222 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
Oh, when I was a tiny boy,
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!—Hood.
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In running over the ground, as I am doing, I have as yet
abstained from two topics of much personal and some public interest, but too copious for my
present undertaking. I allude to the first appearances of our greatest artists, and also of
our most admirable theatrical performers, with whom it was my good fortune to form friendly
relations, witness their earliest efforts, encourage their emulous achievements, and enjoy
their triumphs. Still hoping for the opportunity to throw at least a partial light over
some of the younger memorabilia attached to these eminent individuals, who have charmed the
age in which they flourished, and (in the Fine Arts) will be the delight of future times, I
will now endeavour to call up a few literary spirits from the vasty deep—made by a very
brief lapse of time in these busy days, and present them, as they rise, to the notice of my
readers. Shakspeare has said—and I believe it has
been quoted before—that one touch
MR. ISAAC DISRAELI. | 223 |
Mr. Isaac Disraeli, the voluminous and interesting author, and father of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, lived just out of, and to the eastward of Red Lion Square, and either next house to or nearly adjoining that of Lady Sanderson, who married William Huntingdon, S.S. (“Sinner Saved,” and especially by her Ladyship’s comfortable fortune), and I visited them both.
Mr. Disraeli’s was very literary, and
archaeological and delightful. Douce was often
there, and Archdeacon Nares from the adjacent
Hart-street, and my dear old friend and colleague, Richard
Dagley, who had illustrated Disraeli’s “Flim-Flams,” and
whose stories of, and intelligence respecting the English School of Arts, judgment in
appreciating its productions, and unassuming manner of communicating facts and opinions
worthy of the attention of the most tasteful and best informed, endeared him to all who
enjoyed the pleasure of his society and instruction of his conversation. His pencil was by
no means equal to his invention: his originality and conception were but inadequately
rendered by his embodiment and execution. Yet without high art or high finish, his
productions told well what he imagined and wished to express: they were plain; but there
was no mistaking what they meant either in humour or pathos. What would I give, were he
alive now to advise and aid me, and in his own way embellish this work? He was
224 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
A small part of his life Dagley
spent as a drawing-master at Doncaster, where, as everywhere else, he was loved and
esteemed. But oh, for the fickleness of popularity, especially if dependant on
boarding-schools and the mammas of the pupils. Dagley was cut out at
Doncaster by a showy Frenchman, whose talents would not have entitled him to tie his shoes;
but he was gifted with superior qualities for success, and the quiet, studious Englishman
had no chance with him. In those days, or rather nights, it was customary for the principal
townspeople to meet at taverns to drink their ale or grog, chat, and spend the evening. Of
course the rival masters were there, and poor Dagley used to tell of
his final defeat by the superior skill of his foreign competitor. A leading corporator, in
the course of debate (it must have been wonderfully instructive) on the Fine Arts, happened
to ask Monsieur what was his own peculiar style, to which he incontinently replied,
“Mine own stayles! Ach-oui-yas. Veil, den, you know de immortal Raffel, de
Tenniers, de Tissiano, de Mick Ange, de
Vatteau, de Candletti, de Ostade, de
Rubennz, dat is ma stayle.” Dagley had no style
to compete
RICHARD DAGLEY. | 225 |
I may notice a curious circumstance to show the minute accuracy of Sir Walter Scott’s descriptions of natural scenery. Dagley had in his portfolio a sketch of a woody nook in the woods near Doncaster, and when “Ivanhoe” was published, with the opening meeting of Gurth and Wamba, he had only to put in the two figures and the resemblance was as perfect in every feature as if it had been drawn to illustrate the author. They had both incidentally chosen the same spot; the one for the pen, and the other for the pencil. Dagley was my invaluable colleague for more than twenty years—to the day of his death.
If Mr. Disraeli’s was pleasing, the entertainments at his neighbour’s were by no means Calvinistic fasts. The living, on the contrary, was très joli, and the society anything but conventically rigid and dull. I have a faint recollection of playing whist there.
Nares was one of those men who bear a sort of charm
about them, for everybody to delight in their society, pleased by their manners, amused by
their talent, informed
226 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
I have said a good deal of the Pollock family, with
which my boyhood was associated, and to which I have owed many happy reliefs from cares
throughout the long years that have rolled away “since we were first acquent.”
Distinguished as they have made themselves, there was one brother who lived not to emulate
any lofty ambition, and truly he had no vocation that way; but he was a dear comrade of
mine, blessed with a pitying heart and liberal hand, one of the kindest of human beings,
possessed of a cool and ready wit, and of high personal courage, and I should like to carve
him a niche in my humble votive temple. William
Pollock was the second son, between Sir
David and the Lord Chief Baron, and
possessed no small share of the talents which has raised his brothers to high distinction
and judicial and military rank. He was much of a humourist, and never failed to pick up the
drollest stories, go where he would, or to tell them with the quaintest possible effect. He
had quitted business and gone to study law in a solicitor’s office, but unfortunately
contracted a malady, having all the
WILLIAM POLLOCK. | 227 |
William was walking along the road on his way to
Chard (I think), when he was overtaken by an old farmer on horseback, and they got into
conversation. My entertaining friend made a due impression upon his companion, and they
proceeded together, in pleasant chat, till they arrived at a division of the road, where
William inquired which was the right way to Chard. “To
Chard, Heav’n bless ye; what be ye going to do at Chard on a night like
this?” William explained that he was simply going to take up
his quarters at the best inn he could find, and stay there as long as his fancy and the
sights in the neighbourhood tempted him. “But weel,” rejoined the
farmer, “it’s of no use ye’re going to Chard to-night, for d’ye
see it be market-day, and the inn so full of folks that ye can get no lodging there, I
tell ye. Now, I’d advise ye just to go along wi’ me, and take
t’chance o’ the ould farm-house. It’s no fine, but t’shall have
the best it can afford, and a hearty welcome.” Nothing could be more
agreeable to William’s erratic course, and he at once accepted
the invitation. Well, the farm-house, a considerable mansion in the old English style, was
reached, and a hearty supper eaten at the settle, which went nearly round the square, where
a large kitchen fire was burning; after which the farmer apprised his guest that it was bed
time, and that he would be happy to light him to his bed. He was accordingly taken up broad
stairs to the
228 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
WILLIAM POLLOCK: RURAL ADVENTURE. | 229 |
William’s own ready wit was, as usual in such cases, accompanied
by a keen relish for the humorous and its detection wherever it even glimmered in the
horizon. The anecdote of the Welsh clerk, who, in reading the service at an assize sermon
preached before Judge Buller, on coming to the
passage, “We know that thou art (sic) come to be our
Judge,” turned about to the pew where he sat and made his lordship a low bow;
was beaten by a piece of a genuine discourse with which my friend came primed one day from
a conventicle whither he had gone to hear a celebrated preacher. The holy man was enforcing
the omniscience of the Deity, and invoking sinners not to flatter themselves that they
could conceal their offences;
230 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
From the beginning of the “Literary Gazette,” it had no more constant and prolific supporter than Barry Cornwall, whose contributions, as yet unpublished elsewhere, are sufficient to form a delightful volume.
Mr. Proctor’s first appearance in print was, as far as I am aware, in No. 45, Nov. 29th, 1817. It was signed with the initials of his real name, “W. B. P.,” Waller Bryan Proctor, and not Barry Cornwall, since then so deservedly popular; the letters in which incognito employ all those in his own baptismal, excepting P. E. E. R. (which might stand for Peer), among the Lyrists and Dramatists of the day. It was some time before he adopted the signature by which he is so well known and his numerous charming productions which appeared in the “Gazette” were signed B., or W., or O., or X. Y. Z., &c
The piece alluded to was entitled “The Portrait,” with a prefix from the Italian, and is as follows—not so promising as the future fruitage!—
His name—and whence—that none may know—
But as he wanders by,
Mark well his stern and haggard brow,
And note his varying, dark-black eye;
It tells of feelings strong—intense—
And stamps the soul’s intelligence:
|
FIRST OF BARRY CORNWALL. | 231 |
No more the crowd descry;—
For woe her keenest arrow sent.
And scarr’d each noble lineament.
|
Though in that high, cold, searching glance
The vulgar nought espy—
Yet souls congenial, there, perchance
May see youth waken’d from its trance,
And feigned, self-scorning levity—
And deep within that troubled breast,
The workings of a love represt.
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Thus far may I unfold his tale—
That in life’s earlier day
His fairest, fondest hopes did fail,
His friends passed one by one away.—
Thus rudely on life’s ocean thrown,
He found—he felt himself alone,
To thrive—or to decay—
No heart returned one answering sigh—
None soothed his deep calamity.
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He sought the midnight wood—he strayed
The still and haunted stream along,—
He watched the evening glories lade
The distant shadowy hills among:—
He sought the busier haunts of men,
And tried the maddening bowl again—
The jest—the jovial song.—
Towards some fond heart he sighed to press—
He sought, and found a wilderness.
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From this it could hardly be predicated what the writer has become; but like Byron’s “Hours of Idleness,” and hundreds of other instances, it only proves how injurious it is to check instead of cherish the first buddings of genius. Our mighty critics look for perfection in juvenile essays, and try them by a standard that never existed or can exist till children walk upright before they crawl, speak before they squall, and run like Atalantas before they totter like unsteady Bacchantes!
From this date, during the ensuing three years, the graceful effusions of
the Poet adorned the “Gazette,”
averaging about
232 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
The “Literary Gazette” acted as the wet nurse to other bards who have cultivated their poetic faculty to the extent of lasting fame; whilst others of undoubted genius played their parts with applause for a few years, and then were heard no more, and some never emerged into public honour, and some never tried to attain distinction beyond the gratifying indulgence in a private luxury and intercommunion with kindred spirits that cared little or nothing for the “outer world.” It would be a very curious view of this subject, if it could be taken with sufficient knowledge, to trace the accidents or circumstances which have made one individual a celebrity, while perhaps his superior in every attribute sank into obscurity. It is a wide field for speculation, and it would require a volume to show.
Several of the principal poetic contributors to the
* See Appendix. |
YOUTHFUL POETS. | 233 |
Among my foremost friends were William Read,* under the signature of “Eustace” (who afterwards published “The Hill of Caves,” and “Rouge et Noir”); Mr. Beresford, of Trinity College, Cambridge, under the title of “Ignoto Secondo;” Mr. Cartwright, who signed “Zarach;” Mrs. Rolls and Henry Neele, who published volumes of poetry; Mr. Hollness, and several others whose writings were of such promise that only their estrangement from pursuits so dear to their youthful minds can account for their names being now unheard of in song.† As I pass further down the stream of time, Mary Ann Browne and Eliza Cook
* Not to be confounded with Edmund Reade, author of the “Revolt of the Angels,” “Sybil Leaves,” “Italy,” and other admired volumes of poetry; and with whom, somewhat later, I enjoyed much intimate intercourse. † “See Appendix for specimens of the first three named—in my judgment, poetry that well merits a lasting preservation. |
234 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
In this way I flatter myself that a glance back at my volumes will be interesting to our literary history—and even increase in interest with years.
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