Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

Day, the author of _Sandford and Merton_, was an eccentric but amiable man; he retired into the country "to exclude himself," as he said, "from the vanity, vice, and deceptive character of man," but he appears to have been strangely jilted by women. When about the age of twenty-one, and after his suit had been rejected by a young lady to whom he had paid his addresses, Mr. Day formed the singular project of educating a wife for himself. This was based upon the notion of Rousseau, that "all the genuine worth of the human species is perverted by society; and that children should be educated apart from the world, in order that their minds should be kept untainted with, and ignorant of, its vices, prejudices, and artificial manners."

Day set about his project by selecting two girls from an establishment at Shrewsbury, connected with the Foundling Hospital; previously to which he entered into a written engagement, guaranteed by a friend, Mr. Bicknell, that within twelve months he would resign one of them to a respectable mistress, as an apprentice, with a fee of one hundred pounds; and, on her marriage, or commencing business for herself, he would give her the additional sum of four hundred pounds; and he further engaged that he would act honourably to the one he should retain, in order to marry her at a proper age; or, if he should change his mind, he would allow her a competent support until she married, and then give her five hundred pounds as a dowry.

The objects of Day's speculation were both twelve years of age. One of them, whom he called Lucretia, had a fair complexion, with light hair and eyes; the other was a brunette, with chesnut tresses, who was styled Sabrina. He took these girls to France without any English servants, in order that they should not obtain any knowledge but what he should impart. As might have been anticipated, they caused him abundance of inconvenience and vexation, increased, in no small degree, by their becoming infected with the small-pox; from this, however, they recovered without any injury to their features. The scheme ended in the utter disappointment of the projector. Lucretia, whom he first dismissed, was apprenticed to a milliner; and she afterwards became the wife of a linendraper in London. Sabrina, after Day had relinquished his attempts to make her such a model of perfection as he required, and which included indomitable courage, as well as the difficult art of retaining secrets, was placed at a boarding-school at Sutton Coldfield, in Warwickshire, where she was much esteemed; and, strange to say, was at length married to Mr. Bicknell.

After Day had renounced this scheme as impracticable, he became suitor to two sisters in succession; yet, in both instances, he was refused. At length, he was married at Bath, to a lady who made "a large fortune the means of exercising the most extensive generosity."

* * * * *

WASHINGTON IRVING AND WILKIE, IN THE ALHAMBRA.

Geoffrey Crayon (Irving), and Wilkie, the painter, were fellow-travellers on the Continent, about the year 1827. In their rambles about some of the old cities of Spain, they were more than once struck with scenes and incidents which reminded them of passages in the _Arabian Nights_. The painter urged Mr. Irving to write something that should illustrate those peculiarities, "something in the 'Haroun-al-Raschid style,'" which should have a deal of that Arabian spice which pervades everything in Spain. The author set to work, _con amore_, and produced two goodly volumes of Arabesque sketches and tales, founded on popular traditions. His study was the Alhambra, and the governor of the palace gave Irving and Wilkie permission to occupy his vacant apartments there. Wilkie was soon called away by the duties of his station; but Washington Irving remained for several months, spell-bound in the old enchanted pile. "How many legends," saith he, "and traditions, true and fabulous--how many songs and romances, Spanish and Arabian, of love, and war, and chivalry, are associated with this romantic pile."

* * * * *

BOLINGBROKE AT BATTERSEA.

When the late Sir Richard Phillips took his "Morning's Walk from London to Kew," in 1816, he found that a portion of the family mansion in which Lord Bolingbroke was born had been converted into a mill and distillery, though a small oak parlour had been carefully preserved. In this room, Pope is said to have written his _Essay on Man_; and, in Bolingbroke's time, the mansion was the resort, the hope, and the seat of enjoyment, of Swift, Arbuthnot, Thomson, Mallet, and all the contemporary genius of England. The oak room was always called "Pope's Parlour," it being, in all probability, the apartment generally occupied by that great poet, in his visits to his friend Bolingbroke.

On inquiring for an ancient inhabitant of Battersea, Sir Richard Phillips was introduced to a Mrs. Gilliard, a pleasant and intelligent woman, who told him she well remembered Lord Bolingbroke; that he used to ride out every day in his chariot, and had a black patch on his cheek, with a large wart over his eyebrows. She was then but a girl, but she was taught to look upon him with veneration as a great man. As, however, he spent little in the place, and gave little away, he was not much regarded by the people of Battersea. Sir Richard mentioned to her the names of several of Bolingbroke's contemporaries; but she recollected none except that of Mallet, who, she said, she had often seen walking about in the village, while he was visiting at Bolingbroke House.

* * * * *

RELICS OF MILTON.

Milton was born at the _Spread Eagle_,[8] Bread-street, Cheapside, December 9, 1608; and was buried, November, 1674, in St. Giles's Church, Cripplegate, without even a stone, in the first instance, to mark his resting-place; but, in 1793, a bust and tablet were set up to his memory by public subscription.

Milton, before he resided in Jewin-gardens, Aldersgate, is believed to have removed to, and "kept school" in a large house on the west side of Aldersgate-street, wherein met the City of London Literary and Scientific Institution, previously to the rebuilding of their premises in 1839.

Milton's London residences have all, with one exception, disappeared, and cannot be recognised; this is in Petty France, at Westminster, where the poet lived from 1651 to 1659. The lower part of the house is a chandler's-shop; the parlour, up stairs, looks into St. James's-park. Here part of _Paradise Lost_ was written. The house belonged to Jeremy Bentham, who caused to be placed on its front a tablet, inscribed, "SACRED TO MILTON, PRINCE OF POETS."

In the same glass-case with Shakspeare's autograph, in the British Museum, is a printed copy of the Elegies on Mr. Edward King, the subject of _Lycidas_, with some corrections of the text in Milton's handwriting. Framed and glazed, in the library of Mr. Rogers, the poet, hangs the written agreement between Milton and his publisher, Simmons, for the copyright of his _Paradise Lost_.--_Note-book of 1848._

[8] The house has been destroyed many years.

* * * * *

WRITING UP THE "TIMES" NEWSPAPER.

Dr. Dibdin, in his _Reminiscences_, relates:--"Sir John Stoddart married the sister of Lord Moncrieff, by whom he has a goodly race of representatives; but, before his marriage, _he was the man who wrote up the Times newspaper_ to its admitted pitch of distinction and superiority over every other contemporary journal. Mark, gentle reader, I speak of the _Times_ newspaper during the eventful and appalling crisis of Bonaparte's invasion of Spain and destruction of Moscow. My friend fought with his _pen_ as Wellington fought with his _sword_: but nothing like a tithe of the remuneration which was justly meted out to the hero of Waterloo befel the editor of the _Times_. Of course, I speak of remuneration in degree, and not in kind. The peace followed. Public curiosity lulled, and all great and stirring events having subsided, it was thought that a writer of less commanding talent, (certainly not the _present Editor_,) and therefore procurable at a less premium, would answer the current purposes of the day; and the retirement of Dr. Stoddart, (for he was at this time a civilian, and particularly noticed and patronised by Lord Stowell,) from the old _Times_, and his establishment of the _New Times_ newspaper, followed in consequence. But the latter, from various causes, had only a short-lived existence. Sir John Stoddart had been his Majesty's advocate, or Attorney-General, at Malta, before he retired thither a _second_ time, to assume the office of Judge."

* * * * *

RELICS OF THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.

The portal of the Boar's Head was originally decorated with carved oak figures of Falstaff and Prince Henry; and in 1834, the former figure was in the possession of a brazier, of Great Eastcheap, whose ancestors had lived in the shop he then occupied since the great fire. The last grand Shakspearean dinner-party took place at the Boar's Head about 1784. A boar's head, with silver tusks, which had been suspended in some room in the house, perhaps the Half Moon or Pomegranate, (see _Henry IV._, Act. ii., scene 3,) at the great fire, fell down with the ruins of the houses, little injured, and was conveyed to Whitechapel Mount, where it was identified and recovered about thirty years ago.

* * * * *

ORIGIN OF "THE EDINBURGH REVIEW."

The _Edinburgh Review_ was first published in 1802. The plan was suggested by Sydney Smith, at a meeting of _literati_, in the fourth or fifth flat or story, in Buccleugh-place, Edinburgh, then the elevated lodging of Jeffrey. The motto humorously proposed for the new review by its projector was, "_Tenui musam meditamur avena,_"--_i.e._, "We cultivate literature upon a little oatmeal;" but this being too nearly the truth to be publicly acknowledged, the more grave dictum of "_Judex damnatur cum nocens absolvitur_" was adopted from _Publius Syrus_, of whom, Sydney Smith affirms, "None of us, I am sure, ever read a single line!" Lord Byron, in his fifth edition of _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_, refers to the reviewers as an "oat-fed phalanx."

* * * * *

CLEVER STATESMEN.

However great talents may command the admiration of the world, they do not generally best fit a man for the discharge of social duties. Swift remarks that "Men of great parts are often unfortunate in the management of public business, because they are apt to go out of the common road by the quickness of their imagination. This I once said to my Lord Bolingbroke, and desired he would observe, that the clerk in his office used a sort of ivory knife, with a blunt edge, to divide a sheet of paper, which never failed to cut it even, only by requiring a steady hand; whereas, if he should make one of a sharp penknife, the sharpness would make it go often out of the crease, and disfigure the paper."

* * * * *

THE FIRST MAGAZINE.

The _Gentleman's Magazine_ unaccountably passes for the earliest periodical of that description; while, in fact, it was preceded nearly forty years by the _Gentleman's Journal_ of Motteux, a work much more closely resembling our modern magazines, and from which Sylvanus Urban borrowed part of his title, and part of his motto; while on the first page of the first number of the _Gentleman's Magazine_ itself, it is stated to contain "more than any book of the _kind_ and price."

* * * * *

MRS. TRIMMER.

This ingenious woman was the daughter of Joshua and Sarah Kirby, and was born at Ipswich, January 6, 1741. Kirby taught George the Third, when Prince of Wales, perspective and architecture. He was also President of the Society of Artists of Great Britain, out of which grew the Royal Academy. It was the last desire of Gainsborough to be buried beside his old friend Kirby, and their tombs adjoin each other in the churchyard at Kew.

Mrs. Trimmer, when a girl, was constantly reading Milton's _Paradise Lost_; and this circumstance so pleased Dr. Johnson, that he invited her to see him, and presented her with a copy of his _Rambler_. She also repeatedly met Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Gregory, Sharp, Hogarth, and Gainsborough, with all of whom her father was on terms of intimacy. Mrs. Trimmer advocated religious education against the latitudinarian views of Joseph Lancaster. It was at her persuasion that Dr. Bell entered the field, and paved the way for the establishment of the National Society. Mrs. Trimmer died, in her seventieth year, in 1810. She was seated at her table reading a letter, when her head sunk upon her bosom, and she "fell asleep;" and so gentle was the wafting, that she seemed for some time in a refreshing slumber, which her family were unwilling to interrupt.

* * * * *

BOSWELL'S BEAR-LEADING.

It was on a visit to the parliament house that Mr. Henry Erskine, (brother of Lord Buchan and Lord Erskine,) after being presented to Dr. Johnson by Mr. Boswell, and having made his bow, slipped a shilling into Boswell's hand, whispering that it was for the sight of his _bear_.--_Sir Walter Scott._

* * * * *

LORD ELIBANK AND DR. JOHNSON

Lord Elibank made a happy retort on Dr. Johnson's definition of oats, as the food of horses in England, and men in Scotland. "Yes," said he, "and where else will you see _such horses, and such men_?"--_Sir Walter Scott._

* * * * *

RELICS OF DR. JOHNSON AT LICHFIELD.

The house in which Dr. Johnson was born, at Lichfield--where his father, it is well known, kept a small bookseller's shop, and where he was partly educated--stood on the west side of the market-place. In the centre of the market-place is a colossal statue of Johnson, seated upon a square pedestal: it is by Lucas, and was executed at the expense of the Rev. Chancellor Law, in 1838. By the side of a footpath leading from Dam-street to Stow, formerly stood a large willow, said to have been planted by Johnson. It was blown down, in 1829; but one of its shoots was preserved and planted upon the same spot: it was in the year 1848 a large tree, known in the town as "Johnson's Willow."

Mr. Lomax, who for many years kept a bookseller's shop--"The Johnson's Head," in Bird-street, Lichfield, possessed several articles that formerly belonged to Johnson, which have been handed down by a clear and indisputable ownership. Amongst them is his own _Book of Common Prayer_, in which are written, in pencil, the four Latin lines printed in Strahan's edition of the Doctor's Prayers. There are, also, a sacrament-book, with Johnson's wife's name in it, in his own handwriting; an autograph letter of the Doctor's to Miss Porter; two tea-spoons, an ivory tablet, and a breakfast table; a Visscher's Atlas, paged by the Doctor, and a manuscript index; Davies's _Life of Garrick_, presented to Johnson by the publisher; a walking cane; and a Dictionary of Heathen Mythology, with the Doctor's MS. corrections. His wife's wedding-ring, afterwards made into a mourning-ring; and a massive chair, in which he customarily sat, were also in Mr Lomax's possession.

Among the few persons living in the year 1848 who ever saw Dr. Johnson, was Mr. Dyott, of Lichfield: this was seventy-four years before, or in 1774, when the Doctor and Boswell, on their tour into Wales, stopped at Ashbourne, and there visited Mr. Dyott's father, who was then residing at Ashbourne Hall.[9]

[9] "The Dyotts," notes Croker, "are a respectable and wealthy family, still residing near Lichfield. The royalist who shot Lord Brooke when assaulting St. Chad's Cathedral, in Lichfield, on St. Chad's Day, was a Mr. Dyott."

* * * * *

COLERIDGE A SOLDIER.

After Coleridge left Cambridge, he came to London, where soon feeling himself forlorn and destitute, he enlisted as a soldier in the 15th Elliot's Light Dragoons. "On his arrival at the quarters of the regiment," says his friend and biographer, Mr. Gilman, "the general of the district inspected the recruits, and looking hard at Coleridge, with a military air, inquired 'What's your name, sir?' 'Comberbach!' (the name he had assumed.) 'What do you come here for, sir?' as if doubting whether he had any business there. 'Sir,' said Coleridge, 'for what most other persons come--to be made a soldier.' 'Do you think,' said the general, 'you can run a Frenchman through the body?' 'I do not know,' replied Coleridge, 'as I never tried; but I'll let a Frenchman run me through the body before I'll run away.' 'That will do,' said the general, and Coleridge was turned in the ranks."

The poet made a poor dragoon, and never advanced beyond the awkward squad. He wrote letters, however, for all his comrades, and they attended to his horse and accoutrements. After four months service, (December 1793 to April 1794), the history and circumstances of Coleridge became known. He had written under his saddle, on the stable wall, a Latin sentence (Eheu! quam infortunii miserrimum est fuisse felicem!) which led to an inquiry on the part of the captain of his troop, who had more regard for the classics than Ensign Northerton, in _Tom Jones_. Coleridge was, accordingly, discharged, and restored to his family and friends.

* * * * *

COBBETT'S BOYHOOD.

Perhaps, in Cobbett's voluminous writings, there is nothing so complete as the following picture of his boyish scenes and recollections: it has been well compared to the most simple and touching passages in Richardson's _Pamela_:--

"After living within a hundred yards of Westminster Hall and the
Abbey church, and the bridge, and looking from my own window into
St. James's Park, all other buildings and spots appear mean and
insignificant. I went to-day to see the house I formerly occupied.
How small! It is always thus: the words large and small are
carried about with us in our minds, and we forget real dimensions.
The idea, such as it was received, remains during our absence from
the object. When I returned to England in 1800, after an absence
from the country parts of it of sixteen years, the trees, the
hedges, even the parks and woods, seemed so small! It made me
laugh to hear little gutters, that I could jump over, called
rivers! The Thames was but 'a creek!' But when, in about a month
after my arrival in London, I went to Farnham, the place of my
birth, what was my surprise! Every thing was become so pitifully
small! I had to cross in my postchaise the long and dreary heath
of Bagshot. Then, at the end of it, to mount a hill called Hungry
Hill; and from that hill I knew that I should look down into the
beautiful and fertile vale of Farnham. My heart fluttered with
impatience, mixed with a sort of fear, to see all the scenes of my
childhood; for I had learned before the death of my father and
mother. There is a hill not far from the town, called Crooksbury
Hill, which rises up out of a flat in the form of a cone, and is
planted with Scotch fir-trees. Here I used to take the eggs and
young ones of crows and magpies. This hill was a famous object in
the neighbourhood. It served as the superlative degree of height.
'As high as Crooksbury Hill,' meant with us, the utmost degree of
height. Therefore, the first object my eyes sought was this hill.
I could not believe my eyes! Literally speaking, I for a moment
thought the famous hill removed, and a little heap put in its
stead; for I had seen in New Brunswick a single rock, or hill of
solid rock, ten times as big, and four or five times as high! The
post-boy, going down hill, and not a bad road, whisked me in a few
minutes to the Bush Inn, from the garden of which I could see the
prodigious sand hill where I had begun my gardening works. What a
nothing! But now came rushing into my mind all at once my pretty
little garden, my little blue smock-frock, my little nailed shoes,
my pretty pigeons that I used to feed out of my hands, the last
kind words and tears of my gentle and tender-hearted and
affectionate mother. I hastened back into the room. If I had
looked a moment longer, I should have dropped. When I came to
reflect, what a change! What scenes I had gone through! How
altered my state! I had dined the day before at a secretary of
state's, in company with Mr. Pitt, and had been waited upon by men
in gaudy liveries! I had had nobody to assist me in the world. No
teachers of any sort. Nobody to shelter me from the consequence of
bad, and nobody to counsel me to good behaviour. I felt proud. The
distinctions of rank, birth, and wealth, all became nothing in my
eyes; and from that moment (less than a month after my arrival in
England), I resolved never to bend before them."

Cobbett was, for a short time, a labourer in the kitchen grounds of the Royal Gardens at Kew. King George the Third often visited the gardens to inquire after the fruits and esculents; and one day, he saw here Cobbett, then a lad, who with a few halfpence in his pocket, and Swift's _Tale of a Tub_ in his hand, had been so captivated by the wonders of the royal gardens, that he applied there for employment. The king, on perceiving the clownish boy, with his stockings tied about his legs by scarlet garters, inquired about him, and specially desired that he might be continued in his service.

* * * * *

COLERIDGE AN UNITARIAN PREACHER.

During his residence at Nether Stoney, Coleridge officiated as Unitarian preacher at Taunton, and afterwards at Shrewsbury. Mr. Hazlitt has described his walking ten miles on a winter day to hear Coleridge preach. "When I got there," he says, "the organ was playing the 100th psalm, and, when it was done, Mr. Coleridge rose and gave out his text:--'He departed again into a mountain himself alone.' As he gave out his text, his voice rose like a stream of rich distilled perfume; when he came to the two last words, which he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to me, who was then young, as if the sounds had echoed from the bottom of the human heart, and as if that prayer might have floated in solemn silence through the universe. The idea of St. John came into my mind, of one crying in the wilderness, who had his loins girt about, and whose food was locusts and wild honey. The preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind. The sermon was upon peace and war--upon Church and State; not their alliance, but their separation; on the spirit of the world and the spirit of Christianity; not as the same, but as opposed to one another. He talked of those who had inscribed the cross of Christ on banners dripping with human gore! He made a poetical and pastoral excursion; and, to show the fatal effects of war, drew a striking contrast between the simple shepherd-boy driving his team a-field, or sitting under the hawthorn, piping to his flock, as though he should never be old, and the same poor country-lad crimped, kidnapped, brought into town, made drunk at an alehouse, turned into a wretched drummer-boy, with his hair sticking on end with powder and pomatum, a long cue at his back, and tricked out in the finery of the profession of blood.

"'Such were the notes our once-loved poet sung;'

and, for myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had heard the music of the spheres."

* * * * *

FONTENELLE'S INSENSIBILITY.

Fontenelle, who lived till within one month of a century, was very rarely known to laugh or cry, and even boasted of his insensibility. One day, a certain _bon-vivant_ Abbé came unexpectedly to dine with him. The Abbé was fond of asparagus dressed with butter; Fontenelle, also, had a great _gout_ for the vegetable, but preferred it dressed with oil. Fontenelle said, that, for such a friend, there was no sacrifice he would not make; and that he should have half the dish of asparagus which he had ordered for himself, and that half, moreover, should be dressed with butter. While they were conversing together, the poor Abbé fell down in a fit of apoplexy; upon which Fontenelle instantly scampered down stairs, and eagerly bawled out to his cook, "The whole with oil! the whole with oil, as at first!"

* * * * *

PAINS AND TOILS OF AUTHORSHIP.

The craft of authorship is by no means so easy of practice as is generally imagined by the thousands who aspire to its practice. Almost all our works, whether of knowledge or of fancy, have been the product of much intellectual exertion and study; or, as it is better expressed by the poet--

"the well-ripened fruits of wise decay."

Pope published nothing until it had been a year or two before him, and even then his printer's proofs were very full of alterations; and, on one occasion, Dodsley, his publisher, thought it better to have the whole recomposed than make the necessary corrections. Goldsmith considered four lines a day good work, and was seven years in beating out the pure gold of the _Deserted Village_. Hume wrote his _History of England_ on a sofa, but he went quietly on correcting every edition till his death. Robertson used to write out his sentences on small slips of paper; and, after rounding them and polishing them to his satisfaction, he entered them in a book, which, in its turn, underwent considerable revision. Burke had all his principal works printed two or three times at a private press before submitting them to his publisher. Akenside and Gray were indefatigable correctors, labouring every line; and so was our prolix and more imaginative poet, Thomson. On comparing the first and latest editions of the _Seasons_, there will be found scarcely a page which does not bear evidence of his taste and industry. Johnson thinks the poems lost much of their raciness under this severe regimen, but they were much improved in fancy and delicacy; the episode of Musidora, "the solemnly ridiculous bathing scene," as Campbell terms it, was almost entirely rewritten. Johnson and Gibbon were the least laborious in arranging their _copy_ for the press. Gibbon sent the first and only MS. of his stupendous work (the _Decline and Fall_) to his printer; and Johnson's high-sounding sentences were written almost without an effort. Both, however, lived and moved, as it were, in the world of letters, thinking or caring of little else--one in the heart of busy London, which he dearly loved, and the other in his silent retreat at Lausanne. Dryden wrote hurriedly, to provide for the day; but his _Absalom and Achitophel_, and the beautiful imagery of the _Hind and Panther_, must have been fostered with parental care. St. Pierre copied his _Paul and Virginia_ nine times, that he might render it the more perfect. Rousseau was a very coxcomb in these matters: the amatory epistles, in his new _Heloise_, he wrote on fine gilt-edged card-paper, and having folded, addressed, and sealed them, he opened and read them in the solitary woods of Clairens, with the mingled enthusiasm of an author and lover. Sheridan watched long and anxiously for bright thoughts, as the MS. of his _School for Scandal_, in its various stages, proves. Burns composed in the open air, the sunnier the better; but he laboured hard, and with almost unerring taste and judgment, in correcting.[10]

Lord Byron was a rapid composer, but made abundant use of the pruning-knife. On returning one of his proof sheets from Italy, he expressed himself undecided about a single word, for which he wished to substitute another, and requested Mr. Murray to refer it to Mr. Gifford, then editor of the _Quarterly Review_. Sir Walter Scott evinced his love of literary labour by undertaking the revision of the whole of the _Waverley_ Novels--a goodly freightage of some fifty or sixty volumes. The works of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, and Moore, and the occasional variations in their different editions, mark their love of the touching. Southey was, indeed, unwearied after his kind--a true author of the old school. The bright thoughts of Campbell, which sparkle like polished lances, were manufactured with almost equal care; he was the Pope of our contemporary authors.[11] Allan Cunningham corrected but little, yet his imitations of the elder lyrics are perfect centos of Scottish feeling and poesy. The loving, laborious lingering of Tennyson over his poems, and the frequent alterations--not in every case improvements--that appear in successive editions of his works, are familiar to all his admirers.

[10] "I have seen," says a Correspondent of the _Inverness Courier_, "a copy of the second edition of Burns's 'Poems,' with the blanks filled up, and numerous alterations made in the poet's handwriting: one instance, not the most delicate, but perhaps the most amusing and characteristic will suffice. After describing the gambols of his 'Twa Dogs,' their historian refers to their sitting down in coarse and rustic terms. This, of course, did not suit the poet's Edinburgh patrons, and he altered it to the following:--

'Till tired at last, and doucer grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down.'

Still this did not please his fancy; he tried again, and hit it off in the simple, perfect form in which it now stands:--

'Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down.'"

[11] Campbell's alterations were, generally, decided improvements; but in one instance he failed lamentably. The noble peroration of Lochiel is familiar to most readers:--

"Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field and his feet to the foe;
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame."

In the quarto edition of _Gertrude of Wyoming_, when the poet collected and reprinted his minor pieces, this lofty sentiment was thus stultified:--

"Shall victor exult in the battle's acclaim,
Or look to yon heaven from the death-bed of fame."

The original passage, however, was wisely restored in the subsequent editions.

* * * * *

JOE MILLER AT COURT.

Joe Miller, (Mottley,) was such a favourite at court, that Caroline, queen of George II., commanded a play to be performed for his benefit; the queen disposed of a great many tickets at one of her drawing-rooms, and most of them were paid for in gold.

* * * * *

COLLINS' INSANITY.

Much has been said of the state of insanity to which the author of the _Ode to the Passions_ was ultimately reduced; or rather, as Dr. Johnson happily describes it, "a depression of mind which enchains the faculties without destroying them, and leaves reason the knowledge of right, without the power of pursuing it." What Johnson has further said on this melancholy subject, shows perhaps more nature and feeling than anything he ever wrote; and yet it is remarkable that among the causes to which the poet's malady was ascribed, he never hints at the most exciting of the whole. He tells us how Collins "loved fairies, genii, giants, and monsters;" how he "delighted to roam through the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens." But never does he seem to have imagined how natural it was for a mind of such a temperament to give an Eve to the Paradise of his Creation. Johnson, in truth, though, as he tells us, he gained the confidence of Collins, was not just the man into whose ear a lover would choose to pour his secrets. The fact was, Collins was greatly attached to a young lady who did not return his passion; and there seems to be little doubt, that to the consequent disappointment, preying on his mind, was due much of that abandonment of soul which marked the close of his career. The object of his passion was born the day before him; and to this circumstance, in one of his brighter moments, he made a most happy allusion. A friend remarking to the luckless lover, that his was a hard case, Collins replied, "It is so, indeed; for I came into the world _a day after the fair_."

* * * * *

MOORE'S EPIGRAM ON ABBOTT.

Mr. Speaker Abbott having spoken in slighting terms of some of Moore's poems, the poet wrote, in return, the following biting epigram:

"They say he has no heart; but I deny it;
He _has_ a heart--and gets his speeches by it."

* * * * *

NEGROES AT HOME.

When Lord Byron was in Parliament, a petition setting forth, and calling for redress for, the wretched state of the Irish peasantry, was one evening presented to the House of Lords, and very coldly received. "Ah!" said Lord Byron, "what a misfortune it was for the Irish that they were not born black! they would then have had plenty of friends in both Houses"--referring to the great interest at the time being taken by some philanthropic members in the condition and future of the negroes in our West Indian colonies.

* * * * *

A STRING OF JERROLD'S JOKES.

At a club of which Jerrold was a member, a fierce Jacobite, and a friend, as fierce, of the Orange cause, were arguing noisily, and disturbing less excitable conversationalists. At length the Jacobite, a brawny Scot, brought his fist down heavily upon the table, and roared at his adversary, "I tell you what it is, sir, I spit upon your King William!" The friend of the Prince of Orange rose, and roared back to the Jacobite, "And I, sir, spit upon your James the Second!" Jerrold, who had been listening to the uproar in silence, hereupon rang the bell, and shouted "Waiter, spittoons for two!"

At an evening party, Jerrold was looking at the dancers, when, seeing a very tall gentleman waltzing with a remarkably short lady, he said to a friend at hand, "Humph! there's the mile dancing with the milestone!"

An old lady was in the habit of talking to Jerrold in a gloomy, depressing manner, presenting to him only the sad side of life. "Hang it," said Jerrold, one day, after a long and sombre interview, "she would not allow that there was a bright side to the moon."

Jerrold said to an ardent young gentleman, who burned with desire to see himself in print: "Be advised by me, young man: don't take down the shutters before there is something in the windows."

While Jerrold was discussing one day, with Mr. Selby, the vexed question of adapting dramatic pieces from the French, that gentleman insisted upon claiming some of his characters as strictly original creations. "Do you remember my Baroness in _Ask No Questions_?" said Mr. Selby. "Yes, indeed; I don't think I ever saw a piece of yours without being struck by your _barrenness_," was the retort.--_Mark Lemon's Jest-book._

* * * * *

CONCEITED ALARMS OF DENNIS.

John Dennis, the dramatist, had a most extravagant and enthusiastic opinion of his tragedy of _Liberty Asserted_. He imagined that there were in it some strokes on the French nation so severe, that they would never be forgiven; and that, in consequence, Louis XIV. would never make peace with England unless the author was given up as a sacrifice to the national resentment. Accordingly, when the congress for the negotiation of the Peace of Utrecht was in contemplation, the terrified Dennis waited on the Duke of Marlborough, who had formerly been his patron, to entreat the intercession of his Grace with the plenipotentiaries, that they should not consent to his surrender to France being made one of the conditions of the treaty. The Duke gravely told the dramatist that he was sorry to be unable to do this service, as he had no influence with the Ministry of the day; but, he added, that he thought Dennis' case not quite desperate, for, said his Grace, "I have taken no care to get myself excepted in the articles of peace, and yet I cannot help thinking that I have done the French almost as much damage as Mr. Dennis himself." At another time, when Dennis was visiting at a gentleman's house on the Sussex coast, and was walking on the beach, he saw a vessel, as he imagined, sailing towards him. The self-important timidity of Dennis saw in this incident a reason for the greatest alarm for himself, and distrust of his friend. Supposing he was betrayed, he made the best of his way to London, without even taking leave of his host, whom he believed to have lent himself to a plot for delivering him up as a captive to a French vessel sent on purpose to carry him off.

* * * * *

A COMPOSITION WITH CONSCIENCE.

Lully, the composer, being once thought mortally ill, his friends called a confessor, who, finding the patient's state critical, and his mind very ill at ease, told him that he could obtain absolution only one way--by burning all that he had by him of a yet unpublished opera. The remonstrance of his friends was in vain; Lully burnt the music, and the confessor departed well pleased. The composer, however, recovered, and told one of his visitors, a nobleman who was his patron, of the sacrifice he had made to the demands of the confessor. "And so," cried the nobleman, "you have burnt your opera, and are really such a blockhead as to believe in the absurdities of a monk!" "Stop, my friend, stop," returned Lully; "let me whisper in your ear: I knew very well what I was about--_I have another copy._"

* * * * *

SALE, THE TRANSLATOR OF THE KORAN.

The learned Sale, who first gave to the world a genuine version of the Koran, pursued his studies through a life of wants. This great Orientalist, when he quitted his books to go abroad, too often wanted a change of linen; and he frequently wandered the streets, in search of some compassionate friend, who might supply him with the meal of the day.

* * * * *

THE LATTER DAYS OF LOVELACE.

Sir Richard Lovelace, who in 1649 published the elegant collection of amorous and other poems entitled _Lucasta_, was an amiable and accomplished gentleman: by the men of his time (the time of the civil wars) respected for his moral worth and literary ability; by the fair sex, almost idolized for the elegance of his person and the sweetness of his manners. An ardent loyalist, the people of Kent appointed him to present to the House of Commons their petition for the restoration of Charles and the settlement of the government. The petition gave offence, and the bearer was committed to the Gate House, at Westminster, where he wrote his graceful little song, "Loyalty Confined," opening thus:

"When love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered in her eye;
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty."

But "dinnerless the polished Lovelace died." He obtained his liberation, after a few months' confinement. By that time, however, he had consumed all his estates, partly by furnishing the king with men and money, and partly by giving assistance to men of talent of whatever kind, whom he found in difficulties. Very soon, he became himself involved in the greatest distress, and fell into a deep melancholy, which brought on a consumption, and made him as poor in person as in purse, till he even became the object of common charity. The man who in his days of gallantry wore cloth of gold, was now naked, or only half covered with filthy rags; he who had thrown splendour on palaces, now shrank into obscure and dirty alleys; he who had associated with princes, banqueted on dainties, been the patron of the indigent, the admiration of the wise and brave, the darling of the chaste and fair--was now fain to herd with beggars, gladly to partake of their coarse offals, and thankfully to receive their twice-given alms--

"To hovel him with swine and rogues forlorn,
In short and musty straw."

Worn out with misery, he at length expired, in 1658, in a mean and wretched lodging in Gunpowder Alley, near Shoe Lane, and was buried at the west end of St. Bride's church, Fleet Street. Such is the account of Lovelace's closing days given by Wood in his _Athenæ_, and confirmed by Aubrey in his _Lives of Eminent Men_; but a recent editor and biographer (the son of Hazlitt) pronounces, though he does not prove, the account much exaggerated.

* * * * *

PAYMENT IN KIND.

The Empress Catherine of Russia having sent, as a present to Voltaire, a small ivory box made by her own hands, the poet induced his niece to instruct him in the art of knitting stockings; and he had actually half finished a pair, of white silk, when he became completely tired. Unfinished as the stockings were, however, he sent them to her Majesty, accompanied by a charmingly gallant poetical epistle, in which he told her that, "As she had presented him with a piece of man's workmanship made by a woman, he had thought it his duty to crave her acceptance, in return, of a piece of woman's work from the hands of a man."--When Constantia Phillips was in a state of distress, she took a small shop near Westminster Hall, and sold books, some of which were of her own writing. During this time, an apothecary who had attended her once when she was ill, came to her and requested payment of his bill. She pleaded her poverty; but he still continued to press her, and urged as a reason for his urgency, that he had saved her life. "You have," said Constantia, "you have indeed done so: I acknowledge it; and, in return, here is my life"--handing him at the same time the two volumes of her "Memoirs," and begging that he would now take _her life_ in discharge of his demand.

* * * * *

CHATTERTON'S PROFIT AND LOSS RECKONING.

Chatterton, the marvellous boy, wrote a political essay for the _North Briton_, Wilkes's journal; but, though accepted, the essay was not printed, in consequence of the death of the Lord Mayor, Chatterton's patron. The youthful patriot thus calculated the results of the suppression of his essay, which had begun by a splendid flourish about "a spirited people freeing themselves from insupportable slavery:"

"Lost, by the Lord Mayor's death, in this essay, £ 1 11 6
Gained in elegies, £ 2 2 0
Do. in essays, 3 3 0
--------
5 5 0
----------
Am glad he is dead by £ 3 13 6"

* * * * *

LOCKE'S REBUKE OF THE CARD-PLAYING LORDS.

Locke, the brilliant author of the _Essay on the Human Understanding_, was once introduced by Lord Shaftesbury to the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Halifax. But the three noblemen, instead of entering into conversation on literary subjects with the philosopher, very soon sat down to cards. Locke looked on for a short time, and then drew out his pocket-book and began to write in it with much attention. One of the players, after a time, observed this, and asked what he was writing. "My Lord," answered Locke, "I am endeavouring, as far as possible, to profit by my present situation; for, having waited with impatience for the honour of being in company with the greatest geniuses of the age, I thought I could do nothing better than to write down your conversation; and, indeed, I have set down the substance of what you have said for the last hour or two." The three noblemen, fully sensible of the force of the rebuke, immediately left the cards and entered into a conversation more rational and more befitting their reputation as men of genius.

* * * * *

HAYDN AND THE SHIP CAPTAIN.

When the immortal composer Haydn was on his visit to England, in 1794, his chamber-door was opened one morning by the captain of an East Indiaman, who said, "You are Mr. Haydn?" "Yes." "Can you make me a 'March,' to enliven my crew? You shall have thirty guineas; but I must have it to-day, as to-morrow I sail for Calcutta." Haydn agreed, the sailor quitted him, the composer opened his piano, and in a few minutes the march was written. He appears, however, to have had a delicacy rare among the musical birds of passage and of prey who come to feed on the unwieldy wealth of England. Conceiving that the receipt of a sum so large as thirty guineas for a labour so slight, would be a species of plunder, he came home early in the evening, and composed other two marches, in order to allow the liberal sea captain his choice, or make him take all the three. Early next morning, the purchaser came back. "Where is my march?" "Here it is." "Try it on the piano." Haydn played it over. The captain counted down the thirty guineas on the piano, took up the march, and went down stairs. Haydn ran after him, calling, "I have made other two marches, both better; come up and hear them, and take your choice." "I am content with the one I have," returned the captain, without stopping. "I will make you a present of them," cried the composer. The captain only ran down the more rapidly, and left Haydn on the stairs. Haydn, opposing obstinacy to obstinacy, determined to overcome this odd self-denial. He went at once to the Exchange, found out the name of the ship, made his marches into a roll, and sent them, with a polite note, to the captain on board. He was surprised at receiving, not long after, his envelope unopened, from the captain, who had guessed it to be Haydn's; and the composer tore the whole packet into pieces upon the spot. The narrator of this incident adds the remark, that "though the anecdote is of no great elevation, it expresses peculiarity of character; and certainly neither the composer nor the captain could have been easily classed among the common or the vulgar of men."

* * * * *

HAYDN'S DIPLOMA PIECE AT OXFORD.

During his stay in England, Haydn was honoured by the diploma of Doctor of Music from the University of Oxford--a distinction not obtained even by Handel, and it is said, only conferred on four persons during the four centuries preceding. It is customary to send some specimen of composition in return for a degree; and Haydn, with the facility of perfect skill, sent back a page of music so curiously contrived, that in whatever way it was read--from the top to the bottom or the sides--it exhibited a perfect melody and accompaniment.

* * * * *

ORIGIN OF THE BEGGAR'S OPERA.

It was Swift that first suggested to Gay the idea of the _Beggar's Opera_, by remarking, what an odd, pretty sort of a thing a Newgate pastoral might make! "Gay," says Pope, "was inclined to try at such a thing for some time; but afterwards thought it would be better to write a comedy on the same plan. This was what gave rise to the _Beggar's Opera_. He began on it; and when he first mentioned it to Swift, the doctor did not much like the project. As he carried it on, he showed what he wrote to both of us; and we now and then gave a correction, or a word or two of advice, but it was wholly of his own writing. When it was done, neither of us thought it would succeed. We showed it to Congreve, who, after reading it over, said, 'It would either take greatly, or be damned confoundedly.' We were all, at the first sight of it, in great uncertainty of the event, till we were very much encouraged by hearing the Duke of Argyle, who sat in the next box to us, say, 'It will do--I see it in the eyes of them.' This was a good while before the first act was over, and so gave us ease soon; for the Duke (besides his own good taste) has as particular a knack as any one now living, in discovering the taste of the public. He was quite right in this, as usual; the good nature of the audience appeared stronger and stronger every act, and ended in a clamour of applause."

* * * * *

THE TWO SHERIDANS.

Sheridan made his appearance one day in a pair of new boots; these attracting the notice of some of his friends: "Now guess," said he, "how I came by these boots?" Many probable guesses were then ventured, but in vain. "No," said Sheridan, "no, you have not hit it, nor ever will. I bought them, and paid for them!" Sheridan was very desirous that his son Tom should marry a young lady of large fortune, but knew that Miss Callander had won his son's heart. Sheridan, expatiating once on the folly of his son, at length broke out: "Tom, if you marry Caroline Callander, I'll cut you off with a shilling!" Tom, looking maliciously at his father, said, "Then, sir, you must borrow it." In a large party one evening, the conversation turned upon young men's allowances at college. Tom deplored the ill-judging parsimony of many parents in that respect. "I am sure, Tom," said his father, "you have no reason to complain; I always allowed you £800 a-year." "Yes, father, I confess you allowed it; but then--it was never paid!"

* * * * *

KILLING NO MURDER.

In a journey which Mademoiselle Scudéry, the Sappho of the French, made along with her no less celebrated brother, a curious incident befell them at an inn at a great distance from Paris. Their conversation happened one evening to turn upon a romance which they were then jointly composing, to the hero of which they had given the name of Prince Mazare. "What shall we do with Prince Mazare?" said Mademoiselle Scudéry to her brother. "Is it not better that he should fall by poison, than by the poignard?" "It is not time yet," replied the brother, "for that business; when it is necessary we can despatch him as we please; but at present we have not quite done with him." Two merchants in the next chamber, overhearing this conversation, concluded that they had formed a conspiracy for the murder of some prince whose real name they disguised under that of Mazare. Full of this important discovery, they imparted their suspicions to the host and hostess; and it was resolved to inform the police of what had happened. The police officers, eager to show their diligence and activity, put the travellers immediately under arrest, and conducted them under a strong escort to Paris. It was not without difficulty and expense that they there procured their liberation, and leave for the future to hold an unlimited right and power over all the princes and personages in the realms of romance.

* * * * *

SENSITIVENESS TO CRITICISM.

Hawkesworth and Stillingfleet died of criticism; Tasso was driven mad by it; Newton, the calm Newton, kept hold of life only by the sufferance of a friend who withheld a criticism on his chronology, for no other reason than his conviction that if it were published while he lived, it would put an end to him; and every one knows the effect on the sensitive nature of Keats, of the attacks on his _Endymion_. Tasso had a vast and prolific imagination, accompanied with an excessively hypochondriacal temperament. The composition of his great epic, the _Jerusalem Delivered_, by giving scope to the boldest flights, and calling into play the energies of his exalted and enthusiastic genius--whilst with equal ardour it led him to entertain hopes of immediate and extensive fame--laid most probably the foundation of his subsequent derangement. His susceptibility and tenderness of feeling were great; and, when his sublime work met with unexpected opposition, and was even treated with contempt and derision, the fortitude of the poet was not proof against the keen sense of disappointment. He twice attempted to please his ignorant and malignant critics by recomposing his poem; and during the hurry, the anguish, and the irritation attending these efforts, the vigour of a great mind was entirely exhausted, and in two years after the publication of the _Jerusalem_, the unhappy author became an object of pity and terror. Newton, with all his philosophy, was so sensible to critical remarks, that Whiston tells us he lost his favour, which he had enjoyed for twenty years, by contradicting him in his old age; for "no man was of a more fearful temper."

* * * * *

BUTLER AND BUCKINGHAM.