred hill,
And round the humbler slopes at times do stray,
And listen to—though far away—
The music of your own Castalian rill.
|
“The Dynasty of
Dandies,” a humourous jeu d’ esprit in prose,
intervened between the next fits of poetry, viz., “A Haunted Stream,” and the following, which I consider to be
| 256 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
|
Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her breath hath lost its faint perfume,
And the gloss hath dropped from her golden hair,
And her forehead is pale, though no longer fair.
|
|
And the Spirit that sate on her soft blue eye
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that play’d on her lip hath fled,
And every grace hath now left the dead.
|
|
Like slaves, they obey’d her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die
Shrank from the tone of her last sad sigh.
And this is Man’s fidelity!
|
|
’Tis Woman alone, with a firmer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and soothe, and bless
Man in his utter wretchedness.
|
I am sorely tempted to extend these poetical revivals; but the fact I have been obliged to confess, of the dull, utilitarian nature of the “ignorant present,” withholds me from dealing as much as I could wish in the poetical illustrations of my early Gazettes, even before the wonderful genius of L. E. L. arose to adorn it. In truth, I must claim a small share of Appendix for those in whom I hope the love of poetry is not yet extinct—the young, the sensitive, the imaginative, the natural, the refined, the tasteful, the innocent, and the good. For all these must love poetry in spite of the overpowering mass of mere worldly grubs.*
In November this year, Mr. Mudford, already mentioned as the author of several important works, and for a number of years the able editor of the “Courier,” after Stuart and
* Appendix. |
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 257 |
About this period a slight acquaintance with Sir
John Leicester, afterwards the first Lord De Tabley,
grew into a greater degree of intimacy; and thence matured into one of the most gratifying
sources of pleasure and friendship which gave happiness to many days of my chequered life.
The
| 258 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
Lord de Tabley was the surest shot I ever saw in the
field. His piece was rarely raised but to kill; and twenty snipes in succession have fallen
in proof of his accuracy of aim. And with the pistol he was still more wonderful. The head
of a swallow peeping over a cornice of the old tower was a sufficient object for a bullet
about the size of a pea. A wagtail hopping and clipping on the lawn was a
| LORD DE TABLEY. | 259 |
In the course of my narrative I shall remember other traits of my
excellent friend; but for the present must be content with relating two incidental
anecdotes. I was on a visit to Tabley House, when the letter was received from the
Prince Regent intimating his royal pleasure to raise
Sir John to the peerage, and requesting him to
choose the title. This was a voluntary act of the Sovereign, and altogether unsought and
unexpected by Sir John; who had, however, as I gathered, done good
service to his Royal Highness when labouring under pecuniary embarrassment. We held a
convocation on the grand question of title, for Sir John had so many
genealogical quarterings in his arms as to render the selection a matter of difficulty. I
was strenuous for “De Warrenne,” or
“Warren,” to which the claim stood on high heraldic
basis; but Sir John said he would be contented with the date of
Edward III., instead
| 260 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
My other anecdote is not of so agreeable a kind. On one occasion, Turner, our prince of landscape painters, of whom Lord de Tabley had been a most liberal patron, spent a day or two at Tabley when I was there. In the drawing-room stood a landscape on an easel, on which his lordship was at work as the fancy mood struck him. Of course, when assembled for the tedious half hour before dinner, we all gave our opinions on its progress, its beauties, and its defects. I stuck a blue wafer on to show where I thought a bit of bright colour or a light would be advantageous; and Turner took the brush and gave a touch here and there to mark some improvements. He returned to town, and, can it be credited! the next morning at breakfast a letter from him was delivered to his lordship, containing a regular bill of charges for “Instructions in painting.” His Lordship tossed it across the table indignantly to me, and asked if I could have imagined such a thing; and as indignantly, against my remonstrances, immediately sent a cheque for the sum demanded by the “Drawing Master!”
This was a deplorable instance of Turner’s eccentricity, and not to be excused on any imaginable ground. Yet sometimes he was lavish in the midst of his general penuriousness.
* From his Lordship’s distinguished patronage of painting, some wag said it was appropriate De Tableaux, at which left-handed compliment we had a good laugh. |
| POETS; POETRY—AUTHORS; ARTISTS—A PATRON. | 261 |
I would fain offer this fact as a sort of balance to the human infirmity of the Drawing Master account: Turner was a singular compound.
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