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 WORDSWORTH COLLECTION 
 
 MADE BY 
 
 CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN 
 ITHACA. N. Y. 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 VICTOR EMANUEL 
 
 CLASS OF 1919 
 1925 
 
AT) 
 
 V. Z 
 
 •V 
 
 y 
 
O' 
 
 EECOLLECTIONS^^/^ /^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ■^ 
 
 OF 
 
 "//.Af. 
 
 A LITERARY LIFE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 BOOKS, PLACES, AND PEOPLE. 
 
 BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 n -17 " << 
 
 OUR VILLAGE,' "BELFORD REGIS," &C. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 VOL. IL 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1852. 
 
P\ G?o5 l(=S 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13; Poland Street. 
 
 h 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 or 
 
 THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 I. 
 
 Page 
 
 SPANISH BALLADS ..... 1 
 
 II. 
 
 FEMALE POETS. 
 
 MISS BLAMIRE MRS. JAMES GRAY . . .20 
 
 III. 
 
 AMERICAN ORATORS. 
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER . . . . .41 
 
 IV. 
 
 OLD AUTHORS. 
 
 BF,N JONSONT . . . • . .63 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 V. 
 
 FASHIONABLE POETS. 
 
 Page 
 
 WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER . . . .74 
 
 VI. 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DRAMATIC AUTHORS. 
 
 COLLEY CIBBER RICHARD CUMBERLAND . . .95 
 
 VII. 
 
 FEMALE POETS. 
 
 MRS. CLIVE — MRS. ACTON TINDAL MISS DAY — MRS. 
 
 ROBERT BERING . . . . .119 
 
 VIII. 
 
 CAVALIER POETS. 
 
 RICHARD LOVELACE ROGER l'eSTRANGE — THE MARQUIS 
 
 OF MONTROSE ..... 138 
 
 IX. 
 
 POETRY THAT POETS LOVE. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR LEIGH HUNT — PERCY BYSSHE 
 
 SHELLEY JOHN KEATS . . . 165 
 
 X. 
 
 AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY ..... 193 
 
 XI. 
 
 AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER FITZ-GREENE HALLECK . 214 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 XII. 
 
 VOLUMINOUS AUTHORS. 
 
 Page 
 
 margrave's state trials .... 230 
 
 XIII. 
 
 FISHING SONGS. 
 
 MR. DOUBLEDAY MISS CORBETT .... 264 
 
 XIV. 
 
 AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. 
 
 JOHN KENYON ...... 280 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. - 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924104002534 
 
RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OP 
 
 A LITERARY LIFE 
 
 I. 
 
 SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 Every one of any imagmation_, every one at all 
 addicted to that grand art of dreaming with the eyes 
 open, and building what are called castles in the air, 
 has, I suppose, his own peculiar realm of dream- 
 land, his own chosen country, his own favourite 
 period; and from my earliest hour of fanciful 
 idleness, down to this present moment, Spain, as 
 it existed when the Moors ruled over the fairest 
 part of that fair country, has been mine. It is 
 probable that I am not singular in my choice. Our 
 vivacious neighbours, the Gauls, when they call their 
 
 VOL. II. B 
 
2 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 air-castles chateaux en Espagne, give some token 
 of their preference for that romantic locality, and 
 the finest creations of Italian poetry, although to- 
 lerably anomalous as to place and time, may yet 
 as a whole be referred to the same period and 
 the same country. 
 
 My fancy for the Moors, however, long pre- 
 ceded my acquaintance with Ariosto. What gave 
 rise to it I cannot tell. Who can analyze or put 
 a date to anything so impalpable ! as well try 
 to grasp a rainbow. Perhaps it arose from the 
 melodious stanzas of " Almanzor and Zayda,^^ the fa- 
 vourite of my childhood ; perhaps from the ballads 
 in '^'^Don Quixote,^^ or from Don Quixote himself, 
 the darling of my youth ; perhaps from an old 
 folio translation of Mariana's history, a book which 
 I devoured at fifteen as girls of fifteen read ro- 
 mances, finding the truth, if truth it were, fully 
 as amusing as fiction ; perhaps from the countless 
 English comedies founded on Spanish subjects ; 
 perhaps from Corneille^s Cid; perhaps from Le 
 Sage^s Gil Bias; perhaps from Mozart^s Don 
 Juan ! Who can tell from what plant came the 
 seed, or what wind wafted it ? Certain it is that 
 at eighteen the fancy was full blown, and that 
 ever since it has been fed by countless hands, and 
 nurtured by innumerable streams. Lord Holland^s 
 charming book on Lope de Vega, Murphy^ s mag- 
 nificent work on Granada, Mr. Prescott^s Spanish 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 3 
 
 Histories, Washington Irving's graphic Chronicles, 
 a host of French and English travellers in Spain, 
 a host of Spanish travellers in South America, 
 the popular works of Ford and Borrow, of Dumas 
 and Scribe, Southey^s poetry, Sir Walter's prose — 
 all conspired to keep alive the fancy. 
 
 But beyond a doubt, the works that have most 
 fed the flame, have been Mr. Lockhart^s spirited 
 volume of Spanish ballads, to which the art of the 
 modern translator has given the charm of the vi- 
 gorous old poets ; and Mr. Ticknor's " History of 
 Spanish Literature,^^ that rarest of all works in 
 these days, when literature, like everything else, 
 goes at railway speed, a conscientious book, which 
 being the labour of a lifetime, will remain a 
 standard authority for many generations. 
 
 In one of his recently published letters, Southey, 
 himself a powerful though somewhat fantastic ballad 
 writer, denies all merit to the Spanish ballads, 
 accusing them of sameness, of want of action and 
 of want of interest. To this there needs but Mr. 
 Lockharfs book to reply; even if the transmittal 
 of so long a series of poems floating upon the 
 memories, and living in the hearts of a whole people 
 were not answer enough : even if the very materials 
 and accessories of these ballads, the felicity of 
 climate, the mixture of race ; of Moor and Christian ; 
 of veiled beauty and armed knight ; of fountained 
 garden and pillared court; of gigantic cathedral 
 
 B 2 
 
4 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 and fantastic mosque ; of mountains crowned with 
 chestnut and cork-tree, and clothed with cistus 
 and lavender; of streams winding through tufted 
 oleanders, amid vineyards, orange-groves, and olive- 
 grounds ; of the rich halls of the Alhambra ; of 
 the lordly towers of Seville ; of shrine and abbey ; 
 of pilgrim and procession; of bull-fight and tour- 
 nament ; of love and of battle ; of princely paladins 
 and learned caliphs, and still more learned Jews ! 
 Why this is the very stuff of which poetry is 
 made, and strange indeed it would have been, 
 if born amongst such beauty, and happy in a 
 language at once stately, flowing and harmonious, 
 the great old minstrels, who, like their compeers 
 of the Middle Ages, the equally great old archi- 
 tects, have bequeathed to us their works and not 
 their names, had failed to find it. 
 
 The first specimen that I shall select is the ballad 
 which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, Avhen at 
 Toboso, overheard a peasant singing as he was going 
 to his work at day -break. 
 
 THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS. 
 
 The day of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for you, 
 
 Ye men of France, for there the lance of King Charles was 
 
 broke in two. 
 Ye well may curse that rueful field, for many a noble peer 
 In fray or fight the dust did bite beneath Bernardo's spear. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. O 
 
 Then captured was Guariiios, King Charles's Admiral, 
 Seven Moorish kings surrounded hiin, and seized him for their 
 
 thrall ; 
 Seven times when all the chase was o'er, for Guarinos lots 
 
 they cast ; 
 Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the knight was his 
 
 at last. 
 
 Much joy had then Marlotes, and his captive much did 
 
 prize. 
 Above all the wealth of Araby, he was precious in his eyes. 
 Within his tent at evening he made the best of cheer. 
 And thus, the banquet done, he spake unto his prisoner. 
 
 " Now, for the sake of Allah, Lord Admiral Guarinos, 
 
 Be thou a Moslem, and much love shall ever rest between us. 
 
 Two daughters have I ; — aU the day shall one thy handmaid 
 
 be— 
 The other (and the fairest far) by night shall cherish thee. 
 
 " The one shall be thy waiting-maid, thy weary feet to lave, 
 To scatter perfumes on thy head, and fetch thee garments 
 
 brave : 
 The other — she the pretty one — shall deck her bridal bower. 
 And my field and my city they both shall be her dower. 
 
 " If more thou wishest, more I'll give. Speak boldly what 
 
 thy thought is." 
 Thus earnestly and kindly to Guarinos said Marlotes : 
 But not a minute did he take to ponder or to pause, 
 Thus clear and quick the answer of the Christian Captain was. 
 
 " Now, God forbid ! Marlotes, and Mary his dear mother. 
 That I should leave the faith of Christ and bind me to 
 another. 
 
6 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 For women — I've one wife in Erance, and Til wed no more in 
 
 Spain, 
 I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain." 
 
 Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say. 
 And all for ire commanded, he should be led away ; 
 Away unto the dungeon-keep, beneath its vaults to lie. 
 With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and 
 sky. 
 
 With iron bands they bound his hands ; that sore unworthy 
 
 plight 
 Might well express his helplessness, doomed never more to 
 
 fight. 
 Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he 
 
 bore, 
 Which signified the knight should ride on charger never 
 
 more. 
 
 Three times alone in all the year it is the captive's doom 
 To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeon- 
 gloom ; 
 Three times alone they bring him out, like Samson long ago. 
 Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport and show. 
 
 On these high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be — 
 The Feast of Pasque and the great day of the Nativity ; 
 And on that morn, more solemn yet, when the maidens strip 
 
 the bowers. 
 And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits of the 
 
 flowers. 
 
 Days come and go of gloom and show. Seven years are past 
 
 and gone. 
 And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist John ; 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 7 
 
 Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it honoui- due, 
 And rushes on the paths to spread, they force the sulky Jew. 
 
 Marlotes in his joy and pride a target high doth rear, 
 
 Below the Moorish knights must ride and pierce it with the 
 
 spear ; 
 But 'tis so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain, 
 No Moorish lance may fly so far, Marlotes' prize to gain. 
 
 Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail, 
 The whisker trembled on his lip, and his cheek for ire was 
 
 pale. 
 Tlie heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the 
 
 town, 
 "Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till the mark be 
 
 tumbled down !" 
 
 The cry of proclamation and the trumpet's haughty sound 
 Did send an echo to the vault where the Admiral was bound. 
 " Now help me, God !" the captive cries. " What means 
 
 this cry so loud ? 
 O, Queen of Heaven ! be vengeance given on these thy haters 
 
 proud I 
 
 " Oh ! is it that some Paynim gay doth Marlotes' daughter 
 
 wed, 
 And that they bear my scorned fair in triumph to his bed ? 
 Or is it that the day is come — one of the hateful three — 
 When they, with trumpet, fife, and drum, make heathen game 
 
 of me ?" 
 
 These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he 
 
 said : 
 " These tabours, lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride 
 
 to bed ; 
 
8 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Nor has the feast come round again, when he that hath the 
 
 right 
 Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad the people's 
 
 sight. 
 
 " This is the joyful morning of John the Baptist's day. 
 When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each in his nation's 
 
 way; 
 But now our King commands that none his banquet shall 
 
 begin, 
 Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the spearman's 
 
 prize do win.'* 
 
 Then out and spoke Guarinos : " Oh ! soon each man should 
 
 feed. 
 Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed. 
 Oh, were I mounted as of old, and harnessed cap-a-pie, 
 "Full soon Marlotes' prize I'd hold whate'er its price may be. 
 
 " Give me my horse, my old grey horse, so be he is not dead, 
 All gallantly caparisoned with plate on breast and head ; 
 And give me the lance I brought from Pi-ance, and if I win it 
 
 not 
 My life shall be the forfeiture, I'll yield it on the spot." 
 
 The jailer wondered at his words. Thus to the knight said 
 
 he: 
 " Seven weary years of chains and gloom have httle humbled 
 
 thee. 
 There's never a man in Spain, I trow, the like so weU might 
 
 bear. 
 An' if thou wilt I with thy vow will to the King repair." 
 
 The jailer put his mantle on and came unto the King, 
 He found him sitting on the throne within his listed ring ; 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 9 
 
 Close to his ear lie planted him, and the story did begin, 
 How bold Guarinos vaunted him the spearman's prize to win. 
 
 That were he mounted but once more on his own gallant 
 
 grey, 
 And armed with the lance he bore on the Roncesvalles' day. 
 What never Moorish knight could pierce, he would pierce it 
 
 at a blow. 
 Or give with joy his life-blood fierce at Marlotes' feet to flow. 
 
 Much marvelling, then said the King : " Bring Su* Guarinos 
 
 forth, 
 And in the grange go seek ye for his grey steed of worth ; 
 His arms are rusty on the wall; seven years have gone, I judge. 
 Since that strong horse hath bent him to be a common 
 
 di'udge. 
 
 " Now this will be a sight indeed to see the enfeebled lord 
 Essay to mount that ragged steed, and draw that rusty 
 
 sword ; 
 And for the vaunting of his phrase he well deserves to die : 
 So, jailer, gird his harness on, and bring your champion nigh." 
 
 They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've 
 
 clasped, 
 And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand 
 
 the lance hath grasped ; 
 And they have caught the old grey horse, the horse he loved 
 
 of yore. 
 And he stands pawing at the gate, caparisoned once more. 
 
 When the knight came out the Moors did shout, and loudly 
 
 laughed the King, 
 Eor the horse he pranced and capered and furiously did fling ; 
 
 B 3 
 
10 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked into his face, 
 Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with calm and gentle 
 grace. 
 
 Oh ! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree. 
 And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes' knee ; 
 Again the heathen laughed aloud. " All hail, Sir Knight !" 
 
 quoth he, 
 " Now do thy best, thou champion proud ; thy blood I look 
 
 to see." 
 
 With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode. 
 Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban 
 
 trode. 
 Now ride, now ride, Guarinos ! nor lance nor rowel spare, 
 Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life ! The land of France Hes there! 
 
 The " old grey steed ^^ plays no mean part in 
 the foregoing story ; and of the many ballads that 
 celebrate the glories of the Cid, I hardly know 
 one more pleasing than that which describes the 
 mingled spirit and gentleness of his favourite 
 horse. 
 
 BAVIECA. 
 
 Tlie King looked on liim kindly, as on a vassal true ; 
 Then to the King Ruy Dias spake, after reverence due : 
 " King, the thing is shameful, that any man beside 
 The liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride ; 
 
 " For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring 
 So good as he, and certes the best befits my King. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 11 
 
 But that you may behold hiin, and know him to the core, 
 I'll make him go as he was wont, when his nostrils smelt 
 the Moor." 
 
 With that the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide, 
 On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side ; 
 And up and down, and round and round so fierce was his career, 
 Streamed like a pennon on the wind. Buy Dias' minivere. 
 
 And all that saw them praised them ; they lauded man and 
 
 horse. 
 As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force j 
 Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight 
 
 come near. 
 Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier. 
 
 Thus to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed 
 He snapt in twain his hither rein : — " God pity now the Cid ! 
 God pity Dias !" said the lords ; but when they looked again. 
 They saw Buy Dias ruling him with the fragment of his rein 
 They saw him firmly ruling, with gesture firm and calm. 
 Like a true lord commanding — and obeyed as by a lamb. 
 
 And so he led him prancing and panting to the King ; 
 
 But "No!" said Don Alphonso, " it were a shameful thing 
 
 That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid 
 
 By any mortal but Bivar : — Mount, mount again, my Cid !" 
 
 In these two ballads there is little mention of 
 the ladies. But two of the most charming of the 
 Moorish series are devoted to Spain exclusively. 
 "The following/' says Mr. Lockhart, '''has been 
 often imitated in Spain and in Germany.'' Its ele- 
 gance could scarcely be increased in any language. 
 
12 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 THE BEIDAL OF ANDALLA. 
 
 " Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. 
 From gay guitar and vioHn the silver notes are flowing, 
 And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly 
 
 blowing ; 
 And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, 
 And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats 
 
 proudly in the air. 
 Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. 
 
 " Arise, arise, Xarifa; I see AndaUa's face ; 
 He bends him to the people, with a calm and princely grace ; 
 Through all the land of Xeres, and banks of Guadalquiver, 
 Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely, 
 
 never. 
 Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of azui-e mixed ^vith 
 
 white, 
 I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. 
 Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with aU the town. 
 
 " What aileth thee, Xarifa ? what makes thine eyes look 
 
 down ? 
 Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the 
 
 town ? 
 I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the 
 
 truth, 
 Andalla rides without a peer among aU Granada's youth ; 
 Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go 
 Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 13 
 
 Then rise, oh rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; 
 Unseen here, through the lattice, you may gaze with all the 
 town." 
 
 The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down ; 
 Nor came she to the window, to gaze with all the town ; 
 But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers 
 
 strove. 
 And though her needle prest the silk, no flower Xarifa wove. 
 One bonny rose-bud she had traced before the noise drew 
 
 nigh ; 
 That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye. 
 " No, no," she sighs, " bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion 
 
 down. 
 To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town." 
 
 " Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down ? 
 
 Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town ? 
 
 Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells ! and how the people 
 
 cry! 
 He stops at Zara's palace-gate. Why sit ye still ? Oh, why ?" 
 — " At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ; in him shall I discover 
 The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was 
 
 my lover ? 
 I will not rise with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down. 
 To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town." 
 
 The next, still of a Moorish maiden, is even 
 more charming. 
 
14 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 zaea's ear-uings. 
 
 " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropt into the well. 
 
 And what to say to Muga, I cannot, cannot tell." 
 
 'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' 
 
 daughter. 
 " The well is deep ; far down they lie, beneath the cold blue 
 
 water. 
 To me did Mu^a give them, when he spake his sad farewell ; 
 And what to say, when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell. 
 
 " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls in silver set, 
 That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget ; 
 That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's 
 
 tale. 
 But remember he my lips had kissed, pui'e as those ear-rings 
 
 pale. 
 When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in 
 
 the weU, 
 Oh ! what wiU Muga think of me, I cannot, cannot tell ! 
 
 " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! he'U say they should have been 
 Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, 
 Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond sliiuing clear, 
 Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; 
 That changeful mind unchangeful gems are not befitting well 
 Thus will he think : — and what to say, alas ! I cannot teU ! 
 
 " He'U think, when I to market went, I loitered by the way ; 
 He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say ; 
 He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed 
 From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl 
 unloosed. 
 
A LITERAUY LIFE. 15 
 
 He'll thmk, when I was sporting so beside tMs marble well, 
 My pearls fell in : — and what to say, alas ! I cannot teU. 
 
 " He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same ; 
 He'll say I loved, when he was here, to whisper of his flame ; 
 But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, 
 And thought no more of Muga, and cared not for his token. 
 My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! Oh ! luckless, luckless weU ! 
 Eor what to say to Mu9a, alas ! I cannot tell ! 
 
 " I'll teU the truth to Muga, and I hope he will believe 
 That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve ; 
 That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone. 
 His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain aU alone ; 
 And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they 
 
 fell. 
 And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the 
 
 weU !" 
 
 These ballads are all from Mr. Lockhart^s de- 
 lightful book. I add one or two extracts from 
 the probably more literal version of Mr. Ticknor. 
 The first is the " Lament of the Count de Saldana/^ 
 whO; in his solitary prison, complains of his son, 
 who he supposes must know his descent, and of his 
 wife, the Infanta, whom he presumes to be in league 
 with her royal brother. After a description of the 
 castle in which he is confined, the Count says : 
 
 The tale of my imprisoned life 
 
 Within these loathsome walls, 
 Each moment as it lingers by, 
 
 My hoary hair recalls -, 
 
16 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 For when tliis castle first I saw. 
 
 My beard was scarcely grown, 
 And now, to purge my youtkful sins, 
 
 Its folds hang whitening down. 
 Then where art thou, my careless son ? 
 
 And why so dull and cold ? 
 Doth not my blood within thee run ? 
 
 Speaks it not loud and bold ? 
 Alas ! it may be so, but still 
 
 Thy mother's blood is thine ; 
 And what is kindred to the King 
 
 Will plead no cause of mine : 
 And thus all three against me stand ; — 
 
 Eor, the whole men to quell, 
 'Tis not enough to have our foes, 
 
 Our heart's blood must rebel. 
 Meanwhile, the guards that watch me here. 
 
 Of thy proud conquests boast ; 
 But if for me thou lead'st it not. 
 
 For whom then fights thy host ? 
 And since thou leav'st me prisoned here. 
 
 In cruel chains to groan, 
 Or I must be a guilty sire, 
 
 Or thou a guilty son ! 
 Yet pardon me, if I offend 
 
 By uttering words so free. 
 For, w^hile oppressed with age I moan, 
 
 No words come back from thee. 
 
 Some of these old songs are sufficiently shrewd 
 and humorous; witness the following, '^^in which 
 an elder sister is represented lecturing a younger one 
 on first noticing in her the symptoms of love :'' • 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 17 
 
 Her sister Miguela 
 
 Once chid little Jane, 
 And the words that she spake 
 
 Gave a great deal of pain. 
 
 " You went yesterday playing, 
 
 A child Hke the rest ; 
 And now you come out. 
 
 More than other girls drest. 
 
 " You take pleasure in sighs, 
 
 In sad music delight ; 
 With the dawning you rise. 
 
 Yet sit up half the night. 
 
 " When you take up your work, 
 
 You look vacant, and stare ; 
 And gaze on your sampler. 
 
 Yet miss the stitch there. 
 
 " You're in love, people say. 
 
 And your actions all show it ; 
 New ways we shall have. 
 
 When our mother shall know it. 
 
 " She'll nail up the windows. 
 
 And lock up the door ; 
 Leave to frolic and dance 
 
 She will give us no more. 
 
 " Our old aunt will be sent for, 
 
 To take us to mass ; 
 And to stop all our talk 
 
 With the gii'ls as we pass. 
 
18 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 " And wlien we walk out, 
 She will bid that old shrew 
 
 Keep a faithful account 
 Of whate'er our eyes do ; 
 
 " And mark who goes by, 
 If I peep through the blind ; 
 
 And be sure to detect us 
 In looking behind. 
 
 " Thus, for your idle foUies, 
 
 Must I suffer too ; 
 And though nothing I've done, 
 
 Must be punished like you." 
 
 " Oh ! sister Miguela, 
 Your chiding pray spare ! 
 
 That I've troubles you guess. 
 But know not what they are. 
 
 " Young Pedro it is, 
 
 Old Don Ivor's fair youth ; — 
 But he's gone to the wars, 
 
 And, oh ! where is his truth ? 
 
 " I love him sincerely. 
 Loved aU that he said ; 
 
 But I fear he is fickle, 
 I fear he has fled. 
 
 " He is gone of free choice. 
 Without smnmons or call; 
 
 And 'tis foohsh to love him, 
 Or like him at all." 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 19 
 
 " Nay, pray morn and night 
 
 To the Virgin above. 
 Lest this Pedro return, 
 
 And again you should love," 
 
 (Said Miguela in jest. 
 
 As she answered poor Jane ;) 
 " Eor, when love has been bous-ht 
 
 At the cost of such pain, 
 
 " What hope is there, sister. 
 
 Unless the soul part. 
 That the passion so cherished 
 
 Should leave your fond heart ? 
 
 " As your years still increase. 
 
 So increase will your pains ; 
 And this you may learn 
 
 Prom the proverb's old strains : 
 
 " That if, when but a child. 
 
 Love's dominion you own, 
 None can tell what you'll do. 
 
 When you older are grown." 
 
 This dialogue is three hundred years old at the 
 very least. I do not think it would be quite 
 impossible to match it now^ with a little change 
 of names and of costume. Perhaps I may have 
 myself altered some of the lines, since I quote 
 from memory, and have not the book to refer to. 
 
 It is not the least gratifying tribute to Mr. 
 Ticknor^s valuable work that it was recommended 
 for perusal by Mr. Macaulay to the Queen of 
 England. 
 
20 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 II. 
 
 FEMALE POETS. 
 
 MISS BLAMIRE — MRS. JAMES GRAY. 
 
 The name of Blamire lias always a certain in- 
 terest for me, in consequence of a circumstance, 
 which, as it took place somewhere about five-and- 
 forty years ago, and has reference to a flirtation of 
 twenty years previous, there cannot now be much 
 harm in relating. 
 
 Being with my father and mother on a visit 
 about six miles from Southampton, we were invited 
 by a gentleman of the neighbourhood to meet the 
 wife and daughters of a certain Dr. Blamire. "An 
 old friend of yours and mine,^^ quoth our inviter 
 to my father. " Don't you remember how you used 
 to flirt with the fair lady when you and Babington 
 were at Haslar ? Faith, if Blamire had not taken 
 pity on her, it would have gone hard with the poor 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 21 
 
 damsel! However, he made up to the disconso- 
 late maiden, and she got over it. Nothing like a 
 new love for chasing away an old one. You must 
 dine with us to-morrow. I shall like to see the 
 meeting. ^^ 
 
 My father did not attempt to deny the matter. 
 Men never do. He laughed, as all that wicked 
 sex do laugh at such sins twenty years after, and 
 professed that he should be very glad to shake 
 hands with his old acquaintance. So the next 
 day we met. 
 
 I was a little curious to see how my own dear 
 mother, my mamma that was, and the stranger 
 lady, my mamma that might have been, would 
 bear themselves on the occasion. x4.t first, my 
 dear mother, an exceedingly lady-like quiet person, 
 had considerably the advantage, being prepared for 
 the rencontre and perfectly calm and composed; 
 whilst Mrs. Blamire, taken, I suspect, by surprise, 
 was a good deal startled and flustered. This state 
 of things, however, did not last. Mrs. Blamire 
 having got over the first shock, comported herself 
 like what she evidently was, a practised woman of 
 the world — would talk to no one but ourselves — 
 and seemed resolved not only to make friends with 
 her successful rival, but to strike up an intimacy. 
 This, by no means entered into my mother^s cal- 
 culations. As the one advanced the other receded, 
 and, keeping always within the limits of civility, 
 
22 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 I never heard so much easy chat put aside with 
 so many cool and stately monosyllables in my 
 life. 
 
 The most diverting part of this scene, very 
 amusing to a stander-by, v^as, that my father, the 
 only real culprit, vras the only person who through- 
 out maintained the appearance and demeanour of 
 the most unconscious innocence. He complimented 
 Mrs. Blamire on her daughters (two very fine girls), 
 — inquired after his old friend, the Doctor, who 
 was attending his patients in a distant town — and 
 laughed and talked over bygone stories with the 
 one lady, just as if he had not jilted her — and 
 played the kind and attentive husband to the other, 
 just as if he had never in all his days made love to 
 anybody except his own dear wife. 
 
 It was one of the strange domestic comedies 
 which are happening around us every day, if we 
 were but aware of them, and might probably have 
 ended in a renewal of acquaintance between the 
 two families but for a dispute that occurred towards 
 the end of the evening between Mrs. Blamire and 
 the friend in whose house we were staying, which 
 made the lady resolve against accepting his hos- 
 pitable invitations, and I half suspect hurried her 
 ofi" a day or two before her time. 
 
 This host of ours was a very celebrated person, — 
 no other than William Cobbett. Sporting, not 
 politics, had brought about our present visit and 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 23 
 
 subsequent intimacy. We had become acquainted 
 with Mr. Cobbett two or three years before, at this 
 very house, where we were now dining to meet 
 Mrs. Blamire. Then my father, a great sportsman, 
 had met him while on a coursing expedition near 
 Alton — had given him a greyhound that he had 
 fallen in love with — had invited him to attend 
 another coursing meeting near our own house in 
 Berkshire — and finally, we were now, in the early 
 autumn, with all manner of pointers, and setters, 
 and greyhounds, and spaniels, shooting ponies, and 
 gun-cases, paying the return visit to him. 
 
 He had at that time a large house at Botley, 
 with a lawn and gardens sweeping down to the 
 Bursledon River, which divided his (Mr. Cobbett^s) 
 territories from the beautiful grounds of the old 
 friend where we had been originally staying, the 
 great squire of the place. His own house — large, 
 high, massive, red, and square, and perched on 
 a considerable eminence — always struck me as 
 being not unlike its proprietor. It was filled at 
 that time almost to overflowing. Lord Cochrane 
 was there, then in the very height of his warlike 
 fame, and as unlike the common notion of a warrior 
 as could be. A gentle, quiet, mild young man, 
 was this burner of French fleets and cutter-out of 
 Spanish vessels, as one should see in a summer- 
 day. He lay about under the trees reading Selden 
 on the Dominion of the Seas, and letting the 
 
24 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 children (and children always know with whom 
 they may take liberties) play all sorts of tricks 
 with him at their pleasure. His ship^s surgeon 
 was also a visitor, and a young midshipman, and 
 sometimes an elderly lieutenant, and a Newfound- 
 land dog ; fine sailor-like creatures all. Then there 
 was a very learned clergyman, a great friend of 
 Mr. GifFord, of the "Quarterly,^' with his wife and 
 daughter — exceedingly clever persons. Two literary 
 gentlemen from London and ourselves completed 
 the actual party ; but there was a large fluctuating 
 series of guests for the hour, or guests for the day, 
 of almost all ranks and descriptions, from the 
 Earl and his Countess, to the farmer and his dame. 
 The house had room for all, and the hearts of the 
 owners would have had room for three times the 
 number. 
 
 I never saw hospitality more genuine, more simple, 
 or more thoroughly successful in the great end of 
 hospitality, the putting everybody completely at 
 ease. There was not the slightest attempt at finery, 
 or display, or gentility. They called it a farm- 
 house, and everything was in accordance with the 
 largest idea of a great English yeoman of the old 
 time. Everything was excellent — everything abun- 
 dant — all served with the greatest nicety by trim 
 waiting damsels ; and everything went on with such 
 quiet regularity, that of the large circle of guests 
 not one could find himself in the way. I need not 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 25 
 
 say a word more in praise of the good wife, very 
 lately dead, to whom this admirable order was mainly 
 due. She was a sweet motherly woman, realising 
 our notion of one of Scott^s most charming 
 characters, Ailie Dinmont, in her simplicity, her 
 kindness, and her devotion to her husband and her 
 children. 
 
 At this time William Cobbett was at the height 
 of his political reputation ; but of politics we heard 
 little, and should, I think, have heard nothing, but 
 for an occasional red-hot patriot, who would intro- 
 duce the subject, which our host would fain put 
 aside, and got rid of as speedily as possible. There 
 was something of Dandie Dinmont about him, with 
 his unfailing good-humour and good spirits — his 
 heartiness — his love of field sports — and his liking 
 for a foray. He was a tall, stout man, fair and sun- 
 burnt, with a bright smile, and an air compounded 
 of the soldier and the farmer, to which his habit of 
 wearing an eternal red waistcoat contributed not a 
 little. He was, I think, the most athletic and 
 vigorous person that I have ever known. Nothing 
 could tire him. At home in the morning he would 
 begin his active day by mowing his own lawn, 
 beating his gardener, Robinson, the best mower, 
 except himself, in the parish, at that fatiguing 
 work. 
 
 For early rising, indeed, he had an absolute 
 passion, and some of the poetry that we trace in his 
 
 VOL. II. c 
 
26 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 writings, whenever he speaks of scenery or of rural 
 objects, broke out in his method of training his 
 children into his own matutinal habits. The boy 
 wdio was first down stairs was called the Lark for 
 the da}^, and had, amongst other indulgences, the 
 pretty privilege of making his mother's nosegay and 
 that of any lady visitors. Nor was this the only 
 trace of poetical feeling that he displayed. When- 
 ever he described a place, were it only to say where 
 such a covey lay, or such a hare was found sitting, 
 you could see it, so graphic — so vivid — so true was the 
 picture. He showed the same taste in the purchase 
 of his beautiful farm at Botley, Fairthorn ; even in 
 the pretty name. To be sure, he did not give the 
 name, but I always thought that it unconsciously 
 influenced his choice in the purchase. The beauty 
 of the situation certainly did. The fields lay along 
 the Bursledon River, and might have been shown to 
 a foreigner as a specimen of the richest and loveliest 
 English scenery. In the cultivation of his garden, 
 too, he displayed the same taste. Few persons 
 excelled him in the management of vegetables, fruit, 
 and flowers. His green Indian corn — his Carolina 
 beans — his water-melons could hardly have been 
 exceeded at New York. His wall- fruit was equally 
 splendid, and much as flowers have been studied 
 since that day, I never saw a more glowing or a 
 more fragrant autumn garden than that at Botley, 
 with its pyramids of hollyhocks, and its masses of 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 27 
 
 china-asters, of cloves, of miguionette, and of varie- 
 gated g-eranium. The chances of life soon parted 
 us, as, without grave faults on either side, people 
 do lose sight of one another; but I shall always 
 look back with pleasure and regret to that visit. 
 
 While we were there, a grand display of English 
 games, especially of single-stick and wrestling, took 
 place under Mr. Cobbett's auspices. Players came 
 from all parts of the country — the south, the west, 
 and the north — to contend for fame and glory, and 
 also, I believe, for a well-filled purse ; and this 
 exhibition which — quite forgetting the precedent set 
 by a certain princess, de jure, called Kosalind, and 
 another princess, de facto, called Celia — she termed 
 barbarous, was the cause of his quarrel with my 
 mamma that might have been, Mrs. Blamire. 
 
 In my life I never saw two people in a greater 
 passion. Each was thoroughly persuaded of being 
 in the right, either would have gone to the stake 
 upon it, and of course, the longer they argued the 
 more determined became their conviction. They 
 said all manner of uncivil things : they called each 
 other very unpretty names ; she got very near to 
 saying, ^^ Sir, you^re a savage /^ he did say, " Ma^am, 
 you're a fine lady;'' they talked, both at once, 
 until they could talk no longer, and I have always 
 considered it as one of the greatest pieces of Chris- 
 tian forgiveness that I ever met with when Mr. 
 
 c 2 
 
28 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Cobbett, after they had both rather cooled down a 
 Uttle, invited Mrs. Blamire to dine at his house the 
 next day. She, less charitable, declined the invita- 
 tion, and we parted. As I have said, my father and 
 he had too much of the hearty English character in 
 common not to be great friends ; I myself was some- 
 what of a favourite (I think because of my love for 
 poetry, though he always said not), and I shall never 
 forget the earnestness with which he congratulated 
 us both on our escape from such a wife and such a 
 mother. '' She^d have been the death of you V 
 quoth he, and he believed it. Doubtless she, when 
 we were gone, spoke quite as ill of him, and believed 
 it also. Nevertheless, excellent persons were they 
 both ; — only they had quarrelled about the propriety 
 or the impropriety of a bout at single-stick ! Such 
 a thing is anger ! 
 
 Upon comparing names, and dates, and places, it 
 seems probable that the Miss Blamire, whose name 
 figures at the head of this paper, was the aunt of the 
 Dr. Blamire, of whom we have been speaking. 
 She died unmarried at Carlisle, in the year 1794, 
 being then forty-seven years of age, the daughter of 
 a respectable Cumberland gentleman, and having 
 accompanied a married sister into Scotland many 
 years before — a happy circumstance to which she 
 owes her command of the pretty doric that so be- 
 comes small pieces of poetry. Her verses remained 
 
/ ^•••■■..■ 
 
 A LITERARY LIFE. 29 
 
 uncollected till 1842, when they were pubhshed by 
 Mr. Maxwell. They are well worth preservings 
 especially the one entitled 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 Wlien silent time wi' lightly foot, 
 
 Had trod on thirty years, 
 I sought again my native land, 
 
 Wi' mony hopes and fears. 
 Wha kens gin the dear friends I left^ 
 
 May still continue mine ? 
 Or gin I e'er again shall taste 
 
 The joys I left langsyne ? 
 
 As I drew near my ancient pile, 
 
 My heart heat a' the way ; 
 Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak 
 
 0' some dear former day. 
 Those days that followed me afar. 
 
 Those happy days o' mine, 
 Whilk made me think the present joys 
 
 A' naething to langsyne. 
 
 The ivied tower now met my eye. 
 
 Where minstrels used to blaw ; 
 Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand, 
 
 Nae weel-kenned face I saw ; 
 Till Donald tottered to the door. 
 
 Wham I left in his prime, 
 And grat to see the lad return. 
 
 He bore about langsyne- 
 
30 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 I ran to ilka dear friend's room. 
 
 As if to see them there ; 
 I knew where ilk ane used to sit. 
 
 And hung o*er mony a chair ; 
 Till soft remembrance flung a veil 
 
 Across these een o' mine 
 I closed the door, and sobbed aloud. 
 
 To tliink on auld langsyne. 
 
 Some pensy chiels, a new sprung race. 
 
 Wad next their welcome pay, 
 Wha shuddered at my gotliic wa's, 
 
 And wished my groves awa. 
 " Cut, cut," they cried, " yon aged elms. 
 
 Lay low yon mournfu' pine ;" 
 " Na ! na ! our fathers' names grow there. 
 
 Memorials o' langsyne." 
 
 To wean me fra these moui'nfu' thoughts. 
 
 They took me to the town ; 
 But sair on ilka weel-kenned face, 
 
 I missed the youthfu' bloom. 
 At ba's they pointed to a nymph, 
 
 Whom a' declared divine ; 
 But sure her mother's blushing cheeks 
 
 Were fau'er far langsyne. 
 
 In vain I sought in music's sound. 
 
 To find that magic ai-t. 
 Which aft in Scotland's ancient lays 
 
 Hae thrilled through a' my heart : 
 The sang had mony an artfu' turn. 
 
 My ear confessed 'twas fine. 
 But I missed the simple melody 
 
 I listened to langsyne. 
 
/. 
 
 A LITERARY LIFE. 3| 
 
 Ye sou to comrades o' my youth, 
 
 Forgie an auid man's spleen, 
 Wha midst your gayest scenes still mourns 
 
 The day he ance has seen. 
 When time has passed, and seasons fled. 
 
 Your hearts y/ill feel like mine. 
 And aye the song will maist delight 
 
 That minds ye o' langsyne, 
 
 I add an example of a still bolder effort — an 
 attempt to make tender sentiment be felt under the 
 disguise of tlie rude dialect of Cumberland. 
 Perhaps it may be the effect of Auld Lang Syne on 
 myself^ that makes me think it eminently success- 
 ful. 
 
 AULD UOBIN rORBES. 
 
 And auld Robin Forbes has gi'en tem a dance, 
 
 I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance ; 
 
 I thought o' the days v/hen I was but fifteen, 
 
 And skepped wi' the best upon Forbes's green. 
 
 Of aw things that is, I think thout is meast queer ; 
 
 It brings that that's by past, and sets it down here ; 
 
 I see Willy as plain as I din this bit leace, 
 
 When he tuik his ewoat lappet and deeghted his feace. 
 
 The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see 
 
 In yen that was dark and hard-featured leyke me ; 
 
 And they wondered ay mair when they talked o' my wit. 
 
 And slily telt Willy that cudn't be it. 
 
 But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe, 
 
 And wha was mair happy through aw his lang leyfe 'f 
 
 It's e'en my great comfort now Willy is geane. 
 
 That he often said nae pleace was leyke his own lieame. 
 
32 KECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 I mind when I carried my wark to yon steylc;, 
 Where Willy was deyken the time to beguile. 
 He wad fliug me a daisy to put i' my breast. 
 And I hammered my noddle to make out a jest ; 
 But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell 
 There was nane o' the leave, that was leyke my ain seF -, 
 And he spak what he thout, for I'd hardly a plack, 
 When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back. 
 
 When the clock had struck eight, I expected him heame. 
 And whiles went to meet him as far as Dumleane ; 
 Of aw hours it telt, eight was dearest to me. 
 And now when it streykes, there's a tear i' my e'e. 
 Oh, Willy ! dear WOly ! it never can be, 
 That age, time, or death can divide thee and me ! 
 Eor that spot on earth that's aye dearest to me. 
 Is the turf that has covered my Willy frae me.* 
 
 Mrs. James Gray is better known in England as 
 Mary Anne Browne_, and under that name might 
 have furnished the text to another melancholy 
 chapter on Prodigies, a chapter on fine and 
 promising girls who have become martyrs to the 
 fond mistakes of parents and the careless flatteries 
 of friends, and have lost the Iiappy and healthful 
 thoughtlessness of the child in the premature cares, 
 the untimely aspirations, the fears, anxieties, and 
 disappointments of the poetess. If in my humble 
 career I can look back to any part of my own conduct 
 
 * Those who are fond of Scotch music may be glad to 
 be reminded that the simply-pathetic song, 
 
 " What ails this heart of mine ?" 
 is also by Miss Susanna Blamire. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 33 
 
 with real satisfaction, it is that I have always, when 
 a young lady has been brought to me in her cha- 
 racter of prodigy, had the courage to give present 
 pain in order to avert a future evil. I have always 
 said^ '^wait/^ certain that th€ more real was the 
 talent the greater was the danger of over-exciting 
 the youthful faculties, of over-stimulating the 
 youthful sensibility. In Miss Mary Anne Browne^s 
 case, no advice was asked. I saw her first a fine 
 tall girl of fourteen, already a full-fledged authoress, 
 unmercifully lauded by some, as if verses, especially 
 love verses, written at that age, could be anything 
 better than clever imitations ; and still more cruelly 
 depreciated by others, as if we had a right to expect 
 all the results of long study — of skilful practice — 
 of observation — and of experience from one who was 
 in everything but her quick ear and her fertile fancy 
 still a child. 
 
 Thus brought forward, praised to the skies one 
 day, utterly neglected the next — taken, as if a 
 woman, into London society, and then thrown back 
 upon a family circle in a provincial town, her health 
 and spirits suffered ; and, if she had not been in 
 heart and temper a girl of a thousand, she would 
 have become soured and miserable for life. The 
 real power was in her, however, and the depression 
 was temporary. When taken from the unhealthy 
 atmosphere of the stove, the plant recovered its 
 strength and blossomed freely in the open air. 
 
 c 3 
 
34 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 When no longer stimulated by factitious applause, 
 she wrote verses deserving of sincere admiration and 
 enduring fame. 
 
 An accidental visit to Ireland introduced her 
 poems to the Editor of the "Dublin University 
 Magazine/^ and under his judicious encouragement 
 she poured forth her various and earnest lays with 
 astonishing fertility and abundance. In Ireland, 
 too, she met the Scottish gentleman, Mr. James 
 Gray, the nephew of the Ettrick Shepherd, whom, 
 after some delay and difficulty, she married. 
 
 Her wedded life appears to have been singularly 
 happy — as happy as it was brief. After a short 
 illness she expired, while still in the bloom of 
 womanhood (she had not yet completed her thirty- 
 third year), and while rising daily in poetical power 
 and poetical reputation. 
 
 Her highest literary merit was, however, not 
 
 known until after her death. Of all poetesses, 
 
 George Sand herself not excepted, she seems to me 
 
 to touch with the sweetest, the firmest, the most 
 
 delicate hand, the difficult chords of female passion. 
 
 There is a realit}^ in her love, and in the verse that 
 
 tells it, which cannot be read without a deep and 
 
 tender sympathy. Beautiful and statuesque as her 
 
 sketches from the antique undoubtedly are, I prefer 
 
 to quote from these posthumous poems, written 
 
 from her very heart of hearts, in which passion 
 
 seems to burst unconsciously into poetry. 
 
A- 
 
 / 
 
 A LITERARY LIFE. 35 
 
 love's memory. 
 
 I wove a wreath, 'twas fresh and fair. 
 
 Rich roses iu their crimson pride, 
 And the blue harebell flowers were there ; — 
 
 I wove and flung the wreath aside : 
 Too much did those bright blossoms speak 
 Of thy dear eyes and youthful cheek. 
 
 I took my lute ; methought its strain 
 
 Might wile the heavy hours along ; 
 I strove to fill my heart and brain 
 
 With the sweet breath of ancient song : 
 In vain ; whate'er I made my choice 
 Was fraught with thy bewitcliing voice. 
 
 And down I laid the restless lute, 
 
 And turned me to the poet's page ; 
 And vainly deemed that converse mute, 
 
 Umningled might my heart engage : 
 But in the poet's work I find 
 The fellow essence of thy mind. 
 
 I wandered midst the silent wood, 
 
 And sought the greenest, coolest glade. 
 
 Where not a sunbeam might intrude ; 
 And in a chestnut's quiet shade 
 
 I sate, and in that leafy gloom, 
 
 Thought of the darkness of the tomb. 
 
 And strove to lead my heart to drink 
 
 At the deep founts of wandering thought, 
 
 To ponder on the viewless Hnk 
 
 Between our souls and bodies wrought ; 
 
 To quench my passionate dreams of thee 
 
 .Awhile in that philosophy. 
 
36 RECOLLECTIONS OP 
 
 Yet, all the while, thine image bright, 
 
 Still flitted by my mind to win. 
 Casting through dreamy thoughts its light, 
 
 Lilce sunshine that would enter in ; 
 And every leaf and every tree 
 Seemed quivering with beams of thee. 
 
 Beloved ! I will strive no more ! 
 
 Thine image, in vice-regal power. 
 Shall ruling sit all memories o'er. 
 
 Throned in my heart, until the hour 
 When thou thyself shalt come again, 
 Restoring there thine olden reign. 
 
 The next poem is also written in a hopeful 
 mood : — 
 
 Fear not, beloved, though clouds may lower, 
 
 Whilst rainbow visions melt away, 
 Faith's holy star hath still a power 
 
 That may the deepest midnight sway. 
 Fear not ! I take a prophet's tone. 
 
 Our love can neither wane nor set ; 
 My heart grows strong in trust : mine own. 
 
 We shall be happy yet ! 
 
 What though long anxious years have passed. 
 
 Since this true heart was vowed to thine, 
 There comes for us a hght at last. 
 
 Whose beam upon our path shall shine. 
 We, who have loved 'mid doubts and fears. 
 
 Yet never with one hour's regret ; 
 There comes a joy to gild our tears ; 
 
 We shall be happy yet ! 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 37 
 
 A.J, by the wandering birds, that find 
 
 A home beyond the mountain wave, 
 Though wind, and rain, and hail, combined 
 
 To bow them to an ocean grave ; 
 By summer suns that brightly rise, 
 
 Though erst in mournful tears they set : 
 By all Love's hopeful prophecies. 
 
 We shall be happy yet ! 
 
 It is really pleasant to know that, although the 
 bliss was short in duration, yet the vows of that 
 faithful heart were heard. Here is one other love 
 note : — 
 
 Another year is dying fast, 
 
 A chequered year of joy and woe, 
 And dark and hght ahke are past. 
 
 The rose and thorn at once laid low : 
 All things are changed ; — and I am changed, 
 
 Even in the love I knew before, 
 Not that my heart can be estranged, 
 
 But I have learnt to love thee more. 
 
 Yes, to mine ear thine accents all, 
 
 Have grown more welcome and more glad, 
 Thy conung step more musical, 
 
 And thy departing tread more sad. 
 They say the first bright dawn of love 
 
 Hath bhss no other tune can show ; 
 But I have hved and learned to know 
 
 How dearer far its future glow. 
 
38 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Their disappointments we have proved, 
 
 Dark clouds across our path have been ; 
 Yet better through them all we loved, 
 
 As dark and drearier grew the scene. 
 Oh ! would this truth could bring relief 
 
 To thee, when earthly cares annoy. 
 That I would rather share thy grief 
 
 Than revel in another's joy. 
 
 A temperament so framed must, of necessity, take 
 pleasure in the beauties of Nature. I must make 
 room for a few stanzas of her 
 
 ANTICIPATIONS OF THE COUNTRY. 
 
 The summer sunshine falls 
 O'er the hot vistas of the crowded town, 
 
 Starthng the dusty walls 
 With beauty and with glory not theii' own ; 
 
 The summer skies are bright, 
 A canopy of peace above the strife 
 
 Of human hearts that fight 
 And struggle on the battle plain of life. 
 
 Sunnners have passed away 
 Since I a dweller 'mid tliis scene became. 
 
 And still their earliest ray 
 Had sent a thii'sty longing through my frame ; 
 
 A longing to be far 
 In the green woodlands, in the pastui'es fair. 
 
 And not as travellers are; 
 My heart hath yearned to be a dweller there. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 39 
 
 It comes, it comes at last ; 
 All I have panted for is near me now ; 
 
 Ere many hours have past, 
 A cool untroubled breeze shall fan my brow. 
 
 The faint continuous hum 
 That hath been round me till 'twas scarcely heard, 
 
 No more shall near me come 
 To mar the melodies of bee or bird. 
 
 No more the sultry street 
 Shall echo to my quick uneasy tread ; 
 
 Gladly I tui-n my feet 
 To where the turf in daisied pride is spread. 
 
 No more the wliirHng wheel. 
 The tramping horses, and the people's shout ; — 
 
 Oh ! how my heart will feel 
 The pleasant quiet cupeling me about. 
 
 Blessed to go away. 
 To where the wild-flower blooms and wood-bird sings. 
 And Hghtly o'er the spray 
 
 The purple vetch its wreathing garland flmgs. 
 
 * -* * * * 
 
 One mare I must quote, of a still different strain. 
 It was left without a title, a mere fragment amongst 
 her papers ; but the Editor of the '' Dublin Univer- 
 sity Magazine^^ has called it 
 
 THE GIFTED. 
 
 Oh, woe for those whose dearest themes 
 
 Must rest within the bosom's fold ! 
 Oh, woe for those who live on dreams, 
 
 Unheeded by the coarse and cold. 
 
40 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 They have a hidden life, akin 
 
 To nothing in this earthly sphere ; 
 They have a glorious world within, 
 
 Where nothing mortal may appear ; 
 A world of song, and flower, and gem. 
 
 Yet woe for them ! Oh, woe for them ! 
 
 Such his perplexing grief who seeks 
 
 A refuge upon stranger shores ; 
 In vain to foreign ears he speaks, 
 
 In vain their sympathy implores. 
 The same sad fate a bark might prove, 
 
 Laden with gold or princely store. 
 Without a guiding star above. 
 
 With an unmeasured deep before. 
 The world doth scorn them, gibe, condemn ; — 
 
 Woe for the gifted ! Woe for them ! 
 
 Surely this was a veiy remarkable woman ; and 
 these poems (there are many more of nearly equal 
 beauty) should not be left to the perishable record 
 of a magazine. Her earliest publications were, as I 
 have saidj of little worth ; but enough of the highest 
 merit might be collected to form an enduring 
 memorial of her genius and her virtues. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 41 
 
 III. 
 
 AMERICAN ORATOES. 
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 One of the greatest, if not the very greatest, of 
 the living orators of America, is, beyond all manner 
 of doubt, Daniel Webster. That he is also cele- 
 brated as a lawyer and a statesman is a matter of 
 course in that practical country, where even so high 
 a gift as that of eloquence is brought to bear on the 
 fortunes of individuals and the prosperity of the 
 commonwealth — no idle pilaster placed for orna- 
 ment, but a solid column aiding to support the 
 building. A column indeed, stately and graceful 
 with its Corinthian capital, gives no bad idea of Mr. 
 Webster; of his tall and muscular person, his 
 massive features, noble head, and the general ex- 
 pression of placid strength by which he is dis- 
 tinguished. This is a mere fanciful comparison ; 
 
42 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 but Sir Augustus Callcott^s fine figure of Columbus 
 has been reckoned very like him ; a resemblance 
 that must have been fortuitous, since the picture 
 was painted before the artist had even seen the 
 celebrated orator. 
 
 When in England some ten or twelve years ago, 
 Mr. Webster^s calm manner of speaking excited 
 much admiration, and perhaps a little surprise, as 
 contrasted with the astounding and somewhat rough 
 rapidity of progress which is the chief characteristic 
 of his native land. And yet that calmness of 
 manner was just what might be expected from a 
 countryman of Washington, earnest, thoughtful, 
 weighty, wise. No visitor to London ever left 
 behind him pleasanter recollections, and I hope that 
 the good impression was reciprocal. Everybody 
 was delighted with his geniality and taste ; and he 
 could hardly fail to like the people who so heartily 
 liked him. Amongst our cities and our scenery he 
 admired that most which was most worthy of admi- 
 ration ; preferring, in common with many of the most 
 gifted of his countrymen, our beautiful Oxford, 
 whose winding street exhibits such a condensation 
 of picturesque architecture, mixed with water, trees, 
 and gardens, with ancient costume, with eager 
 youth, with by-gone associations and rising hopes, 
 certainly to any of our new commercial towns, and 
 perhaps, as mere picture to London herself; and 
 carrying home with him as one of the most precious 
 
A LITERARl LIFE. 43 
 
 and characteristic memorials of the land of his 
 forefathers, a large collection of architectural en- 
 gravings, representing our magnificent Gothic ca- 
 thedrals and such of our Norman castles and 
 Tudor manor-houses, as have escaped the barbari- 
 ties of modern improvers. We are returning our- 
 selves to that style now ; but twelve years ago it 
 was his own good taste, and not the fashion of the 
 day that prompted the preference. 
 
 I owe to his kindness, and to that of my 
 admirable friend, Mr. Kenyon, who accompanied 
 him, the honour and pleasure of a visit from Mr. 
 Webster and his amiable family in their transit 
 from Oxford to Windsor ; — my local position between 
 these two points of attraction has often procured for 
 me the gratification of seeing my American friends 
 when making that journey ; — but during this visit a 
 little circumstance occurred so characteristic, so 
 graceful, and so gracious, that I cannot resist the 
 temptation of relating it. 
 
 Walking in my cottage garden, we talked naturally 
 of the roses and pinks that surrounded us, and of the 
 different indigenous flowers of our island and of the 
 United States. I had myself had the satisfaction of 
 sending to my friend, Mr. Theodore Sedgwick, a 
 hamper containing roots of many English plants 
 familiar to our poetry : the common ivy — how 
 could they want ivy who had had no time for 
 ruins ? — the primrose and the cowslip, immortalized 
 
44 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 by Shakespeare and by Milton; and the sweet- 
 scented violets, both white and purple, of our 
 hedgerows and our lanes ; that known as the violet 
 in America (Mr. Bryant somewhere speaks of it as 
 '' the yellow violet^"*) being, I suspect, the little wild 
 pansy {viola tricolor) renowned as the love-in- 
 idleness of Shakespeare^s famous compliment to 
 Queen Elizabeth. Of these we spoke ; and I ex- 
 pressed an interest in two flowers known to me 
 only by the vivid description of Miss Martineau : 
 the scarlet lily of New York and of the Canadian 
 woods, and the fringed gentian of Niagara. I 
 observed that our illustrious guest made some 
 re mark to one of the ladies of his party ; but I little 
 expected that, as soon after his return as seeds of 
 these plants could be procured, I should receive a 
 packet of each, signed and directed by his own 
 hand. How much pleasure these little kindnesses 
 give ! And how many such have come to me from 
 over the same wide ocean ! 
 
 I could tell another story also of a great 
 American orator, a story told to me two or three 
 years before this occurrence by another distin- 
 guished American visitor. He told it to me with 
 the low tone of a deep sympathy one summer 
 evening in my old garden room, the moon rising- 
 red and full above the pyramid of geraniums 
 and the scent of a thousand flowers floating upon 
 the air. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 45 
 
 I do not know why I tell it here ; except that 
 both stories belong in some sort to my garden^ and 
 that both relate to men eminent in America as 
 lawyers and as statesmen -, although of my friend^ s 
 hero^ for obvious reasons^ I do not venture to give 
 the name. Many years have passed since I heard 
 that interesting narrative^ and in small circumstances 
 of detail I may mistake ; but the one great fact, the 
 admirable self-denial and self-sacrifice can never be 
 forgotten. It strikes too deep a root in the heart. 
 
 The story was of a father, one of those sturdy 
 pioneers of American civilization, who hew their way 
 through the Western Forest, and of his two stalwart 
 boys. They had built a homestead, and cleared 
 many acres around them, when, during a pause in 
 their labours, one of the sons (I think the younger) 
 addressed his father to this effect : " Father ! the 
 house is raised j the trees are down ; the fields are 
 fenced. You have my brother to help you and can 
 do without me. Let me go to the town and study. 
 I feel that I was born to fight my way amongst 
 men, and not to wear out my days in the toils of a 
 husbandman. ^^ 
 
 The father must have been worthy of such a son, 
 for he understood him, and felt the full force of the 
 appeal. ^' Well, my boy,^^ said he ; " go where you 
 will, and my blessing shall go with you. Take 
 these dollars and make them last as long as you 
 can, for I have no more to give.^' 
 
46 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 So the bold adventurer sallied forth to the nearest 
 town where education was to be won. The dollars 
 were but few ; and the young pupil, although a 
 model of frugality and application, found himself 
 penniless long before he had fought his way through 
 the college course. His courage, however, never 
 failed. By that time he had discovered his own 
 strength. He engaged with a lawyer to write for 
 him during the evenings and by night, whilst he 
 pursued his regular studies by day; thus defraying 
 his own expenses, whether for education or for 
 living ; and evincing in his legal avocations such 
 extraordinary ability and aptness, that by the time he 
 had arrived at the head of his class, his friend the 
 lawyer furnished him with a letter to his own 
 brother, then in high practice in the chief town of 
 the State, assuring him " that the recommendation 
 which that letter contained would secure to him 
 immediate employment, and eventually, with his 
 own powers and perseverance, all that he required 
 for a high success in life.^^ 
 
 Enchanted with his prospects, our adventurer set 
 forth upon a visit to his forest home, to take leave of 
 his parents before the long absence which he antici- 
 pated. 
 
 On his arrival at the farm, he found the delight 
 and pride which such a career could hardly fail to 
 claim; but he found also that which he had seen 
 no cause to expect — the brother whom he had left 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 47 
 
 behind content with healthful labour^ sickening and 
 drooping under the same hunger and thirst for 
 mental improvement that he himself had experienced 
 some years before. What was the resolve of that 
 noble heart ? How did he act under such a trial ? 
 He laid his letter of introduction aside — that letter 
 which was to command fortune ! He took his 
 brother with him to the town which he had quitted 
 as he thought for ever; placed him in the college 
 where he himself had studied ; returned to his old 
 friend the lawyer ; resumed his labours in the office^ 
 and worked calmdy on until the brother, whom he 
 wholly supported_, aided by his instructions, had 
 overcome all his disadvantages and attained the 
 high place in the classes that he himself had occu- 
 pied. 
 
 This was my visitor^s story. I only wish I could 
 tell it to my readers as he told it to me. But even 
 under all the imperfections of my poor narrative, 
 and lacking the crowning name that gives to it such 
 a power of contrast, it still seems to me almost 
 unequalled in its simplicity and grandeur of self- 
 sacrifice. When some powerful monarch, like 
 Charles the Fifth, abdicates the thrones of Germany 
 and Spain, and the Indies, it sounds much. But 
 then it is a sickly, aged, disenchanted man, who 
 knows full well the vanity and nothingness of what 
 he resigns; who has felt for many a year how 
 weary a thing it is to be an Emperor. Besides, he 
 
48 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 is an Emperor still. The eyes of the world are 
 upon him. He has only put on a new form of 
 royalty. Now here is a young, an ambitious, a self- 
 reliant spirit, who puts aside, not by one grand and 
 solemn abdication, but by the quiet, silent, painful, 
 effort of days and months and years, the most 
 precious crown of all the world, the bright crown 
 Hope. 
 
 After some natural exclamations of admiration, 
 came the equally natural question, ^^Did that 
 favoured brother prove himself worthy of such a 
 sacrifice ?" 
 
 " Alas V^ said my friend, " he lived only long 
 enough to show how worthy he would have proved. 
 He had already taken his place amongst the most 
 eminent lawyers in Massachusetts when he was 
 snatched away by death.^'' 
 
 Tojreturn to Mr. Webster : I quote (from a fine 
 American edition of his speeches, sent to me by a 
 friend, who gave every promise of following in the 
 same track) part of an " argument on the trial of 
 John F. Knapp, for the murder of Joseph White, Esq., 
 of Salem in the county of Essex, Massachusetts, on 
 the night of the 6th of April, 1830." 
 
 I choose this thrilling story of a great crime, not 
 merely on account of the fine picture which it 
 presents of an old man murdered in his sleep, and 
 the state of mind of the murderer, but because, 
 as a subject of universal interest, the eloquence 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 49 
 
 bestowed on such a theme will be better appreciated in 
 England, than those speeches which, referring to na- 
 tional policy, demand of the reader a certain acquaint- 
 ance not only with the internal government, but with 
 the position of conflicting parties in the United States. 
 I might also have another reason for my selection 
 a desire to adduce the authority of so eminent a 
 statesman trained under the freest of all institutions 
 and the most sparing of capital punishment, and 
 passing his life in the vindication of individual and 
 national liberty, against the unhealthy and morbid 
 sympathy with crime and criminals, which is one of 
 the crying evils of our day. 
 
 Short as my extracts from this magnificent speech 
 must necessarily be, the introductory statement is 
 essential to their comprehension. 
 
 ^^Mr. White, a highly respectable and wealthy 
 citizen of Salem, about eighty years of age, was 
 found on the morning of the 7th of April, 1830, in 
 his bed murdered, under such circumstances as to 
 create a strong sensation in that town and through- 
 out the community. 
 
 "Richard Crowninshield, George Crowninshield, 
 Joseph J. Knapp and John F. Knapp were, a few 
 weeks after, arrested on a charge of having perpe- 
 trated the murder, and committed for trial. Joseph 
 J. Knapp soon after, under the promise of favour 
 from Government, made a full confession of the 
 crime and the circumstances attending it. In a 
 
 VOL. II. ^ 
 
50 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 few days after this disclosure was made, Richard 
 Ci'owninshield_, who was supposed to have been the 
 principal assassin, committed suicide. 
 
 ^^ A Special Session of the Supreme Court was 
 ordered by the Legislature for the trial of the 
 prisoners at Salem, in July. At that time, John 
 F. Knapp was indicted as principal in the murder, 
 and George Crowninshield and Joseph J, Knapp as 
 accessories. 
 
 " On account of the death of Chief Justice 
 Parker, which occurred on the 26th of July, the 
 court adjourned to Tuesday, the 3rd of August, when 
 it proceeded in the trial of John F. Knapp. Joseph 
 J. Knapp being called upon refused to testify, and 
 the pledge of the Government was withdrawn. 
 
 " At the request of the prosecuting officers of the 
 Government, Mr. Webster appeared as counsel and 
 assisted at the trial. 
 
 " Mr. Dexter addressed the jury on behalf of 
 the prisoner, and was succeeded by Mr. Webster in 
 the following speech : — 
 
 " I am little accustomed, gentlemen, to the part 
 which I am now attempting to perform. Hardly 
 more than once or twice has it happened to me to 
 be concerned, on the side of the Government, in 
 any criminal prosecution whatever ; and never, until 
 the present occasion, in any case affecting life. 
 
 '^ But I very much regret that it should have been 
 thought necessary to suggest to you that I am 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 51 
 
 brought here to hurry you against the law and 
 beyond the evidence. I hope I have too much 
 regard for justice, and too much respect for my own 
 character, to attempt either ; and were I to make 
 such attempt, I am certain that in this court 
 nothing could be carried against the law, and that 
 gentlemen intelligent and just as you are, are not 
 by any power to be hurried beyond the evidence. 
 Though I could well have wished to shun this 
 occasion, I have not felt at liberty to withhold my 
 professional assistance, when it is supposed that I 
 might be in some degree useful in investigating and 
 discovering the truth, respecting this most extra- 
 ordinary murder. It has seemed to be a duty 
 incumbent on me, as on every other citizen, to do 
 ray best and my utmost to bring to light the 
 perpetrators of this crime. Against the prisoner at 
 the bar I cannot have the slightest prejudice. I 
 would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. 
 But 1 do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery 
 and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheer- 
 fully share in the opprobrium, how much soever it 
 may be, v^^hich is cast on those who feel and 
 manifest an anxious concern that all w^ho had a part 
 in planning, or a hand in executing this deed of 
 midnight assassination may be brought to answer 
 for their enormous guilt at the bar of public justice. 
 Gentlemen it is a most extraordinary case. In 
 
 D 2 
 
52 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 some respects it has hardly a precedent anywhere : 
 certainly none in our New England history. This 
 bloody drama, exhibited no suddenly excited un- 
 governable rage. The actors in it were not sur- 
 prised by any lion-like temptation^ springing upon 
 their virtue and overcoming it^ before resistance 
 could begin. Nor did they do the deed to glut 
 savage vengeance, or satiate long-settled and deadly 
 hate. It was a cool, calculating, money-making 
 murder. It was all ' hire and salary, not revenge.^ 
 It was the weighing of money against life ; the 
 counting out of so many pieces of silver against so 
 many ounces of blood. 
 
 ^^An aged man, without an enemy in the world, 
 in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the 
 victim of a butcherly murder for mere pay. Truly, 
 here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Who- 
 ever shall hereafter draw the portrait of murder, if 
 he will show it as it has been exhibited in an 
 example where such example was last to have been 
 looked for, in the very bosom of our New England 
 Society, let him not give it the grim visage of 
 Moloch, the brow knitted by revenge, the face 
 black with settled hate, and the blood-shot eye 
 emitting livid fires of malice. Let him draw rather 
 a decorous, smooth-faced, bloodless demon ; a picture 
 in repose rather than in action ; not so much an 
 example of human nature in its depravity and in its 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 53 
 
 paroxysms of crime as an infernal nature, a fiend, 
 in the ordinary display and development of his 
 character. 
 
 '' The deed was executed with a degree of self- 
 possession and steadiness equal to the wickedness 
 with which it was planned. The circumstances now 
 clearly in evidence spread out the whole scene 
 before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined 
 victim and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old 
 man to whom sleep was sweet, the first sound 
 slumbers of the night held him in their soft though 
 strong embrace. The assassin enters through the 
 window already prepared into an unoccupied apart- 
 ment. With noiseless foot he passes the lonely 
 hall, half lighted by the moon ; he winds up the 
 ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the 
 chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and 
 continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges 
 without noise, and he enters and beholds his victim 
 before him. The room was uncommonly open to 
 the admission of Hght. The face of the innocent 
 sleeper was turned from the murderer, and the 
 beams of the moon resting on the grey locks of the 
 aged temple, showed him where to strike. The 
 fatal blow is given ! and the victim passes without a 
 struggle or a motion from the repose of sleep to the 
 repose of death ! It is the assassin^s purpose to 
 make sure work; and he yet plies the dagger, 
 thouo-h it was obvious that life had been destroyed 
 
54 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the 
 aged arm^ that he may not fail in his aim at the 
 hearty and replaces it again over the w^ounds of the 
 poniard. To finish the picture, he explores the 
 wrist for the pulse. He feels for it, and ascertains 
 that it beats no longer ! It is accomplished. The 
 deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the 
 window, passes out through it as he came in, and 
 escapes. He has done the murder — no eye has 
 seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his 
 own, and it is safe. 
 
 " Ah ! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. 
 Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole 
 creation of God has neither nook nor comer where 
 the guilty can bestow it and say that it is safe. 
 Not to speak of that Eye which glances through all 
 disguises and beholds everything as in the splendour 
 of noon. Such secrets of guilt are never safe from 
 detection, even by men. True it is, generally 
 speaking, that ^ murder will out.^ True it is that 
 Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern 
 things, that those Avho break the great law of 
 heaven by shedding man^s blood, seldom succeed in 
 avoiding discovery. Especially in a case exciting so 
 much attention as this, discovery must come and 
 will come sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at 
 once to explore every man, every thing, every 
 circumstance connected with the time and place ; 
 a thousand ears catch every whisper ; a thousand 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 55 
 
 excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, slieddinp; 
 all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest 
 circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime, 
 the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is 
 false to itself; or rather it feels an irresistible 
 impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It 
 labours under its guilty possession, and knows not 
 what to do with it. The human heart was not 
 made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It 
 finds itself preyed on by a torment which it dares 
 not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is 
 devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or 
 assistance either from heaven or earth. The secret 
 which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess 
 him, and like the evil spirits of which we read, it 
 overcomes him and leads him whithersoever it will. 
 He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, 
 and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole 
 world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and 
 almost hears its workings in the veiy silence of his 
 thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays 
 his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers 
 his prudence. When suspicions from without begin 
 to embarrass him, and the net of circumstance to 
 entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still 
 greater violence to burst forth. It must be con- 
 fessed, it will be confessed, there is no refuge from 
 confession but suicide, and suicide is confession. 
 ^' Much has been said on this occasion of the 
 
56 KECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 excitement which has existed and still exists, and 
 of the extraordinary measures taken to discover 
 and punish the guilty. No doubt there has been, 
 and is much excitement, and strange indeed were 
 it had it been otherwise. Should not all the 
 peaceable and well-disposed naturally feel concerned, 
 and naturally exert themselves to bring to punish- 
 ment the authors of this secret assassination ? Did 
 you, gentlemen, sleep quite as quietly in your beds 
 after this murder as before ? Was it not a case 
 for rewards, for meetings, for committees, for the 
 united efforts of all the good, to find out a band 
 of murderous conspirators, of midnight ruffians, 
 and to bring them to the bar of justice and law^ ? 
 If this be excitement, is it an unnatural or an 
 improper excitement ? 
 
 " It seems to me, gentlemen, that there are ap- 
 pearances of another feeling, of a very different 
 nature and character, not very extensive I would 
 hope, but still there is too much evidence of its 
 existence. Such is human nature, that some per- 
 sons lose their abhorrence of crime, in their admi- 
 ration of its magnificent exhibitions. Ordinary vice 
 is reprobated by them, but extraordinary guilt, 
 exquisite wickedness, the high flights and poetry 
 of crime, seize on the imagination, and lead them 
 to forget the depth of the guilt in admiration of 
 the excellence of the performance, or the unequalled 
 atrocity of the purpose. There are those in our 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 57 
 
 day who have made great use of this infirmity of 
 our nature; and by means of it done infinite injury 
 to the cause of good morals. They have affected 
 not only the taste, but, I fear, also the principles 
 of the young, the heedless and the imaginative, by 
 the exhibition of interesting and beautiful monsters. 
 They render depravity attractive, sometimes by the 
 polish of its manners, and sometimes by its very 
 extravagance ; and study to show off crime under 
 all the advantages of cleverness and dexterity. 
 Gentlemen, this is an extraordinary murder, but 
 it is still a murder. We are not to lose ourselves 
 in wonder at its origin, or in gazing on its cool 
 and skilful execution. We are to detect and punish 
 it j and while we proceed with caution against the ^ 
 prisoner, and are to be sure that we do not visit 
 on his head the offences of others, we are yet to 
 consider that we are dealing with a case of most 
 atrocious crime, which has not the slightest cir- 
 cumstance about it to soften its enormity. It is 
 murder, deliberate, concerted, malicious murder. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 ^^ It is said ^ that laws are made, not for the 
 punishment of the guilty, but for the protection 
 of the innocent.^ This is not quite accurate perhaps, 
 but if so, we hope they will be so administered as 
 to give that protection. But who are the innocent 
 whom the law would protect ? Gentlemen, Joseph 
 
 D 3 
 
58 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 White was innocent. They are innocent, who 
 having lived in the fear of God through the day, 
 wish to sleep in peace through the night in their 
 own beds. The law is established that those who 
 live quietly may sleep quietly, that they who do 
 no harm may feel none. The gentleman can think 
 of none that are innocent except the prisoner at 
 the bar — not yet convicted. Is a proved conspirator 
 to murder innocent ? Are the Crowninshields and 
 the Knapps innocent ? What is innocence ? How 
 deep -stained with blood, how reckless in crime, how 
 sunk in depravity may it be, and yet remain inno- 
 cence ? The law is made, if we would speak with 
 entire accuracy, to protect the innocent by punishing 
 * the guilty. But there are those innocent out of 
 court as well as in ; innocent citizens never sus- 
 pected of crime, as well as innocent prisoners at the 
 bar. 
 
 " The criminal law is not founded on a principle 
 of vengeance. It does not punish that it may 
 inflict suffering. The humanity of the law feels 
 and regrets every pain it causes, every hour of 
 restraint it imposes, and more deeply still every 
 life it forfeits. But it uses evil as the means of 
 preventing greater evil. It seeks to deter from 
 crime by the example of punishment. This is 
 its true, and only true main object. It restrains 
 the liberty of the few offenders, that the many 
 who do not offend may enjoy their own liberty. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 59 
 
 It forfeits the life of the offender that other murders 
 may not be committed. The law might open the 
 jails and at once set free all prisoners accused of 
 offences ; and ifc ought to do so if it could be made 
 certain that no other offence would hereafter be 
 committed. Because it punishes, not to satisfy any 
 desire to inflict pain, but simply to prevent the 
 repetition of crimes. When the guilty, therefore, 
 are not punished, the law has so far failed of its 
 purpose; the safety of the innocent is so far en- 
 dangered. Every unpunished murder takes away 
 something from the security of every man^s life. 
 And whenever a jury, through whimsical and ill- 
 founded scruples, suffer the guilty to escape, they 
 make themselves answerable for the augmented 
 danger of the innocent.^^ 
 
 [Then follow nearly forty closely printed octavo 
 pages of the most minute and ablest dissection of 
 every part of the case ; the most crushing answer 
 to the opposite counsel ; and the most searching 
 and subtle analysis of the evidence. Every scene 
 of the tragedy, from the first conception of the 
 plot to the awful catastrophe, passes before us as 
 if we had been present bodily. We are eye and 
 ear- witnesses to every incident. Mr. Webster winds 
 up his speech with the following impressive pero- 
 ration.] 
 
 '^Gentlemen, I have gone through with the 
 evidence in this case, and have endeavoured to 
 
60 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 state it plainly and fairly before you. I think 
 there are conclusions to be drawn from it^ which 
 you cannot doubt. I think you cannot doubt that 
 there was a conspiracy formed for the purpose of 
 committing this murder^ and who the conspirators 
 were. 
 
 " That you cannot doubt that the Crowninshiseld 
 and the Knapps were parties in this conspiracy 
 
 '^'^That you cannot doubt that the prisoner at 
 the bar knew that the murder was to be done on 
 the 6th of April. 
 
 "That you cannot doubt that the murderers of 
 Captain White were the suspicious persons seen in 
 and about Brown Street on that night. 
 
 " That you cannot doubt that Richard Crownin- 
 shield was the perpetrator of that crime. 
 
 " That you cannot doubt that the prisoner at the 
 bar was in Brown Street on that night. 
 
 ^' If there, then it must be by agreement^ to 
 countenance, to aid the perpetrator : and if so, then 
 he is guilty as a principal. 
 
 " Gentlemen, — Your whole concern should be to 
 do your duty, and leave consequences to take care 
 of themselves. You will receive the law from the 
 court. Your verdict, it is true, may endanger the 
 prisoner's life, but then it is to save other lives. If 
 the prisoner's guilt has been shown and proved 
 beyond all reasonable doubt, you will convict him. 
 If such reasonable doubts of guilt still remain, you 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 61 
 
 will acquit him. You are the judges of the whole 
 case. You owe a duty to the public, as well as to 
 the prisoner at the bar. You cannot pretend to be 
 wiser than the law. Your duty is a plain, straight- 
 forward one. Doubtless, we would all judge him in 
 mercy. Towards him, as an individual, the law 
 inculcates no hostility; but towards him, if proved 
 to be a murderer, the law, and the oaths you have 
 taken, and public justice, demand that you do your 
 duty. 
 
 *^^ With consciences satisfied with the discharge of 
 duty, no consequences can harm you. There is no 
 evil that we cannot either face or fly from, but the 
 consciousness of duty disregarded. 
 
 ^'^ A sense of duty pursues us ever. It is 
 omnipresent like the Deity. If we take to ourselves 
 the wings of the morning and dwell in the utmost 
 parts of the seas, duty performed or duty violated is 
 still with us for our happiness or our misery. If 
 we say the darkness shall cover us, in the darkness 
 as in the light our obligations are yet with us. 
 We cannot escape their power nor fly from their 
 presence. They are with us in this life, will be with 
 us at its close ; and in that scene of inconceivable 
 solemnity which lies yet farther onward, we shall 
 still find ourselves surrounded by the consciousness 
 of duty, to pain us wherever it has been violated, 
 and to console us so far as God may have given us 
 grace to perform it.''"' 
 
62 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 There is no need to enhance the merit of 
 eloquence like this; but I recollect to have heard 
 that this immense effort was made immediately after 
 a journey of unparalleled rapidity and fatigue which 
 would have completely exhausted the energy of any 
 man but Mr. Webster. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 63 
 
 IV. 
 
 OLD AUTHOES. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 " RARE Ben Jonson V^ so said his contem- 
 poraries^ and those contemporaries the greatest dra- 
 matic poets, the greatest poets of any age or chme. 
 '' rare Ben Jonson V^ says his tomb in West- 
 minster Abbey ; ^^0 rare Ben Jonson V^ echo we. 
 But I doubt much whether our praises be not 
 founded on very different qualities from those which 
 were hailed with such acclaim by the marvellous 
 assembly of wits who congregated at the '' Mer- 
 maid/^ Hear what Beaumont, in his celebrated 
 epistle to Jonson, says of that fair company. He 
 writes to him from the country : 
 
 " Methinks the little wit I had is lost 
 Since I saw you ; for wit is like a rest 
 Held up at Tennis, which men do the best 
 
64 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 With tlie best gamesters. What things have we seen 
 
 Done at the 'Mermaid!' heard words that have been 
 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 
 As if that every one, from whom they came. 
 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 
 Of his dull life ; then, when there hath been shown 
 
 Wit able enough to justify the town 
 
 Eor three days past ; wit that might warrant be 
 
 For the whole city to talk foolishly 
 
 Till that were cancelled ; and when that was gone. 
 
 We left an air behind us, which alone 
 
 Was able to make the two next companies 
 
 Right witty ; though but downright fools, mere wise." 
 
 These men_, admirable judges althougli they were, 
 seem to have regarded with what we cannot but 
 think an over-admiration the art which wanted the 
 crowning triumph of looking like nature, and the 
 learning, which displayed rather than pervading, 
 overlays and encumbers his finely-constructed but 
 heavy and unwieldy plays. We of this age, a 
 little too careless perhaps of learned labour, would 
 give a whole wilderness of Catilines and Poetasters, 
 and even of Alchemists and Volpones, for another 
 score of the exquisite lyrics which are scattered 
 carelessly through the plays and masques which — 
 strange contrast with the rugged verse in which 
 they are embedded — seem to have burst into being 
 at a stroke, just as the evening prioirose flings open 
 her fair petals at the close of the day. Lovelier 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 65 
 
 songs were never written than these wild and irre- 
 gular ditties. Here are some of them. 
 
 HYMN TO DIANA, IN " CYNTHIA's REVELS," 
 
 Queen and huntress, chaste and fair. 
 
 Now the sun is laid to sleejD, 
 Seated in thy silver car. 
 State in wonted manner keep. 
 Hesperus entreats thy light. 
 Goddess excellently bright ! 
 
 Earth, let not thy envious shade 
 
 Dare itself to interpose ; 
 Cynthia's shining orb was made 
 Heaven to clear, when day did close. 
 
 Bless us then with wished sight, 
 Goddess excellently bright ! 
 
 Lay thy bow of pearl apart. 
 
 And thy crystal shining quiver ; 
 Give unto the flying hart 
 
 Space to breathe, how short soever. 
 Thou that mak'st a day of night. 
 Goddess excellently bright ! 
 
 SONG, EROM THE SAME. 
 
 Slow, slow fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears, 
 Yet slower, yet, faintly, gentle springs ! 
 
 List to the heavy part the music bears, 
 
 Woe weeps out her division when she sings. 
 
66 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Droop herbs and flowers, 
 
 Fall grief in showers, 
 
 Our beauties are not ours. 
 I could still 
 (Like melting snow upon some craggy hill) 
 
 Drop, drop, drop, drop, 
 Since summer's pride is now a withered daffodil. 
 
 SONG OF NIGHT, IN THE MASQUE OE "THE VISION OF 
 DELIGHT." 
 
 Break, Phantasie, from thy cave of cloud, 
 
 And spread thy purple wings ; 
 Now all thy figures are allowed. 
 And various shapes of things. 
 Create of airy forms a stream. 
 It must have blood, and nought of phlegm ; 
 And though it be a waking dream. 
 Chorus. Yet let it like an odour rise 
 To all the senses here. 
 And fall like sleep upon their eyes. 
 Or music in their ear. 
 
 CHORUS, FEOM THE SAME. 
 
 In curious knots and mazes so. 
 The spring at first was taught to go ; 
 And Zephyr, when he came to woo 
 His Flora, had their motions too : 
 And thus did Venus learn to lead 
 The Idalian brawls, and so to tread 
 As if the wind, not she, did walk. 
 Nor prest a flower, nor bowed a stalk. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. QJ 
 
 SONG, IN " THE MASQUE OF BEAUTY." 
 
 So Beauty, on the waters stood 
 When Love had severed Earth from Flood ! 
 So, when he parted Air from Eke, 
 He did with concord all inspire ! 
 And then a motion he them taught 
 That elder than himself was thous^ht ; 
 Wliich thought was yet the child of earth, 
 For Love is elder than his birth. 
 
 SONG, FROM "the SILENT W^OMAN." 
 
 (A lesson, dear ladies.) 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be di-est 
 As you were going to a feast ; 
 Still to be powdered, stiU perfumed : 
 Lady, it is to be presumed. 
 Though art's hid causes are not found. 
 All is not sweet, all is not sound. 
 
 Give me a look, give me a face 
 
 That makes sunpUcity a grace ; 
 
 Robes loosely flowing, hair as free ; 
 
 Such sweet neglect more taketh me. 
 
 Than all the adulteries of art ; 
 
 They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 
 
 FROM A CELEBRATION OF CHARTS. 
 
 See the chariot at hand here of Love, 
 
 Wlierein my lady rideth ; 
 Each that draws is a swan or a dove. 
 
 And well the car Love guideth. 
 
68 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 As she goes all hearts do duty 
 
 Unto her beauty, 
 And enamoured do wish that they might 
 
 But enjoy such a sight. 
 That they still were to run by her side 
 Thorough swords, thorough seas wheresoever she would ride. 
 
 Do but look on her eyes, they do Hght 
 
 All that loves world compriseth ! 
 Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
 
 As love's star, when it riseth ! 
 Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 
 
 Than words that soothe her 
 And from her arched brows such a grace 
 
 Sheds itself thi'ough the face, 
 As alone there triumphs to the life 
 All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife ! 
 
 Have you seen but a bright lily grow j 
 
 Before rude hands have touched it ? 
 Have you marked but the faU o' the snow 
 
 Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
 Ha' you felt the wool of the beaver. 
 
 Or swan's down ever ? 
 Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar ? 
 
 Or the nard in the fire ? 
 Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
 so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Oh ! do not worship with those eyes. 
 
 Lest I be sick with seeing ! 
 Nor cast them down, but let them rise, 
 
 Lest shame destroy their being. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 69 
 
 Oil ! be not angry with those fires 
 
 For then tlieir threats will kill me ; 
 Nor look too kind on my desires, 
 
 Por then my hopes will spill me. 
 Oh ! do not steep them in thy tears, 
 
 For so will sorrow slay me ; 
 Nor spread them, as distract with tears, 
 
 Mine own enough betray me . 
 
 SONG TO CELIA. 
 
 I should hardly perhaps have thought of insert- 
 ing a song so familiar to every ear as the following, 
 had I not, in turning over Jonson^s huge volume, 
 been reminded of a circumstance connected with it 
 which greatly startled me at the moment. Milton 
 talks of airs ^' married to immortal verse /^ but it 
 should seem that there is no marriage without an 
 occasional divorce; for the last time I heard the 
 well-known melody which belongs to this fine Anac- 
 reontic_, as indissolubly as its own peculiar perfume 
 to a flower^ was in an Independent Chapel, where 
 widel}^ different words — the words of a hymn — were 
 adapted to the air. It was John Wesley, I believe, 
 who said, that he saw no reason why Satan should 
 have all the best tunes ; and I should not hghtly 
 impugn the wisdom of any axiom of John Wesley, 
 who understood human nature as well as most men. 
 But in this instance, such is the force of association, 
 that I can scarcely say how strongly I felt the dis- 
 
70 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 crepancy^ all the more for the inipressive plainness 
 and simplicity of the Presbyterian mode of worship, 
 and the earnest eloquence of the white-haired 
 preacher. The sermon was half over before I had 
 recovered the tone of feeling proper to the place and 
 the occasion. 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 And I Avill pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 The thii'st that from the soul doth rise 
 
 Must surely be divine ; 
 But might I of Love's nectar sup 
 I would not cliange for wine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wi'eath, 
 
 Not so much honouring thee. 
 As giving it a hope, that there 
 
 It could not withered be, 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe 
 
 And sent'st it back to me. 
 Since when it grows and smells, I swear. 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
 FIRST SPEECH IN "THE SAD SHEPHEKD," 
 
 Enter OEglamone. 
 
 (Egla. Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here ! 
 Just where those daisies, piidvs, and violets grow : 
 The world may find the spring by following her. 
 For other print her airy steps ne'er left. 
 
A LITEEARY LIFE. 71 
 
 Her treacling would not bend a blade of grass, 
 Or shake the downy blowball from his stalk ! 
 But like the soft west wind she shot along, 
 And where she went the flowers took thickest root, 
 As she had sowed them with her odorous foot. 
 
 This delightful pastoral on the story of Robin 
 Hood and Maid Marian is unhappily unfinished. 
 Scarcely half is written^ and even that wants the 
 author^s last touches. 
 
 SPEECH OF MAIA, IN "THE PENATES." 
 
 If every pleasui'e were distilled 
 Of every flower in every field. 
 And all that Hybla's hives do yield, 
 Were into one broad mazer filled ; 
 If thereto added all the gums 
 And spice that from Panchaia comes. 
 The odour that Hydasper lends. 
 Or Phoenix proves before she ends ; 
 If all the ail' my Plora drew, - 
 Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew, 
 Were put therein ; and all the dew 
 That every rosy morning knew ; 
 Yet all diffused upon- this bower, 
 To make one sweet detaining hour, 
 Were much too little for the grace 
 And honour- you vouchsafe the place. 
 But if you please to come again. 
 We vow we will not then with vain 
 And empty pastime entertain 
 Your so desired, though grieved, pain. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 For we will have the wanton Eawns, 
 That frisking skip about the lawns^ 
 The Panisks, and the Sylvans rude, 
 Satyrs, and all that multitude, 
 To dance their wilder rounds about. 
 And cleave the air with many a shout. 
 As they would hunt poor Echo out 
 Of yonder valley, who doth flout 
 Their rustic noise. To visit whom 
 You shall behold whole bevies come 
 Of gaudy nymphs, whose tender calls 
 Well tuned unto the many falls 
 Of sweet and several shding rills, 
 That streams from tops of those less hills, 
 Sound like so many silver quills. 
 When ZejDhyr them with music fills. 
 For them Favorius here shall blow 
 New flowers, that you shall see to grow, 
 Of which each hand a part shall take. 
 And, for your heads, fresh garlands make 
 Wherewith, whilst they your temples round, 
 An air of several birds shall sound 
 An lo Psean, that shall drown 
 The acclamations at your crown. 
 All this, and more than I have gift of saying, 
 May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying, 
 
 EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OP PEMBROKE. 
 
 Underneath this sable hearse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; 
 Death, ere thou hast slain another 
 Learn'd and fair, and good as she. 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 73 
 
 After all we take leave of him^ transcribing yet 
 another exquisite song, and echoing our first words^ 
 ^' rare Ben Jonson !^^ 
 
 FKOM THE MASQUE OF ' THE GIPSIES METAMOHPHOSED. 
 
 To tlic old, long life aud treasure ; 
 To the young, all health aud pleasure ; 
 
 To the fair, their face 
 
 With eternal grace, 
 And the soul to be loved at leisure. 
 
 To the ^vitty, all clear mirrors ; 
 To the foohsh, their dark errors ; 
 
 To the loving sprite 
 
 A secure delight ; 
 To the jealous liis own false terrors, 
 
 VOL. II. ^ 
 
74 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 V. 
 
 PASHIONABLE POETS. 
 
 WILLIAM EOBEET SPENCEE. 
 
 Grandson of two dukes, nursed in the very lap 
 of fashion, and coming into life at the time of all 
 others when wit and fancy, and the lighter graces 
 of poetry, were most cordially welcomed by the 
 higher circles — at a time when the star of Sheridan 
 was still in the ascendant, and that of Moore just 
 appearing on the horizon — William Spencer may 
 be regarded as much the representative of a class, 
 as John Clare, or Robert Burns. The style of his 
 verse eminently airy, polished, and graceful, as well 
 as his personal qualities, combined to render him 
 the idol of that society which, by common consent, 
 we are content to call the best. His varied accom- 
 plishments enlivened a country-house, his brilliant 
 wit formed the delight of a dinner table ; while his 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 75 
 
 singular charm of manner, and perhaps of character, 
 gave a permanency to his social success by con- 
 verting the admirers of an evening into friends for 
 life. With all these genial triumphs, however, we 
 cannot look over the little volume of graceful verse 
 which is all that now remains of so splendid a repu- 
 tation, without feeling that the author was born for 
 better, higher, more enduring purposes ; that the 
 charming trifler, whose verses forty years ago every 
 lady knew by heart, and which are now well nigh 
 forgotten, ought not to have wasted his high endow- 
 ments in wreathing garlands for festivals — ought 
 not, above all, to have gone on from youth to age, 
 leading the melancholy life which is all holiday. 
 
 Nevertheless we must accept these verses for such 
 as they are, just as we admire unquestioning the wing 
 of a butterfly, or the petal of a flower ; and in their 
 kind they are exquisite. Look at the fancy and the 
 finish of these stanzas ! 
 
 TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.* 
 
 Too late I staid, forgive the crime, 
 Unlieeded flew the hours ; 
 
 How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
 That only treads on flowers ! 
 
 * Very sweetly mated with one of the sweetest old Irish 
 
 airs, ** The Yellow Horse." 
 
 E 3 
 
76 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 What eye with clear account remarks 
 
 The ebbing of his glass, 
 When all its sands are diamond sparks 
 
 That dazzle as they pass ? 
 
 Ah ! who to sober measurement 
 
 Time's happy swiftness brings. 
 When birds of Paradise have lent 
 
 Their plumage for his wings ? 
 
 In the next extract there is an unexpected touch 
 of sentiment mixed with its playfulness that is 
 singularly captivating. 
 
 -♦ 
 
 GOOD-BYE AND HOW-D'-YE-DQ. 
 
 One day Good-bye met How-d'-ye-do, 
 
 Too close to shun saluting. 
 But soon the rival sisters flew 
 
 Erom kissing to disputing. 
 
 " Away," says How-d'-ye-do ; " youi' mien 
 
 Appals my cheerful nature. 
 No name so sad as yours is seen 
 
 In sorrow's nomenclature. 
 
 " Whene'er I give one sunshine hour. 
 
 Your cloud comes o'er to shade it : 
 Where'er I plant one bosom flower. 
 
 Your mildew drops to fade it. 
 
 "Ere How-d'-ye-do has tuned each tongue 
 To Hope's dehghtful measure. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 77 
 
 Cjood-bye in friendship's ear has rung 
 The knell of parting pleasure ! 
 
 *" Erom sorrows past my chemic skill 
 
 Draws sniiles of consolation, 
 Whilst you from present joys distil 
 
 The tears of separation." 
 
 Good-bye replied, " Your statement's tnie, 
 
 And weU your cause you've pleaded ; 
 But pray who'd think of How-d'-ye-do, 
 
 Unless Good-bye preceded ? 
 
 ""^ Without my prior influence. 
 
 Could yours have ever flourish' d ? 
 And can your hand one flower dispense. 
 
 But those my tears have nouiish'd 
 
 " How oft if at the coui't of Love 
 
 Concealment be the fashion. 
 When How-d'-ye-do has failed to move, 
 
 Good-bye reveals the passion ! 
 
 " How oft, when Cupid's fires decline, 
 
 As every heart remembers. 
 One sigh of mine, and oidy mine. 
 
 Revives the dying embers ! 
 
 ''■ Go, bid the timid lover choose, 
 
 And rU resign my charter. 
 If he for ten kind How-d'-ye-does 
 
 One kind Good-bye would barter \ 
 
78 KECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 " Trom love and friendship's kindred source 
 
 We both derive existence. 
 And they would both lose half their force. 
 
 Without our joint assistance. 
 
 *' 'Tis well the world our merit knows. 
 
 Since time, there's no denying, 
 One half in How-d'-ye-doing goes, 
 
 And t' other in Good-byeing !" 
 
 Nobody has told the tragedy of Beth-Gelert so 
 we\\ as Mr. Spencer, in his simple but elegant ballad. 
 I do not know if many persons partake my feeling 
 respecting these stories of which the animal world 
 are the heroes, but to me they seem more touching 
 than grander histories of men and women. Dumb 
 creatures — ^to use that phrase of the common people, 
 which makes in its two homely words so true an 
 appeal to our protection and our pity — dumb 
 creatures are in their love so faithful, so patient 
 in their sufferings, so submissive under wrong, so 
 powerless for remonstrance or for redress, that we 
 take their part against the human brutes, their 
 oppressors, as naturally and almost as vehemently 
 as we do that of Philoctetes against Ulysses, or of 
 Lear against Goneril. I am not sure that I do not 
 carry my sympathy still farther. In the famous 
 story of the Falcon, for instance, in Boccaccio, where 
 a lover, ruined by the charges to which he puts him- 
 self in courting an ungrateful mistress, and owing 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 79 
 
 his very existence to the game struck down for him 
 by a favourite hawk, kills the poor bird to furnish 
 forth a dinner for the haughty beauty when she at 
 last comes to visit him, I never could help thinking 
 that the enamoured cavalier made a very bad 
 exchange when he lost the falcon, and won the lady. 
 His conscience must have pricked him all his life. 
 He had not even, so far as we hear, the consolatiouj 
 such as it is, of erecting a monument to the memory 
 of his murdered favourite, on which, like Llewelyn, 
 to ^' hang his horn and spear/^ 
 
 BETH-GELERT ; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND. 
 
 The spearmen heard the bugle sound, 
 
 And cheerily smiled the morn ; 
 And many a brach and many a hound 
 
 Obeyed Llewelyn's horn. 
 
 And stiU he blew a louder blast, 
 
 And gave a lustier cheer : 
 " Come, Gelert, come, wer't never last 
 
 Llewelyn's horn to hear ! 
 
 " Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam, 
 
 The flower of aU his race ; 
 So true, so brave, a lamb at home, 
 
 A Hon in the chace ?" 
 
 'Twas only at Llewelyn's board 
 
 The faithful Gelert fed; 
 He watched, he served, he cheered his lord. 
 
 And sentinelled his bed. 
 
80 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 In sooth lie was a peerless hound, 
 
 The gift of royal John ; 
 But now no Gelert could be found. 
 
 And all the chace rode on. 
 
 And now, as o'er the rocks and dells. 
 
 The gallant chidings rise, 
 All Snowden's craggy chaos yells 
 
 The many-mingled cries. 
 
 That day Llewelyn little loved 
 The chace of hart and hare ; 
 
 And scant and small the booty proved, 
 I'or Gelert was not there. 
 
 Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied ; 
 
 When near the portal seat. 
 His truant Gelert he espied 
 
 Bounding his lord to greet. 
 
 But when he gained the castle door. 
 Aghast the chieftain stood ; 
 
 The hound all o'er was smeared with gore.. 
 His lips, his fangs, ran blood. 
 
 Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise ; 
 
 Unused such looks to meet. 
 His favourite checked his joyful guise. 
 
 And crouched and licked his feet. 
 
 Onward in haste Llewelyn passed, 
 
 And on went Gelert too ; 
 And still where'er his eyes he cast 
 
 !Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. 
 
A LITERARY LTFE. 81 
 
 O'erturned his infant's bed lie found, 
 
 With blood-stained covert rent ; 
 And all around the walls and ground 
 
 With recent blood besprent. 
 
 He called his child — no voice replied — 
 
 He searched with terror wild ; 
 Blood, blood he found on every side, 
 
 But nowhere found his child. 
 
 *' Hell-hound ! my boy's by thee devoured !" 
 
 The frantic father cried ; 
 And to the hilt his vengeful sword 
 
 He plunged in Gelert's side. 
 
 His suppliant looks as prone he fell 
 
 No pity could impart ; 
 But still his Gelert's dying yeU 
 
 Passed heavy o'er his heart. 
 
 Aroused by Gelert's dying yell 
 
 Some slumberer wakened nigh : 
 What words the parent's joy could tell 
 
 To hear his infant's cry ! 
 
 Concealed beneath a tumbled heap 
 
 His hurried search had missed : 
 All glowing from his rosy sleep 
 
 The cheinib boy he kissed. 
 
 Nor scar had he, nor harm, nor dread : 
 
 But the same couch beneath 
 Lay a gaunt wolf all torn and dead. 
 
 Tremendous still hi death. 
 
 E 3 
 
83 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain I 
 For now the trnth was clear, 
 
 His gallant hound the wolf had slain 
 To save Llewelyn's heir, 
 
 Yain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe, 
 " Best of thy kind, Adieu ! 
 
 The frantic blow that laid thee low 
 This heart shall ever rue !" 
 
 And now a gallant tomb they raise. 
 With costly sculptures decked. 
 
 And marbles storied with his praise, 
 Poor Gelert's bones protect. 
 
 There never could the spearman pass. 
 
 Or forester, unmoved ; 
 There oft the tear-besprinkled grass 
 
 Llewelyn's sorrow proved. 
 
 And there he hung his horn and spear. 
 
 And there, as evening fell. 
 In fancy's ear he oft would hear 
 
 Poor Gelert's dying yell. 
 
 And till great Snowden's rocks grow old. 
 
 And cease the storm to brave. 
 The consecrated spot shall hold 
 The name of " Gelert's e-rave V 
 
 &' 
 
 ''The Emigrant's Grave'' always seemed to me 
 eminently pathetic, and, above all, eminently true. 
 There can hardly be a country neighbourhood in 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 83 
 
 England in which the recollection of some '^poor 
 exile of France/^ equally patient, equally cheerful, 
 equally kind, may not still be found, softening 
 national animosity, and if he were (as often chanced) 
 of the priesthood, effacing the still deeper prejudice 
 that teaches the followers of Luther to dread the 
 members of the Church of Rome. 
 
 THE emigrant's GRAVE. 
 
 Why mourn ye ? Why strew ye those flowerets around 
 On yon new-sodded grave, as ye slowly advance ? 
 
 In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground !) 
 Lies the stranger we loved, the poor exile of France ! 
 
 And is the poor exile at rest from his woe, 
 
 No longer the sport of misfortune and chance ? 
 
 Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shaU flow, 
 For the stranger we loved, the poor exile of France ! 
 
 Oh ! kind was his natui-e, though bitter his fate. 
 And gay was liis converse, though broken his heart • 
 
 No comfort, no hope, his own breast could elate, 
 Though comfort and hope he to all could impart. 
 
 Ever joyless hunself, ui the joys of the plain, 
 
 The foremost was he mirth and pleasure to raise ; 
 
 How sad was his woe, yet how blithe was his strain, 
 When he sang the glad song of more fortunate days « 
 
 One pleasure he knew m his straw-cover'd shed, 
 The way-wearied traveller recruited to see ; 
 
 One tear of delight he would drop o'er the bread 
 
 Which he shared with the poor,— the still poorer than he, 
 
84) RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 And wlien round his death-bed profusely we cast 
 Every gift, every solace our hamlet could bring, 
 
 He blest us with sighs which we thought were his last. 
 But he still breathed a prayer for his country and king. 
 
 Poor exile, adieu ! undisturb'd be thy sleep ! 
 
 Prom the feast, from the wake, from the village-green 
 dance. 
 How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep 
 
 O'er the stranger we loved, the poor exile of Erance ! 
 
 To the church-bidden bride shall thy memory impart 
 One pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance ; 
 
 One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart, 
 ShaU drop on the grave of the exile of Erance ! 
 
 This is a country picture ; iu my own childhood 
 I knew many of the numerous colony which took 
 refuge in London from the horrors of the First 
 French Revolution. The lady at whose school I 
 was educated, and he was so much the more efficient 
 partner that it was his school rather than hers, had 
 married a Frenchman, who had been secretary to 
 the Comte de Moustiers, one of the last ambassadors, 
 if not the very last, from Louis Seize to the court 
 of St. Jameses. Of course he knew many emi- 
 grants of the highest rank, and indeed of all ranks ; 
 and being a lively, kind-hearted man, with a liberal 
 hand, and a social temper, it was his delight to 
 assemble as many as he could of his poor country- 
 men and countrywomen around his hospitable 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 85 
 
 supper-table. Something wonderful and admirable 
 it was to see bow these Dukes and Duchesses, Mar- 
 shals and Marquises, Chevaliers and Bishops, bore 
 up under their unparalleled reverses ! How they 
 laughed, and talked, and squabbled, and flirted, 
 constant to their high heels, their rouge, and their 
 furbelows, to their old liaisons, their polished sar- 
 casms, their cherished rivalries ! They clung even 
 to their mariages de convenance ; and the very 
 habits which would most have offended our English 
 notions, if we had seen them in their splendid 
 hotels of the Faubourg St. Germain, won tolerance 
 and pardon when mixed up with such unaffected 
 constancy, and such cheerful resignation. 
 
 For the most part these noble exiles had a trifling 
 pecuniary dependency ; some had brought with 
 them jewels enough to sustain them in their simple 
 lodgings in Knightsbridge or Pentonville ; to some 
 a faithfal steward contrived to forward the produce 
 of some estate too small to have been seized by the 
 early plunderers ; to others a rich English friend 
 would claim the privilege of returning the kindness 
 and hospitality of bygone years. But very many 
 lived literally on the produce of their own industry, 
 the gentlemen teaching languages, music, fencing 
 dancing, whilst their wives and daughters went out 
 as teachers or governesses, or supplied the shops 
 with those objects of taste in millinery or artificial 
 flowers for which their country is unrivalled. No 
 
86 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 one was ashamed of these exertions ; no one was 
 proud of them. So perfect and so honest was the 
 simplicity with which they entered upon this new 
 course of hfe, that they did not even seem conscious 
 of its merit. The hope of better days carried them 
 gaily along^ and the present evil was lost in the 
 sunshiny future. 
 
 Here and there^ however, the distress was too 
 real, too pressing to be forgotten ; in such cases our 
 good schoolmaster used to contrive all possible 
 measures to assist and to relieve. One venerable 
 couple I remember well. They bore one of the 
 highest names of Brittany, and had possessed large 
 estates, had lost their two sons, and were now in 
 their old age, their sickness, and their helplessness, 
 almost entirely dependent upon the labour of 
 Mdlle. Rose, their grand-daughter. Rose, what a 
 name for that pallid drooping creature, whose dark 
 eyes looked too large for her face, whose bones 
 seemed starting through her skin, and whose black 
 hair contrasted even fearfully with the wan com- 
 plexion from which every tinge of healthful colour 
 had long flown ! For some time these interesting 
 persons regularly attended our worthy governess's 
 supper parties, the objects of universal affection and 
 respect. Each seemed to come for the sake of the 
 other ; Mademoiselle, always bringing with her 
 some ingenious straw-plaiting to make into the 
 fancy bonnets which were then in vogue, rarely 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 87 
 
 raised her head from her work, or allowed herself 
 time to make a hasty meal. It was sad to think 
 how ceaseless must be the industry by which that 
 fair and fragile creature could support the helpless 
 couple who were cast upon her duty and her affec- 
 tion ! At last they ceased to appear at the Wed- 
 nesday parties, and very soon after (Oh ! it is the 
 poor that help the poor !) we heard that the good 
 Abbe Calonne (brother to the well-known minister) 
 had undertaken for a moderate stipend the charge 
 of the venerable Count and Countess, while Mdlle. 
 Rose, with her straw-plaiting, took up her abode in 
 our school-room, working as indefatigably through 
 our verbs and over our exercises as she had before 
 done through the rattle of the tric-trac table and 
 the ceaseless clatter of French talk. 
 
 Now this school of ours was no worse than other 
 schools ; indeed it was reckoned among the best 
 conducted, but some way or other the foul weed 
 called exclusiveness had sprung up amongst the 
 half-dozen great girls who, fifty years ago, " gave 
 our little senate laws," to a point that threatened 
 to choke and destroy every plant of a more whole- 
 some influence. Doubtless, long, long ago the 
 world and the world^s trials, prosperity with the 
 weariness and the bitterness it brings, adversity 
 with the joj^s it takes away, have tamed those proud 
 hearts ! But, at the time of which I speak, no 
 committee of Countesses deciding upon petitions 
 
88 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 for vouchers for a subscription ball ; no Chapter 
 of noble canonesses examining into the sixteen 
 quarters required for their candidate ; could by 
 possibility inquire more seriously into the nice 
 questions of station, position, and alliance than the 
 unfledged younglings who constituted our first class. 
 They were merely gentlemen^ s daughters_, and had 
 no earthly right to give themselves airs ; But I 
 suspect that we may sometimes see in elder gentle- 
 women the same disproportion, and that those who 
 might, from birth, fortune, and position assume 
 such a right, will be the very last to exert their 
 privilege. Luckily for me I was a little girl, pro- 
 tected by my youth and insignificance from the 
 danger of a contagion which it requires a good deal 
 of moral courage to resist. I remember wondering 
 how Mdlle. Rose, with her incessant industry, her 
 open desire to sell her bonnets, and her shabby 
 cotton gown, would escape from our censors. 
 Happily she was spared, avowedly because her birth 
 was noble — perhaps because, with all their vulgar 
 denunciations of vulgarity, their fineries, and their 
 vanities, the young girls were better than they 
 knew, and respected in their hearts the very humi- 
 lity which they denounced. 
 
 If, however, there were something about the fair 
 Frenchwoman that held in awe the spirit of girlish 
 impertinence, chance soon bestowed upon them, in 
 the shape of a new pupil^ an object which called 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 89 
 
 forth all their worst qualities, without stint and 
 without impediment. 
 
 The poor child who was destined to become their 
 victim^ was a short squat figure, somewhere about 
 nine or ten years of age ; awkward in her carriage, 
 plain in her features, ill-dressed and over-dressed. 
 She happened to arrive at the same time with the 
 French dancing- master, a Marquis of the ancien 
 regime, of whom I am sorry to say, that he seemed 
 so at home in his Terpsichorean vocation, that one 
 could hardly fancy him fit for any other. (Were 
 not les Marquis of the old French comedy very much 
 like dancing-masters ? I am sure Moliere thought 
 so.) At the same time with the French dancing- 
 master did our new fellow-pupil amve, led into the 
 room by her father ; he did not stay five minutes, 
 but that time was long enough to strike Monsieur 
 with a horror, evinced by a series of shrugs which 
 soon rendered the dislike reciprocal. I never saw 
 such a contrast between two men. The Frenchman 
 was slim, and long, and pale ; and allowing always 
 for the dancing-master air, which in my secret soul 
 I thought never could be allowed for, he might be 
 called elegant. The Englishman was the beau ideal 
 of a John Bull, portentous in size, broad, and red of 
 visage ; loud of tongue, and heavy in step ; he shook 
 the room as he strode, and made the walls echo 
 when he spoke. I rather liked the man, there was 
 so much character about him_, and in spite of the 
 
90 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 coarseness^ so much that was bold and hearty. 
 Monsieur shrugged to be sure, but he seemed hkely 
 to run away, especially when the stranger's first 
 words conveyed an injunction to the lady of the 
 house, " to take care that no grinning Frenchman 
 had the ordering of his Betsy^s feet. If she must 
 learn to dance, let her be taught by an honest 
 Englishman.^'' After which declaration, kissing the 
 little girl very tenderly, the astounding papa took 
 his departure. 
 
 Poor Betsy ! there she sate, the tears trickling 
 down her cheeks, little comforted by the kind notice 
 of the governess and the English teacher, and 
 apparently insensible to the silent scorn of her new 
 companions. For my own part, I entertained to- 
 wards her much of that pity which results from 
 recent experience of the same sort of distress, — 
 
 " A fellow-feeliiig makes us wondrous kind." 
 
 I was a little girl myself, abundantly shy and 
 awkward, and I had not forgotten the heart-tug of 
 leaving home, and the terrible loneliness of the first 
 day at school. Moreover, I suspected that in one 
 respect she was much more an object of compassion 
 than myself ; I believed her to be motherless : so 
 when I thought nobody was looking or listening, I 
 made some girlish advances towards acquaintance- 
 ship, which she was still too shy or too miserable to 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. Ql 
 
 return, so that, easily repelled myself, as a bashful 
 child is, our intercourse came to nothing. With 
 my elders and betters, the cancan, who ruled the 
 school, Betsy stood if possible lower than ever. 
 They had had the satisfaction to discover not only 
 that he lived in the Borough, but that her father 
 (horror of horrors !) was an eminent cheesefactor ! — 
 a seller of Stilton ! That he was very rich, and had 
 a brother an alderman, rather made matters worse. 
 Poor Betsy only escaped being sent to Coventry by 
 the lucky circumstance of her going that meta- 
 phorical journey of her own accord, and never under 
 any temptation speaking to anybody one unneces- 
 sary word. 
 
 As far as her lessons went she was, from the false 
 indulgence with which she had been treated, very 
 backward for her age. Our school was, however, 
 really excellent as a place of instruction ; so no 
 studies were forced upon her, and she was left to 
 get acquainted with the house and its ways, and to 
 fall into the ranks as she could. 
 
 For the present she seemed to have attached 
 herself to Mdlle. Rose, attracted probably by the 
 sweetness of her countenance, her sadness, and her 
 silence. Her speech could not have attracted Betsy, 
 for in common with many of her exiled country- 
 folk, she had not in nearly ten years^ residence in 
 England learned to speak five English words. But 
 
92 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 something- had won her affection. She had on first 
 being called by the governess, from the dark corner 
 in which she had ensconced herself, crept to the 
 side of the young Frenchwoman, had watched her 
 as she wove her straw plaits, had attempted the 
 simple art with some discarded straws that lay 
 scattered upon the floor ; and when Mademoiselle, 
 so far roused herself as to show her the proper way, 
 and to furnish her with the material, she soon 
 became a most efficient assistant in this branch of 
 industry. 
 
 No intercourse took place between them. Indeed, 
 as I have said, none was possible, since neither 
 knew a word of the other^s language. Betsy was 
 silence personified; and poor Mdlle. Rose, always 
 pensive and reserved, was now more than ever 
 dejected and oppressed. An opportunity of return- 
 ing to France had opened to her, and was passing 
 away. She herself was too young to be included in 
 the list of emigrants, and interest had been made 
 with the French Consul for the re-admission of her 
 venerable parents, and perhaps for the idtimate 
 recovery of some property still unsold. But her 
 grandfather was so aged, and her grandmother so 
 sickly, that the expenses of a voyage and a journey, 
 then very formidable tew the old and the infirm, were 
 beyond her means, beyond even her hopes. So she 
 sighed over her straw-plaiting, and submitted. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 93 
 
 In the meantime the second Saturday arrived, 
 and with it a summons home to Betsy, who, for the 
 first time gathering courage to address our good 
 governess, asked " if she might be trusted with the 
 bonnet Mdlle. Eose had just finished, to show her 
 aunt — she knew she would like to buy that bonnet, 
 because Mademoiselle had been so good as to let 
 her assist in plaiting it/^ How she came to know 
 that they were for sale nobody could tell j but our 
 kind governess ordered the bonnet to be put into 
 the carriage, told her the price — (no extravagant 
 one!) — called her a good child, and took leave of 
 her till Monday. 
 
 Two hours after Betsy and her father re-appeared 
 in the school-room. " Ma^amselle," said he, bawling 
 as loud as he could, with the view, as we afterwards 
 conjectured, of making her understand him, — 
 '^ Ma^amselle, Fve no great love for the French, 
 whom I take to be our natural enemies. But you^re 
 a good young woman ; you\e been kind to my 
 Betsy, and have taught her how to make your 
 fallals ; and moreover you^'e a good daughter ; and 
 so^s my Betsy. She says that she thinks you''re 
 fretting, because you can^t manage to take your 
 grandfather and grandmother back to France again; 
 - — so as you let her help you in that other handy- 
 work, why you must let her help you in this.^^ 
 Then throwing a heavy purse into her lap, catching 
 
94 RECOLLECTIONS OP 
 
 his little daughter up in his arms, and hugging her 
 to the honest breast where she hid her tears and her 
 blushes, he departed, leaving poor Mdlle. Rose too 
 much bewildered to speak, or to comprehend the 
 happiness that had fallen upon her, and the whole 
 school the better for the lesson. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE 95 
 
 VI. 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OE DRAMATIC AUTHORS, 
 
 COLLET CIBBEE — RICHAED CTJMEEELAND. 
 
 Of all literary fascinations there is none like that 
 of the Drama_, written or acted. None that begins 
 so early^ or that lasts so long. 
 
 With regard to actors, it is a sort of possession by 
 evil spirits. Boys and girls from the school-room^ 
 and the counting-house, the shop-board, or the 
 college, rush upon the stage, forsaking home and 
 comfort, and the thousand realities of life, in chase 
 of the phantom. Fame. And in authorship, the 
 passion, although not perhaps so common, is 
 hardly less engrossing, or less destructive. The 
 '^ Honeymoon/^ one of the most delightful of mo- 
 dern comedies, was the seventh play presented by 
 poor Tobin to different managers. He died, I 
 believe, the very same night that it was performed 
 
96 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 with unrivalled success^ certainly before the intelli- 
 gence of its triumph could reach him. Gerald 
 Griffin was even less fortunate. ^^ Gisippus^^ was 
 rejected on all hands^ and only produced after his 
 death J and after the destruction of his other trage- 
 dies, to secure for its author a posthumous reputa- 
 tion. Many, no doubt_, more unfortunate still, have 
 died and left no name j and many may still exist, 
 dragging after them a weary weight of hope deferred, 
 and genius unrecognised. 
 
 I have some right to talk of the love of the 
 drama, the passionate, absorbing, worshipping love 
 since it took possession of me at the earliest age, 
 and clung to me long. Nay, I am not even now abso- 
 lutely sure, that if the Cruvellis and the Viardots 
 would but say, instead of sing ; if we might but see 
 in tragedy the dramatic power lavished upon opera, 
 I might not be simple enough to take up once more 
 my old enthusiasm, and haunt the theatres at sixty- 
 five ! Luckily, the age is a musical age, and there 
 is small danger that any Queen of Song should 
 exchange her notes for words — especially in a coun- 
 try where the notes of a prima donna are synony- 
 mous with bank notes. 
 
 The first play I remember to have seen was in a 
 barn — tragedy of course — the tragedy dear to heroes 
 of the buskin, and no less dear to their youthful 
 auditors, '^ Richard the Third.'' Ah ! I should 
 have asked nothing better than to see Richard mur- 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 97 
 
 dered in that barn eveiy night ! Then came other 
 play-goings more legitimate ; and readings of Shake- 
 speare by bits^ and here and there,, I scarcely know 
 how or when. For it may be reckoned amongst the 
 best and dearest of our English privileges, that we 
 are all more or less educated in Shakespeare ; that 
 the words and thoughts of the greatest of poets are, 
 as it were, engrafted into our minds, and must, to a 
 certain extent, enrich and fructify the most barren 
 stock. Shakespeare came to me I cannot tell how. 
 But my first great fit of dramatic reading was, I am 
 ashamed to saj^, of very questionable origin ; a 
 stolen pleasure; and therefore — alas! for our poor 
 sinful human nature ! — therefore by very far more 
 dear. 
 
 This is the story. 
 
 My childhood was, as I have elsewhere said, a 
 very happy one ; scarcely less happy in the great 
 London school where I past the five years between 
 ten years old and fifteen, than at home : to tell the 
 truth, I was well nigh as much spoilt in one place 
 as in the other ; but as I was a quiet and orderly 
 little girl, and fell easily into the rules of the house, 
 there was no great harm done, either to me or to the 
 school discipline. 
 
 One exception, however, did exist, both to my 
 felicity and to my obedience, and that one might be 
 comprised in the single word — Music. 
 
 How my father, who certainly never knew the tune 
 
 VOL. II. F 
 
98 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 of ^^God save the King'^from that of the other national 
 air " Kule Britannia/' came to take into his head so 
 strong a fancy to make me an accomplished musician_, 
 I couldnever rightly understand, but that such a fancy 
 did possess him I found to my sorrow ! From the 
 day I was five years old, he stuck me up to the piano, 
 and although teacher after teacher had discovered 
 that I had neither ear, nor taste, nor application, he 
 continued fully bent upon my learning it. By the 
 time my London education commenced, it had 
 assumed the form of a fixed idea. 
 
 The regular master employed in the school was 
 Mr. Hook (father of Theodore), then a popular com- 
 poser of Vauxhall songs, and an instructor of 
 average ability. A large smooth-faced man he was, 
 good-natured, and civil spoken ; but failing, as 
 in my case everybody else had failed, to produce the 
 slightest improvement, my father, not much struck 
 by his appearance or manner, decided as usual that 
 the fault lay with the teacher ; and happening one 
 day to fall in with a very clever little German Pro- 
 fessor, who was giving lessons to two of my school- 
 fellows, he at once took me from the tuition of 
 Mr. Hook, and placed me under that of Herr Schu- 
 berl, who, an impatient, irritable man of genius, 
 very speedily avenged the cause of his rival music- 
 master, by dismissing in her turn the unlucky 
 pupil. 
 
 Things being in this unpromising state, I began 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 99 
 
 to entertain some hope that my musical education 
 would be given up altogether. In this expectation 
 I did injustice to my father's pertinacity. This time 
 he threw the blame upon the instrument ; and be- 
 cause I could make nothing after eight years' 
 thumping upon the piano-forte^ resolved that I 
 should become a great performer upon the harp. 
 
 It so happened that our school-house (the same 
 by the way, in which poor Miss Landon passed the 
 greater part of her life,) forming one angle of an 
 irregular octagon place, was so built that the prin- 
 cipal reception room was connected with the en- 
 trance-hall by a long passage and two double doors. 
 This room, fitted up with nicely bound books, con- 
 tained, amongst other musical instruments, the 
 harp, upon which I was sent to practise every morn- 
 ing j sent alone, most comfortably out of sight and 
 hearing of every individual in the house, the only 
 means of approach being through two resounding 
 green baize doors, swinging to with a heavy bang, 
 the moment they were let go ; so that as the change 
 from piano to harp, and from the impulsive Herr 
 Schuberl to the prim, demure little Miss Essex, my 
 new music-mistress, had by no means worked the 
 miracle of producing in me any love of that detest- 
 able art, I very shortly betook myself to the book- 
 shelves, and seeing a row of octavo volumes lettered 
 '' Theatre de Voltaire,'' I selected one of them, and 
 had deposited it in front of the music-stand, and 
 
 F 2 
 
100 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 perched myself upon the stool to read it in less time 
 than an ordinary pupil would have consumed in 
 getting through the first three bars of " Ar Hyd y 
 Nos/^ 
 
 The play upon which I opened was " Zaire/^ 
 " Zaire^^ is not " Richard the Third/^ any more 
 than M. de Voltaire is Shakespeare ; nevertheless, 
 the play has its merits. There is a certain romance 
 in the situation ; an interest in the story ; a mixture 
 of Christian piety and Oriental fervour, which strikes 
 the imagination. So I got through " Zaire/^ and 
 when I had finished " Zaire," I proceeded to other 
 plays— "CEdipe," " Merope/' ^^ Alzire/' ^^Mahomet/' 
 plays well worth reading, but not so absorbing as to 
 prevent my giving due attention to the warning 
 doors, and putting the book in its place, and strik- 
 ing the chords of " Ar Hyd y Nos," as often as I 
 heard a step approaching ; or gathering up myself 
 and my music, and walking quietly back to the 
 school-room as soon as the hour for practice had 
 expired. 
 
 But when the dramas of Voltaire were exhausted, 
 and I had recourse to some neighbouring volumes, 
 the state of matters changed at once. The new 
 volumes contained the comedies of Moliere, and, 
 once plunged into the gay realities of his delightful 
 world, ail the miseries of this globe of ours — harp, 
 music-books, practisings, and lessons — were for- 
 gotten ; Miss Essex melted into thin air, ^' Ar Hyd 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. lOl 
 
 y Nos'^ became a nonentity. I never recollected 
 that there was such a thing as time : I never heard 
 the warning doors ; the only tribulations that trou- 
 bled me were the tribulations of " Sganarelle f the 
 only lessons I thought about — the lessons of the 
 " Bourgeois Gentilhomme." So I was caudit • 
 caught in the very fact of laughing till I cried^ over 
 the apostrophes of the angry father to the galley^ in 
 which he is told his son has been taken captive. 
 " Que diable alloit-il faire dans cette galere V The 
 apostrophe comes true with regard to somebody in 
 a scrape during every moment of every day, and Avas 
 never more applicable than to myself at that 
 instant. 
 
 Luckily, however, the person who discovered my 
 delinquency was one of my chief spoilers, the hus- 
 band of our good school-mistress, himself a French- 
 man, an adorer of the great dramatist of France, 
 and no worshipper of music. He was also a very 
 clever man, with a strong and just conviction that 
 no proficiency in any art could be gained without 
 natural qualifications and sincere good will. Ac- 
 cordingly, when he cpuld speak for laughing, what he 
 said sounded far more like a compliment upon my 
 relish for the comic drama than a rebuke. I suppose 
 that he spoke to the same effect to my father. At all 
 events, the issue of the affair was the dismissal of 
 the poor little harp-mistress, and a present of a 
 cheap edition of Moliere for my own reading. 1 
 
102 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 have got the set still — twelve little foreign-looking 
 books, unbound, but covered with a gay-looking 
 pink paper, mottled with red, like certain carna- 
 tions. 
 
 Such was my first regular, or rather irregular, 
 introduction to the delightful world of the written 
 drama. Since then I have read in the originals, or 
 in such translations as I could lay my hands upon, 
 the plays of almost every country, from the grand 
 tragedy of the Greeks (perhaps, next to Shake- 
 speare and INIoliere, the finest drama that exists), 
 down to Claudie, the charming French pastoral, 
 which fell in my way last month. 
 
 Besides the plays themselves, the history of their 
 w^riters has always had for me a singular attraction, 
 especially when such histories have been wTitten by 
 themselves. 
 
 Colley Gibber, one of the earliest of these dramatic 
 autobiographers, is also one of the most pleasing. He 
 flourished in wig and embroidery, player, poet, and 
 manager, during the Augustan age of Queen Anne, 
 somewhat earlier and somewhat later. A most 
 egregious fop according to all accounts he was, but 
 a very pleasant one notwithstanding, as your fop of 
 parts is apt to be. Pope gained but little in the 
 warfare he waged with him, for this plain reason, 
 that the great poet accuses his adversary of dulness, 
 which was not by any means one of his sins, instead 
 of selecting one of the numerous faults, such as 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 103 
 
 pertness, petulance, and presumption, of which he 
 was really guilty. 
 
 His best book, the " Apology for his Life,'' shows 
 thathe was a keen observer and a pleasant describer of 
 his brother actors. My first extract is taken from a 
 higher stage, and is one of the many graphic touches 
 that give us so complete and personal a knowledge 
 of the Merry Monarch, and make us almost par- 
 takers of the kindness which (unjustly, I suppose) 
 was felt towards him by his subjects. 
 
 ^- In February, 1684-5, died King Charles II., 
 who being the only king I had ever seen, I remem- 
 ber, young as I was, his death made a strong im- 
 pression upon me, as it drew tears from the eyes of 
 multitudes who looked no farther into him than I 
 did. But what, perhaps, gave King Charles this 
 peculiar possession of so many hearts was his affable 
 and easy manner in conversing, which is a quality 
 that goes farther with the greater part of mankind 
 than many higher virtues which in a prince might 
 more immediately regard the public prosperity. 
 Even his indolent amusement of playing with his 
 dogs, and feeding his ducks in St. James's Park 
 (which I have seen him do), made the common 
 people adore him." 
 
 The allusion in the next passage is probably to 
 Titus Gates : 
 
 " The inferior actors took occasion, whenever they 
 appeared as bravoes or murderers, to make them- 
 
104 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 selves appear as frightful and inhuman figures as 
 possible. In King Charleses time^ this low skill 
 was carried to such an extravagance, that the King 
 himself, who was black-browed and of a swarthy- 
 complexion, passed a pleasant remark upon his 
 observing the grim looks of the murderers in ' Mac- 
 beth/ when turning to his people in the box about 
 him, "^ Pray what is the meaning,'' said he, '^that 
 we never see a rogue in a play, but odds fish ! they 
 always clap him on a black periwig, when it is well 
 known one of the greatest rogues in England always 
 wears a fair one V '' 
 
 Here are some vivid portraits of actors. 
 
 " This actor (Sandford) in his manner of speaking 
 varied very much from those I have already men- 
 tioned. His voice had an acute and piercing tone, 
 which struck every syllable of his words distinctly 
 upon the ear. He had likewise a peculiar skill in 
 his way of marking out to an audience whatever he 
 judged worth their more than ordinary notice. 
 When he delivered a command, he would sometimes 
 give it more force by seeming to slight the orna- 
 ment of harmony. * * * Had Sandford lived 
 in Shakespeare's time, I am confident his judgment 
 would have chosen him above all other actors to 
 have played his Richard III. I leave his person 
 out of the question, which though naturally made 
 for it, yet that would have been the least part of 
 his recommendation. Sandford had stronger claims 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 105 
 
 to it. He had sometimes an uncoutli stateliness in 
 his motion, a harsh and sullen pride of speech, a 
 meditating brow, a stern aspect, occasionally chang- 
 ing into an almost ludicrous triumph over all 
 goodness and virtue ; from thence falling into the 
 most persuasive gentleness and soothing candour 
 of a designing heart. These, I say, must have 
 preferred him to it.^^ 
 
 * * ^ 
 
 ^^Nokes was an actor of a quite different genius 
 from any I have ever read, heard of, or seen, since 
 or before his time ; and yet his general excellence 
 may be comprehended in one article, viz., a plain 
 and palpable simplicity of nature, which was so 
 utterly his own, that he was often as unaccountably 
 diverting in his common speech as on the stage. 
 I saw him once giving an account of some table- 
 talk to another actor behind the scenes, which a 
 man of quality accidentally listening to, was so de- 
 ceived by his manner, that he asked him if that was 
 a new play he was rehearsing. * * * He scarce 
 ever made his first entry in a play but he was 
 received with an involuntary applause, not of hands 
 only, but by a general laughter, which the sight of 
 him provoked and nature could not resist ; yet the 
 louder the laugh, the graver was his look upon it 
 and even the ridiculous solemnity of his features 
 was enough to have set a whole bench of bishops 
 
 F 3 
 
106 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 into a titter^ could he have been honoured with 
 such grave and right reverend auditors. In the 
 ludicrous distresses which by the law of comedy 
 folly is often involved in, he sunk into such a mix- 
 ture of piteous pusillanimity and a consternation so 
 ruefully ridiculous and inconsolable, that when he 
 had shook you to a fatigue of laughter it became a 
 moot point whether you ought not to have pitied 
 him. When he debated any matter by himself, he 
 would shut up his mouth with a dumb, studious 
 pout, and roll his full eye into such a vacant amaze- 
 ment, such a palpable ignorance of what to think of 
 it, that his silent perplexity gave your imagination 
 as full content as the most absurd thing he could 
 say upon it. * -^^ * His person was of the 
 middle size ; his voice clear and audible ; his 
 natural countenance grave and sober. In some of 
 his low characters that became it he had a shuffling 
 shamble in his gait, with so contented an ignorance 
 in his aspect, and such an awkward absurdity in his 
 gesture, that had you not known him, you could 
 not believe that naturally he had a grain of common 
 sense. ^^ 
 
 Nature sometimes reproduces itself. There is 
 much in this description to remind us of the late 
 Mr. Liston. The following observations upon the 
 great tragedian Betterton^s personation of Hamlet 
 are in the best style of dramatic criticism : 
 
 ''^ You may have seen a Hamlet, perhaps, who on 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 107 
 
 the first appearance of his father's spirit has thrown 
 himself into all the straining vociferation requisite 
 to express rage and fury ; and the house has thun- 
 dered applause, though the misguided actor was all 
 the while tearing a passion into rags. The late Mr. 
 Addison^ whilst I sate by him to see this scene 
 acted^ made the same observation, asking me with 
 some surprise if I thought Hamlet should be in so 
 violent a passion with the ghost, which, though it 
 might have astonished, had not provoked him. For 
 you may observe that in this beautiful speech the 
 passion never rises beyond an almost breathless 
 astonishment, or an impatience limited only by 
 filial reverence to inquire into the suspected wTongs 
 that may have raised him from his peaceful tomb, 
 and a desire to know what a spirit so seemingly 
 distressed might wish or enjoin a sorrowful son to 
 execute towards his future quiet in the grave. This 
 was the light into which Betterton threw this scene, 
 which he opened with a pause of mute amazement ; 
 then rising slowly to a solemn, trembling voice, he 
 made the ghost equally terrible to the spectator as 
 to himself; and in the descriptive part of the natural 
 emotions which the ghostly vision gave him, the 
 boldness of his expostulation was still governed by 
 decency— manly, but not braving— his voice never 
 rising into that seeming outrage or wild defiance of 
 what he naturally revered."' 
 
 The book is full of pictures like this : 
 
108 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 '^'In tlie solemn formality of Obadiah in '^^The 
 Committee/^ he (Underliill) seemed the immoveable 
 log he stood for ; a countenance of wood could 
 not be more fixed than his when the blockhead oi 
 a character required it. His face was full and loDg ; 
 from his crown to the end of his nose^ was the 
 shorter half of it ; so that the disproportion of his 
 lower features, when soberly composed with an 
 unwandering eye hanging over them, threw him 
 into the most lumpish, moping mortal that ever 
 made beholders merry /^ 
 
 Little bits of truth like this are also plentiful : 
 
 " From whence I would observe, that the short 
 life of beauty is not long enough to form a complete 
 actress/^ 
 
 Colley Gibber survived to his eighty- seventh 
 year, retaining to the last the companionable qua- 
 lities which had made his society coveted by persons 
 of all ranks, and dying at last without decay and 
 without pain. 
 
 Richard Cumberland is another vivacious speci- 
 men of dramatic authorship — more vivacious in his 
 " Life^^ (I mean his printed life) than on the stage. 
 Son of a popular and amiable bishop, grandson of 
 the very learned but unpopular and un amiable 
 scholar. Dr. Bentley, he competed successfully at 
 Cambridge for the honours of the University^ took 
 a high degree, obtained a Fellowship of Trinity^ 
 and might, probably, have attained to his grand- 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 109 
 
 father's station as head of that eminent College, had 
 he not been tempted by Lord Halifax to accept the 
 post of his private secretary, a career for which the 
 eminently irritable and susceptible temper, which 
 Sheridan has devoted to a cruel immortality in his 
 Sir Fretful Plagiary, rendered him eminently unfit. 
 
 It was, however, a very good position for seeing 
 the world, and becoming acquainted with men of 
 high name and various character. 
 
 This is his first impression of Garrick as an actor. 
 The play was " The Fair Penitent. '^ 
 
 ^' Quin presented himself, upon the rising of the 
 curtain, in a green velvet coat, embroidered down 
 the seams, an enormous full-bottomed periwig, 
 rolled stockings, and high-heeled, square-toed 
 shoes ; with very little variation of cadence, and in a 
 deep, full tone, accompanied by a sawing kind of 
 actioD, which had more of the senate than the stage 
 in it, he rolled out his heroics with an air of dig- 
 nified indifference that seemed to disdain the plau- 
 dits that were show^ered upon him — Mrs. Gibber, in a 
 key high pitched, but sweet withal, sang, or rather 
 recitatived, Rowers harmonious strain. But when, 
 after long and eager expectation, I first beheld little 
 Garrick, then young and light, and alive in every 
 muscle and in every feature, come bounding on the 
 stage, and pointing at the wittol Altamont and 
 the heavy-paced Horatio (Heavens, what a tran- 
 sition !) it seemed as if a whole century had been 
 
110 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 swept over in the space of a single scene ; old 
 things were done away and a new order at once 
 brought forward bright and luminous_, and clearly 
 destined to dispel the barbarisms and bigotry of a 
 tasteless age^ too long attached to the prejudices of 
 custom, and saperstitiously devoted to the illusions 
 of imposing declamation/' 
 
 His first introduction to official life was little to 
 his taste. 
 
 ^^The morning after my arrival, 1 waited on 
 Mr. Pownall at his office in Whitehall, and was 
 received by him with all possible politeness^ but in 
 a style of such ceremony and form as 1 was little 
 used to, and not much delighted with. How many 
 young men at my time of life would have embraced 
 this situation with rapture. The whole town indeed 
 was before me, but it had not for me either friend 
 or relation to whom I could resort for comfort or for 
 counsel. With a head filled with Greek and Latin, 
 and a heart left behind me in my college, I was 
 completely out of my element. 1 saw myself unlike 
 the people about me, and was embarrassed in circles, 
 which, according to the manners of those days, were 
 not to be approached without a set of ceremonies 
 and manoeuvres not very pleasant to perform, and 
 when awkwardly performed not very edifying to 
 behold. In these graces Lord Halifax was a model ; 
 his address was noble and imposing ; he could never 
 be mistaken for less than he was_, whilst his official 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. HI 
 
 secretary, Pownall, who egregiously overacted his 
 imitations of him, could as little be mistaken for 
 more than he was/^ 
 
 One of his happiest characters is that of Bubb 
 Dodiogton. 
 
 '' His town house in Pall Mall, his villa at Ham- 
 mersmith, and his mansion in the country, were 
 such establishments as few nobles in the nation 
 were possessed of. In either of these he was not 
 to be approached but through a suite of apartments, 
 and rarely seated but under painted ceilings and 
 gilt entablatures. In his villa you were conducted 
 through two rows of antique statues, ranged in 
 a gallery floored with the rarest marbles, and 
 enriched with columns of granite and lapis-lazuli ; 
 his saloon was hung with the finest Gobelin tapestry, 
 and he slept in a bed encanopied with peacocks^ 
 feathers, in the style of Mrs. Montagu. When he 
 passed from Pall Mall to La Trappe, it was always 
 in a coach, which I could suspect had been his 
 ambassadorial equipage at Madrid, drawn by six 
 fat, unwieldy black horses, short docked, and of 
 colossal dignity. Neither was he less characteristic 
 in apparel than in equipage. He had a wardrobe 
 loaded with rich and glaring suits, each in itself a 
 load to the wearer ; and of these I have no doubt 
 but many were coeval with his embassy above 
 mentioned, and every birth-day had added to the 
 stock. In doing this he so contrived as never to 
 
112 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 put his old dresses out of countenance by any vari- 
 ation in the fashion of the new. In the meantime 
 his bulk and corpulence gave full display to a vast 
 expanse and profusion of brocade and embroidery; 
 and this^ when set off with an enormous tie, peri- 
 wig and deep laced ruffles, gave the picture of an 
 ancient courtier in his gala habit, or Quin in his 
 stage dress. Nevertheless it must be confessed 
 this style, though out of date, was not out of cha- 
 racter, but harmonized so well with the person of 
 the wearer, that I remember, when he made his first 
 speech in the House of Peers as Lord Melcombe, all 
 the flashes of his wit, all the studied phrases and 
 well-timed periods of his rhetoric lost their effect, 
 simply because the orator had laid aside his magis- 
 terial tie, and put on a modern bag wig, which was 
 as much out of costume upon the broad expanse of 
 his shoulders as a cue would have been upon the 
 robes of the Lord Chief Justice. 
 
 " Having thus dilated more, perhaps, than I 
 should have done upon this distinguished person^s 
 passion for magnificence and display, when 1 pro- 
 ceed to inquire into those principles of good taste 
 which should naturally have been the accompani- 
 ments and directors of that mas-nificence, I fear 
 I must be compelled by truth to admit that in these 
 he was deficient. Of pictures he seemed to take 
 his estimate only by their cost : in fact, he was 
 not possessed of any ; but I recollect his saying to 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 113 
 
 me one day in his great saloon at Eastbury, that if 
 he had half a score pictures of a thousand pounds 
 a-piece, he would gladly decorate his walls with 
 them j in place of which^ I am sorry to say, he had 
 stuck up immense patches of gilt leather, shaped 
 into bugle-horns, upon hangings of rich crimson 
 velvet ; and round his state bed he displayed a car- 
 peting of gold and silver embroidery, which too 
 glaringly betrayed its derivation from coat, waist- 
 coat and breeches, by the testimony of pockets, 
 button-holes and loops, with other equally incon- 
 trovertible witnesses subpoenaed from the tailor^s 
 shopboard/^ 
 
 Lord Halifax is sent as Lord-Lieutenant to Ire- 
 land, to which we owe the following portrait of a 
 great celebrity of Dublin. 
 
 ^^ I had more than once the amusement of 
 dining at the house of that most singular being, 
 George Faulkner, where I found myself in a com- 
 pany so miscellaneously and whimsically classed, 
 that it looked more like a fortuitous concourse of 
 oddities jumbled together from all ranks, orders and 
 descriptions, than the effect of invitation and 
 design. Description must fall short in the attempt 
 to convey any sketch of that eccentric being to 
 those who have not read him in the pages of 
 Jephson, or seen him in the mimicry of Foote, who, 
 in his portraits of Faulkner, found the only sitter 
 whom his extravagant pencil could not caricature ; 
 
114 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 for he had a solemn intrepidity of egotism and a 
 daring contempt of absurdity that fairly outfaced 
 imitation, and like Garrick^s ' Ode on Shakespeare/ 
 which Johnson said defied criticism, so did George, 
 in the original spirit of his own perfect buffoonery, 
 defy caricature. He never deigned to join in the 
 laugh that he had raised, nor seemed to have a 
 feeling of the ridicule he had provoked. At the 
 same time that he was pre-eminently and by pre- 
 ference the butt and buiffoon of the company, he 
 could find openings for hits of retaliation which 
 were such left-handed thrusts as few could parry. 
 Nobody could foresee where they would fall, no- 
 body, of course, was fore-armed; and as there was 
 in his calculation but one super-eminent character 
 in the kingdom of Ireland, and he, the printer of 
 the ^ Dublin Journal,^ there was no shield against 
 George^s arrows, which flew where he listed and hit 
 or missed as chance directed, he cared not about 
 consequences. 
 
 '^ He gave good meat and excellent claret in 
 abundance ; I sate at his table once from dinner till 
 two in the morning, while George swallowed im- 
 mense potations with one solitary sodden straw- 
 berry in the bottom of the glass, which he said was 
 recommended to him for its cooling properties. He 
 never lost his recollection or equilibrium the whole 
 time, and was in excellent foolery ; it was a singular 
 coincidence, that there was a person in company 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 115 
 
 who had received his reprieve at the gallows, and the 
 very judge who had passed sentence of death upon 
 him. This did not in the least disturb the 
 harmony of the society nor embarrass any human 
 creature present. All went off perfectly smooth, 
 and George, adverting to an original portrait of 
 Dean Swift, which hung in the room, told us 
 abundance of excellent and interesting anecdotes of 
 the Dean and himself with minute precision and an 
 importance irresistibly ludicrous. There was also a 
 portrait of his late lady, Mrs. Faulkner, which 
 either made the painter or George a liar, for it was 
 frightfully ugly, whilst he swore she was the most 
 divine object in creation. George prosecuted Foote 
 for lampooning him on the stage of Dublin. His 
 counsel, the Prime Sergeant, compared him to 
 Socrates, and his libeller to Aristophanes. This, I 
 believe, was all that George got by his course of 
 law, but he was told he had the best of the bargain 
 in the comparison, and sate contented under the 
 shadow of his laurels.^' 
 
 The account of Soame Jenyns is no less happy. 
 
 " A disagreement about a name or a date will 
 mar the best story that ever was put together. 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds luckily would not hear an 
 interrupter of this sort ; Johnson would not hear, 
 or if he heard, would not heed him. Soame Jenyns 
 heard him, heeded him, set him right, and took up 
 his tale where he had left it without any diminution 
 
116 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 of its humour, adding only a few more twists to his 
 snuflf-box, a few more taps upon the lid of it, with a 
 preparatory grunt or two, the invariable forerunner 
 of the amenity that was at the heels of them. He 
 was the man who bore his part in all societies with 
 the most even temper and undisturbed hilarity of 
 any man I ever knew. He came into your house at 
 the very moment you had put upon your card; he 
 dressed himself, to do your party honour, in all the 
 colours of the jay ; his lace, indeed, had long since 
 lost its lustre,, but his coat had faithfully retained 
 its cut since the day when gentlemen wore em- 
 broidered figured velvets, with short sleeves, high 
 cuffs, and buckram skirts. As Nature had cast him 
 in the exact mould of an ill-made pair of stiff stays, 
 he followed her so close in the fashion of his coat, 
 that it was doubted if he did not wear them ; be- 
 cause he had a protuberant wen just under his poll, 
 he wore a wig that did not cover above half his head. 
 His eyes were protruded like the eyes of the lobster, 
 who wears them at the end of his feelers, and yet 
 there was room between one of these and his nose 
 for another wen, that added nothing to his beauty. 
 Yet I heard this good man very innocently remark, 
 when Gibbon published his history, that he won- 
 dered anybody so ugly could write a book. 
 
 "Such was the exterior of a man who was the 
 charm of the circle, and gave a zest to every com- 
 pany he came into. His pleasantry was of a sort 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 117 
 
 peculiar to himself; it harmonized with eveiything; 
 it was like the bread to your dinner ; you did not 
 perhaps make it the whole or principal part of your 
 meal^ but it was an admirable and wholesome 
 auxiliary to your other viands. Soame Jenyns told 
 you no long stories, engrossed not much of your 
 attention, and was not angry with those who did. 
 His thoughts were original, and were apt to have a 
 very whimsical affinity to the paradox in them. 
 There was a terseness in his repartees that had a 
 play of words as well as of thought, as when speak- 
 ing of the difference of laying out money upon land, 
 or purchasing into the funds, he said ' One was 
 principal without interest, and the other interest 
 without principal.^ '' 
 
 Although the serious part of " The ^^Hbeel of For- 
 tune,^^ that is to say, the whole character of Penruddock 
 is admirably conceived and admirably written, (the 
 recollection of John Kemble in that play can never 
 be erased). Mr. Cumberland's power seemed to 
 desert him whenever he attempted tragedy or verse 
 of any sort. His lines on " Affectation,' ' which have 
 great merit, form the only exception that I re- 
 member to this assertion ; certainly his epic of 
 ^^ Calvary'' does not ; neither does his share in the 
 " Richard Cceur de Lion," of Sir James Bland 
 Burgess. 
 
118 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 AFFECTATION. 
 
 Why, Affectation, wliy tliis mock grimace ? 
 Go, silly thing, and hide that simpering face ! 
 Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait. 
 All thy false mimic fooleries I hate ; 
 For those art Folly's connterfeit, and she 
 Who is right foolish, hath the better plea : 
 Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee. 
 
 Why that soft languish ? Why that di-awling tone ? 
 Art sick ? art sleepy ? — Get thee hence : begone ! 
 I laugh at all those pretty baby tears. 
 Those flutterings, faintings, and unreal fears. 
 
 Can they deceive us ? Can such mummeries move, 
 Touch us with pity, or inspire with love ? 
 No, Affectation, vain is all thy art. 
 Those eyes may wander over every part. 
 They'll never find their passage to the heart. 
 
 A great part of Mr. Cumberland's amusing work 
 is taken up by an account of bis disastrous mission 
 in Spain, wbicb, undefined in its object, and 
 unsuccessful in its result, brougbt notbing but 
 disappointment to tbe Government or tbe nego- 
 tiator. After bis return from Madrid, be fell 
 back upon literature, and closed a long and 
 varied life in an advanced age at Tunbridge Wells. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 119 
 
 VIL 
 
 FEMALE POETS. 
 
 MRS. CLIVE — MES. ACTON TINDAL — MISS DAY — 
 MES. EOBEET DEEING. 
 
 There never was a more remarkable contrast 
 between the temperament of the poetess and the 
 temperament of the woman, than that which exists 
 between the thoughtful gravity, the almost gloomy 
 melancholy that characterise the writings of that 
 celebrated initial letter, the " V/^ of ^' Black- 
 wood^s Magazine/^ and the charming, cheerful, 
 light-hearted lady, known as Mrs. Clive. This 
 discrepancy has been acknowledged before now 
 to exist between the tastes and the tempers 
 of nations. The French in their old day, before 
 this last revolution, perhaps before any of their 
 revolutions, the French of our old traditions and 
 our old travellers, the Sternes and the Goldsmiths, 
 
120 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 with their Watteau pageantries, their dances in the 
 open air, and their patient love of the deepest and 
 most unmingled tragedy, afforded a notable instance 
 of this contrast. But that which is observable in 
 Mrs. Clivers case, is still more striking. I have 
 never known any creature half so cheerful. Happy 
 sister, happy mother, happy wife, she even bears 
 the burden of a large fortune and a great house 
 without the slightest diminution of the delightful 
 animal spirits, which always seem to me to be of 
 her many gifts the choicest. Moreover, enjoyment 
 seems to be her mode of thankfulness j as, not 
 content with being happy herself, she has a trick of 
 making everybody happy that comes near her. I 
 do not know how she contrives it, but such is the 
 effect. There is no resisting the contagious laughter 
 of those dancing eyes. 
 
 As, however, everybody that thinks deeply, as 
 she does, must have some moments of sadness, 
 she is content to put them into her writings ; some- 
 times in prose, for her " Story of the Great Drought^^ 
 has an intensity of tragic power, a realization of 
 impossible horrors, such as gave their fascination 
 to the best works of Godwin ; sometimes in verse, 
 where the depth of thought and fearless originality 
 of treatment, frequently redeem the commonest 
 subject from anything like commonplace. Here 
 is an example : 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 121 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 I stood within the grave's o'ershadomng vault ; 
 
 Gloomy aud damp, it stretched its vast domain ; 
 Shades were its boundary ; for my strained eye sought 
 
 For other limits to its width in vain. 
 
 Faint from the entrance came a dayhght ray, 
 And distant sound of living men and things ; 
 
 This, in the encountering darkness passed away. 
 That, took the tone in which a mourner sings. 
 
 I Kt a torch at a sepulchral lamp, 
 
 Which shot a thread of light amid the gloom ; 
 And feebly burning 'gainst the rolling damp, 
 
 I bore it through the regions of the tomb. 
 
 Ai'ound me stretched the slumbers of the dead, 
 Whereof the silence ached upon mine ear ; 
 
 More and more noiseless did I note my tread. 
 And yet its echoes chilled my heart with fear. 
 
 The former men of every age and place. 
 From all theii' wanderings, gathered round me lay : 
 
 The dust of withered empires did I trace. 
 And stood 'mid generations passed away, 
 
 I saw whole cities, that in flood or fire. 
 
 Or famine, or the plague, gave up their breath ; 
 Whole armies, whom a day beheld expire, 
 Swept by ten thousands to the arms of death. 
 VOL. II. G 
 
122 HECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 I saw the Old World's white and wave-swept bones, 
 A giant heap of creatures that had been ; 
 
 Fax and confased the broken skeletons 
 
 Lay strewn beyond mine eyes' remotest ken. 
 
 Death's various shrines — ^the urn, the stone, the lamp — 
 Were scattered round confused amid the dead ; 
 
 Symbols and types were mouldering in the damp. 
 Their shapes were wanting and their meaning fled. 
 
 Unspoken tongues, perchance in praise or woe, 
 Were chronicled on tablets Time had swept ; 
 
 And deep were half their letters hid below 
 
 The thick, small dust of those they once had wept. 
 
 No hand was here to wipe the dust away ; 
 
 No reader of the writing traced beneath ; 
 No spirit sitting by its form of clay ; 
 
 No sigh nor sound from all the heaps of death. 
 
 One place alone had ceased to hold its prey ; 
 
 A form had pressed it and was there no more ; 
 The garments of the grave beside it lay, 
 
 Where once they wi'apped HEVI on the rocky floor. 
 
 HE only with returning footsteps broke 
 
 The eternal calm with which the tomb was bound ; 
 
 Among the sleeping dead alone HE woke 
 
 And blessed with outstretched hands the host around. 
 
 Well is it that such blessing hovers here. 
 To soothe each sad survivor of the throng 
 
 Who haunt the portals of the solemn sphere, 
 And poui" their woe the loaded air along. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 123 
 
 They to the verge have followed what they love, 
 And on the insuperable threshold stand ; 
 
 With cherished names its speechless calm reprove, 
 And stretch in the abyss theii- nngrasped hand. 
 
 But vainly there they seek their soul's relief, 
 And of the obdurate Grave its prey implore ; 
 
 Till Death himself shall medicine their grief. 
 Closing their eyes by those they met before. 
 
 All that have died, the earth's whole race, repose 
 Where Death collects his treasures, heap on heap ; 
 
 O'er each one's busy day the nightshades close ; 
 Its actors, sufferers, schools, kiugs, armies — sleep. 
 
 It would be difficult to frame a better wish for 
 the writer and the woman_, than that both may 
 remain unchanged — that the shadow may still cast 
 its deep and thoughtful veil over the poetry and the 
 sunshine^ and the blessing rest upon the life ! 
 
 The exact reverse of Mrs. Clive may be found 
 in Mrs. Acton Tindal^ whose verse, so free^ so 
 buoyant_, so firm and so gracefid^ derives most of 
 its charm from its resemblance to the sweet and 
 lovely creature by whom it was written. There is a 
 sparkling vividness in her style, which has the life 
 and colour of painting. The very choice of her 
 subjects is picturesque. With an extent and variety 
 of reading, remarkable even now in one of the 
 youngest of our female writers, she instinctively 
 
 G 2 
 
124 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 fixes upon some theme of processional grace and 
 beauty, and throws all the truth and tenderuess 
 of her sentiment around figures already interesting 
 by liistorical association. The " Infant BridaF^ 
 might be transferred to canvas without altering 
 a word. 
 
 "Richard Duke of York, second son of Edward IV., 
 was married to Anne Mowbray, Duchess of Norfolk 
 in her own right. The bridegroom was not five 
 years old, and the bride scarcely three. The cere- 
 mony was performed in St. Stephen^s Chapel, a.d. 
 1477." 
 
 The sunbeams of the early day 
 
 Streamed through the lattice grim. 
 And up the dark aisle's piUared way 
 
 Swelled loud the nuptial hymn ; 
 And passed along a gorgeous band 
 
 Of courtly dames and fah, 
 Of belted barons of the land 
 
 The bravest best were there. 
 
 But slowly moved the bright array, 
 
 Tor gently at its head 
 Two blooming children led the way 
 
 With short and doubtful tread : 
 The fair boj-bridegroom and the bride, 
 
 (Like Cupid's train in eld). 
 Meekly and loving, side bj side. 
 
 Each other's hands they held. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 125 
 
 Half pleased and half surprised they seemed, 
 
 For in each kindred eye 
 Love mixed with pity fondly gleamed, 
 
 And monrnful gravity. 
 A fear, for them who knew no fear, 
 
 On each heart darkly fell ; 
 They view life's future through a tear 
 
 Who know the past too weU. 
 
 The bridegroom bore a royal crown 
 
 Amid the shining hair. 
 That like a golden veil fell down 
 
 In tresses soft and fair. 
 The bearing of the noble child 
 
 His princely lineage told, 
 Beneath that brow so smooth and mild 
 
 The blood of warriors rolled. 
 
 All coyly went the sweet babe-bride, 
 
 Yet oft with simple grace, 
 She raised, soft-stepping by his side. 
 
 Her dark eyes to his face. 
 And playfellows who loved her well 
 
 Crowns of white roses bore. 
 And lived in after years to tell 
 
 The infant bridal o'er. 
 
 Then words of import strange and deep 
 
 The hoary prelate said, 
 And some had turned away to weep 
 
 And many bowed the head. 
 Their steady gaze those childi'cn meek 
 
 Upon the old man bent, 
 As earnestly they seemed to seek 
 
 The solemn words' intent. 
 
126 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Calm in the blest simplicity 
 
 That never woke to doubt ; 
 Calm in the holy purity 
 
 Whose presence bars shame out ! 
 Then turned they from each troubled brow 
 
 And many a downcast eye, 
 And gazed upon each other now 
 
 In wondering sympathy ; 
 
 And nestled close, with looks of love. 
 
 Upon the altar's stone : 
 Such ties as Seraphs bind above 
 
 These little ones might own. 
 And sweetly was the babe-bride's cheek 
 
 Against the fair boy pressed. 
 All reverent, yet so fond and meek, 
 
 As knecKng to be blest. 
 
 Then smiled they on their grand array 
 
 And went forth hand in hand. 
 Well pleased to keep high holiday 
 
 Amid that gorgeous band. 
 Alas ! for those that early wed 
 
 With such prophetic gloom. 
 For sadly fell on each young head 
 
 The shadow of the tomb ! 
 
 Scarce had the blossoms died away 
 
 Of the rose-wreaths they wore, 
 When to her mouldering ancestry 
 
 The little bride they bore. 
 Her marriage garlands o'er her bier. 
 
 Bedewed with fears, were cast ; 
 And still she smiled as though no fear 
 
 O'erclouded her at last. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 127 
 
 t 
 
 A life as short, and darker doom. 
 
 The gentle boy befel : 
 He slept not in his father's tomb, 
 
 Eor him was heard no knell ! 
 One stifling pang amid his sleep 
 
 And the dark vale was passed ! 
 He woke with those who've ceased to weep. 
 
 Whose sun is ne'er o'ercast. 
 
 A garland floats around the throne, 
 
 Entwined by angel hands. 
 Of such fair earth-buds, newly blown. 
 
 Culled from a thousand lauds, 
 A melody most pure and sweet 
 
 Unceasingly they sing, 
 And blossoms o'er the mercy-seat 
 
 The loved babe-angels fling ! 
 
 I have now to introduce another fair artist into 
 the female gallery of which I am so proud ; an 
 artist whose w^orks seem to mc to bear the same 
 relation to sculpture that those of Mrs. Acton 
 Tindal do to painting. The poetry of Miss Day is 
 statuesque in its dignity, in its purity, in its repose, 
 Purity is perhaps the distinguishing quality of this 
 fine writer, pervading the conception, the thoughts 
 and the diction. But she must speak for herself. 
 As ^' The InfantBridal" might form a sketch for an 
 historical picture, so " Charlotte Corday" is a model, 
 standing ready to be chiselled in Parian stone. 
 
128 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Stately and beautiful and chaste, 
 
 Portli went the dauntless maid, 
 Her blood to yield, her youth to waste. 
 
 That carnage might be stayed. 
 This solemn purpose filled her soul. 
 
 There was no room for fear, 
 She heard the cry of vengeance roll 
 
 Prophetic on her ear. 
 
 She thought to stem the course of crime 
 
 By one appalling deed. 
 She knew to perish in her prime 
 
 Alone would be her meed. 
 No tremor shook her woman's breast, 
 
 No terror blanched her brow, 
 She spoke, she smiled, she took her rest. 
 
 And hidden held her vow. 
 
 She mused upon her country's wi'ong, 
 
 Upon the tyrant's guilt. 
 Her settled purpose grew more strong 
 
 As blood was freshly spilt : 
 What though the fair smooth hand were slight !- 
 
 It grasped the sharpened steel ; 
 A triumph flashed before her sight 
 
 The death that it should deal. 
 
 She sought her victim in his den — 
 
 The tiger in liis lair ; 
 And though she found him feeble then. 
 
 There was no thought to spare. 
 Fast through his dying guilty heart, 
 
 That pity yet withstood. 
 She made her gleaming weapon dart. 
 
 And stained her soul with blood. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 129 
 
 She bore the buffets and the jeers 
 
 Of an infuriate crowd ; 
 She asked no grace, she showed no fear, 
 
 She owned her act aloud. 
 She only quailed when woman's cries 
 
 Bewailed the monster's fate, 
 Her lips betrayed her soul's surprise 
 
 That fiends gained aught but hate. 
 
 She justified her deed of blood 
 
 In stern, exalted phrase, 
 As in the judgement-hall she stood 
 
 With calm, intrepid gaze. 
 And when she heard her awful doom, 
 
 Before the morn to die. 
 Her cheek assumed a brighter bloom, 
 
 And triumph lit her eye. 
 
 She marked a painter's earnest gaze. 
 
 She raised to him her face, 
 That he for men in other days 
 
 Her raptured mien might trace. 
 Some bold heroic words she penned 
 
 To Him her life who gave. 
 And as approached her fearful end 
 
 Her soul grew yet more brave. 
 
 She wore the bonds, the robe of red, 
 
 As martyrs wear their crown ; 
 She begged no mercy on her head. 
 
 She called no curses down ; 
 It was enough that she fulfilled 
 
 The work that was decreed; 
 It was enough a voice was stilled 
 
 That doomed the just to bleed. 
 
 G 3 
 
130 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 So beautiful, so filled with life. 
 
 So doomed, she passed along 
 Above the sense, the sound of strife, 
 
 Alone in the vast throng. 
 Some with mute reverence lowly bowed, 
 
 As thus the victim went ; 
 And some outpouring hatred loud. 
 
 The air with curses rent. 
 
 Without one tint of fresh youth paled. 
 
 Without one quivering breath. 
 Without one step that weakly failed. 
 
 That maiden sped to death ; 
 And with her lips yet glowing red. 
 
 And bright her beaming eyes. 
 To the sharp axe she bowed her head, 
 
 And closed her sacrifice. 
 
 Yet two more female figures^ embodying a steru 
 lesson, 
 
 THE TWO MAUDES. 
 
 Broidered robe, bespangled vest, 
 Kaiment for a palace guest. 
 
 Wears proud Maude to-night ; 
 And her haughty smile is gay. 
 As shines forth that rich array 
 
 In the mirror bright. 
 
 Now, with triumph on her cheek. 
 And with looks that conquest speak. 
 
 See her pass along ; 
 Listen to the murmui-ed praise, 
 Mark the fixed admiring gaze 
 
 Of the courtly thi'ong ! 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 131 
 
 Now she joins tlie stately dance, 
 And her tutored grace enchants, 
 
 Eaultless is her mien ; 
 And of all the lovely crowd 
 She can hear it whispered loud 
 
 She to-night is queen. 
 
 And of all the vestments there 
 Hers is richest and most rare, 
 
 Wondrous is its cost ; 
 With apparel of less pride, 
 Where so many shone beside 
 
 She had triumph lost. 
 
 Therefore 'twas she gave command. 
 When the courtly ball was planned. 
 
 That her robe should be. 
 Though the tune for toil was brief, 
 With the choicest flower and leaf 
 
 Rich in broidery. 
 
 If for this be weary sighs, 
 If for tills be sleepless eyes. 
 
 She no less wiU shine ; 
 Unimpaired her bloom shall be, 
 And from care her bosom free, 
 
 In her vesture fine. 
 
 * 
 
 Broidered robe, bespangled vest, 
 Raiment for a palace guest, 
 
 Maude the poor hath wrought 
 
132 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 She who as a May-day queen 
 Danced upon the village green, 
 Of gay Nature taught. 
 
 Then the sunshine, breeze and shower 
 Played with her as with a flower ; 
 
 Ruddy bloom had she : 
 As a balmy blushing morn, 
 When the rose blows, and the thorn, 
 
 She was sweet to see. 
 
 Now with pallor on her cheek, 
 And with looks that sadness speak, 
 
 See her languid rise ; 
 Listen to the harsh command, 
 See her faint and trembling stand. 
 
 Whilst her task she plies. 
 
 Thronging to her spirit come 
 Memories of village home, 
 
 Bee and flower and bird. 
 Ruddy beam of early day, 
 White-fleeced lambs, in sportive play. 
 
 Low of dappled herd. 
 
 Breezy breath of heath-crossed hill, 
 Silvery sound of trickling rill, 
 
 Bank were violets grow ; 
 And her heart is throbbing fast. 
 With these pictures of the past. 
 
 But no tears may flow. 
 
 Fevered is her low-bent brow, 
 Wasted are her young limbs now, 
 Joy hath lost its home ; 
 
_ A LITERARY LIFE. 133 
 
 Short the respite for relief, 
 Stolen slumbers far too brief 
 Por soft dreams to come. 
 
 Tainted is the air she breathes, 
 Perfumeless the gaud she wreathes, 
 
 Garland false and cold. 
 And the hearts around her seem 
 As its flowers of mimic beam, 
 
 They no balm unfold. 
 
 Now before her dazzled eyes 
 Lurid phantasms arise. 
 
 Light is wasting fleet. 
 And the labourer more intent, 
 Lest the fitful ray be spent 
 
 Ere her task's complete. 
 
 But the darkness gathers fast, 
 And she scarcely knows at last 
 
 How her fingers ply ; 
 And she thinks it wondrous soon, 
 Since the hour of glaring noon 
 
 That the night is nigh. 
 
 Now her work is done. — Behold, 
 Ye who shine in silk and gold, 
 
 What is its high cost ! 
 She, who strove at your behest, 
 She, whose eyes were robbed of rest. 
 
 Sight through toil hath lost. 
 
 "Woe to you vain child of clay ! 
 Woe to you in robes so gay, 
 Queens might envy them ! 
 
134 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 You with jewels overdone, 
 Her have robbed who had but one 
 Of a priceless gem ! 
 
 No words of mine could add to the force and 
 eloquence of this pleading — I had almost said of 
 this fulmination. What I would add^ should go 
 rather in mitigation of the crime imputed to the 
 courtly beauty. Selfish as vanity is — dangerous as 
 leading to all the sins that follow upon frivolity^ 
 I have a true faith in the general kindliness and 
 the general good-training of our young country- 
 women^ whether of the village green^ or of the palace 
 circle. I do not believe that any English lady 
 would knowingly purchase a splendid dress at the 
 cost of health to the artificer. Let them once think 
 — let them once be brought to think whether they 
 can reasonably expect their orders to be executed 
 within a given time, and what may be the amount 
 of suffering caused by such execution, and, my life 
 upon it, our Lady Maudes would give up their 
 furbelows, and their embroideries, and trust to their 
 native charms of grace and modesty to win as much 
 admiration as they know what to do with. But 
 then they must be taught to think ; and in all 
 matters of humanity, they could hardly find finer 
 precepts than in the poems of Miss Day. 
 
 These lady poets are all my friends: I add yet 
 another, personally a stranger, but still a friend, to 
 the list — Mrs. Robert Dering. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 135 
 
 CHURCH SERVICES. 
 
 The chimes from yonder steeple 
 
 Ring merrily and loud. 
 And groups of eager people 
 
 Towards their music crowd. 
 
 Before the altar's railing 
 
 A bride and bridegroom stand, 
 
 And lacy folds are veiling 
 The loveliest in the land. 
 
 And every ear is ti-ymg, 
 
 While all beside is still, 
 To hear tlie bride replying 
 
 Her soft but firm "I will." 
 
 The soft "I will" is spoken, 
 A glance as soft exchanged, — 
 
 That vow shall ne'er be broken 
 Nor those fond hearts estranged. 
 
 Another train advances, 
 
 No bridal train is this. 
 Yet there are joyous glances. 
 
 And whispered words of bliss. 
 
 With youthful pride and pleasure 
 
 Approach a happy pair, 
 Their first and darling treasure 
 
 Within the church they bear. 
 
136 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Their babe is now receiving 
 Upon its placid face, 
 
 The badge of the believing 
 The holy sign of grace. 
 
 Sweet babe ! this world is hollow, 
 A world of woe and strife. 
 
 Take up thy cross and follow 
 Where leads the Lord of Life. 
 
 Another train is wending 
 Within the church its way. 
 
 Whilst prayers are still ascending 
 Eor blessings on that day. 
 
 But here no bride is blushing ; 
 
 And here no babe is blest ; 
 But mourners' tears are gushing 
 
 Tor one laid down to rest. 
 
 Bright dawns the bridal morning ; 
 
 The font to us is dear ; 
 But come, and hear the warning 
 
 That's spoken to us here ! 
 
 A blight may soon be falling 
 On joys however pure, 
 
 But let us make our calling 
 And our election sui'e. 
 
 And then the day of sorrow 
 Which lays us in the earth. 
 
 Shall have a brighter morrow 
 Than that which saw our birth. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 137 
 
 The sweetness and melody of these stanzas, as 
 well as their pervading holiness, render them no 
 unfitting conclusion to this little garland of verses, 
 varying in manner, but of which we may truly say 
 that they are in tone and feeling most English and 
 most feminine. 
 
138 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 VIII. 
 
 CAVALIEE POETS. 
 
 RICHARD LOVELACE — ROGER l'eSTRANGE — THE MAJIQUIS OF 
 
 MONTROSE. 
 
 If there be one tliiug more than another in the 
 nice balance of tastes and prejudices (for I do not 
 speak here of principles) which inclines us now 
 to the elegance of Charles, now to the strength of 
 Cromwell — which disgusts us alternately with the 
 licence of the Cavaliers and the fanaticism of the 
 Roundheads; it would be the melancholy ruin of 
 cast-down castles and plundered shrines, that meet 
 our eyes all over our fair land, and nowhere in 
 greater profusion than in this district, lying as it 
 does in the very midst of some of the most celebrated 
 battles of the Civil Wars. To say nothing of the 
 siege of Reading, which more even than the van- 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 139 
 
 dalism of the Reformation completed the destruction 
 of that noble abbey, the third in rank and size iu 
 England, with its magnificent church, its cloisters, 
 and its halls, covering thirty acres of buildings — and 
 such buildings ! within the outer courts ; — to say 
 nothing of that most reckless barbarity just at our 
 door — we in our little village of Aberleigh lie be- 
 tween Basing-House to the south, whose desperately 
 defended walls offer little more now than a mere 
 site— and Donnington to the west, where the ruined 
 Gate towers upon the hill alone remain of that strong 
 fortress, which overlooked the well-contested field of 
 Newbury — and Chalgrove to the north, where the 
 reaper as he binds his sheaf, still pauses to tell you 
 the very place where Hampden .fell ; every spot has 
 its history ! Look at a wooden spire, and your com- 
 panion shakes his head, and says that it has been so 
 ever since the Cavaliers were blown up in the church - 
 tower ! Ask the history of a crumbjing wall, and 
 the answer is pretty sure to be, Cromwell ! That 
 his Highness the Lord Protector did leave what an 
 accomplished friend of mine calls ^' his peculiar 
 impressions^^ upon a great many places in our 
 neighbourhood is pretty certain ; on so many, that 
 there is no actual or authentic catalogue of all ; and 
 in some cases there is nothing but general tradition, 
 and the nature of the '^ impressions^^ in question, to 
 vouch for the fact of their destruction at that 
 period. 
 
140 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Amongst tliese, one of the edifices that must have 
 been best worth preserving, and is even now most 
 interesting to see, is the grand old castellated man- 
 sion, which in the reign of Elizabeth belonged to 
 one of her favourite courtiers, and was known as 
 Master Comptroller's House, at Grays. 
 
 The very road to it is singularly interesting. 
 Passing through the town, which increases in growth 
 every day, until one wonders when and where it 
 will stop, and looking with ever-fresh admiration at 
 the beautiful lace -work window of the old Friary, 
 which I long to see preserved in the fitliest manner, 
 by forming again the chief ornament of a church, 
 and then driving under the arch of the Great Wes- 
 tern Railway, and feeling the strange vibration of 
 some monster train passing over our heads — a pro- 
 ceeding which never fails to make my pony show 
 off his choicest airs and graces, pricking up his 
 pretty ears, tossing his slender head, dancing upon 
 four feet, and sometimes rearing upon two — we 
 arrive at the long, low, picturesque old bridge, the 
 oldest of all the bridges that cross the Thames, so 
 narrow that no two vehicles can pass at once, and 
 that over every pier triangular spaces have been de- 
 vised for the safety of foot-passengers. On the 
 centre arch is a fisherman's hut, occupying the place 
 once filled by a friar's cell, and covering a still 
 existing chapel, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, now 
 put to secular uses — a dairy or a cellar. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 141 
 
 A little way down the river is one of the beautiful 
 islands of the Thames, now a smooth and verdant 
 meadow, edged round ' with old willow pollards 
 calmly reflected in the bright, clear waters, but 
 giving back in the twelfth century a far different 
 scene. Here was fought a wager of battle between 
 Robert de Montford, appellant, and Henry de Essex, 
 hereditary Standard-bearer of the Kings of England, 
 defendant, by command, and in the presence of 
 Henry the Second. The story is told very minutely 
 and graphically by Stowe. Robert de Montford at 
 length struck down his adversary, " who fell,^^ says 
 the old historian, " after receiving many wounds ; 
 and the King, at the request of several noblemen, 
 his relations, gave permission to the monks to inter 
 the body, commanding that no further violence 
 should be offered to it. The monks took up the 
 vanquished knight, and carried him into the abbey, 
 where he revived. When he recovered from his 
 wounds, he was received into the community, and 
 assumed the habit of the order, his lands being 
 forfeited to the King.^^ I have always thought that 
 this story would afford excellent scope to some 
 great novelist, who might give a fair and accurate 
 picture of monastic life, and, indeed, of the monastic 
 orders, as landlords, neighbours, teachers, priests, 
 without any mixture of controversial theology, or 
 inventing any predecessors of Luther or Wicliffe. 
 How we should have liked to have heard all about 
 
142 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 " The Monastery/' about the '' Abbot/' and Father 
 Eustace, untroubled by Henry Warden or John 
 Knox ! From the moment that they appear, our 
 comfort in the book vanishes, just as completely as 
 that of the good easy Abbot Boniface himself. There 
 we are in the middle of vexed questions, with the 
 beautiful pile of Melrose threatening every moment 
 to fall about about our ears ! 
 
 Our business now, however, is to get over the 
 bridge, which after the excitement of one dispute 
 with a pugnacious carrier, and another with a saucy 
 groom, whose caracoling horse had well nigh leaped 
 over the parapets on either side ; after some backiug 
 of other carriages, and some danger of being forced 
 to back our own, we at last achieve, and enter 
 unscathed the pleasant village of Caversham. 
 
 To the left, through a highly ornamented lodge, 
 lies the road to the ancient seat of the Blounts, 
 a house made famous by Pope, where the fair 
 ladies of his love, the sisters Martha and Teresa, 
 lived and died. A fine old place it is ; and a pic- 
 turesque road leads to it, winding through a tract 
 called the Warren, between the high chalk-cliffs, 
 clothed with trees of all varieties, that for so many 
 miles fence in the northern side of the Thames, and 
 the lordly river itself, now concealed by tall elms, 
 now open and shining in the full light of the 
 summer sun. There is not such a flower-bank in 
 Oxfordshire as Caversham Warren. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 143 
 
 Our way^ however, leads straight on. A few 
 miles farther, and a turn to the right conducts us 
 to one of the grand old village churches, which give 
 so much of character to English landscape. A large 
 and beautiful pile it is. The tower half-clothed 
 with ivy, standing with its charming vicarage and 
 its pretty vicarage-garden on a high eminence, over- 
 hanging one of the finest bends of the great river. 
 A woody lane leads from the church to the bottom 
 of the chalk-cliflP, one side of which stands out from 
 the road below, like a promontory, surmounted by 
 the laurel hedges and flowery arbours of the 
 vicarage-garden, and crested by a noble cedar of 
 Lebanon. This is Shiplake church, famed far and 
 near for its magnificent oak carving, and the rich 
 painted glass of its windows, collected, long before 
 such adornments were fashionable, by the fine taste 
 of the late vicar, and therefore filled with the very 
 choicest specimens of mediaeval art, chiefly obtained 
 from the remains of the celebrated Abbey of St. 
 Bertin, near St. Omers, sacked during the first 
 French Revolution. In this church Alfred Tennyson 
 was married. Blessings be upon him ! I never 
 saw the great Poet in my life, but thousands who 
 never may have seen him either, but who owe to 
 his poetry the purest and richest intellectual en- 
 joyment, will echo and re-echo the benison. 
 
 A little way farther, and a turn to the left leads 
 
144 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 to another spot consecrated by genius — Woodcot, 
 where Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton passed the earher 
 years of his married life^ and wrote several of his 
 most powerful novels. I have always thought that 
 the scenery of Paul Clifford caught some of its tone 
 from that wild and beautiful country, for wild and 
 beautiful it is. The terrace in the grounds com- 
 mands a most extensive prospect ; and beneath a 
 clump of trees on the common behind the house, is 
 the only spot where on a clear day Windsor may be 
 seen on one side, and Oxford on the other — looking 
 almost like the domes and towers and pinnacles that 
 sometimes appear in the clouds — a fairy picture 
 that the next breeze may waft away ! This beau- 
 tiful residence stands so high, that one of its former 
 possessors. Admiral Eraser (grandfather to that 
 dear friend of mine who is the present owner), could 
 discover Woodcot Clump from the mast of his own 
 ship at Spithead, a distance of sixty miles. 
 
 Wyfold^s Court, another pretty place a little 
 farther on, which also belonged once to a most dear 
 friend, possesses the finest Wych-elms in England. 
 Artists come from far and near to paint these stately 
 trees, whose down-dropping branches and magni- 
 ficent height are at once so graceful and so rich. 
 They are said always to indicate ecclesiastical pos- 
 session, but no trace of such dependency is to be 
 found in the title-deeds, or in the tenure by which 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 145 
 
 in feudal times tlie lands were held — that of pre- 
 senting a rose to the King, should he pass by a 
 certain road on a May day. 
 
 And now we approach Rotherfield Grays — its 
 bowery lanes, its wild rugged commons, and its vast 
 beech woods, from the edge of which projects, every 
 here and there, a huge cherry-tree, looking, in the 
 blossoming spring-time, as if carved in ivory, so 
 exquisite is the whiteness, casting upon the ferny- 
 turf underneath showers of snowy petals that blanch 
 the very ground, and diffusing around an almond- 
 like odour, that mingles with the springing thyme 
 and the flowering gorse, and loads the very air with 
 its balm. 
 
 Exquisite is the pleasantness of these beech 
 woods, where the light is green from the silky ver- 
 dure of the young leaves, and where the mossy 
 woodpaths are embroidered with thousands of 
 flowers, from the earliest violet and primrose, the 
 wood-anemone, the wood-sorrel, the daffodil, and 
 the wild hyacinth of spring, to the wood-vetch, the 
 woodroof, the campanulas, and the orchises of 
 summer ; — for all the English orchises are here : 
 that which so curiously imitates the dead oak leaf, 
 that again which imitates the human figure ; the 
 commonest but most pretty bee orchis, and the 
 parallel ones which are called after the spider, the 
 frog, and the fly. Strange freak of nature, thus, in 
 a lower order of creation, to mimic her own handy- 
 
 VOL. II. H 
 
146 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 works in a higher ! — to mimic even our human 
 mimicry ! — for that which is called the man orchis is 
 most like the imitation of a human figure that a 
 child might cut from coloured paper. Strange, 
 strange mimicry 1 but full of variety, full of beauty, 
 full of odour. Of all the fragrant blossoms that 
 haunt the woods, I know none so exquisite as that 
 night-scented orchis which is called in differ ently^ the 
 butterfly or the lily of the valley. Another glory 
 of these woods, an autumnal glory^ is the whole 
 fungus tribe, various and innumerable as the mosses; 
 from the sober drab-coloured fungi, spotted with 
 w4iite, which so much resemble a sea-egg, to those 
 whose deep and gorgeous hues would shame the 
 tinting of an Indian shell. Truffles, too, are found 
 beneath the earth ; and above it are deposited huge 
 masses of the strange compound called in modern 
 geological phrase Agglomerate. Flint and coral, 
 and gravel, and attrited pebbles enter into the com- 
 bination of this extraordinary natural conglomera- 
 tion, which no steel, however hardened, can separate, 
 and which seems to have been imitated very suc- 
 cessfully by the old builders in their cements and 
 the substances used in the filling up of their 
 grandest structures, as may be seen in the layers 
 which unite the enormous slabs of granite in the 
 Roman walls at Silchester, as well as in the works 
 of the old monkish architects at Eeading Abbey. 
 Another beauty of this country is to be found in 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 147 
 
 the fields — now of the deep-red clover^ with its 
 shining crimson tops^ now of the gay and brilliant 
 saintfoin (the holy hay)^ the bright pink of whose 
 flowery spikes gives to the ground the look of a 
 bed of roses. 
 
 And now we reach the gate that admits us down 
 a steep descent to the Kectory-house^ a large sub- 
 stantial mansion, covered with Banksia roses, and 
 finely placed upon a natural terrace — a fertile valley 
 below, and its own woods and orchard-trees 
 above. 
 
 My friend the rector, raciest of men, is an Oxford 
 divine of the old school ; a ripe scholar ; one who 
 has travelled wide and far, and is learned in the 
 tongues, the manners, and the literature of many 
 nations ; but who is himself English to the backbone 
 in person, thought, and feeling. Orthodox is he, 
 no doubt. Nowhere are church and schools, and 
 parish visitings, better cared for ; but he has a 
 knack of attending also to the creature comforts of 
 all about him, of calling beef and blankets in aid of 
 his precepts, which has a wonderful effect in pro- 
 moting their efficacy. Mansion and man are large 
 alike, and alike overflowing with hospitality and 
 kindliness. His original and poignant conversation 
 is so joyous and good-humoured, the making every- 
 body happy is so evidently his predominant taste, 
 that the pungency only adds to the flavour of his talk, 
 
 H 2 
 
148 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 and never casts a mementos shade over its sunny 
 heartiness.* 
 
 Right opposite the Rectory terrace_, framed hke a 
 picture by the rarest and stateUest trees^ stands the 
 object of my pilgrimage^ Grays^ Court_, a compa- 
 ratively modern house, erected amongst the remains 
 of a vast old castellated mansion, belonging first 
 to the noble family of Gray, v^ho gave their name, 
 not merely to the manor, but to the district ; then 
 to the house of Knollys ; and latterly to the Sta- 
 pletons, two venerable ladies of that name being its 
 present possessors. 
 
 All my life I had heard of Grays^ Court ; of the 
 rich yet v\^ild country in which it is placed ; of the 
 park so finely undulated and so profusely covered 
 by magnificent timber ; of the huge old towers 
 which seem to guard and sentinel the present house ; 
 of the far extended walls, whose foundations may 
 yet be traced, in dry seasons, among the turf of the 
 lawn ; of the traditions which assign the demolition 
 of those ancient walls to the wars of the Common- 
 wealth ; and of the strange absence of all docu- 
 mentary evidence upon the subject. 
 
 Another cause for my strong desire to see this 
 interesting place is to be found in its association 
 
 * Since this passage was written my kind and valued friend 
 is no more. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 149 
 
 with one of those historical personages in whom I 
 have always taken the warmest interest. Lord 
 Essex (whose mother was the famous Lettice 
 Knollys, who had had for her second hushand 
 another of Queen Elizaheth^s favourites^ Robert 
 Dudley^ Earl of Leicester) , when confined in London, 
 a prey to the tyranny of Elizabeth, petitioned, in 
 one of those eloquent letters to the Virgin Queen 
 which will always remain amongst the earliest and 
 finest specimens of English prose, to be allowed to 
 repair, for the benefit of his health, '' to Master 
 Comptrollers house at Grays/^ Ah ! we can fancy, 
 when looking over this lovely valley, with its woods, 
 its verdure, its sweep of hills, its feeling of the near 
 river, we can well fancy how the poet-heart of the 
 great Earl must have longed to leave the trial, the 
 turmoil, the jangling, the treachery, the weary fears, 
 the bitter humiliation of his London captivity, and 
 to taste once more the sweet air, the pleasant sights, 
 the calmness and the quiet of the country. Hope 
 and comfort must have come with the thought. 
 One of the prettiest pictures that I know is an ex- 
 tract from a contemporary letter, in the first volume 
 of Mr. Craik^s most interesting book, ^' The Komance 
 of the Peerage,^^ telling of the Earl and Countess, 
 during one of the daily visits that she was at one 
 time permitted to pay him when he was a prisoner 
 in Essex House, walking together in the garden, 
 "row he, now she, reading one to the other,^^ The 
 
150 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 whole taste and feeling of the man, the daily habit 
 of his life, is shown in this little circumstance. And 
 this is the brave soldier who, when examined before 
 the Privy Council, a council composed of open 
 enemies and treacherous friends, had been kept 
 nearly all day kneeling at the bottom of the 
 table. Tyranny drove him into madness, and then 
 exacted the full penalty of the wild acts which that 
 madness prompted. But Essex was a man in ad- 
 vance of his age; the companion as well as the 
 patron of poets ; the protector of Papist and Puri- 
 tan ; the fearless asserter of liberty of conscience ! 
 He deserved a truer friend than Bacon, a more 
 merciful judge than Elizabeth. 
 
 To the house of Knollys belongs another interest- 
 ing association, that strangest of genealogical ro- 
 mances, the great case of the Banbury peerage. 
 The cause was decided (if decided it can be called 
 even now) by evidence found in the parish register 
 of Botherfield Grays. 
 
 The place has yet another attraction in its diffi- 
 culty of access ; the excellent ladies of the Court 
 admitting few beyond their own immediate connec- 
 tions and nearest friends. One class, to be sure, 
 finds its way there as if by instinct — the poor, who, 
 as the birds of the air detect the grain under the 
 surface in the newly-sown ground, are sure to find 
 out the soil where charity lies germinating. Few 
 excepting these constant visitors are admitted. But^ 
 
A LITERARY LIFE, 151 
 
 besides the pov/erful introduction of our mutual 
 friend the rector, a nejDhew of theirs, and his most 
 sweet and interesting wife, had for some time inha- 
 bited the house which had been the home of my 
 own youth, so that my name was not strange to 
 them ; and they had the kindness to allow me to 
 walk over their beautiful grounds and gardens, to 
 see their charming Swiss dairy, with its marbles and 
 its china, and, above all, to satisfy my curiosity by 
 looking over the towers which still remain of the 
 old castle — piles whose prodigious thickness of wall 
 and distance from each other give token of the 
 immense extent and importance of the place. It is 
 said to have been built round two courts. Alnwick 
 and Windsor rose to my thoughts as I contemplated 
 these gigantic remains, and calculated the space that 
 the original edifice must have covered. One of the 
 old buildings is still occupied by the well of the 
 castle, a well three hundred feet deep, which sup- 
 plies the family with water. It will give some idea 
 of the scale of the great mansion to say that the 
 wheel by which the water is raised is twenty-five 
 feet in diameter. Two donkeys are employed in the 
 operation. One donkey suffices for the parallel but 
 much smaller well at Carisbrook, where the animal 
 is so accustomed to be put in for the mere purpose 
 of exhibiting the way in which the water is raised 
 to the visitors who go to look at the poor King^s last 
 prison, that he just makes the one turn necessary to 
 
152 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 show the working of the machine^ and then stops of 
 his own accord. The donkeys at Grays, kept for 
 use and not for show, have not had a similar oppor- 
 tunity of displaying their sagacity. 
 
 One cannot look at the place without a feeling of 
 adaptedness. It is the very spot for a stronghold 
 of the cavaliers; a spot where Lovelace and 
 Montrose might each have fought and each have 
 sung, defending it to the last loaf of bread and the 
 last charge of powder, and yielding only to the 
 irresistible force of Cromwell's cannonade. 
 
 Much interest is imparted to the lays of these 
 cavalier poets, when we consider the circumstances 
 under which they were written. They were no 
 carpet knights, pouring forth effusions of chivalrous 
 loyalty in the security of a Court, or to amuse the 
 leisure of a mild and temporary captivity ; but for 
 that very loyalty which they boasted so loudly, 
 Montrose lay under sentence of death, and Richard 
 Lovelace was pining in the crowded and loathsome 
 prison called the Gatehouse at Westminster. Perhaps 
 the fate of the great Marquis was the happier of the 
 two. He fell with the fame and consolations of a 
 martyr, as his master had fallen before him ; whilst 
 his brother poet was indeed released by the 
 ascendant party after the death of the King, when 
 the royalists were so scattered and broken as to be 
 no longer formidable ; but when at last set free he 
 was penniless; the lady of his love (Lucy Sacheverel), 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 158 
 
 hearing that he had died of his wounds at Dunkirk, 
 was married to another person ; and oppressed with 
 want and misery he fell into a consumption. Wood 
 relates that " he became very poor in body and 
 purse, was the object of charity, went in ragged 
 clothes, and mostly lodged in obscure and dirty 
 places,^^ in one of which, situated in some alley near 
 Shoe Lane, he died in 1658. What a reverse for 
 one whose gallant bearing and splendid person seem 
 to have corresponded so entirely with the noble and 
 chivalrous spirit of his poetry ! Faults and virtues, 
 Richard Lovelace, as a man and as a writer, may be 
 taken as an impersonation of the cavalier of the civil 
 wars, with much to charm the reader, and still more 
 to captivate the fair. 
 
 TO ALTHEA, EEOM PRISON. 
 
 When love, with, unconfined wings, 
 
 Hovers within my gates, 
 And mj divine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at my grates ; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair, 
 
 And fetter'd with her eye. 
 The bii'ds, that wanton in the air, 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When flowing cnps run swiftly round. 
 
 With no allaying Thames, 
 Our careless heads with roses crown' d, 
 
 Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
 
 H 3 
 
154) RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 
 When healths and draughts go free, 
 
 Eishes, that tipple in the deep. 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When linnet-like confined, I 
 
 With shriUer note shall sing 
 The mercy, sweetness, majesty. 
 
 And glories of my King ; 
 When I shall voice aloud how good 
 
 He is, how great should be. 
 The enlarged winds that curl the flood 
 
 Know no such Kberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 . Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Minds innocent and quiet take 
 
 That for an hermitage ; 
 If I have freedom in my love. 
 
 And in my soul am free. 
 Angels alone that soar above 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WAES. 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind. 
 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 Tme, a new mistress now I choose. 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 
 And with a stronger faith embrace 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 155 
 
 Yet this inconstancy is suck 
 
 As you, too, shall adore : 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much. 
 
 Loved I not honour more. 
 
 ON LELY S rORTRAIT OF CHARLES THE FIRST. 
 
 See what an humble bravery doth shine, 
 
 And grief triumphant breaking throu2:h each line, 
 
 How it commands the face ! So sweet a scorn 
 
 Never did happy misery adorn ! 
 
 So sacred a contempt that others show 
 
 To this (o' the height of all the wheel) below ; 
 
 That mightiest monarchs by this shaded book 
 
 May copy out their proudest, richest look. 
 
 An elegant and accurate critic^ Sir Egerton 
 Brydges^ lias pointed out a singular coincidence 
 between an illustration employed by Lovelace and a 
 line for which Lord Byron has been, as it seems to 
 me, unjustly censured in the ^"^ Bride of Abydos/^ 
 The noble poet says of his heroine — 
 
 " The mind, the music breathing from her face ;" 
 
 and he vindicated the expression on the obvious 
 ground of its clearness and truth. Lovelace, in a 
 Song of Orpheus, lamenting the death of his wife, 
 uses the same words in nearly the same sense. 
 Lord Byron had probably never seen the poem, or, 
 if he had, the illustration had perhaps remained in 
 his mind to be unconsciously reproduced by that 
 
156 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 strange process of amalgamation which so often 
 combines memory with invention. These are the 
 Knes sung by Orpheus^ who works out the idea too 
 far : — ■ 
 
 Oh, could you view the melody 
 
 Of every grace, 
 
 And music of her face, 
 You'd drop a tear ; 
 Seeing more harmony 
 In her bright eye 
 
 Than now you hear. 
 
 The poem of "^ Loyalty Confined^^ is supposed to 
 have been written by Sir Eoger L^Estrange^ while 
 imprisoned on account of his adherence to Charles 
 the First. On a first reading, these terse and 
 vigorous stanzas seem too much like a paraphrase of 
 Lovelace^s fine address " To Althea from Prison -j'^ 
 but there is so much that is original, both in 
 thought and expression, that we cannot but admit 
 that the apparent imitation is the result of 
 similarity of sentiment in a similar situation. 
 These imprisoned cavaliers think and feel alike, and 
 must needs speak the same language. 
 
 Beat on, proud billows. Boreas, blow ; 
 
 Swell-curled waves, high as Jove's roof ; 
 Your incivility doth show 
 
 That innocence is tempest-proof ; 
 Though truly heroes frown, my thoughts are calm ; 
 Then strike affliction, for my wounds are balm. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 157 
 
 That which the world miscalls a jail, 
 
 A private closet is to me ; 
 Whilst a good conscieuce is my bail, 
 
 And innocence my liberty ; 
 Locks, bars, and solitude together met 
 Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 
 
 I, whilst I wish'd to be retired, 
 
 Into this private room was turn'd, 
 As if their wisdoms had conspired 
 
 The Salamander should be burn'd ; 
 Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, 
 Even constrain' d to suffer what I wish. 
 
 The cynic loves his poverty. 
 
 The pelican her wilderness. 
 And 'tis the Indian's pride to be 
 
 Naked on frozen Caucasus : 
 Contentment cannot smart. Stoics we see 
 Make torments easy to their apathy. 
 
 These manacles upon my arm 
 
 I, as my mistress' favours, wear ; 
 And for to keep my ankles warm 
 
 I have some iron shackles there ; 
 These walls are but my garrison ; this cell. 
 Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 
 
 I'm in the cabinet lock'd up 
 
 Like some high-priced marguerite ; 
 Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope, 
 
 Am cloister' d up from public sight. 
 Retiredness is a piece of majesty. 
 And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee. 
 
158 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Here sin, for want of food, must starve 
 Where tempting objects are not seen ; 
 
 And these strong walls do only serve 
 To keep vice out, and keep me in ; 
 
 Malice of late's grown charitable, sure ; 
 
 I'm not committed, but am kept secure. 
 
 So he that struck at Jason's life, 
 
 Thinl<;ing to have made his purpose sure, 
 
 By a malicious friendly knife 
 Did only wound him to a cure. 
 
 Malice, I see, wants wit ; for what is meant 
 
 Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by the event. 
 
 When once my Prince affliction hath, 
 
 Prosperity doth treason seem ; 
 And to make smooth so rough a path. 
 
 Sweet patience I can learn from him. 
 Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart ; 
 When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part. 
 
 What though I cannot see my King, 
 
 Neither in person nor in coin. 
 Yet contemplation is a thing 
 
 That renders what I have not mine. 
 My King from me what adamant can part, 
 Whom I do wear engraven on my heart ? 
 
 Have you not seen the nightingale 
 
 A prisoner-like coop'd in a cage ; 
 How she doth cliaunt her morbid tale 
 
 In that her narrow hermitage ? 
 Even then her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 159 
 
 I am that bird whom they contrive 
 
 Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
 But though they do my corpse confine, 
 
 Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free. 
 And though immured, yet can I chirp and sing, 
 Disgrace to rebels, glory to my King. 
 
 My soul is free as ambient air. 
 
 Although my baser part's tmmew'd ; 
 Whilst loyal thoughts do still repaii' 
 
 To accompany my solitude. 
 Although rebellion do my body bind, 
 My King alone can captivate my mind. 
 
 The following lines were written by the Marquis 
 of Montrose upon the execution of Charles the First. 
 He shut himself up for three days_, and when Dr. 
 Wishart, his chaplain^ and the elegant historian of 
 his wars_, was admitted to him, he found these 
 verses, which probably were intended as a sort of 
 vow, on his table. We all know how that vow was 
 redeemed. 
 
 Great, good, and just ! could I but rate 
 
 My grief to thy too rigid fate, 
 
 I'd weep the world to such a strain 
 
 As it should deluge once again ; 
 
 But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies 
 
 More from Briareus' hands than Ai'gus' eyes, 
 
 I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds, 
 
 And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds. 
 
160 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 LOVE VERSES, BY THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 
 
 Sometimes the jargon of the different govern- 
 ments of the day, and sometimes the technical 
 phrases of warfare, are made strange use of in these 
 verses ; yet some of the Hnes are so noble, and 
 many so original, that we forgive this soldierly mode 
 of wooing in favour of its frankness. It is to be 
 presumed the lady did the same. 
 
 My dear and only love, I pray 
 
 This noble world of thee, 
 Be governed by no other sway 
 
 Than purest monarchy. 
 Tor if confusion have a part. 
 
 Which virtuous souls abhor, 
 And hold a synod in thy heart, 
 
 I'll never love thee more. 
 
 Like Alexander I will reign. 
 
 And I will reign alone ; 
 My thoughts shall evermore disdain 
 
 A rival on my throne. 
 He either fears his fate too much. 
 
 Or his desert's too small. 
 That puts it not unto the touch 
 
 To win and lose it all. 
 
 But I must rule and govern still, 
 
 And always give the law. 
 And have each subject at my will. 
 
 And all to stand in awe. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 161 
 
 But 'gaiiist my battery if I find 
 
 Thou shuun^'st the prize to bore, 
 Or that thou sett'st me up a blind, 
 
 I'll never love thee more. 
 
 Or in the empire of thy heart, 
 
 Where I would solely be. 
 Another do pretend a part, 
 
 And dares to vie with me ; 
 Or if committees thou erect, 
 
 And goest on such a score, 
 I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect, 
 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 But if thou wilt be constant then, 
 
 And faithful of thy word, 
 I'll make thee glorious by my pen, 
 
 And famous by my sword. 
 I'll serve thee in such noble ways 
 
 Was never heard before, 
 rU cro-^^Ti and deck thee all with bays. 
 
 And love thee evermore. 
 
 Could it be in woman to resist such promises 
 from such a man ? 
 
 PAUT SECOND. 
 
 My dear and only love, take heed 
 
 Lest thou thyself expose. 
 And let all longing lovers feed 
 
 Upon such looks as those ; 
 
162 RECOLLECTIONS OP 
 
 A marble wall, then, build about, 
 Beset, without a door, 
 
 But, if thou let thy heart fly out, 
 I'll never love thee more. 
 
 Let not their oaths, like volleys shot, 
 
 Make any breach at all. 
 Nor smoothness of their language plot 
 
 Which way to scale the wall ; 
 Nor balls of v?ildfire love consume 
 
 The shrine which I adore, 
 For if such smoke about thee fume, 
 
 I'll never love thee more. 
 
 I tliink thy virtues be too strong 
 
 To suffer by surprise. 
 Which victuall'd by my love so long, 
 
 The siege at length must rise, 
 And leave thee nded in that health 
 
 And state thou wast before ; 
 But if thou turn a Commonwealth, 
 
 I'll never love thee more. 
 
 But if by fraud or by consent 
 
 Thy heart to ruin come, 
 I'U sound no trumpet as I wont, 
 
 Nor march by beat of di'um ; 
 But hold my arms like ensigns up. 
 
 Thy falsehood to deplore, 
 And bitterly will sigh and weep, 
 
 And never love thee more. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 163 
 
 1^11 do with thee as Nero did 
 
 When Rome was set on fire. 
 Not only all relief forbid, 
 
 But to a hiU retire ; 
 And scorn to shed a tear to see 
 
 Thy spiiit grown so poor. 
 And smiling sing, until I die, — 
 
 I'll never love thee more. 
 
 Yet for the love I bare thee once, 
 
 Lest that thy name should die, 
 A monument of marble stone 
 
 The truth shall testify. 
 That every pilgrim passing by 
 
 May pity and deplore 
 My case, and read the reason why 
 
 I can love thee no more. 
 
 The golden laws of love shaU be 
 
 Upon this pdlar hung, 
 A simple heart, a single eye, 
 
 A true and constant tongue. 
 Let no man for more love pretend 
 
 Than he has hearts in store ; 
 True love begun shall never end. 
 
 Love one and love no more. 
 
 My heart shall with the sun be fix'd 
 
 Li constancy most strange ; 
 And thine shall with the moon be mix'd, 
 
 Delighting still in change. 
 
164 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Thy beauty shined at first most bright^ 
 
 And woe is me therefore ! 
 That ever I found thy love so light, 
 
 I could love thee no more. 
 
 Verses written by the Marquis of Montrose with 
 the point of a diamond upon the glass window of 
 his prison, after receiving his sentence. 
 
 Let them bestow on every airth a limb ; 
 
 Then open all my veins, that I may swim 
 
 To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake ; 
 
 Then place my parboil' d head upon a stake ; 
 
 Scatter my ashes ; strew them in the air : — 
 
 Lord ! since Thou know'st where all those atoms are, 
 
 I'm hopeful Thou'lt recover once my dust. 
 
 And confident Thou'lt raise me with the Just. 
 
 They who would follow the great Marquis to the 
 last should read the fine ballad called '^ The 
 Execution of Montrose/^ in Professor Aytoun^s 
 charming volume ^' The Lays of the Scottish 
 Cavaliers/' 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 165 
 
 IX. 
 
 POETRY THAT POETS LOVE. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR — LEIGH HUNT —PERCY BYSSHE 
 SHELLEY — JOHN KEATS. 
 
 To no one can the words that I have placed at 
 the head of this chapter apply more perfectly than to 
 Mr. Landor. No poetry was ever dearer to poets 
 than his. Nearly fifty years ago^ we find Southey 
 writing of and to the author of '^ Gebir/^ with a 
 respectful admiration seldom felt by one young man 
 for another ; and, from that hour to the present, all 
 whom he would himself most wish to please have 
 showered upon him praises that cannot die. The 
 difficulty in selecting from his works is the abun- 
 dance; but I prefer the Hellenics, that charming 
 volume, because few, very few, have given such 
 present life to classical subjects. I begin with the 
 Preface, so full of grace and modesty. 
 
166 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 '' It is hardly to be expected that ladies and gen- 
 tlemen will leave, on a sudden, their daily prome- 
 nade, skirted by Turks, and shepherds, and knights, 
 and plumes, and palfreys, of the finest Tunbridge 
 manufacture, to look at these rude frescoes, delineated 
 on an old wall, high up and sadly weak in colouring. 
 As in duty bound, we can wait. The reader (if there 
 should be one) will remember that Sculpture and 
 Painting have never ceased to be occupied with the 
 scenes and figures which we venture once more to 
 introduce in poetry, it being our belief, that what is 
 becoming in two of the fine arts, is not quite unbe- 
 coming in a third, the one which, indeed, gave birth 
 to them.^^ 
 
 And now comes the very first story; with its 
 conclusion that goes straight to the heart. 
 
 THRASYMEDES AND EUNOE. 
 
 Who will away to Athens with me ? "Who 
 
 Loves choral songs and maidens crowned with flowers 
 
 Unenvious ? Mount the pinnace ; hoist the sail 
 
 I promise ye, as many as are here, 
 
 Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste 
 
 From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine 
 
 Of a low vineyard, or a phint ill-pruned. 
 
 But such as anciently the ^gean isles 
 
 Poured in hbation at theh solemn feasts ; 
 
 And the same goblets shall ye grasp, embost 
 
 With no vile figures of loose languid boors, 
 
 But such as gods have hved with and have led. 
 
A LITERARY LIPE. 167 
 
 The sea smiles bright before us. What white sail 
 Plays yonder ? What pursues it ? Like two hawks 
 Away they fly. Let us away in time 
 To overtake them. Are they menaces 
 We hear ? And shall the strong repulse the weak, 
 Em-aged at her defender ? Hippias ! 
 Art thou the man ? 'Twas Hippias. He had found 
 His sister borne from the Cecropion port 
 By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly ? 
 Askj ask the maiden ; I have no reply. 
 
 '' Brother ! brother Hippias ! Oh, if love 
 If pity ever touched thy breast, forbear ! 
 Strike not the brave, the gentle, the beloved, 
 My Tlu'asymedes, with his cloak alone 
 Protecting his own head and mine from harm." 
 "Didst thou not once before," cried Hippias, 
 Regardless of his sister, hoarse with wrath 
 At Thrasymedes " didst thou not, dog-eyed 
 Dare as she walked up to the Parthenon 
 On the most holy of all holy days 
 Li sight of all the city, dai'C to kiss 
 Her maiden cheek ?" 
 
 "Ay, before all the gods. 
 Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis, 
 Ay, before Aphrodite, before Here, 
 I dared; and dare again. Arise, my spouse ! 
 Arise ! and let my lips quaff purity 
 Prom thy fair- open brow." 
 
 The sword was up, 
 And yet he kissed her twice. Some god withheld 
 
168 RECCOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 The arm of Hippias ; his proud blood seethed slower 
 
 And smote his breast less- angrily; he laid 
 
 His hand on the white shoulder and spoke thus : 
 
 " Ye must return with me. A second time 
 
 Offended, will our sire Peisistratos 
 
 Pardon thee affront ? Thou shouldst have asked thyself 
 
 That question ere the sail first flapt the mast." 
 
 " Already thou hast taken life from me ; 
 
 Put up thy sword/' said the sad youth, his eyes 
 
 Sparkling ; but whether love or rage or grief 
 
 They sparkled with, the gods alone could see. 
 
 Peiroeeus they re-entered, and their ship 
 
 Drove up the little waves against the quay. 
 
 Whence was thrown out a rope from one above, 
 
 And Hippias caught it. Prom the virgin's waist 
 
 Her lover dropped his arm, and blushed to think 
 
 He had retained it there, in sight of rude 
 
 Irreverent men ; he led her forth nor spake. 
 
 Hippias walked silent too, until they reached 
 
 The mansion of Peisistratos, her sire. 
 
 Serenely in his sternness did the prince 
 
 Look on them both awhile : they saw not him, 
 
 For both had cast their eyes upon the ground. 
 
 " Are these the pirates thou hast taken, son ?" 
 
 Said he. '^ Worse, father ! worse than pirates they 
 
 Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse 
 
 Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites 
 
 Twice over." 
 
 "Well hast thou performed thy duty," 
 Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos, 
 " Nothing, then, rash young man ! could turn thy heart 
 Prom Eiuioe my daughter ?" 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 169 
 
 "Nothing, Sir, 
 Shall ever turn it. I can die but once 
 And love but once. O Eunoe ! farewell !" 
 *' Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear for her." 
 " father ! Shut me in my chamber, shut me 
 In my poor mother's tomb dead or alive. 
 But never let me see what he can bear ; 
 I know how much that is when borne for me." 
 " Not yet : come on. And lag not thou beliind, 
 Pirate of mgin and of princely hearts ! 
 Before the people, and before the goddess. 
 Thou hadst evinced the madness of thy passion, 
 And now wouldst bear from home and plenteousness 
 To poverty and exile, this, my child." 
 Then shuddered Thrasymedes, and exclaimed, 
 " I see my crime ; I saw it not before. 
 The daughter of Peisistratos was bom 
 Neither for exile nor for poverty, 
 Ah ! nor for me !" He would have wept, but one 
 Might see him, and weep worse. The prince unmoved 
 Strode on, and said, " To-morrow shall the people 
 All who beheld thy trespasses, behold 
 The justice of Peisistratos, the love 
 He bears his daughter, and the reverence 
 In which he holds the highest law of God." 
 He spake ; and on the morrow they were one. 
 
 Did not Mr. Landor write this scene of Orestes 
 one fine June morning, seated on a garden-roller in 
 the court before Mr. Kenyon^s house in London ? 
 fitting home for such an inspiration ! And is not 
 that the way that such scenes are written ? not 
 sitting down with malice prepense to compose 
 
 VOL. II. 1 
 
170 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 poetry, but letting it come when it will and how it 
 will, and striking it off at a heat. 
 
 THE DEATH OF CLYTEMNESTRA, 
 ORESTES AND ELECTRA. 
 
 Electra. Pass on, my brotlier ! she awaits the wretch. 
 Dishonourer, despoiler, murderer — 
 None other name shall name him — she awaits 
 As would a lover — 
 
 Heavenly Gods ! what poison 
 O'erflows my lips ! 
 
 Adultress ! husband-slayer ! 
 Strike her, the tigress ! 
 
 Think upon our father — 
 Give the sword scope — think what a man was he, 
 How fond of her ! how kind to all about, 
 That he might gladden and teach us — how proud 
 Of thee, Orestes ! tossing thee above 
 His joyous head and calling thee his crown. 
 Ah ! boys remember not what melts our hearts 
 And marks them evermore ! 
 
 Bite not thy lip. 
 Nor tramp as an unsteady colt the ground, 
 Nor stare against the wall, but think again 
 How better than all fathers was oui' father. 
 Go. 
 
 Orestes. Loose me then ! for this white hand, Electra, 
 Hath fastened upon mine wdth fiercer grasp 
 Than I can grasp the sword. 
 
 Electra. Go, sweet Orestes, 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 171 
 
 Fknew not I was holding thee — Avenge him ! 
 (Alone). How he sprang from me ! 
 
 Sure he now hath reached 
 The room before the bath ! 
 
 The bath-door creaks ! 
 It hath creaked thus since he — since thou, father ! 
 Ever since thou didst loosen its strong valves, 
 Either with all thy dying weight, or strength 
 Agonized with her stabs — 
 
 What plunge was that ? 
 Ah ! me ! 
 
 What groans are those ? 
 Orestes (returning). They sound through heU 
 
 Rejoicing the Eumenides. 
 
 She slew 
 Our father : she made thee the scorn of slaves 
 Me (son of him who ruled this land and more) 
 She made an outcast — 
 
 Would I had been so 
 For ever ! ere such vengeance — 
 
 Electra. Oh that Zeus 
 
 Had let thy arm fall sooner at thy side 
 Without those drops ! list ! they are audible— 
 For they are many— from the sword's point faUing 
 And down from the ndd blade ! 
 
 Too rash Orestes ! 
 Couldst thou not then have spared our wretched mother ? 
 Orestes. The Gods could not. 
 
 Electra. She was not theirs, Orestes ! 
 
 Orestes. And didst not thou, — 
 
 Electra. 'Twas I ! 'twas I who did it ! 
 
 Of our unhappy house the most unhappy ! 
 
 I 2 
 
172 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Under this roof, by every God accurst. 
 There is no grief, there is no guilt, but mine. 
 Orestes. Electra ! no ! 
 
 ^Tis now my time to suffer — 
 Mine be, with all its pangs, the righteous deed ! 
 
 What a picture is that of Agamemnon and his 
 boy, 
 
 " Tossing thee above 
 His joyous head and calling thee his crown !" 
 
 Long may Mr. Landor conceive such pictures, and 
 write such scenes ! 
 
 The days are happily past when the paltry epithet 
 of ^' Cockney Poets^^ could be bestowed upon Keats 
 and Leigh Hunt: the world has outlived them. 
 People would as soon think of applying such a word 
 to Dr. Johnson. Happily, too, one of the delightful 
 writers who were the objects of these unworthy- 
 attacks has outlived them also ; has lived to attain a 
 popularity of the most genial kind, and to diffuse, 
 through a thousand pleasant channels, many of the 
 finest parts of our finest writers. He has done good 
 service to literature in another way, by enriching 
 our language vdth some of the very best trans- 
 lations since Cowley. Who ever thought to see 
 Tasso^s famous passage in the " Amyntas^^ so ren- 
 dered ? 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 173 
 
 ODE TO THE GOLDEN AGE, 
 
 O lovely age of gold ! 
 
 Not that the rivers rolled 
 
 With milk, or that the woods wept honey-dew .• 
 
 Not that the reedy ground 
 
 Produced without a wound, 
 
 Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew ; 
 
 Not that a cloudless blue 
 
 For ever was in sight ; 
 
 Or that the heaven which bums, 
 
 And now is cold by turns, 
 
 Looked out in glad and everlasting light ; 
 
 No, nor that even the insolent ships from far 
 
 Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse than war. 
 
 Who, again, ever hoped to see such an English 
 version of one of Petrarch^s most characteristic 
 poems, conceits and all ? 
 
 PETRARCH S CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH IN THE 
 BOWER or LAURA. 
 
 Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams. 
 
 Which the fair shape who seems 
 
 To me sole woman, haunted at noontide ; 
 
 Fair bough, so gently ht, 
 
 (I sigh to think of it) 
 
 Which lent a pillar to her lovely side -, 
 
 And turf and flowers bright-eyed^ 
 
174 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 O'er which her folded gown 
 
 Flowed lilce an angel's down ; 
 
 And jovL, holy air and hushed, 
 
 Wliere first my heart at her sweet glances gushed. 
 
 Give ear, give ear, with one consenting. 
 
 To my last words, my last, and my lamenting. 
 
 If 'tis my fate below. 
 And heaven will have it so. 
 That love must close these dying eyes in tears. 
 May my poor dust be laid 
 In middle of your shade. 
 
 While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres. 
 The thought would calm my fears 
 When taking, out of breath. 
 The doubtful step of death ; 
 For never could my spirit find 
 A stiUer port after the stormy wind ; 
 Nor in more cahn abstracted boui'ne 
 
 Slip from my travelled flesh, and fi'om my bones out- 
 worn. 
 
 Perhaps, some future hour. 
 
 To her accustomed bower 
 
 Might come the untamed, and yet gentle she ; 
 
 And where she saw me first. 
 
 Might turn with eyes athirst 
 
 And kinder joy to look again for me ; 
 
 Then, oh the charity ! 
 
 Seeing amidst the stones 
 
 The earth that held my bones, 
 
 A sigh for very love at last 
 
 Might ask of heaven to pardon me the past ; 
 
A LITERARY LIFE, 175 
 
 And heaven itself could not say nay, 
 
 As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away. 
 
 How well I call to mind. 
 When from those boughs the wind 
 Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower ; 
 And there she sat meek-eyed. 
 In midst of all that pride, 
 
 Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower. 
 Some to her hair paid dower, 
 And seemed to dress the curls 
 QueenUke with gold and pearls ; 
 Some snowing on her drapery stopped. 
 Some on the earth, some on the water dropped ; 
 While others, fluttering from above, 
 
 Seemed wheeling round in pomp and saying, "Here 
 reigns love." 
 
 How oft then I said, 
 Inward, and filled with dread, 
 " Doubtless this creature came fi'om paradise !" 
 For at her look the while. 
 Her voice, and her sweet smile 
 And heavenly aii', truth parted from mine eyes ; 
 So that, with long-drawn sighs, 
 1 said, as far from men, 
 " How came I here, and when ?" 
 I had forgotten ; and alas ! 
 Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was -, 
 And from that time tiU this, I bear 
 
 Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest else- 
 where. 
 
176 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 In justice to Mr. Leigh Hunt^ I add to these fine 
 translations, of which every lover of Italian literature 
 will perceive the merit, some extracts from his origi- 
 nal poems, which need no previous preparation in 
 the reader. Except Chaucer himself, no painter of 
 processions has excelled the entrance of Paulo to 
 Ravenna, in the story of Rimini. 
 
 'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier day 
 
 Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay ; 
 
 For a warm eve and gentle rains at niglit 
 
 Have left a sparkling welcome for the light ; 
 
 And April with his white hands wet with flowers 
 
 Dazzles the bridemaids lookina; from the towers : 
 
 Green vineyards and fair orchards far and near 
 
 Glitter with drops ; and heaven is sapphire clear. 
 
 And the lark rings it, and the pine-trees glow. 
 
 And odours from the citrons come and go ; 
 
 And all the landscape — earth and sky and sea — 
 
 Breathes like a bright-eyed face that laughs out openly. 
 
 'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and loved. 
 E'en sloth to-day goes quick and mireproved ; 
 For where's the Hviiig soul, priest, minstrel, clown. 
 Merchant or lord, that speeds not to the town ? 
 Hence happy faces, striking thi-ough the green 
 Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ; 
 And the fai' ships, lifting their sails of white 
 Like joyful hands, come up with scattered Hght ; 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 177 
 
 Come gleaming up — true to the wished-for day— 
 And chase tlie whistling brine, and swirl into the bay. 
 
 And well may all the world come crowding there. 
 If peace returning and processions rare, 
 And to crown all, a marriage in the spring. 
 Can set men's hearts and fancies on the wing : 
 For on this beauteous day Ravenna's pride, 
 The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride ; 
 A bride to ransom an exhausted land ; 
 And he whose victories have obtained her hand 
 Has taken mth the dawn, so flies report. 
 His promised journey to the expecting court, 
 With knightly pomp, and squires of high degree 
 The bold Giovanni, Lord of Runini. 
 
 The road that way is Hned with anxious eyes, 
 And false announcements and fresh laughters rise ; 
 The horseman hastens through the jeering crowd. 
 And finds no horse within the gates allowed : 
 And who shaU. teU the drive there and the din ? 
 The beUs, the drums, the crowds yet squeezing in, 
 The shouts of mere exuberance of dehght, 
 And mothers with their babes in sore affright. 
 And armed bands making important way 
 Gallant and grave, the lords of hohday ; 
 Minstrels and friars and beggars many a one 
 That pray and roU their blind eyes in the sun, 
 And all the buzzing throngs that hang like bees 
 On roofs and walls and tops of garden trees. 
 
 With tapestries bright the windows overflow 
 By lovely faces brought that come and go, 
 
 I 3 
 
178 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Till by their work the charmers take their seats 
 Themselves the sweetest pictures in the streets. 
 In colours hy light awnings beautified ; 
 Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied, 
 Some tui'niiig a trim waist, or o'er the flow 
 Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow : 
 Smiling and talking some, and some serene. 
 But aU with flowers, and all with garlands green. 
 And most in. fluttering talk impatient for the scene. 
 
 At length the approaching trumpets, with a start 
 On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart. 
 The crowd are mute ; and from the southern wall 
 A lordly blast gives answer to the call. 
 Then comes the crush ; and all who best can strive 
 In shufiling struggle toward the palace drive. 
 Where balustered and broad, of marble fair. 
 Its portico commands the public square : 
 Eor there Count Guido is to hold his state 
 With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate. 
 But far too well the square has been supplied : 
 And, after a rude heave from side to side, 
 With angry faces turned and nothing gained. 
 The order first found easiest is maintauied ; 
 Leaving the pathways only for the crowd. 
 The space within for the procession proud. 
 
 For in this manner is the square set out : — 
 The sides half-deep are crowded round about 
 And faced with guards who keep the horseway clear ; 
 And round a fountain in the midst appear — 
 Seated with knights and ladies ia discourse — 
 Bare Tuscan wits and warbling troubadoui's, 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 1/9 
 
 Whom Guido, for he loved the Muse's race. 
 Has set there to adorn his public place. 
 The seats with boughs are shaded from above 
 Of bays and roses — ^trees of wit and love. 
 And in the midst fresh whistling through the scene 
 The lightsome fountain starts from out the green 
 Clear and compact ; till at its height o'errun 
 It shakes its loosening silver in the sun. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Another start of trumpets with reply ; 
 
 And o'er the gate a crimson canopy 
 
 Opens to right and left its flowing shade, 
 
 And Guido issues with the princely maid 
 
 And sits. The courtiers fall on either side 
 
 But every look is fixed upon the bride. 
 
 Who seems all thought at first, and hardly hears 
 
 The enormous shout that springs as she appears ; 
 
 Till, as she views the countless gaze below. 
 
 And faces that with grateful homage glow 
 
 A home to leave and husband yet to see 
 
 Are mixed with thoughts of lofty charity : 
 
 And hard it is she thinks to have no will ; 
 
 But not to bless these thousands harder still. 
 
 With that a keen and quivering sense of tears 
 
 Scarce moves her sweet proud Kp and disappears ; 
 
 A smile is underneath and breaks away 
 
 And round she looks and breathes as best befits the day. 
 
 What need I tell of cheeks and lips and eyes 
 The locks that fall, and bosom's bahny rise ? 
 
180 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Beauty's whole soul is here, though shadowed still 
 With anxious thought and doubtful maiden will ; 
 A Hp for endless love should all prove just ; 
 An eye that can withdraw into as deep distrust. 
 
 While thus with earnest looks the people gaze. 
 
 Another shout the neighbouring quarters raise ; 
 
 The train are in the town, and gathering near 
 
 With noise of cavaby and trumpets clear, 
 
 A princely music, unbedimmed with drums. 
 
 The mighty brass seems opening as it comes. 
 
 And now it fills and now it shakes the air, 
 
 And now it bursts into the sounding square. 
 
 At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice. 
 
 Each think he's deafened with his neighbour's voice. 
 
 Then with a long-drawn breath the clangours die, 
 
 The palace trumpets give a last reply ; 
 
 And clustering hoofs succeed with stately stir 
 
 Of snortings proud and chnking furniture ; — 
 
 The most majestic sound of human will : 
 
 Nought else is heard some tune, the people are so still. 
 
 I would fain go on with this procession,, which the 
 art of the poet continues to make us see and hear 
 and almost feel, so vividly does he describe the 
 pageantry, the noise, and the jostling. But it fills 
 the whole canto, and there is yet another poem for 
 which I must make room. Every mother knows 
 these pathetic stanzas. I shall never forget attempt- 
 ing to read them to my faithful maid, the hemmer 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 181 
 
 of flounces, whose fair-haired Saxon boy, her 
 pet and mine, and then fast recovering from a 
 dangerous illness. I attempted to read these 
 verses, and did read as many as I could for the 
 rising in the throat, the hysterica passio of poor 
 Lear, and as many as my auditor could hear for 
 her own sobs. No doubt they have often extorted 
 such praises — the truest and the most precious that 
 can be given. 
 
 TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS. 
 
 Sleep breathes at last from out thee 
 
 My little patient boy ; 
 And balmy rest about thee — 
 
 Smooths off the day's annoy. 
 I sit me down and think 
 
 Of all thy winning ways ; 
 Yet almost wish with sudden shrink 
 
 That I had less to praise. 
 
 Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, 
 
 Thy thanks to all that aid, 
 Thy heart in paiu and weakness 
 
 Of fancied faults afraid ; 
 The little trembling hand 
 
 That wipes thy quiet tears, 
 These, these are things that may demand 
 
 Dread memories for years. 
 
182 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Sorrows I've had, severe ones, 
 
 I will not think of now, 
 And calnily midst my dear ones 
 
 Have wasted with dry brow. 
 But when thy fingers press 
 
 And pat my stooping head, 
 I caimot bear the gentleness, — 
 
 The tears are in their bed. 
 
 All, first-born of thy mother 
 
 Wlien life and hope were new, 
 Kind playmate of thy brother, 
 
 Thy sister, father too ; 
 My light where'er I go, 
 
 My bird when prison-bound, 
 My hand-in-hand companion, — no, 
 
 My prayers shall hold thee round. 
 
 To say He has departed. 
 
 His voice, his face is gone ! 
 To feel impatient-hearted 
 
 Yet feel we must bear on ! 
 Ah, I could not endure 
 
 To whisper of such woe. 
 Unless I felt this sleep ensure 
 
 That it will not be so. 
 
 Yes ! still he's fixed and sleepiug ! 
 
 This silence, too, the while — 
 Its very hush and creepiug 
 
 Seem whispering us a smile. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 183 
 
 Sometlimg divine and dim 
 Seems going by mine ear 
 Like parting wings of Seraphim 
 Who say, " We've finished here." 
 
 The name of Percy Bysslie Shelley is united to 
 that of Leigh Hunt by many associations. They 
 were in Italy together ; they were friends ; and the 
 survivor has never ceased to bewail the untimely catas- 
 trophe of that great poet. In how many senses does 
 that early and sudden death appear untimely to our 
 dim eyes! Doubtless all was wise, all just^ all-merci- 
 ful ; yet to our finite perceptions^ he seemed snatched 
 away just as his spirit was preparing to receive 
 the truths to which it had before been blinded. 
 However this rests with an All-wise_, and an All- 
 merciful Judge^ and is far beyond our imperfect 
 speculations. 
 
 In a literary point of view_, there is no doubt 
 but every succeeding poem showed the gradual 
 clearing away of the mists and vapours with which^ 
 in spite of his exquisite rhythm, and a thousand 
 beauties of detail, his fine genius was originally 
 clouded. 
 
 The first time I ever met with any of his works, 
 this vagueness brought me into a ludicrous dilemma. 
 It was in the great library of Tavistock House that 
 Mr. Perry one morning put into my hand a splendidly 
 printed, and splendidly bound volume (^^ Alastor,"*^ 
 
184 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 I think), and desired me to read it, and give him 
 my opinion : " You will at least know/' said he, 
 '^ whether it be worth anybody else^s reading.'^ 
 
 Accordingly I took up the magnificent presenta- 
 tion copy, and read conscientiously until visitors 
 came in. I had no marker, and the richly bound 
 volume closed as if instinctively, so that when I 
 resumed my task on the departure of the company, 
 not being able to find my place, I was obliged to 
 begin the book at the first line. More visitors 
 came, and went, and still the same calamity befell 
 me ; again, and again, and again, I had to search 
 in vain amongst a succession of melodious lines 
 as like each other as the waves of the sea, for 
 buoy or landmark, and had always to put back to 
 shore, and begin my voyage anew. I do not re- 
 member having been ever in my life more ashamed 
 of my own stupidity than when obliged to say to 
 Mr. Perry, in answer to his questions as to the 
 result of my morning's studies, that, doubtless, it 
 was a very fine poem — only that I never could tell 
 when I took up the book, where I had left ofi* half 
 an hour before; an unintended criticism, which, 
 as characteristic both of author and reader, very 
 much amused my kind and clever host. 
 
 Now, could such a calamity befall even the stu- 
 pidest of young girls, in reading that perfection of 
 clearness and dramatic construction, '' The Cenci ?" 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 185 
 
 Ah ! what a tragic poet was lost in that boat- 
 wreck ! Could it have happened with the '' Ode to 
 the Skylark/^ an ode as melodious^ as various^ and 
 as brilliant as the song of the bird it celebrates. 
 Both seem soaring upward to Heaven_, and pouring 
 forth an unconscious hymn of praise and thanks- 
 giving. 
 
 • TO THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Hail to thee, blythe spiiit ! 
 
 Bird thou never wert, 
 That from heaven, or near it, 
 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Higher still and higher. 
 
 From the earth thou springest, 
 Like a cloud of fire ; 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest. 
 And singing stiU dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 
 
 In the golden Hghtning 
 
 Of the sunken sun, 
 O'er which clouds are brightening. 
 
 Thou dost float and run ; 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven, 
 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 
 
186 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere, 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white dawn clear, 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 
 
 AU the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare, 
 
 Erom one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 
 
 What thou art we know not ; 
 
 What is most Hke thee ? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to see, 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden 
 
 Till the world is MTOught 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower, 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : 
 
 Lilce a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew. 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 187 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflowered, 
 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Rain-awakened flowers, 
 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous, and clear and fresh, thy music doth sui'pass. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird, 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine : 
 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of raptui'e so divine. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal. 
 
 Or triumphal chaunt, 
 Matched with thine would be all 
 But an empty vaunt — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 What fields or waves or mountains ? 
 What shapes of sky or plain ? 
 Wliat love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never come near thee : 
 Thou iovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
188 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Waking or asleep 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
 If we were things bom 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 
 
 Teach me haK the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know. 
 Such harmonious madness 
 Prom my lips would flow, 
 The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 
 
 If there be anywhere a companion poem to this, 
 it is John Keats^s " Ode to the Nightingale/^ Poor 
 John Keats ! he too was called in scorn a " Cockney 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 189 
 
 Poet ;'■* he too was a friend of Leigh Hunt^s ; he too 
 died far from his native country, nor indeed hke 
 Shelley, by sad mischance, off the coast of Italy, 
 but by slow disease in the very heart of the Eternal 
 City ; — died after having done enough to show the 
 world all that it lost in him. No one since Spenser 
 has possessed a more graphic pen. His processions 
 not only live, they move. 
 
 ODE TO A l^IGHTINGALE. 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drank, 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the di'ains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
 But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
 That thou, hght-winged Dryad of the trees, 
 Li some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 Oh for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
 
 Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
 Tasting of Flora and the country green. 
 
 Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
 Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might di'ink, and leave the world unseen, 
 And with thee fade away in the forest dim ; 
 
190 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
 Wliere palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs, 
 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-tliin, and dies 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 
 ' And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
 
 Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the duU train perplexes and retards : 
 Abeady with thee ! tender is the night. 
 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. 
 Clustered around by aU her starry Eays ; 
 But here there is no light. 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 
 
 I camiot see what flowers are at my feet. 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild : 
 Wliite hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
 Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest child 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
 The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 191 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and for many a tinie 
 
 I have been tialf in love with easeful Death, 
 Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
 
 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
 "While thou art pouruig forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 Thou wast not bom for death, immortal Bird ! 
 
 No hungry generatioiLs tread thee down ; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
 
 Tlirough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
 She stood hi tears amid the alien corn ; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole seK ! 
 Adieu ! the Fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiviag elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
 Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 
 Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 
 
192 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 A most interesting Life of Keats, by Mr. Monckton 
 Milnes, Las been recently published. Few works 
 are better worth reading, not only for the sake of 
 the young poet, but for that of his generous bene- 
 factors, Sir James Clarke and Mr. Severn. It is 
 well in an age, called perhaps more selfish than it 
 deserves to be, to fall back upon such instances of 
 patient and unostentatious kindness. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE, 193 
 
 X. 
 
 AUTHOUS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. 
 
 Bath is a very elegant and classical-looking city. 
 Standing upon a steep hill-side^ its regular white 
 buildings rising terrace above terrace^ crescent above 
 crescent, glittering in the sun, and charmingly 
 varied by the green trees of its park and gardens ; 
 its pretty suburban villas mingling with the beau- 
 tiful villages that surround it on every side; nothing 
 can exceed the grace and amenity of the picture. 
 Even the railway contributes, by a rare exception, 
 to the effect of the landscape. Very pleasant is Bath 
 to look at. But when contrasted with its old repu- 
 tation as the favourite resort of the noble and the 
 
 VOL, II. K 
 
194 KECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 fair, the Baden-Baden of its day_, to which the well 
 came for amusement, and the sick as much for 
 cheerfuhiess as for cure, it is impossible not to feel 
 that the spirit has departed ; that it is a city of 
 memories, the very Pompeii of watering-places. It 
 was a far smaller town in that joyous time, and 
 perhaps the stately streets that rise from the old 
 springs in every direction, may have made it too 
 spacious and too commodious; for fashion is a 
 capricious deity, who loves of all things to be 
 crowded, provided the crowd be fashionable, and 
 does not dislike so much gentle inconvenience as may 
 serve to enhance the comfort and magnificence of 
 her real home. 
 
 Whatever be the cause, Bath, like the Italian 
 cities, which it is often said to resemble, is pic- 
 turesque, silent and empty. Lodging in Milsom 
 Street, the main artery of the town, where the best 
 shops are congregated, and at an excellent library, 
 always the most frequented among shops, my little 
 maid, a shrewd observer of such matters, declared 
 she knew every carriage that passed, and could 
 count them on her fingers ; and I myself, less keen- 
 sighted, did not care to ask her whether she meant 
 the fingers on one hand or on two. 
 
 I speak this out of pure regard to truth, since, 
 for my own part, I owe Bath all gratitude. Going 
 thither with health and spirits so shattered by a 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 195 
 
 long illness and a great sorrow, that I could not 
 muster courage to encounter tlie imaginary dangers 
 of the Box Tunnel, I returned, in the course of a few 
 weeks, so completely restored in mind and body, 
 that when, in the very midst of that same tunnel, 
 the ghost of my departed fear met me in the shape 
 of a story (a story with variations) of the foolish 
 lady who had been so exquisitely silly as to hire a 
 fly to escape from the peril, my fellow-travellers 
 really refused to believe that the person who laughed 
 so heartily at her past folly could possibly have been 
 the real heroine of the legend. So that I sus- 
 pect I left two traditions behind me in the Box 
 Tunnel, first as a simpleton, then as an im- 
 postor. 
 
 A place of interesting associations is Bath. The 
 dear friend, whom I principally went to see — one 
 of a privileged few, who carry the lively spirit, the 
 ready indulgence, the quick intelligence of youth, 
 into wise and honoured age, might herself almost 
 pass for one of its recollections. She took me to 
 see the house, where, fifty years before, Madame de 
 Genlis had lived, when sent to England, at the very 
 beginning of the Revolution, with Mademoiselle 
 d'Orleans ; and described the looks and manners of 
 the quiet, steady pupil, and the flighty governess, 
 as if it had been yesterday. She walked with me 
 through the street where Mrs. Thrale had shone 
 
 K 2 
 
196 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 forth in both her phases — the hostess and friend of 
 Dr. Johnson^ and Piozzi^s slandered^ defiant, but not 
 anhappy wife. Miss Burney never depicted her 
 better. And Miss Burney herself she showed forth 
 nearly as well as that clever, conceited, prim, 
 affected, die-away little authoress, who never for 
 one moment (unlucky body !) could' forget that 
 she was an authoress — ay, and the authoress of 
 '^ Cecilia '^ too, has shown herself to all posterity 
 in that looking-glass, her " Diary. ^^ Then she went 
 through all the past dynasties of the drama — 
 Kembles, Linleys, Ellistons ; and last of all she 
 took me to Bathford, to gaze upon Gainsborough's 
 admirable portrait of Quin, which looks just as 
 if he was preparing to sit down to a John 
 Dory. 
 
 A place full of associations is Bath. 'Wlien we 
 had fairly done with the real people, there were 
 great fictions to fall back upon; and I am not 
 sure, true and living human beings as Horace Wal- 
 pole and Madame d^Arblay have shown themselves 
 in their letters and journals — full of that great cha- 
 racteristic of our human nature, inconsistency, of 
 strength and weakness, of wisdom and folly, of 
 virtues and faults ; I am not sure, eminently human 
 as these worthies shine forth in their writings 
 that those who never lived except in the writings of 
 other people — the heroes and heroines of Miss 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 197 
 
 Austen_, for example — are not the more real of the 
 two. Her exquisite story of ^' Persuasion ^^ abso- 
 lutely haunted me. Whenever it rained (and it did 
 rain every day that I staid at Bath^ except one)^ 
 I thought of Anne Elliott meeting Captain Went- 
 worth_, when driven by a shower to take refuge 
 in a shoe-shop. Whenever I got out of breath in 
 climbing up-hill (which, considering that one dear 
 friend lived in Lansdown Crescent_, and another on 
 Beechen Cliff, happened also pretty often) _, I thought 
 of that same charming Anne Elliott, and of that 
 ascent from the lower town to the upper, during 
 which all her tribulations ceased. And when at last 
 by dint of trotting up one street and down another, 
 I incurred the unrom antic calamity of a blister on 
 the heel, even that grievance became classical by 
 the recollection of the similar catastrophe, which, 
 in consequence of her peregrinations with the 
 Admiral, had befallen dear Mrs. Croft. I doubt 
 if any one, even Scott himself, have left such per- 
 fect impressions of character and place as Jane 
 Austen. 
 
 Besides those pleasures of memory, Bath, eight 
 years ago, was not wanting in living illustrations. 
 Poor Miss Pickering, so fertile as a novelist, so 
 excellent as a woman; my friend. Miss Waddington, 
 an elegant authoress, who charmed the languors of 
 illness by the creations of fancy; Mr, Reade, also 
 
198 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 my friend^ whose poem of '^ Italy '^ is so full of 
 classical grace ; Mr. Beckford, original in every act ' 
 and word, whose '^ Vathek^^ was as strange a work 
 as his " Tower on Lansdown/^ and whose fine 
 place at Fonthill should never have been built, or 
 never have been destroyed ; last and best, Mr. Landor, 
 of whom, with his vivacity, his vigour, and fertility 
 of thought, it was difficult to believe that his first 
 work was published in the last century, and who 
 had gathered together, in a narrow room, specimens 
 of art — " little bits,^^ as he called them, which 
 might put to shame far larger collections. It was 
 impossible not to admire ; but it was dangerous to 
 praise in that room ; for the proprietor had a trick of 
 bestowing, which caught one so unawares, that one 
 could hardly express the gratitude for the surprise : 
 it was felt though, however ill-spoken. He gave 
 me a small picture, by Wright, of Derby — a night 
 view of Vesuvius, in which the two lights, the 
 moon and the volcano, are shining down upon 
 the sea, as brightly and as distinctly as they 
 could have d me in his own verse. These were 
 the literary names of Bath; and there was a 
 living artist too — Mr. Barker — an interesting 
 old man, who had, with an artistes improvidence, 
 devoted years of labour to a fine, but immovable 
 fresco — the taking of a Greek island by the Turks 
 — painted on the walls of his own house. The 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 199 
 
 talent has proved hereditary. I saw there a sketch 
 by his son, of the Death of the Duke of Orleans ; 
 a mere sketch, but one in which the homeliness 
 and evident truth of the accessories added much to 
 the pathos of the scene. I do not remember in art 
 a more touching rendering of family grief j it struck 
 the heart like a cry. 
 
 The neighbourhood of Bath is still more beau- 
 tiful than the city. Even the suburbs, where tree 
 and garden, hill and valley, railway and river^ mingle 
 so picturesquely with the rich tint of the stone of 
 which the houses are built, and the striking archi- 
 tectural forms ; and where pretty old churches and 
 churchyards, rich in yew and lime, seem to unite 
 town and country. Of the surrounding villages, 
 Batheaston was memorable for the blue-stocking 
 vagaries of a certain Lady Miller, a Somersetshire 
 Clemence Isaure, who some seventy years ago offered 
 prizes for the best verses thrown into an antique 
 vase; the prize consisting, not of a golden violet, 
 but of a wreath of laurel ; and the whole affair 
 producing, as was to be expected, a great deal more 
 ridicule than poetry. Claverton, another pretty 
 village, was celebrated for a travestie of a different 
 order — the curious book called '' The Spiritual 
 Quixote,^^ written by Mr. Graves ; and Weston^ 
 prettiest of all, is the delight and resort of poets, if 
 not their residence. 
 
200 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 But by far the most interesting spot in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Bath is Prior Park;, built by Allen the 
 bookseller, the friend of Pope and the original of 
 Fielding^ s Allworthy, afterwards the property and 
 residence of Warburton^ and now the site of a 
 Koman Cathohc college. 
 
 I shall never forget my first visit to this most 
 beautiful place, on a sunny, dewy day, between May 
 and April, the first of one month or the last of the 
 other, the very fairest moment of the year, all nature 
 smiling around me, and every pleasure enhanced by 
 the delightful manners of Dr. Baines_, the then 
 principal of the establishment. 
 
 The house is an elegant and stately erection, 
 separated by long corridors from two wings almost 
 equal to itself in size and extent. The portico is of 
 the noblest architecture, and double flights of steps, 
 flight after flight, exquisite in design and proportion, 
 stretch down from the magnificent colonnade to the 
 sloping lawn. Standing under the lofty pillars, 
 leaning over the marble balustrade, with a splendid 
 peacock close beside me expanding his gorgeous 
 plumage to the sun, I thought I had never beheld a 
 scene that formed so perfect a picture to the eye and 
 to the mind. 
 
 In the foreground the turfy lawn, dotted here 
 and there with graceful shrubs, descended to a 
 sweep of calm, bright waters as clear as crystal. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 201 
 
 giving back the fleecy clouds and the deep blue 
 sky, and fringed in on either side by down- 
 dropping elms, columnar poplars, and majestic cedars. 
 Across the lake the city presented itself in its most 
 picturesque point of view : the old buttressed abbeys 
 church towers and spires, streets, squares, and 
 crescents rising each over each, mixed with park 
 and gardens, and crowned by the high hills of 
 Lansdown and Mr. Beckford's tower. All was gay 
 and glittering in the tender verdure of spring, 
 leaves just bursting or just burst, a sweet balminess 
 in the air, and the odour of woods and flowers 
 floating around us, with the song of birds and the 
 thousand sounds of new-born insects. It was an 
 hour never to be forgotten ! 
 
 He whose intellect and kindliness lent attraction 
 even to that loveliest scenery died soon after. The 
 charm of Dr. Baines's conversation is difficult to 
 describe. He was the son of a Yorkshire farmer, 
 and had risen to the rank of Vicar Apostolic, 
 titular Bishop of some Eastern see, and to the 
 highest influence among his English co-religionists 
 by the united power of talent and of character. 
 The little tinct of simplicity which he retained from 
 his rustic origin went well with his courtly bearing. 
 That small touch of provincial naivete gave to his 
 high-bred polish the finishing grace of truth. It 
 was charming to see him surrounded by the boys 
 
 K 3 
 
2(02 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 of one wing, Howards^ Talbots, Fitzgeralds, 
 O^Connells — for O'Connell was then " a name to 
 conjure withaP' — and the elder students of the 
 other buildings young men in college cap and 
 gown. It was a double establishment, one a school 
 for the purpose of secular education, the other a 
 seminary for the priesthood ; but all the inhabitants, 
 elder or younger, without any distinction, seemed to 
 claim Dr. Baines as the general father. He reigned 
 in the hearts of all. 
 
 Full of taste and information, he avoided every- 
 thing that approached to controversy, and addressed 
 himself to the topics most likely to interest his 
 hearers, as if they had been precisely those most 
 interesting to himself. He showed me Miss 
 Agnew^s outline engravings, speaking of her 
 " Geraldine^^ (then recently published) with high but 
 discriminating praise, and regretting her retirement 
 to a convent, a thing he rarely saw cause to re- 
 commend. He showed me a little volume of Latin 
 hymns, the hymns Sir Walter Scott liked so well, 
 and told me that Mr. Moore, on his last visit to 
 Prior Park, had, at his request, taken away a copy, 
 '^ 1 hope,'^ said he, " that that great artist in words 
 may give us an English version of some of the few 
 poems, professedly religious, which have always had 
 attractions for poets. It would be a happy close of 
 a literary life, the prayer before going to rest.^^ 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 203 
 
 He gave a most amusing account of Cardinal 
 Mezzofante — a man in all but his marvellous gift of 
 tongues as simple as an infant. "The last time I 
 was in Rome/^ said he^ '^ we went together to the 
 Propaganda^ and heard speeches delivered in thirty- 
 five or thirty- six languages by converts of various 
 nations. Amongst them were natives of no less 
 than three tribes of Tartars, each talking his own 
 dialect. They did not understand each other, but 
 the Cardinal understood them all, and could tell 
 with critical nicety the points in which one jargon 
 differed from the others. We dined together ; and 
 I entreated him, having been in the Tower of 
 Babel all the morning, to let us stick to English for 
 the rest of the day. Accordingly he did stick to 
 English, which he spoke as fluently as we do, and 
 with the same accuracy not only of grammar bat of 
 idiom. His only trip was in saying, ^ that was 
 before the time when I remember,^ instead of 
 ^ before my time.^ Once_, too, I thought him 
 mistaken in the pronounciation of a word. But 
 when I returned to England,^^ continued Dr. Baines, 
 ' I found that my way was either provincial or old- 
 fashioned, and that I was wrong and he was right. 
 In the course of the evening his servant brought a 
 Welsh Bible which had been left for him.^ ^ Ah/ 
 said he, ^ this is the very thing ! I wanted to learn 
 Welsh V Then he remembered that it was in all 
 
204 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 probability not the authorised version. 'Never 
 mind/ be said, 'I don't think it will do me any 
 harm/ Six weeks after, I met the Cardinal, and 
 asked him how he got on with his Welsh. ' Ob \' 
 replied he, ^ I know it now. I have done with 
 it.' ''* 
 
 I do believe that, had Dr. Baines been spared, his 
 wisdom, his spirit of conciliation and his thorough 
 knowledge of the temper of England, would have 
 prevented the disastrous feud which must grieve 
 all who hold the great Christian tenets of charity 
 and love. 
 
 Traces of the manner in which people lived at 
 Bath whilst it was a small inconvenient town much 
 resorted to by the sick and the idle, may be found 
 scattered up and down a great variety of books. 
 Tbe list that crowds upon me would fill many 
 pages. Letter-writers, dramatists, poets, biogra- 
 phers all, first or last, betake themselves or their 
 heroes to " the Bath.'' Sheridan has made it the 
 scene, not of his most famous, but of his most 
 charming play ; and Bob Acres with his courage 
 
 * M. Kossuth, who, though no Mezzofante, either in 
 simplicity or the gift of tongues, has a command over our 
 language very rare in a foreigner, says that he learnt English 
 in a Turkish prison from three books, Shakespeare, the Bible, 
 and an Hungarian dictionary. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 205 
 
 oozing out of his fingers^ ends, and the com- 
 fortable suggestion that " there is snug lying 
 in the abbey/^ will last as long as comedy 
 exists. 
 
 Perhaps the best description of Bath in its 
 hey-day of fashion and popularity a century ago, is 
 to be found in the verse of Anstey, burlesque 
 although it be. 
 
 " The New Bath Guide/^ written in a hght and 
 tripping manner, well adapted to the subject and 
 little previously known, had an immense vogue in 
 its day ; a vogue all the greater that some of the 
 characters were supposed to be real, and the 
 poignancy of personal satire was added to general 
 pleasantry. It is so far forgotten by the general 
 reader, that the extracts upon which I may 
 venture will probably be as good as new. 
 I do not apologize for a few omissions ren- 
 dered necessary by the better manners of our 
 times. 
 
 The plan of the work is very simple : Mr. Sim^kin 
 Blunderhead, the good-humoured, gullible, but not 
 silly heir of a north country knight, is sent with 
 his sister Prudence, his cousin Jenny, and their 
 waiting-maid, to drink the waters and look at the 
 world. The story is told in letters from Simkin 
 to his mother, and from Miss Jenny to a female 
 friend. 
 
206 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 We are all at a wonderful distance from home, 
 
 Two hundred and sixty long miles are we come ! 
 
 Aiid now you'll rejoice, my dear mother to hear 
 
 We are safely arrived at the sign of " The Bear." 
 
 As we all came for health, as a body may say, 
 
 I sent for a doctor the very next day ; 
 
 And the doctor was pleased, though so short was the 
 
 warning. 
 To come to our lodgings the very next morning. 
 He looked very thoughtful and grave to be sure, 
 And I said to myseK — There's no hopes of a cure ! 
 But I thought I should faint when I saw him, dear 
 
 mother, 
 Eeel my pulse with one hand, with a watch in the other 
 No token of death that is heard in the night 
 Could ever have put me so much in a fright ; 
 Thinks I — 'tis all over — my sentence is past 
 And now he is counting how long I shall last. 
 
 Then follows a good deal of medical detail and of 
 doctor's Latin very comically dragged into the verse. 
 In a subsequent letter, Mr. Anstey, who seems to have 
 had as great a horror of the faculty as Moliere him- 
 self, gives a report of a consultation and its conse- 
 quences : 
 
 If ever I ate a good supper at night, 
 I dreamt of the devil and waked in a fright ; 
 And so as I grew every day worse and worse 
 The doctor advised me to send for a nurse, 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 207 
 
 And the nurse was so willing my health to restore, 
 
 She advised me to send for a few doctors more ; 
 
 For when any difficult work's to be done, 
 
 Many heads can dispatch it much better than one ; 
 
 And I find there are doctors enough in this place 
 
 If you want to consult in a dangerous case. 
 
 So they all met together and thus began talking : 
 
 " Good doctor I'm youi-s — 'tis a fine day for walking ; 
 
 Sad news in the papers — heaven knows who's to blame ! 
 
 The colonies seeui to be aU in a flame — 
 
 This Stamp Act no doubt might be good for the crown, 
 
 But I fear 'tis a pill that will never go down. — 
 
 What can Portugal mean ? — ^Is she going to stir up 
 
 Convulsions and heats in the bowels of Europe ? 
 
 'Twill be fatal if England relapses again 
 
 Erom the ill-blood and humours of Boui'bon and Spain." 
 
 Says I : " My good doctors, I can't understand 
 
 Why the deuce you take so many patients in hand ; 
 
 No doubt ye are aU of ye great politicians. 
 
 But at present my bowels have need of physicians, 
 
 Consider my case in the Hght it deserves 
 
 And pity the state of my stomach and nerves." 
 
 But a tight little doctor began a dispute 
 
 About administration, Newcastle and Bute, 
 
 Talked much of economy — 
 
 * 
 
 " Come, let's be gone, 
 
 We've another bad case to consider at one." 
 
 So thus they brushed off, each his cane at his nose, 
 
 When Jenny came in who had heard aU their prose : 
 
 " I'll teach them," says she, " at their next consultation 
 
 To come and take fees for the good of the nation." 
 
208 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 I could not conceive what the deuce 'twas she meant, 
 But she seized all the stuff that the doctor had sent 
 And out of the window she flung it down souse, 
 As the first politician went out of the house. 
 Decoctions and syrups around him all flew, 
 Pills, boluses, jalcp, and apozem too ; 
 His wig had the luck an emulsion to meet 
 And squash went a gallipot under his feet. 
 
 Having turned out the doctors^ the whole party 
 improve both in health and spirits ; Miss Jenny 
 picks up a military lover^ under whose auspices 
 Simkin turns beau : 
 
 No city, dear mother, this city excels 
 
 In charming sweet sounds both of fiddles and bells, 
 
 I thought, like a fool, that they only would ring 
 
 Eor a wedding, or judge, or the birth of a king ; 
 
 But I found 'twas for me that the good-natured people 
 
 Bang so hard that I thought they would' pull down the 
 
 steeple ; 
 So I took out my purse as I hate to be shabby 
 And paid all the men when they came from the abbey. 
 Yet some think it strange they should make such a riot 
 In a place where rich folk would be glad to be quiet. 
 
 Tabitha Rust, the waiting-maid_, takes a bath : 
 
 'Twas a glorious sight to behold the fair sex 
 All wading with gentlemen up to their necks ; 
 And to-day many persons of rank and condition 
 Were boiled by command of an able physician. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 209 
 
 Dean Spavin, Dean Mangy and Doctor De Squirt 
 Were all sent from Cambridge to rub off their- dirt ; 
 Judge Bore and the worthy old Counsellor Pest 
 Joined issue at once and went in with the rest ; 
 Old Baron Vanteaser, a man of great wealth, 
 Brought his lady the Baroness here for her health ; 
 Miss Scratchit went in and the Countess of Scales, 
 Both ladies of very great fashion in Wales ; 
 Then all on a sudden two persons of worth, 
 My Lady Pandora Macscurvy came forth 
 With General Sulphur arrived from the North. 
 So Tabby you see had the honour of washing 
 With folks of condition and very high fashion ; 
 But in spite of good company, poor little soul, 
 She shook both her ears like a mouse in a bowl. 
 
 This description of the two sexes bathing in 
 common in the chief water- drinking place of Eng- 
 land so recently as during the American War^ 
 would seem incredible if it were not confirmed by 
 an almost contemporary writer, Smollett,, in his 
 last, and incomparably his best novel, ^' The Expe- 
 dition of Humphrey Clinker/^ 
 
 Our friend Simkin prepares for a ball : 
 
 Thank Heaven, of late, my dear mother, my face is 
 
 Not a little regarded at all public places : 
 
 Por I ride in a chair with my hands in a muflP, 
 
 And have bought a silk coat, and embroidered the cuff ; 
 
 But the weather was cold, and the coat it was thin. 
 
 So the taylor advised me to line it with skin. 
 
210 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 But what with my Nivernois hat can compare. 
 
 Bag- wig and laced ruffles and black solitaire ? 
 
 And what can a man of true fashion denote 
 
 Like a yard of good ribbon tied under his throat ? 
 
 My buckles and box are in exquisite taste ; 
 
 The one is of paper, the other of paste ; 
 
 And my stockings of silk are just come from the hosier, 
 
 Eor to-night I'm to dance with the charming Miss Toser. 
 
 He goes to the ball. After two or three pages 
 of rhapsodies : 
 
 But hark ! now they strike the melodious string, 
 
 The vaulted roof echoes, the mansions all ring ; 
 
 At the sound of the hautboy, the bass and the fiddle, 
 
 Sir Boreas Blubber steps forth in the middle, 
 
 Like a hollyhock, noble majestic and tall. 
 
 Sir Boreas Blubber first opens the ball. 
 
 Sir Boreas, great in the minuet known. 
 
 Since the day that for dancing his talents were shown 
 
 Where the science is practised by gentlemen grown. 
 
 How he puts on his hat with a smile on his face 
 
 And delivers his hand with an exquisite grace ! 
 
 How gently he offers Miss Carrot before us 
 
 Miss Carrot Eitz-oozer a niece of Lord Porus ! 
 
 How nimbly he paces, how active and light ! 
 
 One never can judge of a man at first sight ; 
 
 But as near as I guess from the size of his calf 
 
 He may weigh about twenty-three stone and a half. 
 
 Now why should I mention a hundred or more 
 
 Who went the same circle as others before 
 
 To a tune that they played us a hundred times o'er ? 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 211 
 
 I must tind room for some scraps of a public 
 breakfast. Simkin invokes the desire of popu- 
 larity : 
 
 'Twas you made my Lord Ragamuffian come here, 
 Who they say has been lately created a peer. 
 And to-day with extreme complaisance and respect asked 
 All the people at Bath to a general breakfast. 
 
 You've heard of my Lady Bunbutter, no doubt, 
 
 How she loves an assembly fandango or rout ; 
 
 No lady in London is half so expert 
 
 At a snug private party her friends to divert ; 
 
 But they say that of late she's grown sick of the town 
 
 And often to Bath condescends to come down : 
 
 Her ladyship's favourite house is " The Bear/' 
 
 Her chariot and servants and horses are there. 
 
 Now my lord had the honour of coming down post 
 
 To pay his respects to so famous a toast ; 
 
 In hopes he her ladyship's favour might win, 
 
 By playing the part of a host at an inn. 
 
 He said it would greatly our pleasure promote 
 
 If we all for Spring Gardens set out in a boat ; 
 
 Though I never as yet coidd his reason explain 
 
 Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain. 
 
 Tor sure such confusion was never yet known, 
 
 Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blo\^^l ; 
 
 While his lordship embroidered and powdered all o'er 
 
 Was bowing and handing the ladies ashore. 
 
 How the misses did huddle and scuddle and run, 
 
 One would think to be wet must be very good fun ; 
 
 For by waggling their gown-tails they seemed to take pains 
 
 To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains ; 
 
212 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 And 'twas pretty to see, how like birds of a feather 
 The people of quality all flocked together ; 
 All pressing, addressing, caressing, and fond, 
 Just as so many ganders and geese in a pond. 
 You've read all their names in the news I suppose, 
 But for fear you have not take the list as it goes : 
 
 There was Lady Grease\\Tister, 
 
 And Madam Yan Twister, 
 
 Her Ladyship' s sister ; 
 
 Lord Cram and Lord Vulter, 
 
 Sir Brandish O'Culter, 
 
 With Marshal Carouser, 
 
 And old Lady Drouser, 
 And the great Hanoverian Baron Pansmouser, 
 Besides many others who all in the rain went 
 On purpose to honour this grand entertainment. 
 The company made a most brilliant appearance. 
 And ate bread and butter with great perseverance ; 
 All the chocolate, too, that my lord set before 'em 
 The ladies dispatched with the utmost decorum ; 
 And had I a voice that was stronger than steel. 
 With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel, 
 And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter 
 AU the speeches my lord made to Lady Bunbutter ! 
 
 Now why should the Muse, my dear mother, relate 
 The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great ? 
 As homeward we came — 'tis with sorrow you'll hear 
 What a dreadful disaster attended the peer : 
 In landing old Lady Bumfidget and daughter 
 This obsequious lord tumbled into the water ; 
 But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the boat 
 And I left all the latlies a cleaning his coat. 
 
A LlTERARr LIFE. 213 
 
 A worse disaster than that which befel Lord 
 Raganiuffin is in store for our good-humoured 
 letter-writer. His friend, Captain Cormorant, who 
 by the way turns out to be no captain at all, 
 and who had undertaken, amongst other fashionable 
 accomplishments, to initiate him in the mysteries 
 of lansquenet, cheats him out of seven hundred 
 pounds j so that Miss Jenny loses her lover and 
 her cousin his money at one stroke. Prudence 
 and Tabitha also come in for their share of mis- 
 adventures ; and the whole party return, crestfallen 
 and discomfited, to the good old Lady Blunderhead 
 and their Yorkshire Manor House. 
 
214 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 XI. 
 
 AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER — EITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 I DID a great injustice the other day when I 
 said that the Americans had at last a great poet. 
 I should have remembered that poets^ like sorrows : 
 
 " Come not single spies 
 But in battahons." 
 
 There is commonly a flight of those singing- 
 birds, as we had ourselves at the beginning of the 
 present century ; and besides Professor Longfellow, 
 Bryant, Willis, Lowell and Poe do the highest 
 honour to America. 
 
 The person, however, whom I should have most 
 injured myself in forgetting, for my injustice could 
 not damage a reputation such as his, was John G. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 215 
 
 Whit tier J the most intensely national of American 
 bards. 
 
 Himself a member of the Society of Friends^ the 
 two most remarkable of his productions are on 
 subjects in which that active although peaceful 
 sect take a lively interest : the anti-slavery cause, 
 in the present day ; and the persecution of the 
 Quakers, which casts such deep disgrace on the 
 memory of the Pilgrim Fathers and their immediate 
 successors in the early history of New England. 
 
 Strange it seems to us in this milder age, that 
 these men, themselves flying from the intolerance 
 of the Old Country, should, the moment they at- 
 tained to anything like power, nay even whilst 
 disputing with the native Indians, not the pos- 
 session of the soil, but the mere privilege of 
 dwelling peaceably therein, at once stiffen them- 
 selves into a bigotry and a persecution not ex- 
 celled by the horrors of the Star Chamber ! 
 should, as soon as they attained the requisite phy- 
 sical force, chase and scourge, and burn and sell 
 their fellow-creatures into slavery, for that very 
 exercise of private judgment on religious subjects, 
 that very determination to interpret freely the Book 
 of Life, which had driven themselves into exile ! 
 Ohf many are the causes of thankfulness which 
 we owe to the Providence that cast us upon a 
 more enlightened age ; but for nothing ought we 
 more devoutly to render thanks to God than that 
 
216 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 in our days the deeds recited in Mr. Whittier's 
 splendid ballad of ''Cassandra Southcote'' would 
 be impossible. 
 
 His poem itself can scarcely be overrated. The 
 march of the verse has something that reminds 
 us of the rhythm of Mr. Macaulay^s fine classical 
 ballads, something which is resemblance, not imi- 
 tation ; whilst in the tone of mind of the author, 
 his earnestness, his eloquence, his pathos, there 
 is much that resembles the constant force and oc- 
 casional beauty of Ebenezer Elliot. T^Tiilst equally 
 earnest, however, and equally eloquent_, there is 
 in Mr. Whittier, not only a more sustained, 
 but a higher tone than that of the Corn-law 
 Rhymer. It would indeed be difficult to tell the 
 story of a terrible oppression and a merciful de- 
 liverance, a deliverance springing from the justice, 
 the sympathy, the piety of our countrymen, the 
 English captains, with more striking effect. I 
 transcribe the prose introduction, which is really 
 necessary to render such an outrage credible, 
 although one feels intuitively that the story must 
 have been true, precisely because it was too 
 strangely wicked for fiction. 
 
 "This ballad has its foundation upon a some- 
 what remarkable event in the history of Puritan 
 intolerance. Two young persons, son and daughter 
 of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who had himself 
 been imprisoned and deprived of all his property 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 217 
 
 for having entertained two Quakers at his house, 
 were fined ten pounds each for non-attendance at 
 church, which they were unable to pay. The case 
 being represented to the General Court at Boston, 
 that body issued an order which may still be seen 
 on the court records, bearing the signature of 
 Edward Rawson, Secretary, by which the Treasurer 
 of the County was ^ fully empowered to sell the 
 said persons to any of the English nation at Vir- 
 ginia or Barbadoes to answer said fines/ An 
 attempt was made to carry this barbarous order 
 into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing 
 to convey them to the West Indies. — Vide SewalFs 
 ' History,^ p.p. 225—6, G. Bishop.'' 
 
 To the God of all true mercies let my blessing rise to-day, 
 From the scoffer aud the ciiiel He hath plucked the spoil 
 
 away, — 
 Yea, He, who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, 
 And tamed the Chaldean hons, hath set His handmaid free ! 
 
 Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, 
 Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of 
 
 stars. 
 In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night 
 
 tune, 
 My grated window whitened with autumn's early rime. 
 
 Alone in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by ; 
 Star after star looked palely in, and sunk adown the sky ; 
 VOL. II. L 
 
218 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 No somid amid night's stillness, save that which seemed 
 
 to he 
 The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea. 
 
 All night I sate unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow 
 Tlie ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow, 
 Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and 
 
 sold 
 Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the 
 
 fold! 
 
 Oh the weakness of the flesh was there, the shrinking and the 
 
 shame ; 
 And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came : 
 " Why sitst thou thus forlornly ?" the wicked murmur 
 
 said, 
 "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden 
 
 bed? 
 
 " Where be the smiluig faces and voices soft and sweet 
 Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street ? 
 Where be the youths, whose glanc^ the smnmer Sabbath 
 
 through 
 Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew ? 
 
 " Why sitst thou here, Cassandra ? Bethink thee with what 
 
 mirth 
 Thy happy schoolmates gather aromid the warm bright 
 
 hearth ; 
 How the crunson shadows tremble, on foreheads white and 
 
 fair, 
 On eyes of merry girlliood half hid in golden hair. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 219 
 
 "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind 
 
 words are spoken ; 
 Not for thee the nuts of Wenham Woods by laugliing boys 
 
 are broken ; 
 No first-fiTiits of the orchard within thy lap arc laid, 
 For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful nrstics braid. 
 
 " weak deluded maiden ! by crazy fancies led, 
 With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ; 
 To leave a wholesome worship, and teachmg pure and sound, 
 Arid mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth 
 bound, 
 
 "Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine, 
 Who rail against the pulpit and holy bread and wine. 
 Sore from then' cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame, 
 Rejoicing in their wretchedness and glorying in their shame, 
 
 " And what a fate awaits thee ? a sadly toiling slave. 
 Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the 
 
 grave ! 
 Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thraU, 
 The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of aU !" 
 
 Oh ! — ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble nature's fears 
 Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears 
 I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer, 
 To feel — oh Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert 
 there ! 
 
 I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell 
 And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison shackles 
 feU, 
 
 L 2 
 
220 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white. 
 And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. 
 
 * ^ ^ * 
 
 Slow broke the grey cold morning, again the sunshine fell 
 Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely 
 
 cell; 
 The hoar-frost matted on the wall, and upward from the 
 
 street 
 Came careless laugh and idle word and tread of passing feet. 
 
 At length the heavy boats fell back, my door was open cast, 
 And slowly at the sheriff's side up the long street I passed : 
 I heard the murmur round me and felt, but dared not see. 
 How from every door and window the people gazed on me. 
 
 * 
 
 We paused at length where at my feet the sunlit waters broke 
 On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock ; 
 The merchants' ships lay idly there in hard clear Hues on 
 
 high 
 Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky. 
 
 And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave 
 
 and cold, 
 And grim and stout sea-captains, with faces bronzed and old, 
 And on his horse with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, 
 Sate dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land. 
 
 9i& * « « 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 221 
 
 But grey lieads sliook, and yomig brows kiiit, the while the 
 
 sheriif read 
 That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made. 
 Wlio to their house of Rminion and idol priesthood bring 
 No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. 
 
 Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning said : 
 *' Which of ye worthy seamen will take this Quaker maid ? 
 In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Yii'ginia's shore, 
 You may hold her at a higher price than Indian ghi or 
 Moor." 
 
 Grim and silent stood the captauis; and when agaiu he 
 
 cried 
 " Speak out, my worthy seamen !" no voice or sign replied; 
 But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met 
 
 my ear -. 
 "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and 
 
 dear!" 
 
 A weight seemed hited off my heart — a pitying friend was 
 
 nigh, 
 I felt it in his hard rough hand I saw it in his eye ; 
 And when again the sheriff spake, that voice so kind to me 
 Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea. 
 
 " Pile my ship with bars of silver — pack with coins of Spa- 
 nish gold 
 
 From keelpiece up to deck -plank, the roomage of her hold, 
 
 By the living God who made me ! I would sooner in yon 
 bay 
 
 Sink ship and crew and cargo than bear this chUd away !" 
 
222 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 " Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws !" 
 Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just 
 
 applause. 
 " Like the herdsman of Tekoa in Israel of old 
 Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold ?" 
 
 I looked on haughty Endicott ; with weapon half-way drawn. 
 Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and 
 
 scorn ; 
 Fiercely he drew his bridal-rein, and turned in silence back, 
 And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode munmuing in his 
 track. 
 
 Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul, 
 Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his 
 
 parchment roll ; 
 " Good friends," he said, " since both have fled, the ruler and 
 
 the priest. 
 Judge ye if from their fui'ther work I be not well released." 
 
 Loud was the cheer, which, full and clear, swept round the 
 
 silent bay, 
 As \Yiih kind words, and kinder looks, he bade me go my way ; 
 Yov He who turns the coui'ses of the streamlet of the glen 
 And the river of great waters, had tm'ued the hearts of men. 
 
 Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my 
 
 eye, 
 A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, 
 A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland 
 
 lay. 
 And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 228 
 
 Thanksgiving to tke Lord of life ! to Hiin all praises be, 
 Who from the hands of evil men hath set His handmaid fi^ee 1 
 All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid 
 Who takes the crafty in the maze which for the poor is laid ! 
 
 * 
 
 I add the opening stanzas of an equally powerful 
 and eloquent poem, with the few lines of expla- 
 nation prefixed by the author. 
 
 MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 
 
 Written on reading an account of the pro- 
 ceedings of the citizens of Norfolk (Virginia) in 
 reference to George Latimer, the alleged fugitive 
 slave, the results of whose case in Massachusetts 
 will probably be similar to that of the negro, 
 Somerset, in England in 1772. 
 
 The blast from Freedom's northern hills upon its southern 
 
 way 
 Eears greeting to Yu'giuia from Massachusetts Bay : — 
 No word of haughty challenghig, nor battle.bugle's peal. 
 Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's 
 
 steel. 
 
 No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along oui' highways go — 
 Ai'ound oui' silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow ; 
 
224 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 And to the land breeze of our ports upon tlieir errands far, 
 A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are spread for 
 war. 
 
 We hear thy threats, Yii'ginia ! thy stormy words and high, 
 Swell harshly on the southern winds which melt along our 
 
 sky; 
 Yet not one brown hard hand foregoes its^ honest labour 
 
 here ; 
 No hewer of our mountain oak. suspends his axe in fear. 
 
 Wild are the waves that lash the reefs along St. George's 
 
 bank. 
 Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and dank ; 
 Through storm and wave and blinding mist stout are the 
 
 hearts which man 
 The fishing-smacks of Marble Head, the sea-boats of Cape 
 
 Aim. 
 
 The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy forms 
 Bent grunly o'er their strakiing lines, or wrestling with the 
 
 storms ; 
 Eree as the winds they drive before, rough as the waves they 
 
 roam. 
 They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky 
 
 home. 
 
 What means the Old Dominion ? Hath she forgot the day 
 When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's steel 
 
 array ? 
 How, side by side with sons of her's, the Massachusetts 
 
 men 
 Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout Cornwallis 
 
 then? 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 225 
 
 Forgets slie how the Bay State, in answer to the caU 
 Of her old House of Burgesses spoke out from FanueiJ 
 HaU? 
 
 When echoing back her Henry's cry, came pealing on eacli 
 breath 
 
 Of northern winds the thrilKng sounds of " Liberty or 
 Death !" 
 
 What asks the Old Dominion ? If now her sons have proved 
 False to their father's memory, false to the faith they loved ; 
 If she can scoff at Freedom, and its Great Charter spurn, 
 Must we of Massachusetts from Truth and Duty turn ? 
 
 We hunt youi' bondmen flying from slavery's hateful hell— 
 Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhound's yell— 
 We gather at your summons above our fathers' graves. 
 From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your wretched 
 slaves ! 
 
 Thank God ! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow, 
 
 The spirit of her early time is with her even now \ 
 
 Dream not because her pilgrim blood moves slow, and calm, 
 
 and cool, 
 She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and 
 
 tool! 
 
 All that a Sister State should be, all that 2, free State may. 
 
 Heart, hand and purse we proffer, as in our early day ; 
 
 But that one dark loathsome burthen, ye must stagger with 
 
 alone, 
 And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown ! 
 
 L 3 
 
226 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 If slavery be a reproach, and too just a reproach 
 it is to the Southern States, surely the citizens of 
 New England may justly pride themselves upon the 
 poetry which has arisen out of the sin and shame of 
 their brethren. Time will inevitably chase away 
 the crime, for national crimes are in their very 
 nature transient, whilst the noble effusions that 
 sprang from that foul source, whether in the verse 
 of the poet, or the speeches of the orator, are im- 
 perishable. 
 
 Another of my sins of omission is Mr. Halleck, a 
 poet of a different stamp, with less of earnestness 
 and fire, but more of grace and melody. How 
 musical are these stanzas on the Music of Nature ! 
 
 Young thoughts have music in them, love 
 
 And happiness their theme ; 
 And music wanders ia the wind 
 
 That lulls a morning dream. 
 And there are angel voices heard 
 
 In childhood's frolic hoiu's, 
 When life is but an April day 
 
 Of sunshine and of flowers. 
 
 There's music in the forest leaves 
 When smnmer vrinds are there. 
 
 And in the laugh of forest giiis 
 That braid their sunny hair. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 227 
 
 The first wild bii'd, that drinks the dew 
 
 From violets of the spring, 
 Has music in his voice, and in 
 
 The flattering of his wing. 
 
 There's music in the dash of waves 
 When the swift bark cleaves the foam ; 
 
 There's music heard upon her deck 
 The mariner's song of home. 
 
 When moon and starbeams smiling meet 
 
 At midnight on the sea — 
 
 * 
 
 To-day the forest leaves are green. 
 
 They'll wither on the morrow ; 
 And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long 
 
 To the widow's wail of sorrow. 
 Come with the winter snows and ask 
 
 'V\Tiere are the forest birds ? 
 The answer is a silent one 
 
 More eloquent than words. 
 
 The moonlight music of the waves, 
 
 In storms is heard no more. 
 When the H^dng lightning mocks the wreck 
 
 At midnight on the shore. 
 
 Still better than these verses are the stanzas on 
 the death of his brother, poet Drake : 
 
228 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Green be the turf above thee, 
 Friend of my better days ; 
 
 None knew thee but to love thee, 
 None named thee but to praise. 
 
 Tears fell, when thou Avert dying, 
 Prom eyes unused to weep ; 
 
 And long where thou art lying 
 Will tears the cold turf steep. 
 
 When hearts whose truth was proven 
 Like thine are laid in earth. 
 
 There should a wreath be woven 
 To tell the world their worth ; 
 
 And I, who woke each morrow 
 To clasp thy hand in mine, 
 
 Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
 Whose weal and woe were thine,- 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 Around thy faded brow ; 
 
 But I've in vain essayed it, 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
 While memory bids me weep thee 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free 
 
 The grief is fixed too deeply 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 229 
 
 This is a true and manly record of a true and 
 manly friendship. There is no doubting the sorrow^ 
 honourable alike to the Departed and the Survivor. 
 May he be so loved and so mourned ! 
 
230 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 XI. 
 
 VOLUMINOUS AUTHORS. 
 
 hargrave's state trials. 
 
 All my life long I have delighted in voluminous 
 works ; in other words_, I have delighted in that 
 sort of detail which permits so intimate a familiarity 
 with the subjects of which it treats. This fancy 
 of mine seems most opposed to the spirit of an age 
 fertile in abridgments and selections. And yet my 
 taste is hardly, perhaps, so singular as it seems : 
 witness the six volume biographies of Scott and 
 Southey, which everybody wishes as long again as 
 they are ; witness the voluminous histories of single 
 events — the Conquest of Peru and of Mexico, by 
 Mr. Prescott, the French Revolution of M. Thiers, 
 the Girondins of M. de Lamartine. Even the most 
 successful writers of modern fiction have found the 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 231 
 
 magical effects of bringing the public into intimacy 
 with their heroes. Hence Mr. Cooper (dead I 
 regret to say^ but yet imperishably alive in his 
 graphic novels^) extended to fifteen volumes the 
 adventures of Leather- Stocking, until every reader 
 offered his hand to greet the honest backwoodsman 
 as if he had been a daily visitor ; and Balzac, a still 
 greater artist, brought the same dramatis personce, 
 the same set of walking ladies and gentlemen to fill 
 up the background of his scenes of the '' Life of 
 Paris and of the Provinces/^ with an illusion so per- 
 fect and so masterly, that I myself, who ought to 
 have some acquaintance with the artifices of story- 
 telling, was so completely deceived as to inquire by 
 letter of the friend who had introduced me to those 
 remarkable books, whether the Horace Bianchon, 
 whom I had just found consulted for the twentieth 
 time in some grave malady, were a make-believe 
 physician, or a real living man : to which my friend, 
 herself no novice in this sort of deception, replied 
 that he was certainly a fictitious personage, for that 
 she had written two years ago to Paris to ask 
 the same question. 
 
 Even in this world of Beauties, and of Extracts, I 
 do not believe myself quite alone in my love of the 
 elaborate and the minute ; and yet I doubt if many 
 people contemplate very long very big books with 
 the sense of coming enjoyment which such a pros- 
 pect gives me ; and few shrink, as I do, with 
 
232 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 aversion and horror from that invention of the 
 enemy — an Abridgment. I never shall forget the 
 shock I experienced in seeing Bruce, that oppro- 
 brium of an unbelieving age, that great and graphic 
 traveller, v^^hose eight or nine goodly volumes took 
 such possession of me, that I named a v^^hole colony 
 of bantams after his Abyssinian princes and prin- 
 cesses, calling a little golden strutter of a cock after 
 that arch-tyrant the Ras Michael, and a speckled 
 hen, the beauty of the poultry-yard, Ozoro Esther, 
 in honour of the Ptas^s favourite wife — I never felt 
 greater disgust than at seeing this magnificent work 
 cut down to a thick, dumpty volume, seven inches 
 by five j except, perhaps, when I happened to light 
 upon another pet book — Drinkwater^s " Siege of 
 Gibraltar,^^ where I had first learned to tremble at 
 the grim realities of war, had watched day by day 
 the firing of the red hot balls, had groped my 
 way through the galleries, and taken refuge in 
 the casemates, degraded from the fair propor- 
 tions of a goodly quarto, into the thin and 
 meagre pamphlet of a lending library, losing a 
 portion of its life-like truth with every page that 
 was cut away. 
 
 Besides books long in themselves, I love large 
 collections of works, of the same class. Shakespeare 
 I had always known, of course. But what joy it 
 was to wander at will through the vellum bound 
 folio of Beaumont and Fletcher, and then to diverge 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 233 
 
 to Ben Jonson, to Massinger, to Ford, to Webster, 
 to the countless riches of Dodsley^s Old Plays ! 
 How pleasant to get together books united only by 
 a common subject, collections of English ballads, 
 Percy, Weber, Heber, Ritson, Scott, the Chronicles 
 of Froissart and de Joinville, of Hollinshed and 
 of Hall, the endless Memoirs of Louis the Four- 
 teenth's daj^, or the still more endless Journals 
 and Diaries, whether by prince or valet, whether 
 false or true, that show us vividly as in life him 
 whom Beranger has called ^' the great poet of modern 
 times,'' the marvellous Napoleon ! 
 
 Or again, books by the same author : the novels 
 of Richardson ; the letters of Walpole — will they 
 ever come to an end ? I hope not. The ma- 
 jestic verse and graceful prose of Dryden, whose 
 prefaces contain some of our earliest criticism 
 and some of our best ; the wisdom of Bacon ; the 
 wit of Swift ; the easy truth of Jane Austen ; the 
 matchless charm of Scott. I have read of Prynne 
 and Defoe more than would break down a writing- 
 table, and about the French Revolution as much as 
 would fill a room. 
 
 Nor do I perceive much change in this devouring 
 passion. Nearly forty years ago, I had occasion to 
 acquire as much knowledge as I could on the sub- 
 ect of the Commonwealth, and it was a labour of 
 love. From the lives of Hutchinson and Fairfax, 
 so charmingly told by their loving wives, and the 
 
234 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 exciting histories of Burnet and Clarendon to the 
 dullest State Papers of the Record Office, my 
 ravenous appetite " had stomach for them all/^ 
 Four winters since, I was reading for my own plea- 
 sure, Lucas Monsigny^s "Life of Mirabeau/^ It 
 was a hired book, a Brussels^ edition, in ten volumes, 
 from Mr. Rolandi^s excellent Foreign Library in 
 Berners Street, and I had only the first four. Full 
 of Mirabeau, of that strange creature his father, 
 and that little less remarkable personage the Bailli, 
 his uncle, worse than the vain, tyrannical father in 
 my mind, because he had a perception of the stu- 
 pendous intellect and noble nature with which they 
 were dealing, and yet submitted in all things to 
 that heartless coxcomb, the Marquis ; full of these 
 people, I could not think of waiting until I had 
 written to London, I should never have closed my 
 eyes ; so I ran off to a most kind neighboui', whose 
 rich library and constant indulgence afforded me 
 some chance of supplying this pressing want. " Vie 
 de Mirabeau, par son fils adoptif V said the fair 
 daughter, whom I encountered in the park. " Yes,^^ 
 answered I, with a thousand thanks : " that life of 
 Mirabeau, if Sir Henry happen to have it. If not, 
 any life, any book, by or about him, to serve until I 
 can get the true thing l'^ And so I went my way ! 
 In a few hours, a horse and cart arrived at my door, 
 containing a great trunk, and a note with a key 
 enclosed. And this precious trunk was full of 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 235 
 
 Mirabeau : orations, letters, lives ; all of liis own 
 writing, that a woman might fitly read, and almost 
 all that had been WT.'itten about him, from Dumont^s 
 cold unworthy book to the fine etude of Victor 
 Hugo. I do not think I even opened a newspaper 
 until I had gone through the whole collection. 
 
 One winter I revelled in all the lore I could 
 procure regarding beasts, and birds, and insects, and 
 reptiles ; another I solaced myself by a course of 
 topography, ponderous county histories which are 
 called so dull and are often so amusing, full of odd 
 bits of legend and story and traits of manners that 
 one finds nowhere else; and once I beguiled the 
 long Christmas evenings by looking through the 
 whole series of the '^ Monthly Review,^^ reading the 
 cotemporary judgments on Hume and Robertson, on 
 Gibbon and Johnson, on Fielding and Smollett, on 
 Gray and Mason, on Goldsmith and Sterne, and 
 comparing the criticism of the day with the abiding 
 verdict of posterity. Anybody not willing to en- 
 counter the trouble of turning over above a hundred 
 heavy volumes may procure for himself a recreation 
 nearly analogous by reading the correspondence which 
 Mr. Mitford has just so ably edited between the before- 
 mentioned Horace Walpole and Mason ; and yet that 
 is hardly a fair example. Prince of letter- writers as 
 Walpole was, created as it seems for nothing else but 
 to chronicle with the adroitest of touches the gossip of 
 the day, it is something wonderful how seldom even 
 
236 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 by accident he shows the shghtest perception of the 
 high^ the good^ or the true. There is hardly a 
 great name of his own time at which he does not 
 sneer. In one passage he ignores them in a body^ 
 and says " Dr. Johnson and the crew whose names 
 I forget/^ or words to that effect. He classes 
 Garth as a poet with Milton ; chooses Goldsmith as 
 the object of his supreme contempt^ and even 
 amongst his own correspondents he had quarrelled 
 with Gray and was about to quarrel with Mason. 
 He can hardly be said to reflect cotemporary opinion. 
 Perhaps we of the last generation have seen some- 
 thing more nearly approaching it in the judgment 
 of the "Quarterly^^ upon Keats, and of the ^^Edin- 
 burgh Review'^ upon Wordsworth. Time is the one 
 great critic. 
 
 Of all collected works those that I liked best, 
 better than the poets from Chaucer to Tennyson, 
 better than the dramatists from Shakespeare to 
 Talfourd, were those most real and most exciting of 
 all dramas called trials. I began with the French 
 collections, collections consisting of very many small 
 volumes, Lilliputian duodecimoes, some of which are 
 so infinitely curious ; and having fairly exhausted 
 them, I betook myself to the Brobdignagian folios 
 of " Hargrave's State Trials.^' What between the 
 size of the books and my own short-sightedness, I 
 well remember that T was compelled to move the 
 reading-desk twice in the course of every double- 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 237 
 
 columned page. Little did I care for that, en- 
 clianted as I was by the development, now of story, 
 now of character, now of eloquence, and always of 
 form — the question and answer so well calculated to 
 convey narrative and to elicit truth. 
 
 With two or three obvious exceptions, I went 
 through the whole collection, most interested 
 perhaps by those contained in the long reign of 
 Charles II., a time when the prisons, the courts of 
 justice, and the scaffolds were hardly ever free from 
 illustrious victims, martyrs to liberty as in the case 
 of the regicides and of Russell and his companions, 
 or for their ancient faith as in the equally ini- 
 quitous condemnations of the so-called Popish 
 Plot. 
 
 Amongst these trials of the days of Charles II., 
 two have always seemed to me the perfection of 
 judicial comedy and tragedy. 
 
 The former relates to a man about whom much 
 has been written lately ; and who certainly, although 
 no doubt he had faults in plenty, was puffed up 
 with vanity as your professors of humanity seldom 
 fail to be, and took no small delight in courts and 
 princes as was to be expected from the leader of a 
 sect whose chief tenet was an ostentatious renun- 
 ciation of the pomps and vanities of the world — 
 must be admitted to have had his merits also — 
 amongst which I shall always include the manner 
 in which he turned the Mayor and Mr. Recorder 
 
238 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 round liis fingers. I am talking of William Penn, 
 and the process in question is tlie trial of William 
 Penn and William Mead for a tumultuous assembly, 
 22nd. Charles II. (1670), before the Mayor, 
 Recorder, and divers Aldermen at the Old Bailey. 
 
 I do not know any cause pleasanter to read than 
 this, because from first to last the parties with 
 whom our sympathies go have the best not only of 
 the reasoning but of the result ; such arrant 
 blunderers were the whole of the court. To begin 
 at the beginning : 
 
 Clerk. — Bring William Penn and WiUiam Mead 
 to the bar. 
 
 Mayor. — Sirrah ! ^Vho bid you put off their 
 hats ? Put on their hats again. 
 
 Whereupon one of the officers putting the prison- 
 ers^ hats upon their heads, pursuant to the orders of 
 the Court, brought them to the bar. 
 
 Recorder. — Do you know where you are ? 
 
 Penn. — Yes. 
 
 Recorder. — Do you not know it is the King's 
 Court ? 
 
 Penn. — I know it to be a Com-t and I suppose it 
 to be the Kinc:^s Court. 
 
 Recorder. — Do you not know there is a respect 
 due to the Court ? 
 
 Penn. — Yes. 
 
 Recorder. — Why do you not pay it then ? 
 
 Penn. — I do so. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 239 
 
 Recorder. — Why do you not pull off your hat, 
 then ? 
 
 Penn. — Because I do not believe that to be any 
 respect. 
 
 Recorder. — Well^ the Court sets forty marks a- 
 piece upon your heads, as a fine for your contempt 
 of Court. 
 
 Penn. — I desire it might be observed, that we 
 came into the Court w^ith our hats off (that is taken 
 off) and if they have been put on since, it was by 
 order from the bench, and therefore not we but the 
 bench should be fined. 
 
 Then Penn, finding the advantage he had got, 
 began to ask questions of the Recorder, much to 
 the discomposure of that learned official. Here is 
 a sample : 
 
 Recorder. — Sir, you are a troublesome fellow, 
 and it is not for the honour of the Court to suffer 
 you to go on. 
 
 Penn. — I have asked but one question, and you 
 have not answered me, though the right and pri- 
 vileges of every Englishman be concerned in it. 
 
 Recorder. — If I should suffer you to ask ques- 
 tions till to-morrow morning, you would be never 
 the wiser. 
 
 Penn. — That is according as the answers be. 
 
 Finally, although the real offence (that of preach- 
 ing in Gracechurch Street) was I suppose pretty 
 clearly established, it was found absolutely impossible 
 
240 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 to get the jury to convict. They brought in a 
 temporising and modified verdict, which deprived 
 the Court of the few wits with which they seem 
 to have been originally gifted. The Mayor scolded, 
 the Recorder stormed. The jury were locked up, 
 sent back ; sent back again, locked up again for 
 something like two days ; and must have been 
 made of very stubborn stuff to have resisted the 
 starvation. They did resist however. The more 
 they were pressed, the more favourable the verdict 
 became, and the bench were at last compelled to 
 accept a complete and triumphant acquittal. 
 
 The tragedy relates to a far greater man, to that 
 great patriot, Algernon Sydney, who in declining 
 years, of feeble health, and never, as he himself 
 asserted, having been present at a trial or read a 
 law-book in his life, yet fought this losing battle 
 so bravely, so manfully, with so much presence of 
 mind, learning and eloquence, that the pain of 
 reading of such wrongs is almost lost in admiration 
 of the sufferer, and in envy of such a death. 
 
 Everybody knows the story of this frighful in- 
 justice : that he was convicted upon the hearsay 
 evidence of the infamous Lord Howard and the no 
 less infamous West, contradicted as that evidence 
 was out of their own mouths by a host of honourable 
 witnesses, and only bolstered up by a manuscript 
 book written twenty years before, and left openly 
 upon his writing-table. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 241 
 
 Everybody knows too, his famous answer to 
 Jeffries at the conclusion of his trial : 
 
 Lord Chief Justice. — I pray God work in you 
 a temper fit to go into the other world, for I see 
 you are unfit for this. 
 
 Sydney. — My Lord, feel my pulse (holding out 
 his hand), and see if I am disordered. I bless God 
 I never was in better temper than I am now. 
 
 Then the Lieutenant of the Tower carried back 
 his prisoner. 
 
 This last act of his life is worthy of an anecdote 
 related by Mr. Brand Mollis of his earlier days : 
 
 ^*^Mr. Sydney, during his stay in France, being 
 one day hunting with the French King, and 
 mounted on a fine English horse, the form and spirit 
 of which caught the King^s eye, received a message 
 that he would be pleased to oblige the King with 
 his horse at his own price. He answered that he 
 did not choose to part with him. The King de- 
 termined to have no denial, and gave orders to 
 tender him money or to seize the horse ; which 
 being made known to Mr. Sydney, he instantly 
 took a pistol and shot him, saying : ^ That his 
 horse was born a free creature, had served a free 
 man, and should not be mastei*ed by a King of 
 slaves.^ ^^* 
 
 * ttto. Edition (1772) of Algernon Sydney's works. 
 VOL. II. M 
 
242 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Besides the cases of high treason^ of conspiracy 
 and of misdemeanor^ pubhc crimes, which may- 
 be understood as state trials in the strictest sense 
 of the word, and which have all more or less of 
 historical interest, this collection includes a vast 
 variety of remarkable causes, robbery, forgery, 
 murder, oflPences against individuals, which have 
 frequently, the more perhaps because they are con- 
 fined within the limits of private life, the sort of 
 dramatic effect, of incident and of situation, which 
 belong properly to romance. 
 
 Amongst these I know none more striking, from 
 the near connection of the principal actors, the 
 strangeness of the scene, the boldness of the crime, 
 and its most providential discovery, than the trial 
 (in 1741) of Samuel Goodere, Captain of H.M.S. 
 ^Ruby,^ for the murder of his brother. Sir John 
 Dinely Goodere, on board his o"^ti man-of-war, 
 brought to light by the cooper^s wife, who hap- 
 pened accidentally to be sleeping on board, and 
 by her husband, who had the moral courage to 
 apprehend the assassin in his very cabin. 
 
 The fulness and minuteness of the evidence, the 
 gradations by which every thought and plan of 
 the fratricide are laid bare by the different wit- 
 nesses, the reiteration by which one detail is 
 linked to another, from the first attempt to effect 
 a pretended reconciliation with the destined victim. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 243 
 
 the hurrying him from the shore to the boat, the 
 forcing him from the boat to the vessel, and the 
 barring him in the purser's cabin, to the midnight 
 strangulation, produce an impression of truth and 
 reality almost equal to that of having been per- 
 sonally present at the horrid catastrophe. 
 
 The very minuteness and repetition, which make 
 so great a part of the charm, forbid any attempt 
 to transcribe the evidence, but an extract from the 
 opening speech of the counsel will convey better 
 than any words of mine can do, the story of this 
 domestic tragedy. One of the subordinate assassins 
 was tried with Captain Goodere, and another after- 
 wards, and it is singular that the first pair of 
 culprits both laboured under the infirmity of deaf- 
 ness. 
 
 ^^ Gentlemen, as I am instructed, there had been 
 a long and very unhappy difference between the 
 deceased Sir John and his brother, the prisoner, 
 owing to various occasions; and amongst others, 
 to Sir John's having cut off the entail of a large 
 estate in Worcestershire, to which Mr. Goodere, as 
 the next remainder man would have otherwise stood 
 entitled in default of issue of Sir John. Gentlemen, 
 this misunderstanding by degrees grew to an in- 
 veterate grudge and hatred on the part of Mr. 
 Goodere; which was so rooted in his heart, that 
 it at length worked him into a formed design of 
 destroying his brother and making away with him 
 
 M 2 
 
244 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 at all hazards and events. The great difficulty was 
 how to get Sir John into his power, for he generally 
 travelled armed ; nor was it easy to get together a 
 set of fellows so base and desperate as to join with 
 him in the carrying off his brother. But, unfor- 
 tunately for the deceased, Mr. Goodere having been 
 recently honoured by his Majesty with the command 
 of the ' Ruby/ man-of-war, happened, in January 
 lastj to be stationed in King^s-road (as much within 
 the county of Bristol as this town-hall, where we are 
 sitting). Sir John, who was advanced in years, and 
 very ailing, had, it seems, been advised to come to 
 Bath for the recovery of his health ; and having 
 occasion to transact affairs of consequence at Bristol 
 with Mr. Josiah Smith, Mr. Goodere took this 
 opportunity of laying a snare for his brother^ s life, 
 as you will find by the event. He applies to Mr. 
 Smith ; and taking notice to him of the misunder- 
 standing between himself and his brother, pretends 
 a sincere desire of reconciliation, and desires Mr. 
 Smith, if possible, to make up the breach between 
 them ; and Mr. Smith promised to do his utmost 
 towards effecting a reconciliation, and was as good 
 as his word; for, by his interest and persuasions, 
 he at length prevailed upon Sir John to see and be 
 reconciled to his brother; and Sir John having 
 appointed Tuesday, the 13th of January last, in the 
 morningj for calling on Mr. Smith, at his house 
 in College Green, Mr. Smith soon made his brother. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 245 
 
 Mr. Goodere, acquainted therewith ; and no sooner 
 was he informed of it, but he began to take his 
 measures for the executing his wicked schemes 
 against his brother's life : for on Monday^ (the day 
 before Sir John was to be at Mr. Smith's), Mr. 
 Goodere, with the other prisoner, Mahony, (his inse- 
 parable agent and companion in every stage of this 
 fatal business), went together to the ' White Hart,' 
 an ale-house, near the foot of the College Green, 
 in view of and almost opposite to Mr. Smith's, in 
 order to see if it was a fit place for their desperate 
 purpose ; and finding it to be so, Mr. Goodere com- 
 mended the pleasantness of the closet over the 
 porch, and said he would come and breakfast there 
 the next day. And accordingly, the next morning, 
 (which was Tuesday, the 13th), Mr. Goodere, with 
 his friend, Mahony, and a gang of fellows belonging 
 to the privateer called the ' Vernon,' whom they had 
 hired to assist them in the waylaying and seizing of 
 Sir John, came to the ' White Hart j' when having 
 ordered they should have what they would call for, 
 he went himself to breakfast in the closet over the 
 porch, from whence he had a full view of Mr. 
 Smith's house, whilst the others posted themselves 
 below, on the look-out for Sir John ; and it was not 
 long before he came on horseback to Mr. Smith's ; 
 but his stay was very short, being obliged to go to 
 Bath : however^ he promised Mr. Smith to be in 
 
246 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Bristol again by the Saturday following. He was 
 seen from the 'White Hart' by Mr. Goodere and his 
 spies upon the watch ; but having a servant, and 
 riding with pistols, they did not think proper to 
 attempt the seizing of him then; but as he rode 
 down the hill, by St. Augustine's Back, Mr. Goodere 
 called out to Mahony, in these w^ords : ' Look to 
 him well, Mahony, and watch him ; but don't touch 
 him now.' And, in fact. Gentlemen, the prisoners 
 and their companions followed and watched Sir John 
 a considerable w^ay. Afterwards, Mr. Smith ac- 
 quainted the prisoner, Goodere, that his brother was 
 to be with him on the Sunday following ; and little 
 thinking that an interview betwixt brothers could be 
 of fatal tendency, advised him to be in the way, 
 that he might bring them together : which advice 
 the prisoner observed with but too great punctuality, 
 taking care in the interim to lay such a train, that 
 it should be hardly possible for his brother to 
 escape falling into his hands. He ordered the man- 
 of-war's barge to be sent up for him on the 
 Sunday ; accordingly, it came up between two and 
 three that afternoon ; of which Mr. Goodere being 
 informed by one Williams, a midshipman, whom 
 he had ordered up in it, he inquired of Williams 
 if he knew the river, and the brick-kilns, going 
 down it ? And Williams telling him he did, Mr. 
 Goodere ordered him to get all the boat's crew to- 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 247 
 
 gether, and be sure to place the barge at the brick- 
 kilnsj and leave but two or three hands to look after 
 the barge, and bring all the rest of the men to 
 the '^ White Hart^ ale-house, and wait for him there, 
 zlccordingly, Gentlemen, Williams and most of 
 the bargemen came to the place of rendezvous at 
 the ^ White Hart/ where Mahony, with several of 
 the privateer^s men (I believe all or part of the 
 same gang that had been there on the watch the 
 Tuesday before), were also met, by Mr. Goodere's 
 orders, to waylay and seize Sir John ; and stood at 
 the window, on the look-out, in order to watch his 
 coming out of Mr. Smithes. Thus the ambuscade 
 being laid, the prisoner, Mr. Goodere, goes to Mr. 
 Smithes about three in the afternoon, the hour at 
 which Sir John had appointed to be there. He went 
 directly towards his brother. Sir John, and kissed 
 him (what kind of kiss it was, will best appear 
 in the sequel), and observed to him, with an out- 
 ward show of satisfaction, that he looked in better 
 health than he had formerly done. Mr. Smith was 
 so good as to drink friendship and reconcihation 
 between the two brothers. Mr. Goodere pledged 
 it in a glass of wine, which he drank to his brother, 
 Sir John, who, being under a regimen, offered to 
 pledge him in water; little thinking his brother 
 designed to end their differences by putting an end 
 to his life. But that. Gentlemen, you'll soon see. 
 
248 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 was the sole end he had iu view ; for Sir John^ in 
 about half an hour, taking his leave, Mr. Goodere 
 was following him. Mr. Smith stopped Mr. Goodere, 
 saying, ^I think I have done great things for you.^ 
 Says Mr. Goodere, ' By heaven ! this won^t do ;^ 
 and immediately followed his brother ; and meeting 
 some of the sailors he had posted at the ' White 
 Hart,^ says to them, ^ Is he ready V and being 
 answered ^ Yes,^ he bade tbem make haste. Mahony 
 and the other fellows, who were on the look-out 
 at the ^ White Hart,^ seeing Sir 'John go down 
 St. Augustine^s Back, immediately rushed out, and 
 (as they had been ordered by Mr. Goodere) seized 
 Sir John as their prisoner. Just then, Mr. Goodere 
 himself was come up, and had joined his com- 
 panions, and showed himself their ringleader ; for, 
 according to my instructions, he gave them positive 
 orders to carry Sir John on board the barge ; and 
 they but too exactly obeyed the word of command. 
 They hurried on Sir John with the utmost violence 
 and precipitation, forcing him along, and even 
 striking him in the presence of his brother; and, 
 as the Komans used to do their malefactors, dragged 
 him through the public way. The poor unfortunate 
 creature made repeated outcries of murder — that he 
 was ruined and undone, for his brother was going 
 to take away his life. He made what resistance he 
 could — called aloud for help; but all was to no 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 249 
 
 purpose. Several persons, indeed, followed them, 
 and asked what was the matter ? But they were 
 answered by Mr. Goodere and his associates, that 
 the person they were hauling along was a mur- 
 derer — had killed a man, and was going to be tried 
 for his life. The most of this ruffianly crew, being 
 armed with bludgeons and truncheons, obliged the 
 people who came about to keep off, holding up their 
 sticks at them, and threatening to knock them down. 
 Gentlemen, when they had thus forced Sir John 
 towards the end of the rope- walk, Mr. Goodere 
 (who all along bore them company, and animated 
 them as they passed along) bade them make more 
 dispatch, and mend their pace. Accordingly, they 
 took up Sir John, and carried him by main force a 
 considerable way, then let him down again, and 
 pushed and hauled him along, until they had 
 got near to the slip opposite the ' King^s Head.^ 
 Sir John cried out, ' Save me ! save me ! for they 
 are going to murder me V There the barge came 
 up ; and the prisoner, Mr. Goodere, had his brother 
 forced into the barge, and with Mahony and the 
 rest went also into the barge. Sir John then called 
 out, ' For God^s sake, run to Mr. Smith, and telJ 
 him I am about to be murdered, or I am an un- 
 done man.'' And crying out that his name was 
 Dinely, Mr. Goodere stopped his mouth with his 
 hand to prevent his telling his other name. And 
 
 M 3 
 
250 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 though Sh' John was in an ill state of health, yet 
 his hard-hearted brother forcibly took his cloak 
 from ofif his back, and put it on himself. And 
 having thus got him into his power, he ordered the 
 men to row off; telling his brother, that now he had 
 got him into his custody, he would take care of him, 
 and prevent his making away with his estate. But, 
 Gentlemen, in fact so little did he think himself 
 concerned with what Sir John did with the estate, 
 that he was of opinion no act of Sir John^s could 
 affect it longer than his own life, and that it must 
 necessarily devolve to him, as the next in remainder, 
 on his brother^s dying without issue. And this, 
 Gentlemen, he declared to Mr. Smith but a few 
 days before; and indeed his brother at once saw 
 what kind of prevention it was he meant. ' I 
 know,^ says he to Mr. Goodere, soon after his 
 being forced into the barge, '^you intend to mur- 
 der me this night, and therefore you may as well 
 do it now as carry me do'\^^l.^ Poor gentleman ! 
 his heart misgave him, that the design of this 
 base and daring outrage was to -make the ship 
 his prison, one of the cabins his slaughter-house, 
 and the sea his grave ; and therefore he made 
 it his choice to be thrown overboard in the 
 river (where his body might be found) rather than 
 buried in the ocean. The prisoner, Goodere, denied 
 indeed he had any such design, but yet could 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 251 
 
 not refrain from the usual exhortation to dying 
 persons that he would have him make his peace 
 with God. At the Redchff, the privateer^s men 
 were set on shore^ and I think about seven in the 
 evening the barge reached the ^ Uuby' man-of-war, 
 then in the King's Road. Mr. Goodere had in their 
 passage talked of bleeding and purging his brother, 
 to bring him to his senses, pretending he was a 
 madman ; for he knew very well that very few of 
 his own men would have assisted him in such an 
 enterprise, had they not been under a belief that his 
 brother was really mad. And to keep up such a no- 
 tion, as soon as he had got him on board the ' Ruby,^ 
 he hurried him down what I think they call the 
 gangway into the purser^s cabin, making an apology 
 that he had brought in a mad fellow there ; then 
 ordered two bolts to be clapped on the cabin-door, 
 for the making his prison more secure, which was 
 accordingly done. And now having made his 
 brother a prisoner, his next step was to destroy 
 him. He took Mahony with him into his own 
 cabin, and there the cruel means of murdering his 
 brother was concerted between them. They agreed 
 to strangle him, and engaged one White (who is 
 hereafter to stand to the justice of his country) to 
 assist them in the butchery. I should have told 
 you. Gentlemen, that it is usual in ships of war to 
 place a seatinel over persons under arrest ; and 
 
252 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 accordingly one was placed, by Mr. Goodere^s orders, 
 with a drawn cutlass in his hand, at the door of the 
 cabin where Sir John was confined. This sentinel 
 about twelve at night was relieved by one Buchanan. 
 It was impossible for the prisoners to put their 
 wicked design in execution while this Buchanan re- 
 mained at the cabin-door; so, to remove that 
 obstacle, Mr. Goodere (after having been in close 
 conference with Mahony and White) comes down to 
 the purser^s cabin, takes the cutlass from Buchanan, 
 and orders him on deck, posting himself at the door 
 of the purser^s cabin with the drawn cutlass in his 
 hand. I shall open none of the circumstances dis- 
 closed by Mahony in his confession, as being no 
 evidence against Mr. Goodere ; but it will be made 
 appear to you, in proof that Mahony and White 
 came to the purser^s cabin while Mr. Goodere stood 
 posted at the door of it, that they were let into the 
 purser^s cabin by Mr. Goodere himself. Mahony in 
 particular was seen by one Macguiness (who kept 
 watch in the gun-room) to go into the purser^s 
 cabin, Mr. Goodere at the same time standing 
 sentinel at the door of it, and waving his cutlass at 
 Macguiness to make him go back. He did so ; but 
 Mr. Goodere waved his cutlass to him a second time, 
 and bade him keep back. Then, Gentlemen, it was 
 that Mr. Goodere and his two accompUces effected 
 the cruel murder of his unfortunate brother. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 253 
 
 Mahony was heard to bid him not stir for his life ; 
 and then^ in conjunction with White, whilst Mr. 
 Goodere stood watch for them at the cabin door 
 (which Mr. Kecorder will tell you was the same as 
 being within it), fell on this unhappy gentleman as 
 he lay in the cabin ; and one of them having half 
 throttled him with his hands, they put a rope 
 about his neck, and at length strangled him. 
 Great were his agonies, and long and painful the 
 conflict between life and death. He struggled vio- 
 lently, and kicked against the cabin, crying out 
 several times very loud, ' Murder ! Must I die ! 
 Help, for God^s sake ; save my life ! Here are 
 twenty guineas — take them V For he well knew 
 they were strangling him by his brother's orders, 
 and therefore offered them a bribe to spare his life. 
 The ship's cooper (one Jones) and his wife, lying in 
 the adjoining cabin, heard his dying outcries and the 
 noise occasioned by his kicking ; his cries, too, were 
 heard by others far beyond the cabin-door. Nature 
 at length gave way, and he expired under these 
 cruelties. Then Mahony called for a light, that 
 they might have all the evidence of their eyesight 
 that Sir John was actually dead; and (which is a 
 shocking circumstance in the case) Mr. Goodere 
 himself handed them in the candle upon that occa- 
 sion. Buchanan, perceiving the light disappear, 
 was coming to him with another ; but Mr. Goodere 
 
254 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 waved the cutlass at him to stand off. Such, Gentle- 
 men, was the fatal conclusion of this tragical busi- 
 ness. What was seen by the cooper and his wife 
 after the candle was handed in, with regard to 
 rifling the deceased, shall come from their own 
 mouths. The murder being thus effected, Mr. 
 Goodere locked the door, and withdrew to his own 
 cabin. Mahony and White were by his order put 
 aboard the yawl, and sent to Bristol. They did not 
 fly the city, Gentlemen, depending that their fellow- 
 murderer would some way or other smother this 
 deed of darkness, and take care of their security for 
 the sake of his own. But Divine Providence ordered 
 otherwise. The honest cooper, though he durst not 
 give the alarm whilst the murder was committing, 
 for fear of sharing the same fate with Sir John, yet 
 as soon as he could with safety, made a discovery of 
 the whole that he had heard and seen. It was con- 
 cluded that Mr. Goodere had made away with his 
 brother, which too evidently appeared on the cooper^s 
 forcing open the purser's cabin-door, where Sir John 
 lay murdered; and thereupon the cooper had the 
 resolution to seize the murderer who remained on 
 board, though his Captain. He pretended inno- 
 cence; and when brought by warrant before Mr. 
 Mayor and other of the city magistrates, publicly 
 declared that he did not then know his brother was 
 murdered, and went so far as to deny his having 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 20U 
 
 had aii}^ hand in either the seizing, detaining, or 
 murdering him. But, Gentlemen, if my instructions 
 don^t mislead me, we shall fix the thing at least as 
 strongly upon Mr. Goodere as Mahony, and more 
 strongly upon them both than I am willing to 
 open it/^ 
 
 Then came a cloud of witnesses : Mr. Smith, 
 the landlord of the * White Hart/ a variety of by- 
 standers ; the men of the barge, one of whom, the 
 Midshipman Williams, deposes to the exhortation 
 given by Captain Goodere to his brother, to make 
 his peace with God : 
 
 Williams. — And the Captain being as near to Sir 
 John as I am to your Lordship, Sir John asked the 
 Captain what he was going to do with him ? Says 
 the Captain : " I am going to carry you on board 
 to save you from ruin, and from lying rotting in a 
 gaol.''^ 
 
 Mr. Vernon {counsel for the prosecution). — And 
 what reply did Sir John make to that ? 
 
 Williams. — He said : ^^ I know better things. I 
 believe you are going to murder me. You might as 
 well throw me overboard, and murder me here right, 
 as carry me on board ship and murder me.^^ " No,^^ 
 says the Captain, " I am not going to do any such 
 thing ; but I would have you make your peace with 
 God/^ As I steered the boat I heard all that 
 passed. 
 
256 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Then came witnesses to the bringing on board 
 and into the purser^s cabin, and the fastening on 
 the bolts, and the placing a sentinel at the door, 
 and the replacing that sentinel by Captain Goodere 
 himself; and then comes the chief witness of all, 
 the "honest cooper/' 
 
 Edward Jones sworn : 
 
 Mr, Vernon. — Mr. Jones, I think you are the 
 cooper of the ship ' Ruby V 
 
 Jones. — Yes, Sir. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. — Were you on board on Sunday, 
 the 18th of January last ? 
 
 Jones. — Yes, Sir; I was. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. — In what cabin did you lie that 
 night ? 
 
 Jones. — I had no cabin ; but I made bold to lie in 
 the slop-room that night, having my wife on board. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. — Pray what is that you call the slop- 
 room ? 
 
 Jones. — It is like a cabin. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. — How near is the slop-room to the 
 purser^ s cabin ? 
 
 Jones. — Nothing but a thin deal partition parts it 
 from the purser^ s cabin. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. — Will you relate to Mr. Recorder 
 and the jury, what you know about the murder of 
 Mr. Goodere^s brother. Tell the whole you know 
 concerning it. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 257 
 
 Jones, — About Wednesday or Thursday before 
 this happened, the Captain said to me, '' Cooper, get 
 this purser's cabin cleared out;" for he said he 
 expected a gentleman shortly to come on board. 
 I cleared it out, and on Sunday evening the gentle- 
 man came on board. When the people on deck 
 cried, '^ Cooper, show a light,'' I brought a hght, 
 and saw the Captain going down the cockpit ladder. 
 The gentleman was hauled down ; he complained of 
 a pain in his thigh from their hauling him on board. 
 The Captain asked him if he would have a dram. 
 He said no, for he had drunk nothing but v^^ater for 
 two years. The Captain ordered Mahony a dram. 
 He drank it. He also ordered one Jack Lee to put 
 two bolts on the purser's cabin-door. The gentleman 
 walked to and fro the purser's cabin, whilst they 
 were nailing the bolts on. He wanted to speak 
 with one of the officers. The carpenter told him 
 he was the carpenter. Says the gentleman, " Do 
 you understand what my brother Sam is going to 
 do v^^ith me ?" And said his brother had brought him 
 on board to murder him that night. The carpenter 
 said he hoped not, but what was done was for his 
 good. The Captain said, they must not mind what 
 his brother said, for he had been mad for a twelve- 
 month past ; then the Captain went up again, and 
 went into the doctor's room. I went to bed about 
 eight o'clock. Some time about eleven o'clock at 
 
258 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 nighty I heard the gentleman knock. Mahony went 
 into hmi. Mahony sat down in the cabin_, and he 
 and the gentleman had a great deal of discourse 
 together : the gentleman said he had been at the 
 East Indies^ and told what he had got by his merit, 
 and Mahony said some by good friends. I heard 
 the gentleman, after Mahony had gone, pray to 
 God to be his comforter under his afflictions : he 
 said to himself that he knew he was going to be 
 murdered, and prayed that it might come to light 
 by one means or another. I took no notice of it, 
 because I thought him a crazy man. I slept a 
 little, and about two or three o^ clock, my wife waked 
 me. She said, ^' Don^t you hear the noise that is 
 made by the gentleman ; I believe they are killing 
 him.^^ I then heard him kick, and cry out^^ Here are 
 twenty guineas ! Take them! DonH murder me! Must 
 I die ! Must I die ! my life V^ and gave several 
 keeks with his throat, and then he was still. I got 
 up in my bed upon my knees ; I saw a light glim- 
 mering in at the crack, and saw that same man 
 Mahony, with a candle in his hand. The gentleman 
 was lying on one side. Charles White was there, 
 and he put out his hand to get the gentleman up- 
 right. I heard Mahony cry out, and swear, " Let 
 us take his watch !" But White said he could not 
 get at it. I could not see his pockets. ^Vliite laid 
 hold of him, and went to tumbling him up to get 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 259 
 
 out his money and watch. I saw him lay hold of 
 the chain. White gave Mahony the watch, who 
 put it in his pocket, and White put his hand into 
 one of the gentleman^s pockets, and cursed that 
 there was nothing but silver, but he put his hand 
 into the other pocket, and there he found gold. 
 
 Mr. Recorder, — In what posture did Sir John lie 
 at that time ? 
 
 Jones. — He lay in a very uneasy manner, with 
 one leg up, and when they moved him, he remained 
 so; which gave me a suspicion that he was dead. 
 I saw a person's hand on the throat of this gentle- 
 man, and heard the person say, ''^Tis done, and 
 well done.'' 
 
 Mr. Recorder. — Was that a third person^ s hand, 
 or the hand of Mahony or White ? 
 
 Jones. — I cannot say whether it was a third 
 persou^s hand or not. I saw but two persons in 
 the cabin. I did not see the person, for it was 
 done in a moment. I can^t swear I saw more than 
 two persons in the cabin. 
 
 Mr. Recorder. — Did you take notice of the hand 
 that was laid on Sir John's throat V 
 
 Jones. — I did. 
 
 Mr. Recorder. — Did it appear to you like the 
 hand of a common sailor ? 
 
 Jones. — No ; it seemed white. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. — You have seen two hands held 
 
260 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 up at the bar to-day. I would ask you to which of 
 them it was most like in colour ? 
 
 Jones. — I have often seen Mahony's and White's 
 hands, and I thought the hand was whiter than 
 either of theirs ; and I think it was neither of their 
 hands by the colour of it. 
 
 Mr, Recorder. — Was Sir John on the floor, or on 
 the bed ? 
 
 Jones. — On the bed, but there was no sheets. It 
 was a flock-bed, and nobody had lain there for a 
 great while. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. — How long did the cries and noise 
 that you heard continue ? 
 
 Jones. — Not a great while. He cried like a 
 person going out of the world, very low. At my 
 hearing it, T would have got out in the meantime, 
 but my wife desired me not to go, for she was afraid 
 there was somebody at the door would have killed 
 me. 
 
 Mr. Vernon. — What more do you know of this 
 matter ? or of Mahony and White being afterwards 
 put on shore ? 
 
 Jones. — I heard some talking that the yawl was to 
 go to the shore about four of the clock in the morning, 
 and some of us were called up, and I importuned 
 my wife to let me go out. I called and asked, 
 " Who is sentinel V Duncan Buchanan answered 
 and said, '' It is I.'' " Oh !" says I, " is it vou V 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 261 
 
 I then thought myself safe. I jumped out in my 
 shirt, went to him ; says I, '' There have been a 
 devihsh noise in the cabin, Duncan, do you know 
 anything of the matter ? They have certainly killed 
 the gentleman. What shall us do V I went to 
 the cabin-door, where the doctor^s mate lodged, 
 asked him if he ^^ had heard anything to-night ?" 
 ^^ I heard a great noise,^^ said he. ^^ I believe,^^ 
 said I, ^^ they have killed that gentleman.^^ He said, 
 he ^'' believed so, too.^^ I drawed aside the scuttle 
 that looked into the purser^s cabin from the stew- 
 ard's room, and cried, ^^ Sir, if you are alive, speak.'' 
 He did not speak. I took a long stick, and endea- 
 voured to move him, but found he was dead. I 
 told the doctor's mate, that I thought he was the 
 proper person to relate the matter to the officer, but 
 he did not care to do it then. '' If you will not, I 
 will," said I. I went up to the Lieutenant, and 
 desired him to come out of his cabin to me. '^ What 
 is the matter ?" said he. I told him, " I believed 
 there had been murder committed in the cockpit, 
 upon the gentleman who was brought on board last 
 night." " Oh ! don't say so," said the Lieutenant. 
 In that interim, whilst we were talking about it, 
 Mr. Marsh, the midshipman, came and said that 
 there was an order to carry White and Mahony on 
 shore. I then swore they should not go on shore, 
 for there was murder committed. The Lieutenant 
 
263 J RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 said, "Pray, be easy; it can^t be so. I don^t 
 believe the Captain would do any such ihmg." That 
 gentleman there, Mr. Marsh, went to ask the Captain 
 if Mahony and White must be put on shore ? And 
 Mr. Marsh returned again, and said the Captain 
 said they should. I then said, " It is certainly 
 true that the gentleman is murdered between them.^^ 
 I did not see Mahony and White that morning, 
 because they were put on shore. I told the Lieu- 
 tenant, that if he would not take care of the matter, 
 I would write up to the Admiralty, and to the 
 Mayor of Bristol. The Lieutenant asked the Cap- 
 tain to drink a glass of wine. The Captain would 
 not come out of his cabin. Then the Lieutenant 
 went in first. I followed him. Then I seized him, 
 and several others came to my assistance. 
 
 The cooper^s good wife, Margaret Jones, corrobo- 
 rated her husband^ s evidence in every point with 
 equal clearness and directness. Witness after wit- 
 ness followed with terrible repetition, and a distinct- 
 ness, a power of simple, honest truth that nothing 
 could shake. The very watch and money for 
 which they had wrangled over the dead body, were 
 brought home to the subordinate ruffians, and 
 the whole three were found guilty, condemned 
 and exeuted as near as possible to the scene of the 
 crime. 
 
 This remarkable murder took place rather more 
 
A. LITERARY LIFE. 263 
 
 than a hundred years ago. The two brothers were 
 uncles of Samuel Foote^ the celebrated mimic and 
 comedian, and admirable farce writer, whose bap- 
 tismal name was probably derived from that disgrace 
 to the British Navy, Captain Samuel Goodere. 
 
264 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 XII. 
 
 FISHING SONGS. 
 
 MB. DOUBLEDAY— MISS CORBETT. 
 
 All the world, that is to say, the reading world, 
 whether male or female, has yielded to the magic 
 of one Fisherman's book-'' The English Angler/ 
 of Isaac Walton; and such is the charm of the 
 subject, that the modern works which, so far as the 
 science of anghng is concerned, may be said to have 
 superseded the instructions of the old master, the 
 works of Sir Humphry Davy, of Mr. Hofland, of Mr. 
 Henry PhiUips, all men eminent for other triumphs 
 than those of the fishing-rod, have, in their several 
 ways, inherited much of the fascination that belongs 
 to the venerable father of the piscatory art. 
 
 Even the dissertations on salmon-fishing, as prac- 
 tised in the wilder parts of Ireland and in Norway, 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 265 
 
 wbicli, when measured vath tlie humble sport of 
 angling for trout in a southern stream, may be 
 likened to the difference between a grand lion hunt 
 in Africa and the simple pheasant shooting of a 
 Norfolk squire — even the history of landing a salmon 
 partakes of the Waltonian charm. We take up the 
 book, and we forget to lay it down again; the 
 greatest compliment that reader can pay to author. 
 
 The poetical brothers of the angle, however — I 
 mean such as have actually written in verse — are 
 not only fewer in number, but have generally be- 
 longed to the northern portion of our island. I 
 am not sure that the pleasure with which I read 
 ''^The Fisher^s Welcome,^^ may not partly be re- 
 ferred to that cause. At least, I do not like 
 Mr. Doubleday^s genial song the less for the re- 
 miniscences of canny Northumberland with which 
 every stanza teems. 
 
 Years, many and changeful, have gone by since I 
 trod those northern braes ; they at whose side I 
 stood lie under the green sod; yet still, as I read 
 of the Tyne or of the Wansbeck, the bright rivers 
 sparkle before me, as if I had walked beside them 
 but yesterday. I still seem to stand with my dear 
 father under the grey walls of that grand old abbey 
 church at Hexham, gazing upon the broad river, as 
 it sweeps in a majestic semicircle before us, amid, 
 perhaps, the very fairest scenery of that fair valley 
 of the Tyne, so renowned for varied beauty, whilst 
 
 VOL. II. N 
 
266 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 he points to the haunts of his boyhood^ especially 
 the distant woods of Dilstone Hall, the forfeited estate 
 of Lord Derwentwater. I still seem to listen, as 
 he tells how, in the desolate orchard, he had often 
 gathered fruit almost returned to the wildness of 
 the forest ; and how, among the simple peasantry, 
 the recollection of the unhappy Earl, so beloved and 
 so lamented, had lingered for half a century ; and 
 tales were yet told how, after his execution, his 
 mangled remains were brought secretly by night to 
 be interred in the vault of his ancestors, halting 
 mysteriously in private houses by day, and resuming 
 their melancholy journey during the dark hours ; 
 the secret known to so many, and yet kept so faith- 
 fully and so loyally, handed down from father to 
 son, and spoken in low-whispered words as a solemn 
 confidence to be religiously held sacred ! a duty to 
 the ruined and the dead ! Thirty or forty years 
 more had passed, yet I myself heard the country 
 people speaking with tender pity of that cherished 
 lord. 
 
 Or the Wansbeck, more famihar still ! How 
 plainly do I see that wild, daring stream ! — now 
 almost girdling, as a moat, the massive ruins of 
 Mitford Castle,* — in the time of the Conqueror, it 
 
 * An old kiusmau, my father's uiicle, who lived almost 
 within sight of the Castle Mound, used to derive the name 
 Mid-ford, from the situation of the keep between two fords of 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 267 
 
 is to be presumed^ the common ancestral home of 
 our race and name, so widely scattered since ; — now 
 brawhng through the deep glen behind the old tower 
 of Little-Harle ; — now almost invisible, creeping 
 under the single arch that spans the richly-fringed 
 burn by the pretty rectory of Hartburn; — now 
 reflecting the autumn woods of Bothal and the grey 
 walls of the Lady^s Chapel ! 
 
 Proteus of streams 1 Here a foaming torrent 
 between rocks no wider than a deer may leap at a 
 bound! — there a spreading lakelet, too shallow for 
 a bridge^ crossed by huge stepping-stones, on which 
 my southern feet tottered and stumbled, and all but 
 fell ! 
 
 How well I remember my girlish terror when 
 called upon to pass from one stepping-stone to 
 another^ and the girlish bravado with which, want- 
 ing courage to turn back, and laughing, half to 
 cover my trepidation, and half from genuine fright, 
 I confronted the danger and performed the exploit ! 
 Ah ! I am not the first who has done a bold thing 
 in fear and trembling, as, (if such truths were ever 
 told,) many a soldier on his first field could bear 
 witness. At last, encouraged by the applause of 
 
 the Wansbeck. So convinced was he of the truth of his 
 theory, that, contrary to the practice of all the rest of the 
 famHy, he pertinaciously adopted that mode of orthography 
 
 in writing his patronymic. 
 
 N 2 
 
268 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 friends and relatives, I even came to like the 
 stepping-stones, the exciteraent, and the praise; 
 just as, cheered by similar bribery, the soldier learns 
 to love a great battle- day. 
 
 Those stepping-stones at Mitford ! I can see 
 them now. I had heard of them before I saw 
 them, and of their perils. A lady^s-maid of my 
 acquaintance, London-born and London-bred — one 
 of those dainty waiting gentlewomen for whose 
 behoof Congreve, in the most graceful as well as 
 the wittiest of his comedies, invented the name of 
 Mrs, Mincing — had been seduced into venturing 
 across them, handed and supported by a Trench 
 valet. She had fallen, of course, and had dragged 
 her unlucky escort after her ; and her description 
 of her previous alarm, the agonies she underwent 
 before her dip, and the terrors of the catastrophe ; 
 how she lost a kid slipper and spoilt a silk skirt, 
 and was laughed at by the north-country savages 
 into the bargain ; was enough to frighten all the 
 silk skirts and kid slippers within fifty miles, to say 
 nothing of the Mrs. Mincings, or of me. 
 
 Bright river Wansbeck ! How many pleasant 
 memories I owe to thy mere name ! It were but 
 common courtesy to wish a brimming basket and 
 a smiling home to the kindly songster who casts his 
 line across thy waters. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE, 269 
 
 THE FISHER S WELCOME, 
 
 We twa ba' fislied the Kale sae clear. 
 
 And streams o' mossy E,eed ; 
 We've tried the Wausbeck and the Wear, 
 
 Tbe Teviot and tbe Tweed ; 
 An' we will try tbem ance again, 
 
 Wben summer suns are fine ; 
 An' we'll throw tbe flies tbegitber yet, 
 
 Eor the days o' lang syne. 
 
 '"Tis mony years sin' first we sat 
 
 On Coquet' s bonny braes, 
 An' mony a brither fisher's gane, 
 
 An' clad in his last claiths ; 
 An' we maun follow wi' tlie lave, 
 
 Grim Death he heucks us a' ; 
 But we'll hae anither fishing bout 
 
 Afore we're ta'en awa'. 
 
 For we are hale and hearty baith, 
 
 The' frosty are our pows, 
 We still can guide our fishing graith, 
 
 And climb the dykes and knowes ; 
 We'll mount our creels and grip our gads. 
 
 An' throw a sweeping line. 
 An' we'll hae a splash amang the lads, 
 
 Eor the days o' lang syne. 
 
 Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still. 
 
 He's green below the knee, 
 Sae don your plaid, and tak' youi' gad, 
 
 An' gae awa' wi' me. 
 
270 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Come busk your flies, my auld compeer. 
 
 We're fidgen a' fu' fain. 
 We've fished the Coquet mony a year. 
 
 An' we'll fish her ance again. 
 
 An' hameward when we toddle back. 
 
 An' nicht begins to fa'. 
 An' ilka chiel maun hae his crack, 
 
 We'll crack aboon them a'. 
 When jugs are toomed and coggens wet, 
 
 I'll lay my loof in thine ; 
 We've shown we're gude at water yet. 
 
 An' we're little warse at wine. 
 
 We'll crack how mony a creel we've filled. 
 
 How mony a line we've flung, 
 How mony a ged and saumon killed, 
 
 In days when we were young. 
 We'll gar the callants a' look blue. 
 
 An' sing anither tune ; 
 They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do^ 
 
 We'll tell them what we've dune. 
 
 The next song is of tlie sea :- 
 
 Weel may the boatie row. 
 
 An' better may she speed; 
 An' weel may the boatie row. 
 
 That wins the bairnie's bread ! 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 An' happy be the lot of a'. 
 
 That wishes her to speed I 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 271 
 
 I euist my line in Largo Bay, 
 
 An' fishes I caught nine ; - 
 There's three to boil, and three to fry. 
 
 An' three to bait the line. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 An' happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wishes her to speed ! 
 
 weel may the boatie row 
 That fills a heavy creel, 
 
 An' cleads us a' frae head to feet, 
 
 An' buys our parritch meal. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 An' happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wishes her to speed ! 
 
 When Jamie vowed he wad be mine 
 
 An' won frae me my heart, 
 Oh muckle lighter grew my creel, 
 
 He swore we'd never part. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
 An' muclde lighter is the lade. 
 
 When luve bears up the creel. 
 
 My cujch I pit upon my held, 
 And dressed mysel fu' braw ; 
 
 1 trow my lieart was dowf an' wae 
 When Jamie gaed awa'. 
 
 But weel may the boatie row. 
 
 An' lucky be her part. 
 An' lightsome be the lassie's care 
 
 That yields an honest heart. 
 
272 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 When Sawney, Jock, and Jeanetie 
 
 Are up and gotten lear, 
 They'll help to gar the boatie row. 
 
 An' lighten a' our care. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ! 
 An' lightsome be her heart that bears 
 
 The murlain and the creel. 
 
 An' when wi' age we are worn down. 
 
 An' hirpling round the door, 
 They'll row to keep us hale and warm. 
 
 As we did them before, 
 Then weel may the boatie row 
 
 That wins the bairnie's bread ; 
 An' happy be the lot of a' 
 
 That wish the boat to speed ! 
 
 Again a song of the net and of the fishing-boat, 
 and surely one of no ordinary merit. Miss Corbett 
 is the authoress. We may well be proud of a 
 poetess whose song is as bold and free as the breeze 
 of which she sings : — 
 
 WE LL GO TO SEA NO MORE. 
 
 Oh ! blythely shines the bonnie sun 
 
 Upon the Isle of May, 
 And blythely comes the morning tide 
 
 Into St. Andixw's Bay, 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 273 
 
 Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair ; 
 
 And up my bra' bairns three, 
 There's goud in yonder bonnie boat 
 That sails sae weel the sea ! 
 When haddocks leave the Erith o' rorth, 
 
 An' mussels leave the shore, 
 When oysters climb up Berwick LaWj 
 We'll go to sea no more, 
 
 No more, 
 We'R go to sea no more. 
 
 I've seen the waves as blue as air, 
 I've seen them green as grass ; 
 But I never feared their heaving yet 
 
 From Grangemouth to the Bass, 
 I've seen the sea as black as pitch, 
 
 I've seen it white as snow ; 
 But I never feared its foaming yet. 
 Though the vrinds blew high or low. 
 When squalls capsize our wooden walls. 
 
 When the Erench ride at the Nore, 
 When Leith meets Aberdour haK way, 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 No more. 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 I never liked the landsman's life. 
 
 The earth is aye the same ; 
 Gi'e me the ocean for my dower. 
 
 My vessel for my hame. 
 Gi'e me the fields that no man ploughs, 
 
 The farm that pays no fee ; 
 Gi'e me the bonny fish, that glance 
 
 So gladly through the sea. 
 
 N 3 
 
274 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 When sails liang flapping on tlie masts. 
 While through the wave we snore ; 
 
 When in a calm we're tempest-tost. 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 No more, 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 The sun is up, and round Inchkeith 
 
 The breezes softly blaw ; 
 The gudeman has ihe lines on board : — 
 
 Awa', my bairns, awa'. 
 An' ye be back by gloamin' grey. 
 
 An' bright the fire will low. 
 An' in your tales and sangs we'll tell 
 How weel the boat ye row. 
 When life's last sun gaes feebly down. 
 
 An' Death comes to our door, 
 When a' the world's a di'eam to us. 
 We'll go to sea no more, 
 
 No more, 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 Gi'e me the fields that no man ploughs. 
 The farm that pays no fee. 
 
 What two lines are these ? The whole song 
 seems set to the music of the winds and waves^ so 
 free and unshackled is the rhythm^ and so hearty 
 and seamanlike the sentiment. To speak all praise 
 in one word, it might have been wTitten by Joanna 
 Baillie. 
 
 Although not strictly a Fishing Song, yet as one 
 purporting to be sung by a mariner^s wife, I cannot 
 
A LITEHARY LIFE. 275 
 
 resist the temptation of adding tlie charming ballad 
 that concludes this paper. Mr. Robert Chambers 
 attributes the authorship to William Julius Mickle, 
 the translator of the "Lusiad/^ and the writer of 
 ^^ Cumnor Hall/^ to which^ and the impression 
 made upon Sir Walter Scott^ in early life, by the 
 first stanza,* the world is probably indebted for 
 Kenil worth. Mr. Chambers says that of this ballad, 
 an imperfect, altered, and corrected copy, was found 
 among his manuscripts after his death; and his 
 widow, being applied to, confirmed the external 
 evidence in his favour, by an express declaration 
 that her husband had said the song was his own, 
 and that he had explained to her the Scottish 
 words. 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true? 
 
 And are ye sure he's weel ? 
 Is this a time to think o' wark ? 
 
 Ye jades, fling bye your wheel. 
 Is this a time to think o' wark, 
 
 When Colin's at the door ? 
 Gie me my cloak, — I'll to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 
 * " The dews of summer night did fall, 
 The moon, sweet regent of the sky. 
 Silvered the walls of Cumnor HaU, 
 And many an oak that grew thereby.'* 
 
276 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Tor there's nae luck about the house. 
 There's nae luck ava' ; 
 
 There's little pleasure in the house, 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 And gie me down my biggonet. 
 
 My bishop-satin gown, 
 And rin and tell the bailie's wife 
 
 That Colin' s come to town. 
 My Sunday shoon they maun gae on, 
 
 My hose o' pearlin blue ; 
 It's a' to please my ain gudeman. 
 For he's baith leal and true. 
 
 Eor there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck ava' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house, 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 Kise up and mak' a clean fireside. 
 
 Put on the muckle pot ; 
 Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown. 
 
 And Jock his Sunday coat. 
 And mak' their shoon as black as slaes. 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw ; 
 It's a' to please my ain gudeman — 
 He likes to see them braw. 
 For there's nae luck about the house. 
 
 There's nae luck ava' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house. 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 There's twa fat hens upon the bouk, 
 They've fed this month and mair ; 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 277 
 
 Mak' haste and thraw their necks about 
 
 That Colin weel may fare. 
 And spread the table neat and clean. 
 
 Gar ilka thing look braw ; — 
 For wha can tell how Colin fared 
 When he was far awa' ! 
 
 Eor there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck ava' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house, 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 Sae true his heart, sac smooth his speech, 
 
 His breath's like caller air ; 
 His very foot has music in't. 
 As he comes up the stair. 
 And will I see his face again ? 
 And will I hear him speak ? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 
 In troth I'm like to greet. 
 Por there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck ava' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house. 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 The cauld blasts o' the winter's wind, 
 
 That thirled through my heart. 
 They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe. 
 
 Till death we'll never part. 
 But what puts parting i' my held ? 
 
 It may be far awa' ; 
 The present moment is our own, 
 
 The neist we never saw. 
 
278 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 For there's nae luck about tlie house, 
 
 There's nae luck ava' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house, 
 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 Since Colin' s weel, I'm weel content, 
 
 I hae nae mair to crave ; 
 Could I but live to mak' him blest, 
 
 I'm blest aboon the lave : 
 And will I see his face again ? 
 And will I hear him speak ? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 
 In troth I'm like to greet. 
 Eor there's nae luck about the house. 
 
 There's nae luck ava' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house. 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 Mr. Chambers may well call this song "the 
 fairest flower in Mickle^s poetical chaplet/^ Many 
 a laureled bard might have proudly owned such a 
 ballad. 
 
 P.S. I was reading this song to a friend, as well 
 as a tongue not Scottish would let me, while an 
 intelligent young person, below the rank that is 
 called a lady, sate at work in the room. She 
 smiled as I concluded, and said, half to herself, 
 " Singing that song got my sister a husband V' 
 
 " Is she so fine a singer V inquired my friend. 
 
 " No, Ma^am, not a fine singer at all ; only 
 somehow everybody likes to hear her, because she 
 
A LITEllARY LIFE, 279 
 
 seems to feel the words she siugs^ and so makes 
 other people feel them. But it was her choosing 
 that song that won William^ s love. He said that a 
 woman who put so much heart into the description 
 of a wife^s joy at getting her husband home again, 
 would be sure to make a good wife herself. And 
 so she does. There never was a happier couple. It 
 has been a lucky song for them, I am sure.^^ 
 
 Now it seems to me that this true story is worth 
 all the criticisms in the world, both on this par- 
 ticular ballad, and on the manner of singing ballads 
 in general. Let the poet and his songstress only 
 put heart into them, and the lady, at least, sees her 
 reward. 
 
280 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 XIV. 
 
 AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. 
 
 JOHN KENYON. 
 
 In one of Mr. Kenj^on^s charming volumes^ there 
 is a slight and graceful poem^ addressed to Mary 
 Anning, of Lyme Regis, the first discoverer of the 
 Saurian remains for which that picturesque coast is 
 now so famous, which has for me an interest quite 
 distinct from literature or geology. In that old 
 historical town, so deeply interwoven with the tra- 
 gedy of Monmouth and the triumph of William III., 
 that old town so finely placed on the very line 
 where Dorsetshire and Devonshire meet, I spent 
 the eventful year when the careless happiness of 
 childhood vanished, and the troubles of the world 
 first dimly dawned upon my heart — felt in its effects 
 rather than known — felt in its chilling gloom^ as 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 281 
 
 we feel the shadow of a cloud that passes over the 
 sun on an April day. 
 
 My dear mother, the only surviving child of a 
 richly beneficed clergyman, had been for her station 
 and for those times what might be called an heiress, 
 and when she married my father, brought him, 
 besides certain property in house and land, a por- 
 tion in money of eight-and-twenty thousand pounds. 
 He himself, the younger son of an old family, with a 
 medical education as good as the world could afford, 
 a graduate of Edinburgh, a house pupil of John 
 Hunter, and personally all that attracts the sex — 
 clever, handsome, young and gay, had won her heart 
 almost without design when he came to settle to his 
 profession in the little Hampshire town where after 
 the death of both parents she had taken up her 
 abode, and was easily persuaded by friends more 
 worldly wise than he to address himself to a lady 
 who, although ten years his senior, had every recom- 
 mendation that heart could desire — except beauty. 
 So they married. She full of confiding love refused 
 every settlement beyond two hundred a-year pin- 
 money, out of his own property, on which he in- 
 sisted; and he justified her choice by invariable 
 kindness and affection, an affection that knew no 
 intermission from her wedding-day to the day of 
 her death, and by every manly and generous quality, 
 excepting that which is so necessary to stability and 
 comfort in this work-a-day world — the homely 
 
282 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 quality called prudence. Independent to a fault_, 
 frank in speech and rash in act^ a zealous and un- 
 compromising Whig, in those days when Whiggery 
 was sometimes called sedition and sometimes treason, 
 he first ruined his fair professional prospects in a 
 place where he was known and loved, by plunging 
 into the fervent hatreds of a hotly contested county 
 election ; and then, when he had removed into 
 Berkshire, contrived by some similar outbreak to 
 affront and alienate a rich cousin, of whom my 
 mother was the declared heir, and who, after being 
 violently angry with her for marrying,, and with me 
 for being a girl, had been propitiated by my bearing 
 the magic name of Kussell; and might perhaps 
 have again relented had he not died within a few 
 months, just after leaving his money to a child 
 whom he had never seen, who had not even the 
 baptismal Russell to recommend him. Then in his 
 new residence he got into some feud with that 
 influential body the corporation ; and whether im- 
 patient of professional restraints, or of the slow pro- 
 gress of a physician^s fortunes, he attempted to 
 increase his own resources by the aid of cards (he 
 was unluckily one of the finest whist-players in 
 England), or by that other terrible gambling, which 
 assumes so many forms, and bears so many 
 names, but which even when called by its milder 
 term of speculation, is that terrible thing gambling 
 still ; whatever might be the manner of the loss — or 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 283 
 
 whether^ as afterwards happened, his own large- 
 hearted hospitality and too-confiding temper were 
 alone to blame — for the detail was never known to 
 me, nor do I think it was known to my mother ; he 
 did not tell, and we could not ask — whatever the 
 actual cause, it seems to me certain that about this 
 time nearly all of his own paternal property, except 
 the reserved pin-money, and much of my mother's 
 fortune, was in some way sunk. 
 
 Under these circumstances, just as a remarkable 
 cure was beginning to make his medical talent 
 advantageously known, he resolved to remove to 
 Lyme, feeling with characteristic sanguineness that 
 in a fresh place success would be certain. How 
 often in after life has that sanguine spirit, which 
 cling to him to his last hour, made me tremble and 
 shiver. I had seen him so often disappointed, that 
 it seemed to me that what he expected could never 
 come to pass ; and such, I think, is the natural 
 effect produced on all around by an over-sanguine 
 spirit. Even Hope has never been so truly charac- 
 terized as by the great poet in his fine personifica- 
 tion, " Fear and trernbling Hope ;'' and I saw the 
 other day a beautiful copy of the celebrated picture 
 known as Guido's Hope, in which the expression is 
 that of intense melancholy. That lovely face looked 
 as if listening to prognostics that were not to be ful- 
 filled. 
 
 Well, we removed to Lyme Regis. The house 
 
284 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 my father took there was, as commonly happens to 
 people whose fortunes are declining, far more splen- 
 did than any we had ever inhabited, indeed the very 
 best in the town. It was situated about the middle 
 of the principal street, and had been during two or 
 three seasons some twenty years before rented by the 
 great Lord Chatham for the use of his two sons, the 
 second Earl and William Pitt, at the time that we 
 occupied it Prime Minister of England. Hayley, in 
 his Autobiography, mentions having seen the youths 
 there. The house, built of the beautiful grey stone 
 of the Isle of Portland, had a great extent of front- 
 age, terminating by large gates surmounted by spread 
 eagles, probably the crest of some former proprietor. 
 An old stone porch, with benches on either side, 
 projected from the centre, covered, as was the whole 
 front of the house, with tall, spreading, wide-leafed 
 myrtle, abounding in blossom, with moss-roses, 
 jessamine, and passion-flowers. Behind the build- 
 ings, extended round a paved quadrangle, was the 
 drawing-room, a splendid apartment, of which the 
 chimney-piece was surmounted by a copy in marble 
 of Shakespeare^s tomb in Westminster Abbey, 
 looking upon a little lawn surrounded by choice 
 ever- greens, particularly the bay, the cedar, and the 
 arbutus, and terminated by an old-fashioned green- 
 house and a filbert-tree walk, from which again 
 three detached gardens sloped abruptly down to one 
 of the clear dancing rivulets of that western country, 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 285 
 
 reflecting in its small broken stream a low hedge of 
 myrtle and roses. In the steep declivity of the 
 central garden was a grotto, over- arching a cool, 
 sparlding spring, whilst the slopes on either side 
 were carpeted with strawberries and dotted with 
 fruit-trees. One drooping medlar, beneath whose 
 pendant branches I have often hidden, I remember 
 well. 
 
 Dearly as I have loved my two later homes, I have 
 never seen anything like that garden. It did not 
 seem a place to be sad in ; neither did the house, 
 with its large, lofty rooms, its noble oaken stair- 
 cases, its marble hall, and the long galleries and 
 corridors, echoing from morning to night with gay 
 visitors, cousins from the North, friends from 
 Hampshire and Berkshire, and the ever-shifting 
 company of the old watering place. One incident 
 that occurred there — a frightful danger — a provi- 
 dential escape — I shall never forget. 
 
 There was to be a ball at the Rooms, and a party 
 of sixteen or eighteen persons dressed for the 
 assembly were sitting in the dining-room at dessert. 
 The ceiling was ornamented with a rich running 
 pattern of flowers in high rehef, the shape of 
 the wreath corresponding pretty exactly with the 
 company arranged round the oval table. Suddenly 
 —whether from the action of the steam of the dinner 
 upon the plaister, or from the movement of the 
 servants in the room, or fi'om some one passmg 
 
286 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 quickly overlaead, was never discovered — but in one 
 instant^ without the slightest warning, all that part 
 of the ceiling which covered the assembled company 
 became detached, and fell down in large masses 
 upon the table and the floor. It seems even now 
 all but miraculous how such a catastrophe could 
 occur without injury to life or limb — for the por- 
 tions of moulded plaister, although much broken 
 in their descent, were thick and heavy, and the 
 height of the apartment very considerable; but 
 except the bald head of one venerable clergyman, 
 which was a little scratched, the only things 
 damaged were the flowers and feathers of the 
 ladies, and the crystal and china, the fruits and 
 wines of the dessert. I myself caught instantly 
 in my father^s arms, by whose side I was standing, 
 had scarcely even time to be frightened, although, 
 after the danger was over, our fair visitors of course 
 began to scream. 
 
 My own nurseries were spacious and airy. But 
 next to the magnificent room in which my grand- 
 father's fine library was arranged, and which, save 
 a very few favourite volumes, remained there, to 
 be disposed in the chances of an auction, next 
 to the book-room, always my favourite haunt in 
 every house, the place which I most aff'ected was 
 a dark pannelled chaoiber on the first floor, to which 
 I descended through a private door by half a dozen 
 stairs, so steep, that, still a very small and puny 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 287 
 
 child between eight and a half to nine and a half, 
 and unable to run down them in the common way, 
 I used to jump from one step to the other. This 
 chamber was filled with such fossils as were then 
 known, for the great landslip at Charmouth had not 
 then laid bare the geological treasures of the place. 
 Still it was rich in specimens of petrifactions o 
 various kinds, in glittering spars, in precious-looking 
 ores, in curious shells and gigantic sea-weeds ; some 
 the cherished products of my own discoveries, and 
 some broken for me by my father's little hammer 
 from portions of rock that lay beneath the cliffs, 
 under which almost every fine day we used to ramble 
 hand in hand. 
 
 Sometimes we would go towards Charmouth, with 
 its sweeping bay passing under the church and 
 churchyard, perched so high above us, and already 
 undermined by the tide ; at another, we bent our 
 steps to the Pinny cliffs on the other side of the 
 harbour, those dark beetling cliffs from whose lofty 
 tops little streams of fresh water fell in slender cas- 
 cades, finding their narrow way across the sands to 
 tKe sea ; the beautiful Pinny cliffs, where, about a 
 mile and a half from the town, an old landslip had 
 deposited a farm-house, with its outbuildings, its 
 garden, and its orchard, tossed half way down 
 amongst the rocks, contrasting so strangely its rich 
 and blossoming vegetation, its look of home and of 
 comfort, with the dark rugged masses above, below, 
 and around. Sometimes, at high water, we paced 
 
288 ^ RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 the old pier called the Cob, to which Miss Austen 
 has since given snch an interest. And sometimes 
 we turned inland_, and ascended the hill to Up-Lyme, 
 with its tufted orchards and its pretty streamlets. 
 I used to disdain those streamlets in those days with 
 such scorn as a small damsel fresh from the Thames 
 and the Kennett thinks herself privileged to dis- 
 play. " They call that a river here, papa ! CanH 
 you jump me over it V^ quoth I in my sauciness. 
 About a month ago, I heard a young lady from New 
 York talking in some such strain of Father Thames. 
 " It^s a pretty little stream,^/ said she^ " but to call 
 it a river V and I half expected to hear a complete 
 reproduction of my ovni impertinence, and a re- 
 quest to be jumped from one end to the other of 
 Caversham bridge. 
 
 Once too from the highest story of our own house, 
 I saw that fine and awful spectacle a great storm. 
 My father took me from my bed at midnight, 
 that I might see the grandeur and the glory of 
 the tempest, the spray rising to the very tops of the 
 cliffs, pale and ghastly in the lightning, and hear 
 the roar of the sea, the moaning of the wind, the 
 roll of the thunder, and, amongst them all, the 
 fearful sound of the minute guns, telling of death 
 and danger on that iron-bound coast. 
 
 This was the one exception to the general bright- 
 ness of that lovely bay, and it passed by me like 
 a dream. For the most part, all was beauty on 
 every side ; the sunshine seemed reflected from the 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 289 
 
 nch valleys and the glorious sea ; and the people of 
 the little port, the thriving peasantry, and the 
 bustling seamen, had a peculiar air of cheerfulness 
 and comfort. It was a strange place to be sad in. 
 
 And yet sad I was. Nobody told me, but I felt, 
 I knew, I had an interior conviction, for w^hich I 
 could not have accounted, that in the midst of all 
 this natural beauty and apparent happiness, in spite 
 of the company, in spite of the gaiety, something 
 was wrong. It was such a foreshowing as makes 
 the quicksilver in the barometer sink whilst the 
 weather is still bright and clear. 
 
 And at last the change came. My father went 
 again to London, and lost— I think, I have always 
 thought so — more money : all, perhaps, except that 
 positively settled upon my mother, and a legacy of 
 rather smaller amount left to me by the maiden 
 sister of the angry cousin. Then, one by one, our 
 visitors departed ; and my father, who had returned 
 in haste again, in equal haste left home, after short 
 interviews with landlords, and lawyers, and auc- 
 tioneers j and I knew — I can^t tell how, but I did 
 know — that everything was to be parted with, and 
 everybody paid. 
 
 That same night two or three large chests were 
 carried away through the garden by George and 
 another old servant, and a day or two after my 
 mother and myself, with Mrs. Mosse, the good 
 
 VOL. II. O 
 
290 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 housekeeper, who hved with my grandfather before 
 his marriage, and one other maid-servant, left 
 Lyme in a hack chaise. We were to travel post. 
 But in the general trouble nobody had remembered 
 that some camp was breaking up between Bridport 
 and Dorchester, so that when we reached the latter 
 town we found to our consternation that there was 
 neither room for us at any inn, nor chaise, nor 
 horses to pursue our journey. All that could be 
 done for us, after searching through the place, was 
 a conveyance in a vehicle which was going seven 
 or eight miles our way, and from whence there 
 was a prospect of our getting on in the morning. 
 This machine turned out to be a sort of tilted cart 
 without springs, and the jolting upon the Dorset- 
 shire mads fifty-five years ago was doubtless some- 
 thing sufficiently uncomfortable. The discipline of 
 travel teaches people to think little of temporary 
 inconveniences now-a-days, and doubtless many a 
 fine lady would laugh at such a shift. But it was 
 not as a temporary discomfort that it came upon 
 my poor mother. It was her first touch of poverty. 
 It seemed like a final parting from all the elegances 
 and all the accommodations to which she had been 
 used. I never shall forget her heart-broken look 
 when she took her little girl upon her lap in that 
 jolting caravan (so for the more grace they called 
 the vehicle), nor how the tears stood in her eyes 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 291 
 
 when we were tarned altogether into our miserable 
 bed-room when we reached the road- side alehouse 
 where we were to pass the nighty and found our- 
 selvesj instead of the tea we so much needed^ 
 condemned to sup on stale bread and dirty cheese, as 
 people who arrive in tilted carts have been and will 
 be to the end of the world. 
 
 The next day we resumed our journey, and 
 reached a dingy comfortless lodging in one of the 
 suburbs beyond Wesminster Bridge. What my 
 father^s plans were I do not exactly know ; pro- 
 bably to gather together what disposable money 
 still remained after paying all debts from the sale 
 of books, plate and furniture at Lyme, and thence 
 to proceed (backed up by his greatly lessened in- 
 come) to practise in some distant town. At all 
 events London was the best starting-place, and he 
 could consult his old fellow-pupil and life-long 
 friend. Dr. Babington, then one of the physidans 
 to Guy^s Hospital, and refresh his medical studies 
 with experiments and lectures, whilst determining 
 in what place to bestow himself. 
 
 In the meanwhile his spirits returned as buoyant 
 as ever, and so, now that fear had changed into 
 certainty, did mine. In the intervals of his pro- 
 fessional pursuits he walked about London with 
 his little girl in his hand; and one day (it was 
 my birth-day, and I was ten years old) he took 
 
 o 2 
 
292 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 me into a not very tempting-looking place, which 
 was, as I speedily found, a lottery office. An Irish 
 lottery was upon the point of being drawn, and 
 he desired me to choose one out of several bits 
 of printed paper (I did not then know their signi- 
 ficance) that lay upon the counter : 
 
 " Choose which number you like best,^^ said the 
 dear papa, " and that shall be your birth-day 
 present.^' 
 
 I immediately selected one, and put it into his 
 hand : No. 2,224. 
 
 '' Ah,^^ said my father, examining it, ^' you must 
 choose again. I want to to buy a whole ticket ; and 
 this is only a quarter. Choose again, my pet." 
 
 '^' No, dear papa, 1 like this one best.'''' 
 
 ^' Here is the next number," interposed the lottery 
 office keeper, '' No. 2,223." 
 
 "Ay," said my father, '^ that will do just as 
 well. Will it not, Mary ? We'll take that." 
 
 " No !" returned I, obstinately ; " that won't do. 
 This is my birth-day you know, papa, and I am ten 
 years old. Cast up my number, and you'll find 
 that makes ten. The other is only nine." 
 
 My father, superstitious like all speculators, 
 struck with my pertinacity, and with the reason 
 I gave, which he liked none the less because the 
 ground of preference was tolerably unreasonable, 
 resisted the attempt of the office keeper to tempt 
 
A LITEHARY LIFE. 293 
 
 me by different tickets, and we had nearly left 
 tlie shop without a purchase, when the clerk, who 
 had been examining different desks and drawers, 
 said to his principal : 
 
 " I think, Sir, the matter may be managed if 
 the gentleman does not mind paying a few shillings 
 more. That ticket, 2,224, only came yesterday, 
 and we have still all the shares ; one half, one 
 quarter, one eighth, two sixteenths. It will be 
 just the same if the young lady is set upon it.^^ 
 
 The young lady was set upon it, and the shares 
 were purchased. 
 
 The whole affair was a secret between us, and 
 my father whenever he got me to himself talked 
 over our future twenty thousand pounds — ^just like 
 Alnaschar over his basket of eggs. 
 
 Meanwhile, time passed on, and one Sunday 
 morning we were all preparing to go to church, 
 when a face that I had forgotten, but my father had 
 not, made its appearance. It was the clerk of the 
 lottery office. An express had just arrived from 
 Dublin, announcing that No. 2,224 had been drawn 
 a prize of twenty thousand pounds, and he had 
 hastened to communicate the good news. 
 
 Ah, me ! In less than twenty years what was 
 left of the produce of the ticket so strangely 
 chosen ? What ? except a Wedgwood dinner- 
 service that my father had had made to comme- 
 
294 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 morate the event, with the Irish harp within the 
 border on one side, and his family crest on the 
 other ! That fragile and perishable ware long out- 
 lasted the more perishable money ! 
 
 And then came long years of toil, and struggle, 
 and anxiety, and jolting over the rough ways of the 
 world, of which the tilted cart of Dorchester offers a 
 feeble type. But it is a subject of intense thank- 
 fulness that, although during those long years want 
 often came very close to our door, it never actually 
 entered ; and that those far dearer and far better 
 worth than I, were, more than once, saved from its 
 clutches when it seemed nearest by something even 
 more fragile and less durable than Mr. Wedgwood^s 
 china or the Irish lottery ticket. 
 
 Amongst the consolations and encouragements of 
 those years, I may reckon the partial kindness of 
 the late excellent Mrs. Kenyon, for it is to her 
 fancy for my poor wi'itings that I owe not only her 
 own highly-prized friendship, but the thousand 
 good offices of her accomplished husband. 
 
 His poems, full as they are of the largest and 
 most liberal views, of refined taste and of harmonious 
 versification, make but a small part of his reputa- 
 tion. I think he generally intends to publish them, 
 but he does actually disperse them amongst his 
 friends before the public has time to find them out, 
 so that they have the grace, freshness, and rarity 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 295 
 
 of gift-books ; and his hospitality, his benevolence, 
 and his conversational power are far better known 
 than his verse. 
 
 Now this verse has to me a singular charm, par- 
 ticularly " The Rhymed Plea for Tolerance,^ ^ which 
 is so clear, so scholarly, and so full of strong, manly 
 sense. Only see in how short a space he gives a 
 history of English morals, or perhaps, to speak more 
 accurately, of the morals of English literature, from 
 the Commonwealth to the first French Revolution. 
 
 When lofty Charles and ancient Privilege 
 Of new-mailed Hberty first felt the siege, 
 Then first Old England rather groaned than rang 
 With godly hymns and Barebones' nasal twang. 
 But then not less the godless cavalier 
 Plung his loose ballad on the offended ear ; 
 And still, for so extremes extremes provoke. 
 Mocked the grim parchment with the ribald joke. 
 
 A following century struck a wiser mean ; 
 The mass was then more cheerful, but more clean. 
 Yet then unprudish Addison could win. 
 Then Pope deemed raillery unstarched no sin ; 
 Then scornful Swift could frolic with free touch, 
 And Peachum pleased a race that robbed not much. 
 Some even have played with Congreve's comic lyre, 
 Nor felt the tinder temperament take fire. 
 
296 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 War with pretence satiric Tielding waged. 
 Yet thousands read of Blifil unenraged ; 
 (For least who feign are least by banter crost, 
 'Tis doubtful titles stir the passions most ;) 
 And follies forth, and forth e'en vices streamed, 
 Yet Man meanwhile was better than he seemed. 
 
 Then too our Second George, not overstaid. 
 Would lead his court to merry masquerade. 
 And if the mask chance-vices covered there, 
 'Twas not, as 'neath the Third, life's daily wear. 
 
 And Puritans extinct had ceased to rage 
 And vex with holy war the graceful stage ; 
 And then if Constance, or discrowned Lear, 
 Had roused some loftier throb or deeper tear ; 
 Or Sweet Miranda's purest womanhood 
 Touched the fine sense of Beautiful and Good ; 
 Or glorious EalstafF, raciest son of earth, 
 Shook from his sides immeasurable mirth ; 
 Or free Autolycus, as nature free. 
 Had won to bear his rogueries for his glee ; 
 Even then — no follower of play-scoui'ging Prynne 
 Denounced, as now, the sympathy for sin. 
 
 And then — though Wesley, strong in fervent youth, 
 Strong in man's weakness, strong in his own truth, 
 Pollowers ere long di-ew round him, Hope and Fear, 
 Rueful Pretence and Penitence sincere ; 
 Votaries the most with little to resign. 
 Rude audience from the workshop or the mine ; 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 297 
 
 And though erewHle at Pride's or Eaith's command, 
 Some titled Dowager would head the band ; 
 (For stimulants still charm fair devotee, 
 Chapel for church, for writ extempore ,) 
 And though a court more decent than before. 
 With cowl and hood court-vices covered o'er, 
 And cast from "Windsor's towers a monkish gloom ; 
 Yet Frankness still had genial air and room, 
 Free in the main to pray, or sport at will, — 
 And our dear land was "merry England" still. 
 
 But when, as chanced, from limbs and wearied veins, 
 France, slavery stung, burst body-bands and chains ; 
 Some w^ere rejoiced ; some doubted ; some were sad ; 
 But all at lena:th allowed her Freedom mad ; 
 Most for our own proclaimed a muzzle right. 
 Some would have slain, so much they feared the bite. 
 The danger, seen through mist, loomed large and near, 
 And Reason, Principles, were lost in Fear. 
 
 Then ancient statesmen took their daily range 
 
 Round one small spot, and shuddering talked of change ; 
 
 Or, niched, discreet, behind Prescription's shield. 
 
 In his own wrong urged Valour to the field. 
 
 Wealth, mid his coffers, feared the approaching war. 
 
 And ribboned Title trembled for his star ; 
 
 Vague unused terrors crept upon the brave. 
 
 And scarce the scornful Bar its scorn could save. 
 
 The ready Pulpit joined the Statesman's game. 
 
 And Freedom walked our British soil m shame. 
 
 Then follows a magnificent character of Burke, 
 
298 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 proving how just Mr. Kenyon can be to real great- 
 ness in every shade of opinion. The following 
 stanza, from a beautiful poem called ^^ Upper 
 Austria/' has the same rare merit of fairness and 
 candour, 
 
 Liberty ! tliou sacred name 
 
 Whate'er reproach may thee befall. 
 From judgment just or spiteful blame, 
 
 To thee I cling on thee I call. 
 
 And yet thou art not all in all ; 
 And e'en where thou art worshipped less. 
 
 In spite of check, in spite of thrall. 
 Content may spring and happiness. 
 
 The spirited and original anacreontic, entitled 
 " Champagne Rose/' was composed under ver}^ 
 peculiar circumstances. Having improvised, while 
 looking at the bubbles upon a glass of pink cham- 
 pagne, the exceedingly happy line that begins the 
 song, Mr. Kenyon was challenged to complete it on 
 the spot. He undertook to do so within twenty 
 minutes, and accomplished his task, as very few 
 besides himself could have done. 
 
 Lily on liquid roses floating — 
 
 So floats yon foam o'er pink Champagne — 
 
 Tain woidd I join such pleasant boating, 
 And prove that ruby main, 
 Floating away on wine ! 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 299 
 
 Those seas are dangerous, greybeards swear, 
 
 Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim ; 
 And true it is they drown old Care, 
 
 But what care we for him, 
 So we but float on wine ! 
 
 And true it is they cross in pain 
 
 Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ; 
 But only make oui' Styx Champagne, 
 
 And we shaU cross right merry, 
 Floating away on wine ! 
 
 Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, 
 
 Then gaily row his boat from shore ; 
 While we and every jovial fellow 
 
 Hear unconcerned the oar. 
 That dips itself in wine ! 
 
 The charming stanzas with which I conclude my 
 extracts form part of a poem written to illustrate 
 an engraving in Finden^s Tableaux; one of the 
 many kindnesses which I owe to Mr. Kenyon. It 
 would be difficult to find verse more melodious_, or 
 more pure. 
 
 THE SHBINE OF THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Who knows not, fair Sicilian land ! 
 How proudly thou wert famed of yore 
 When all the Muses hymned thy strand. 
 And pleased to tread so sweet a shore. 
 
300 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 Bacchus and Ceres, liaud in hand, 
 To thee their choicest treasures bore. 
 And saw upreared their graceful shrines, 
 Mid waving corn and curling vines. 
 
 Yes ! land thou wert of fruit and flowers, 
 The favoured land of Deity ; 
 By Jove made glad with suns and showers. 
 By Neptune cheered with brightest sea ; 
 E'en Dis, beneath his gloomy bowers. 
 Had heard and loved to dream of thee. 
 And, when he willed to take a bride. 
 Snatched her from Enna's sloping side. 
 
 Those hollow creeds have passed away. 
 
 Those false, if graceful, shrines are gone ; 
 
 A purer faith, of stricter sway, 
 
 Eor our behoof theii* place hath won ; 
 
 And Christian altars overlay 
 
 Yon temple's old foundation stone ; 
 
 And in Minerva's * vacant ceU 
 
 Subhmest wisdom deigns to dwell. 
 
 And where, within some deep shy wood. 
 
 And seen but haK through curving bough. 
 
 In silent marble Dian stood. 
 
 Behold ! a hoUer Virgin now 
 
 Hath sanctified the solitude ; 
 
 And thou, meek Mary -Mother ! thou 
 
 * The present cathedral of Syracuse was formerly a temple 
 of Minerva. 
 
A LITERARY LIFE. 301 
 
 Bost hallow eacli old Pagan spot, 
 Or storied stream, or fabled grot ! 
 
 The devious pilgrun, far beguiled. 
 How gladly doth he turn to greet 
 Thy long-sought image, mid the wild 
 A calming thought, a vision sweet. 
 If grief be his then, Lady mild ! 
 Thy gentle aid he will entreat, 
 And bowed in heart, not less than deed, 
 Pindeth a prayer to fit the need. 
 
 There, while his secret soul he bares, 
 That lonely altar bending by. 
 The traveller passing unawares. 
 Shall stay his step, but not too nigh, 
 And hearkening to those unforced prayers, 
 Albeit the creed he may deny. 
 Shall own his reason less averse. 
 And spirit surely not the w^orse. 
 
 Thy shrines are lovely, wheresoever. 
 And yet, if it were mine to choose 
 One, loveliest, where fretted care 
 Might come to rest, or thought to muse, 
 'Twould be that one, so soft and fair 
 That standeth by old Syracuse : 
 Just where those salt-sea waters take 
 The likeness of an inland lake. 
 
 Green tendi'iUed plants, in many a ring 
 Creep round the grey stone tenderly, 
 
 VOL. II. P 
 
302 RECOLLECTIONS OF A LITERARY LIFE. 
 
 As though in very love to cling 
 And clasp it ; while the reverent sea 
 A fond up-looking wave doth bring 
 To break anon submissively ; 
 As if it came that brow to greet, 
 Then whisper praise beneath thy feet. 
 
 I love the ever-open door 
 
 That welcomes to the house of God ! 
 
 I love the wide-spread marble floor. 
 
 By every foot in freedom trod ! 
 
 Pree altars let me bow before. 
 
 Free as the pathway or the sod. 
 
 Whence journeying pilgrim, mid broad air, 
 
 Wafts unpremeditated prayer. 
 
 I wish more people would write such lucid and 
 melodious verse ; but I have a suspicion that 
 amongst the many who call themselves poets, there 
 are very few indeed who can. 
 
 END OF VOL. II, 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Scluilze and Co., 13, Poland Street.