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CHAPTER VIII.

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THE ABBE M’QUIN—BERNARD BARTON, AND THE QUESTION OF QUAKER POETRY—N. T. CARRINGTON—SPECIMEN OF POETIC PURSUITS.

No mortal ever from that bourne departs; Yet many oft unto that land repair— Some with crush’d hopes, and some with riven hearts, And most in anguish deep and fill’d with care; And some, who on their lofty brows do bear Great scorn of that false world they did forsake, Who hither came to battle with despair, And with high gods the nectareous draughts partake And breathe the breath of fame—and die, for glory’s sake. The Land of Poetry, by Miss E. L. Montagu.

My acquaintance with the Abbé Angel Denis M’Quin commenced in a review of his volume entitled “Tabella Cibaria,” and one of the happiest jeux d’esprit of my time—playful, facetious, and witty, and evolving many ingenious hits of humour. My brief critique brought me the favour of a notice from the author, thanking me for my “flattering encomium,” and justifying the classicality of the title, which I had slightly questioned; as follows: “The author begs to observe that he also doubted the propriety of joining the adjective cibaria to Tabella, so far that the very stamina of the work stood originally under the words (you suggest) Tabella Cibariorum; but that, having found sufficient authority to support him, and particularly that ‘Lex

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cibaria’ (a case in point) had been used by several authors, he set his scruples aside, and adopted the present title.”

Above a year after this, my unknown correspondent wrote to me that he was preparing a work under the title of Etymological Gleanings, interspersed with curious anecdotes, historical explanations, et cetera, and intended as a Supplement to the last edition of Johnson’s Dictionary, and enclosing me some of the manuscript. As was to be expected from the author of “The Bill of Fare,” I found the specimens very learned and very entertaining; the production of a wonderfully well read classical and mediæval scholar, and as full of point as of learning. From time to time I printed selections from this delightful store, and all the while attributed it to my friend Archdeacon Nares, whom I was then in the habit of meeting frequently on the formation of the Royal Society of Literature, and supposed that he sported the anonyme only to give more zest to the jocular vein of the communication. That no more of this matter than forty-two columns in the “Gazette” has been preserved, is a great loss to the public; for my extracts ceased with the letter A (122 quotations) and a portion of B; and the whole Alphabet, treated in the same manner, would have formed one of the most pleasant and instructive works of its class that ever was published. It is impossible to afford any adequate idea of the merits without occupying more room than I can spare (under a modification of the plan of publishing my memoirs); but I will offer a few of the shortest extractable passages, and such as do not require the types of Hebrew, Greek, Saxon, German, et cetera, not to mention Chinese, French, and other languages in our usual typography:—

“Abstemious, adj., [abstemius, Latin, from abs without, and temetum, strong wine]. Pliny tells us that Cato Major

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(who according to Horace had no objection to a brimmer of generous wine—

‘Narratur et prisci Catonis Sæpe mero incaluisse virtus’ Od., lib. iii., xxi.)

had slily advised his relations to kiss their wives on their coming home, in order to detect whether they had drunk wine with their gossips when abroad.

“Beet-root. Beet is in general derived from the Latin Beta, or Bœta, analogous to the name of the river Bætis in Spain (now Guadalquivir) on the fertile banks of which this olus spontaneously grew, and whence it was transported to Italy about one hundred and fifty years before the Christian era.” [There is a much longer and amusing illustration of Beet, and the French Bête, and the Latin Betizare, (Suetonius, Aug. 87), and the French Betizer].

The derivation of Beef-eater, from Buvette, Buffet, (from boire, buvons, buvez, to drink,) a sideboard or place to take refreshments, is curious, and thence the conversion of Buvetiers or Buffatières, gardes de la buvette, who had the keys and charge of the liquors there administered, into Beef-eaters, where there was no beef, is an easy transition.

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In Paris, now, the what we call the bar in a tavern, is the buvette at the “Ginguettes.”

“Of all animals man is the only one that has not been gifted with a natural language. I explain:—The roaring of the lion, neighing of the horse, braying of the ass, barking of the dog, warbling of the bird, hissing of the serpent, croaking of the frog, etc., are understood by every individual of their species in all parts of the world. The cricket of London would answer the call of the cricket of Paris, and the owl of the abbey ruins of Scotland might condole in vernacular strains with the owl who mopes and ‘to the moon complains’ on the remains of the Colosseum at Rome. But man, thrown away by accident from the identical spot where he has been educated, is deaf and dumb to the rest of mankind. Why this difference between him and the brute? Did Nature frown on his birth, as romancers would say, and wantonly refuse him what she granted to the lowest individual in the creation? God forbid that we should insult the unerring wisdom of His providence. By way of compensation for the lack of some natural or innate faculties which other animals possess, such as the knowledge of making nests, the distinguishing, at first sight, between good and bad food, and the native

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sounds which interpret their affections, passions, and wants all over the world to their respective tribes, without the help of grammar or dictionaries,—man is endowed with that exclusive prerogative called Reason. With it, man has received, as a natural consequence, the perceptibility of his original talent—an heavenly concession; a pledge of immortality, which the brute species were refused at the hands of their Creator.” * * * *

At a later date a letter from Mr. Beckford of Fonthill, informed me that my anonymous correspondent was a personal friend of his. He farther gave me a brief sketch of him and his history; which letter, interesting on other accounts, I hope to meet with in my paper-hunting hereafter; but all I recollect now is, that he was before the revolution one among the wealthiest of the French ecclesiastics, who barely escaped from the guillotine with his life. That though an epicure, of the most exquisite taste (and his Tabella Cibaria bore witness to it), he would avail himself of only a moderate assistance to enable him to enjoy his refined gourmetism on the cheapest fare, would rarely accept the invitations of the few friends who knew and appreciated him, and sojourned in an obscure lodging in Southwark, generally his own caterer and always his own cook. After a long exile, cheered by occasional visits to the gorgeous palace of Fonthill,* the contrast of contrasts to his abode

* From Fonthill, in the autumn of 1822, he contributed an able essay on the Satyricon attributed to Petronius Arbiter, and a series of papers giving an historical account of the Abbey, a biography of the family of Beckford, the author of “Vathek,” and a fine description of the place and its contents previous to the grand sale. The second paper was illustrated by a drawing, of which I published a neat engraving. The fifth is in verse, and concludes with the following tribute: Through the blazon’d halls, The storied galleries and princely rooms,

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in the Borough, the restoration of Louis XVIII. enabled him to return to France, which he did, as he informed me in 1814, and was reinstated in a considerable part, if not the whole, of his funded property, though his landed possessions were lost for ever. But the long practical habits of his London life had got too firm a hold of him; and he once more sought a residence, though of a superior class, on the banks of the Thames. Here he continued, not to vegetate, but to indulge in his literary researches and cuisine recherchée,* including the cellar, not despising the hotel accommodations of Greenwich, in their season, or

A bright galaxy of heraldic stars, Long lines of noble ancestry, declare Who planned, who raised the splendid mansion, where, Above the puny jarrings of the world, Above the strife for glory and for power, “Wrapt in his cloak of learning and of art— A mind of fire, a deeply feeling heart,— The founder stands aloft,—a stranger to our sphere! * I ought not, in justice, to allow the portrait of a Gourmet to be received as a likeness of this remarkable man, a short serious poem by whom, at this period, is enough to prove his depth of religious feeling, reverential awe, and holy aspirations. Like the low murmur of the secret stream, Which through dank alders winds its shaded way, My suppliant voice is heard: ah! do not dream That on vain toys I throw my time away. In the recesses of the forest-vale, On the wild mountain, on the verdant sod, Where the fresh breezes of the morn prevail, I wander lonely, communing with God. When the faint sickness of a wounded heart Creeps in cold shudderings through my sinking frame, I turn to Thee,—that holy peace impart, Which soothes the invokers of Thy awful name. O all pervading Spirit—sacred beam— Parent of life and light—Eternal Power— Grant me, through obvious clouds, one transient gleam Of Thy bright essence in my dying hour!

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turtle, whitebait, and champagne, and, in short, demonstrating how much an abbé of the nineteenth century could surpass a friar of the fifteenth, in the superabundance and preparations of viands then unknown, and in pressing elegance into the service of luxury. In the fulness of time he was, at the close of July, 1823, gathered to his parent earth. Requiescat in pace!

The return of Captain Parry from the Expedition of the Hecla and Griper to the Arctic regions, stimulated me to much exertion; and I not only procured very interesting accounts of the voyage for the “Gazette,” which raised its circulation, but formed intimacies with several of the officers, and enabled my journal to establish itself almost as an official organ for all future Expeditions, having the first and most authentic intelligence of their proceedings. This was an essential benefit to the publication; but far greater pleasures arose out of the friendships emanating from this source, and so cordially enjoyed with our most distinguished navigators. Among the foremost I may mention the gallant Sir James Clark Ross, and after him Beverley, the surgeon, and Alexander Fisher, of the Hecla (of whose

* In “Literary Gazette,” No. 333, June 7.

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immediate “Journal” of the Expedition I procured the publication, and saw it through the press), Colonel (then Captain) Sabine, Captain Crozier, Mr. Beechy, and other brave fellows, to whose talk, like Othello’s, of ‘hairbreadth ’scapes, and antres vast, and deserts idle,’ it was a delight to listen. It is laughable enough to read in the Gazette, now in altogether different hands, an occasional reference to past years, such as “we then observed so and so,” or, “we stated our opinion that,” et cetera, taking due credit for the prescience and judgment of a We with whom the present we has nothing in common, as the original we has nothing to do with the opinions or conduct of this we! The King is dead—Vive le Roi!

In October, 1823, upon a similar occasion, when the Fury and Hecla reached home, from Captain Parry’s second voyage, I made one of those stirring exertions which, as I have stated before, used (for I do not think they do now produce such striking effects) often to contribute to the marked success of any newspaper or periodical publication which got the start with intelligence of national interest. In consequence of my former intercourse with the officers, I was received on board the vessels then lying at the Galleons below Woolwich, on Wednesday forenoon, and came up with them to Deptford dockyard (off which they moored). I had only a few hours to acquire, in the midst of much bustle and interruption, the information I sought; and it was late on Wednesday night when I reached home, tolerably tired. But I set to work “with a will,” and had a good account of the Expedition in the “Gazette” of Saturday morning, which was followed by a second on the ensuing Saturday; and the circulation of the journal rose seven hundred, getting it, before the end of the year, to print four thousand copies.

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Parties hostile to the “Gazette,” and imitators and rivals, as they sprang up, never ceased to represent it as a tool of the publishers connected with it, and not conducted on independent principles. Nothing could be more untrue than this libel: from first to last I never admitted one whisper of control. Even so early as the time I am now treating off, I see a letter from Mr. Orme, alluding to an offence taken by Mr. Colburn at my review of one of his books. “Our co-partner may be sore; but the lady deserves all she has got; and these independent articles do us a world of good. Alexander Chambers told me, on Saturday, that he was induced to take in the ‘Gazette’ from what he heard of the article on Dibdin, to every word of which he subscribed.” So far so good; but, some time after, I happened to write a notice of Mrs. Graham’s (afterwards Lady Callcott) work, which gave no less offence to Mr. Longman; and I did not visit Hampstead for two years after. Mr. Longman tried to compromise matters; and only desired that if I could not commend in certain cases where he felt a personal interest, I would abstain altogether from noticing; but even this modification I refused to accede to, as it would be dishonest in a publication which professed to give a fair report of all the literary production of the passing time. The falsehood was, nevertheless, pertinaciously repeated till it was a good deal believed; and it was small comfort to me that I had frequent proofs in my possession where the very parties who spread the report

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were absolutely prostituting their own services venally to publishers.

In 1820, Mrs. Bray, then Mrs. Stothard, and since so distinguished as a novelist, first appeared in print as the author of “A Tour in Normandy,” &c.; and Mr. Payne Collier commenced his literary career with the “Poetical Decameron,” indicating the entire route he has since so diligently pursued. Accum’s “Death in the Pot” showed the way to Aunt Margaret’s papers on the adulteration of food, which ran through a year of the “Gazette;” and a course which the “Lancet” has recently followed more systematically, and with more effect. It is one of the utmost importance to the population of the metropolis, the very air of which is saturated with frauds perpetrated to an enormous extent on every branch of the provision trade. Of the infamous practices resorted to I had plenty of demonstration during Aunt Margaret’s researches; and some so vile as to be absolutely unfit for publication, and some almost farcically amusing. The shopman of a grocer not far from Fitzroy-square, whose master had kicked him out from jealousy of his wife helping to mix the teas in the cellar, had in revenge agreed to reveal the whole process of manufacturing privet leaves and thorn into congous and hysons. But he failed to come to appointment and earn his fee; and when asked the reason, he excused himself on the ground that a friend was about to enable him to open a shop in the same line, and, of course, it would not do to let the public know anything about it!

Bernard Barton was hailed by the “Gazette” on his debut with a volume of poems in the spring, and also on the appearance of a slighter performance, “A Day in Autumn,” though published in November. A Quaker bard needed encouragement, who dared to vindicate the rights of

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formal broad-cloth and beaver, to the finer feelings of humanity and the poetry of imagination; especially if it were true that Scott of Amwell was beset on his deathbed by bigots earnest, but in vain, to induce him to repent of the sin of verse. Friend Barton and I became literary and friendly correspondents from the earliest of the above dates, and many a long letter did I receive from him, for he was not sparing in pen, ink, and paper when occasion offered; but his first and introductory epistle is so curious an exposition of the question involved in the union of Quakerism and poetry, and so striking a confession of the writer’s own feelings on the subject—feelings which ruled the whole of his future poetical life and voluminous productions—that I am sure it will be perused with more than common interest both by the general reader, and the Society of which he was so prominent a member. As a proof also of the progress of liberal and enlightened views in clearing away sectarian prejudices, the commencement and reception of Bernard Barton by all religious denominations, and his whole career of authorship, form a literary epoch in the sphere to which they appertain, and therefore I proceed to give the letter alluded to:—

“The ‘Literary Gazette’ has now assumed a feature so different, and I should think to most readers and lovers of literature, so much more interesting than most of our literary journals, that the attention of authors, readers, and publishers is turned to it with accelerated and increasing force. I have certainly long been of opinion that a journal frequent in its appearance, copious in its selections, brief in its criticisms, and enabling the public thus to judge for itself on the merits of new claimants for its favour, would soon obtain an extensive circulation. People begin to get tired of seeing so much of the critic, and so little comparatively of the author, and the ‘Literary Gazette’ is now a rising paper, and its successive numbers are looked for with interest, simply because it is what it professes to be,—a mirror of the literature of the age. Of late the value and interest of the publication has been not a little increased by

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its being a sort of avant-courrier of the works it reports, and this advantage, in which it never can be even attempted to be rivalled by its monthly or quarterly competitors, it will, I doubt not, sedulously follow up. An analysis of, and specimens from, works not yet accessible to the public, must always give peculiar value, in the estimation of the reading part of the public, to any journal.”

“I must acknowledge I feel no small solicitude respecting this publication, for the reasons stated in my last. I am anxious to know, in the opinion of accomplished and adequate judges, how far we, members of the Society of Friends, have a just and legitimate right

“‘To sport in syllables and play with song,’

The Review of Wiffen’s ‘Aonian Hours’ has proved that, in the estimation of the literary, we are not proscribed or interdicted the cultivation of such poetical talent as we may be gifted with by nature. I am inclined myself to think that poetical feeling and poetical talent is existent in our Society to a much greater extent than witlings of the superficial order are disposed to give us credit for. How far my volume may illustrate either, or exemplify both, I am content

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to leave to the judgment of those who really love poetry; but I have not ventured on this publication, and especially on prefixing my name to it, and betraying its Quaker origin by the dates of several of the pieces, without some previous thought. Though, in my original determination to publish, I had neither adviser nor confidant, (and I have said so in the preface, that my poetical sins may not be imputed to my fellow-professors, some of whom I believe to look with a cautious eye on these pursuits,) yet I have, while the volume has been going through the press, frankly consulted and furnished detached specimens of the poetry to literary characters of the very highest eminence, from all of whom I have had the most flattering encouragement, accompanied by the expression of the most cordial hopes that the experiment may answer my most sanguine expectations—not of profit, for I shall not be a penny the richer for it; nor of fame, for what I consider pre-eminently such is the reward only of the loftiest genius;—but that it may prove that there is no necessary connexion between the simplicity of our creed and that uncouth and gothic barbarity of thought and feeling, that sordid selfishness, and phlegmatic torpor, which in the idea of many is associated with it. For my own part, I am a fearless and firm believer not only in the refining, humanising influence of a pure literary taste, of a love for the ‘vision and the faculty divine,’ but of its perfect compatibility with the letter and spirit of our code and creed. It has been said of us, that we are the most illiterate sect in the Christian world, that all our conversation is of merchandise, &c. I do not see why such things necessarily should be, but I do know that the imputation will not be removed unless we have fair play given us, and we cannot be said to have this unless they, in whose hands is vested the power of dispensing notoriety, you who are

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the reporters of the literary commonwealth, will have sufficient magnanimity to overlook exterior disadvantages, and bring us forward. To superficial and heartless levity, the very scope afforded to sarcasm and wit by our mere attempts, will always offer an irresistible temptation. Such, taking up a volume of poetry, seeing that the preface is dated 12th Mo., 31st, 1819, or whatever the date may be, may probably exclaim, ‘An excellent joke! here is a volume of poems by a Quaker poet I and dedicated forsooth to his sister!’ But I would appeal to ‘Philip-sober!’ and I would say with the Grecian orator of old, ‘Strike! but hear me’ It is not by such ‘ultra-Crepidarian critics,’ as they have been styled, that the real beauties of our best poets, our Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, have been rightly felt; nor have these ever been truly susceptible of the emphasised energy of Byron, the simplicity of Wordsworth, the pathos of Campbell, the spirit and gracefulness of Scott, the tenderness of Rogers; if they had, they would take up such a volume with kindlier feelings, and would rather rejoice in seeing Poetry acquire new votaries from a class unjustly supposed insensible to her charms, than ridicule their efforts.”

I answered this appeal by return of post, and a number of letters were interchanged; but the main subject does not appear to need further illustration, and it may be sufficient to say that my review of the volume in the “Gazette” was so satisfactory to its author, that his immoderate and subsequent correspondence was subscribed by my, i. e. “Thy affectionate and respected friend, B.B.”

In the controversy which I have unwittingly provoked respecting the perils that beset a life dependent upon literature, no less eminent authority than Mr. Justice Talfourd

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has given an opinion (see Biography of his schoolfellow, W. F. Deacon, prefatory to a posthumous novel, called “Annette,” recently published), that failure in the pursuit may frequently be traced to natural inaptitude for its successful cultivation or to habits of improvidence in those who seek its tempting fruits. Now, I am perfectly ready to concede to this reasoning; but I hold that the great majority of melancholy disappointments arise out of other relations, and that the latter branch of the dilemma is often a complete mistake of an effect for a cause: in a word, that the carelessness and imprudence imputed to spring from extraneous sources are far more universally and literally due to the essential and inherent accidents of the imaginative temperament, studious devotedness to deep learning, or the eccentricities too common to true genius,* and consequent immersion in the precarious and ill-requited toils of authorship. I can quote hundreds of instances to demonstrate this sad fact: whereas the contrary tenet is, after all, but a supposititious accusation of moral infirmity and incapable of proof! I am led, however, to these remarks at present by the letters of another Poet, of ten years later date, and which supply one, among the multitude of examples that support the view my experience has led me to adopt; without offence, I hope (though it does not seem so), to those who entertain an opposite opinion. Mr. N. T. Carrington, the author of the “Banks of Tamar” and “Dartmoor” (the latter one of the finest descriptive poems in the English language), will hardly be charged as an unjustified aspirant to poetic fame or a man whose prospects were marred by imprudence. Mr. Carrington, to the noble ambition of the bard, superadded the labours of the schoolmaster. He taught the children of Plymouth and

* The alliance of great wit to madness is not always a fiction; and in an inferior degree of development, it is always adverse to business habits.

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Devonport every day and all day long, and in the stillness of night he elaborated these compositions, which have excited general admiration and will hand down his name with honour to a distant posterity. Though published by Murray, how fared the Poet?

“I am here (he writes me in the cold month of January) struggling with a consumptive disorder, and the north-east gales are trying my frail constitution. If, therefore, dear Sir, you can say anything in favour of the ‘Tamar,’ it would materially brighten the gloom of my prospects at this trying moment.” Over such a statement not unmanly tears might be shed; and I have seen but too many similar pictures! I did my best for the author, and had the year before done him a slight service in procuring admission for minor effusions to the “Bijou” and other annuals; for some of which he was never thanked and from none of which did he reap reward. But to continue my painful story. In the lovely and glowing month of May, when the Nature so admirably painted by Carrington was effulgent with beauty and gushing with life—how is it with him? Listen!

“I am unable to creep into the sunshine without assistance. I am reduced to a skeleton. I have had no school for the last quarter, and subsist entirely from my son’s scanty income.”*

* Let me add, a good son whose filial affections sustained and comforted the last days of his honoured parent. But he, too, must embrace literature. Fortunately the editing of respectable provincial newspapers has (as in Mr. Deacon’s own case, as a literary contributor to the “Sun”) proved sufficient for a competency. The periodical press, I repeat, is an excellent refuge for the destitute, and but for it the calamities of authors would be much greater and more numerous!

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