Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 2 (of 3)
The reverend private tutor of these young Irishmen wrote one day a letter to our poet in verse, inviting him to “meet at dinner a few fellow-countrymen, just arrived.” The tutor was a hard-going old parson, fond of wine and versification, who had been sent over from Ireland by the father of the two young men above alluded to, with direction to “take care that the lads did not fall into the d – d English morals, which would soon turn them into snow-balls, and disqualify them ever after from living in their own proper country and natural society.” These instructions the tutor faithfully acted up to; and the young poet very much amused the whole party by his humour and turn for rhyming; and was compelled to swear that he would pay them a visit, for a couple of years, near Belturbet in Ireland, where they would show him what living was. Their father was himself dotingly fond of poetry and the bag-pipes; and was induced to send them to Oxford only to please their mother’s brother, who was, most unfortunately, an Englishman.
My friend’s reply to the parson’s invitation was also in verse, and ran as follows: it was not amiss for a young tipster, and smacked, in some degree, both of Oxford and “Belturbet.”
Please your reverence, —When parsons and poets their functions unite,And court the old Muses to sing “an invite,”The profane and the sacred connected we find,And are sure of a banquet to every man’s mind.Though on Pegasus mounted, to Bacchus we fly,Yet we’ll quaff just like Christians; – our priest tells us why:“’Tis moist hospitality banishes sin,For the wine-open’d heart lets benevolence in.”Then no long canting grace cools our spicy ragout,While the impatient champagne bristles up his mousseu,Which, darting toward heaven, cries “Come, goblets give!’Tis my old Pagan cream teaches Christians to live!”Then the pastor and flock quickly empty the bowl,And its spirit divides ’twixt the head and the soul.Though the Jove of our banquet no eagle can boast,We’ll have plenty of “kites flying” all round our host:Midst loud peals of laughter, undaunted we’ll sit,And for flashes of lightning have flashes of wit:Should his reverence perceive that our spirits are laid,Then hot-pepper’d devils he’ll call to his aid,And, all Christians surpassing, as Tantalus, see!The more liquor we quaff, still the drier we’ll be!But two modes of death sinful mortals should know,Break their necks from Parnassus, or drown in Bordeaux;And to which of those deaths I am doom’d from on high,I’m sure of a parson, who’ll teach me to die.Then who can refuse to accept of a dinner,Where the host is from Erin – a priest —saint30– and sinner?In fact, this same friend of mine, of whose poetry, or rather versification, I have thus given samples to the reader, is a very peculiar personage: bred to a profession which he never followed, with ample means and no occupation, he has arrived at a ripe age without much increasing his stock of wisdom, or at all diminishing that of his peculiarity. He told me, he found his standard relief against ennui was invoking the Muses, which by ransacking his ideas and puzzling his genius, operated as a stimulus to his brain, and prevented that stagnation of the fluids which our ablest nosologists say is so often the inducement to suicide. My friend argues that the inexhaustible variety of passions, propensities, sentiments, and so forth, inherent to the human frame, and which poets (like noblemen’s fools in days of yore) have a license for dressing in all colours as they think proper, affords to the language of poetry a vast superiority over that of prose: which latter being in its nature but a hum-drum concern, is generally expected to be reasonably correct, tolerably intelligible, and moderately decent; – astringent qualifications, which some of our modern poets appear to have very laudably disregarded.
My friend, however, observed, that he himself was not enabled to take other than a limited advantage of this license – inasmuch as he had been frequently jilted by the Muses, who never would do more than flirt with him; and hence, for want of a sufficient modicum of inspiration, he was generally necessitated to put up with the ordinary subjects of verse – such as epigrams, satires, odes on natal days, epitaphs on lap-dogs and little children, translations of Greek songs that he never saw, and of Italian poetry that had never existed, &c. It was true, he went on to inform me, he had occasionally flown at higher game in the regions of poesy; but, somehow or other, no bookseller would publish his effusions: one said they were too flat; another that they were too elevated; a third characterised them as too wild for the critics; and a fourth pronounced them too tame for the ladies. At length, however, the true state of the matter was candidly developed by a very intelligent presbyterian bookseller in the city, who told my friend that he was quite too late as to poetry, with which the publishers were crammed and the public farcied. Besides, he said, all the poetic stations in any way productive were already occupied: – for instance, a Poet Fitzgerald (whom Lord Byron calls “Hoarse Fitzgerald”) had, ever since the days of the “Rejected Addresses,” been considered as the writer, reciter, and proprietor of the fulsome line of poetry: – the amatory, celestial, and horticultural departments had long been considered the property of Mr. Thomas Moore; and every dactyl or spondee relating to roses, posies, dew-drops and thorns, grapes, lilies, kisses, blisses, blushes, angels, &c. would be considered as gross plagiarism, emanating from any other pen than that of our justly celebrated lyrist; while, as to historic or Caledonian poetry, Sir Walter Scott had not left an idea unappropriated for any fresh penman: he had raised an obscure people to eternal celebrity, by recording their murders in English versification; and by his “Battle of Waterloo” had proved that his own Muse, in the department of slaughter, was in a very languishing state, probably owing to the extraordinary fatigue she had previously undergone.
My friend was proceeding to detail further the admonitory conversation of this honest bibliopole, when I interrupted him by asking, naturally enough, how he could continue to derive any pleasure from a pursuit in which he admitted himself to have been so very unsuccessful? to which he adroitly replied, “On the very same principle that a bad shot may have just as much amusement as a capital sportsman; perhaps more, —one good hit being as gratifying to him as twenty to an undeviating fowler.” I coincided in my friend’s remark, adding, that the same sort of observation would apply to random jokers as well as rhymesters; and that I have more than once absolutely envied the inordinate happiness of a universal punster when he chanced to say any thing that had a symptom of wit in it.
My friend then, gravely opening his portfolio, selected two of his productions, which he gave me permission to publish, particularly as one of them had been most abruptly rejected by an eminent newspaper, and the other by a magazine of considerable reputation.
The intended Magazine article ran as follows: – but as one of the attachés was a northern gentleman of the Edinburgh Review, it was sent back to my friend with what he called a tantara rara.
THE HIGHLANDERIA sans culotte from Caledonia’s wilds,Rasp’d into form by Nature’s roughest files,Hearing of savoury meats – of monies made —Of unsmoked women – and of dexterous trade; —Resolved, from sooty cot, to seek a town,And to the low-lands boldly stump it down.But then, alas! his garb would never do —The greasy kilt, bare loins, and tatter’d shoe:Yet urged to better food and better fame,He borrow’d breeches and assumed a name;Then truck’d his kilt, barter’d his motley hose,New nail’d his heels, and capp’d the peeping toes.His freckled fist a swineherd’s bludgeon wields, —His tried companion through the sties and fields,(Full many a grunting brawn had felt its sway)Now to a cane promoted, helps its master’s way.Full fifty bawbees Sandy had in store,And piteous tales had raised him fifty more:His knife, his pipe, and eke his bawbee bank,In Basil pouch hung dangling from his flank:No empty wallet on his shoulder floats:Hard eggs, soft cheese, tobacco, salt, and oats,Cramm’d in one end, wagg’d o’er his brawny chest,And what was once a blanket poised the rest:Thus wealthy, victuall’d, proud, content, and gay,Down Grampian’s sterile steeps young Sandy wound his way.Hail food! hail raiment! hail that happy lotWhich lured such genius from the smoky cot,To mingle in the ranks of breeches’d men,And coin a name and family again!IIWhere fam’d St. Andrew’s turrets tower on high;Where frozen doctors lecture, doze, and die;Where Knowledge sleeps, and Science seeks repose,And mouldering halls more mouldering heads disclose, —Where Roman Virgil pipes in Celtic verse,And Grecian Homer sings to gods in Erse; —’Twas there that Sandy form’d his worldly creed,Brush’d gowns, swept book-shelves, learn’d to shave and read:From craft to craft his willing genius rose;When cash was scarce he wisely wrought for clothes,And threadbare trophies, once the kirkmen’s pride,Mickle by mickle swell’d his wallet’s side.Well turn’d, well scoured, the rags denied their age,While Sandy’s granite visage aped the sage.Here, great Lavater! here thy science standsConfess’d, and proved by more than mortal hands.Though o’er his features Nature’s skill we see,Her deepest secrets are disclosed through thee.The green-tinged eye, curl’d lip, and lowering brows,Which malice harrows, and which treachery ploughs,In deep sunk furrows on his front we find,Tilling the crops that thrive in Sandy’s mind.No soft sensations can that face impart;No gratitude springs glowing from the heart;As deadly nightshade creeping on the ground,He tries to poison what he cannot wound.Yet Sandy has a most consistent mind,Too low to rise, too coarse to be refin’d,Too rough to polish, and too loose to bind:Yet if * * * * *On looking over the residue, I conceived that I could not with propriety continue the publication: were I to proceed five or six lines further, ill-natured people might possibly (though erroneously) affect to find a pretence for designation, and I should be very sorry to be considered as capable of becoming an instrument in so improper a procedure. My friend assured me he did not intend to particularise any individual: I, however, returned the copy to my portfolio, and subsequently to the author, mentioning my reasons, and advising him to burn the rest. His reply to me was laconic – “My dear B * * *, qui caput ille facit. If any man adopts it, ’tis not my fault.”
The other trifle is a mere jeu d’esprit, and cannot be disagreeable to any body, unless it may be taken amiss by some West-Indian proprietor, whose probable touchiness at the introduction of the word slavery I do not feel called on to compassionate.
EPIGRAMSir Sidney Smith and Miss RumboldSays Sidney – “I’ll put all white slavery down;All Europe I’ll summon to arms;”But fair Rumbold replied – “I’ll reverse my renown,For all men shall be slaves to my charms.”If thus, lovely champion, that tongue and those eyesCan set all mankind by the ears;Go – fire off your glances, explode a few sighs,And make captive the Dey of Algiers!Thus you’ll rival papa both in glory and gains;He may conquer the tyrant – you’ll lead him in chains.I cannot conclude these memoranda without adding a few fragments from some unpublished and nearly unknown works, the production of Miss Tylden, the amiable young lady to whom I have before introduced the reader, (see pages 71, 72, 141, 142,) and who commenced versifying at the early age of fifteen. Her compositions are numerous, and comprise a variety of subjects and of styles; but, with a natural and becoming modesty, (though in her case, in my opinion, unnecessary,) she refuses to submit them to the ordeal of the public. I sincerely hope she may change her resolution.
THE BARD Extracted from an unpublished Poem, called “Boadicea.”By Miss M. TyldenAmid those aged sons of songOne seem’d to tower the rest among:For though the heavy hand of TimeHad somewhat marr’d his youthful prime;Though the sunny glow had fadedOn the locks his brow that shaded;Stern Time, not ev’n thy icy swayMight quench the heaven-enkindled layWhich waken’d to achievements highThose heroes of antiquity.Howe’er it were, from that bright bandSadly apart he seem’d to stand,And lowly on his harp he leantWith eye of gloom and eyebrow bent;But still, despite his sterner mood,By all with reverence he was view’d,Such charm of dignity hath ageWhen on the brow experience sageHath stamp’d the worth of years that sleep,And when the mind hath known to reapHarvests of scientific lore,And well secured the precious store; —When all the stormy dreams of youthFade in the beacon-light of truth;When fiery feelings are repress’d,The spirit calm’d, the heart at rest!Then in the form of age we findSomewhat surpassing earthly kind.Now forth his harp that minstrel drew,And o’er the chords his fingers threw,The while beneath their lighter swayMurmur’d the scarcely-bidden lay,In soft half-warbled cadence stealingO’er the melting soul of feeling: —But when he caught the transport highWhich mark’d the kindling melody,His upturn’d eye and heaving breastThe mighty frenzy quick confess’d;The sympathetic strings beneathA wild inspiring chorus breathe,And, borne the lofty halls along,Floats high the patriot minstrel’s song: —The mildew of time steeps the laurel-bound wreath,And the war-sword ingloriously rusts in its sheath,Which burst on the foe as the bolt from on high,And sprinkled the blood of revenge to the sky.The arm is unbraced and the nerves are unstrungOf him who in combat that dark weapon swung;For the souls of the heroes of loftier days,Kindled high in their glory, have sunk in the blaze:And the laurels of Britain, droop’d, wither’d and shrunk,And her standard of freedom all hopelessly sunk,And the sons of the isles, scatter’d thin on the hill,Stood forsaken and drooping, but dauntlessly still.Ye sons of the brave! is the bold spirit fledWhich to combat and conquest your forefathers led?Oh no! it but sleeps in the souls it should warm,The more fiercely to burn in the day of the storm.But too long it hath slept: for the hearts of the braveAre a country’s best bulwarks to guard and to save:Oh then be the lion aroused in each breast,Triumphant to conquer, or nobly to rest.Be it yours to divulge the dark volume of fate;Be it yours to revenge, ere revenge be too late:Oh let not the spirit of freedom reposeTill it visit the wrongs of our land on its foes.’Tis your country that calls; shall that cry be in vain?All bleeding she lies in the conqueror’s chain:Chiefs! one struggle more, and her freedom is won:Let us triumph or die, as our fathers have done.Like the lightning of heaven be your arms on the heath,Loud, loud ring your shields with the thunder of death:As the waves of your ocean rush down to the strife,And each stroke be for Britain, – for freedom and life!The bard has ceased: the lofty layIn long vibrations dies away,And melts upon the air aroundTill silence blends away the sound.The bard upon each warrior gazed,To mark what thoughts his strain had raised.The eye that late flash’d high with mirthIn alter’d cheer now sought the earth;The cheek that bright with joy had blush’d,Far other feeling now had flush’d.It might have seem’d throughout the hall(So motionless, so mute were all)As though the spirit of the stormHad swept along each stately form.A moment – and what change was wroughtIn every look and every thought!Roused by the breath of life, they seemTo start at once from their death-like dream;A sudden impulse, wild and strong,Agitates the moving throng,And like the billows of the deep,When darkening tempests o’er it sweep,In every freeborn heart, that strainConcordant echoes roused again!THEATRICAL RECOLLECTIONS
The author’s early visits to Crow-street Theatre – Interruptions of the University men– College pranks – Old Mr. Sheridan in “Cato” and in “Alexander the Great” – Curious scene introduced, by mistake, in the latter tragedy – Mr. Digges in the Ghost of Hamlet’s father – Chorus of cocks – The author’s preference of comedy to tragedy – Remarks on Mr. Kean and the London moralists – Liston in “Paul Pry” – Old Sparkes – The Spanish débutante– Irish Johnstone – Modern comedy – The French stage.
From my youth I was attached to theatrical representations, and have still a clear recollection of many of the eminent performers of my early days. My grandmother, with whom I resided for many years, had permanent silver tickets of admission to Crow-street Theatre, whither I was very frequently sent.
The playhouses in Dublin were then lighted by tallow candles, stuck into tin circles hanging from the middle of the stage, which were every now and then snuffed by some performer; and two soldiers, with fixed bayonets, always stood like statues on each side the stage, close to the boxes, to keep the audience in order. The galleries were very noisy and very droll. The ladies and gentlemen in the boxes always went dressed out nearly as for court; the strictest etiquette and decorum were preserved in that circle; whilst the pit, as being full of critics and wise men, was particularly respected, except when the young gentlemen of the University occasionally forced themselves in, to revenge some insult, real or imagined, to a member of their body; on which occasions, all the ladies, well-dressed men, and peaceable people generally, decamped forthwith, and the young gentlemen as generally proceeded to beat or turn out the residue of the audience, and to break every thing that came within their reach. These exploits were by no means uncommon; and the number and rank of the young culprits were so great, that (coupled with the impossibility of selecting the guilty,) the college would have been nearly depopulated, and many of the great families in Ireland enraged beyond measure, had the students been expelled or even rusticated.
I had the honour of being frequently present, and (as far as in mêlée,) giving a helping hand to our encounters both in the play-houses and streets. We were in the habit of going about the latter, on dark nights, in coaches, and, by flinging out halfpence, breaking the windows of all the houses we rapidly drove by, to the astonishment and terror of the proprietors. At other times, we used to convey gunpowder squibs into all the lamps in several streets at once, and by longer or shorter fuses contrive to have them all burst about the same time, breaking every lamp to shivers and leaving whole streets in utter darkness. Occasionally we threw large crackers into the china and glass-shops, and delighted to see the terrified shopkeepers trampling on their own porcelain and cut-glass, for fear of an explosion. By way of a treat, we used sometimes to pay the watchmen to lend us their cloaks and rattles: by virtue whereof, we broke into the low prohibited gambling-houses, knocked out the lights, drove the gamblers down stairs, and then gave all their stakes to the watchmen. The whole body of watchmen belonging to one parish (that of the round church, St. Andrew’s) were our sworn friends, and would take our part against any other watchmen in Dublin. We made a permanent subscription, and paid each of these regularly seven shillings a week for his patronage. I mention these trifles, out of a thousand odd pranks, as a part of my plan, to show, from a comparison of the past with the present state of society in the Irish metropolis, the extraordinary improvement which has taken place in point of decorum within the last half century. The young gentlemen of the University then were in a state of great insubordination; – not as to their learning, but their wild habits: indeed, the singular feats of some of them would be scarcely credible now; and they were so linked together, that an offence to one was an offence to all. There were several noblemen’s sons with their gold-laced, and elder sons of baronets with their silver-laced gowns, who used to accompany us, with their gowns turned inside out: yet our freaks arose merely from the fire and natural vivacity of uncontrolled youth: no calm, deliberate vices, – no low meannesses, – were ever committed: that class of young men now termed “dandies” we then called macaronies; and we made it a standing rule to thrash them whenever we got a fair opportunity: such also as had been long tied to their “mothers’ apron-strings” we made no small sport with when we got them clear inside the college: we called them milk-sops, and if they declined drinking as much wine as ordered, we always dosed them (as in duty bound) with tumblers of salt and water till they came to their feeding, as we called it. Thus generally commenced a young man of fashion’s novitiate above fifty years ago. However, our wildness, instead of increasing as we advanced in our college courses, certainly diminished, and often left behind it the elements of much talent and virtue. Indeed, there were to the full as good scholars, and certainly to the full as high-bred, and much more talented gentlemen educated in the Dublin University then, than in this wiser and more cold-blooded era. But it has utterly degenerated.
I remember, even before that period, seeing old Mr. Sheridan perform the part of Cato at one of the Dublin theatres; I do not recollect which: but I well recollect his dress, which consisted of bright armour under a fine laced scarlet cloak, and surmounted by a huge, white, bushy, well-powdered wig (like Dr. Johnson’s), over which was stuck his helmet. I wondered much how he could kill himself without stripping off the armour before he performed that operation! I also recollect him particularly (even as if before my eyes now) playing Alexander the Great, and throwing the javelin at Clytus, whom happening to miss, he hit the cup-bearer, then played by one of the hack performers, a Mr. Jemmy Fotterel. Jemmy very naturally supposed that he was hit designedly, and that it was some new light of the great Mr. Sheridan to slay the cup-bearer in preference to his friend Clytus, which certainly would have been a less unjustifiable murder, and that he ought to tumble down and make a painful end, according to dramatic custom time immemorial. Immediately, therefore, on being struck, Mr. James Fotterel (who was the ugliest cup-bearer ever employed by any monarch) reeled, staggered, and fell very naturally, considering it was his first death; but being determined on this unexpected opportunity to make an impression upon the audience, when he found himself stretched out on the boards at full length, he began to roll about, kick, and flap the stage with his hands most immoderately; falling next into strong convulsions, exhibiting every symptom of exquisite torture, and at length expiring with a groan so loud and so long that it paralysed even the people in the galleries, whilst the ladies believed that he was really killed, and cried aloud at the misfortune.
Though then very young, I was myself so terrified in the pit that I never shall forget it. However, Mr. Jemmy Fotterel being dragged off by the legs, soon re-entered in rude health, and was more applauded than any Clytus had ever been; – even the slayer himself could not help laughing most heartily at the incident.
The actresses both of tragedy and genteel comedy formerly wore large hoops, and whenever they made a speech walked across the stage and changed sides with the performer who was to speak next, thus veering backwards and forwards, like a shuttlecock, during the entire performance. This custom partially prevailed in the continental theatres till very lately.
I recollect Mr. Barry, who was accounted the handsomest man of his day, and his lady (formerly Mrs. Dancer); also Mr. Digges, who used to play the Ghost in “Hamlet.” One night in doubling that part with (I believe) Polonius, Digges forgot, on appearing as the Ghost, previously to rub off the bright red paint with which his face had been daubed for the other character. A sprite with a large red nose and vermilioned cheeks was extremely novel and much applauded. There was also a famous actor who used to play the Cock that crew to call off the Ghost when Hamlet had done with him: this performer did his part so well that every body used to say he was the best Cock that ever had been heard at Smock-alley; and six or eight other gentry of the dunghill species were generally brought behind the scenes, who, on hearing him, mistook him for a brother cock, and set up their pipes all together: and thus, by the infinity of crowing at the same moment, the hour was the better marked, and the Ghost glided back to the other world in the midst of a perfect chorus of cocks – to the no small admiration of the audience.
