Imagini ale paginilor
PDF
ePub

Charles Lamb.

Lamb (1775-1834) was born in London, February 10th, of humble parentage. From his seventh to his fifteenth year he was an inmate of the school of Christ's Hospital. He had an impediment in his speech, which prevented his aspiring to University honors. In 1792 he became an accountant in the office of the East India Company; and after the death of his parents devoted himself to the care of his sister Mary. A sad tragedy was connected with the early history of this devoted pair. There was a taint of hereditary madness in the family; Charles had himself, in 1795, been confined six weeks in an asylum at Hoxton; and in September of the following year, Mary Lamb, in a paroxysm of insanity, stabbed her mother to death with a knife snatched from the dinner-table. She was soon restored to her senses. Charles abandoned all thoughts of love and marriage, and at twenty-two years of age, with an income of little more than £100 a year, set out cheerfully on the journey of life. He bore his trials meekly, manfully, and with prudence as well as fortitude. The school companion of Coleridge, Lamb enjoyed the friendship of Wordsworth, Southey, Hazlitt, and other literary celebrities of his day. In 1825 he retired from the drudgery of his clerkship with a handsome pension, which gave him literary leisure and the comforts of life. His series of essays signed "Elia" established his literary reputation. His kindliness of nature, his whims, puns, and prejudices give a marked individuality to his writings. He died of erysipelas, caused by a fall which slightly cut his face. His "Life and Letters," by Mr. Justice Talfourd, appeared in 1837. Lamb's poetical writings are not numerous, but what he has written shows genuine taste and culture. His sister Mary was joint author with him of "Poetry for Children" (1809); republished in New York (1878).

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood; Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces ;—

How some they have died, and some they have left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

LINES WRITTEN IN MY OWN ALBUM. Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friend and foe, in foul and fair,
Have written "strange defeatures" there;

And Time, with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamped sad dates-he can't recall.

And error, gilding worst designs--
Like speckled snake that strays and shines-
Betrays his path by crooked lines.

And vice hath left his ugly blot; And good resolves, a moment hot, Fairly begun-but finished not;

And fruitless late remorse doth traceLike Hebrew lore a backward paceHer irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; Huge reams of folly; shreds of wit; Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this iuk-blurred thing to look-
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.

TO JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, ON HIS TRAGEDY OF "VIRGINIUS." Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then Esteeméd you a perfect specimen

Of those fine spirits warm-souled Ireland sends, To teach us colder English how a friend's

Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave and

plain,

Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain;
But nothing further had the gift to espy.
Sudden you reappear. With wonder I
Hear my old friend (turned Shakspeare) read a scene
Only to his inferior in the clean

Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art—
Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart.
Almost without the aid language affords,

Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, words,

(Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws Our tears on credit: and we find the cause Some two hours after, spelling o'er again Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain.

Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns,

Still snatch some new old story from the urns
Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before
Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.

Matthew Gregory Lewis.

Novelist, poet, and dramatist, Lewis (1775–1818), sometimes called "Monk Lewis" from his novel of "The Monk" (published 1795), was a native of London, but resided the last five years of his life in Jamaica. His 996 Ropoetical productions are: "The Feudal Tyrants,' mantic Tales," "Tales of Terror" (1799), and "Tales of Wonder" (1801). After his death appeared his "Journal of a West Indian Proprietor," also his "Life and

Correspondence" (1839); easy and entertaining in style,

and replete with information. His "Jamaica Journal," says Coleridge, "is delightful. *** You have the man himself, and not an inconsiderable man-certainly a much finer mind than I supposed before from the perusal of his romances." Lewis died, after great suffering, on his homeward voyage from Jamaica.

LINES TO A FRIEND.

WRITTEN IN BOUHOURS' "ART DE BIEN PENSER."

When to my Charles this book I send,
A useless present I bestow;

Why should you learn by art, my friend,
What you so well by nature know?
Yet read the book;-haply some spell
May in its pages treasured be;
Perchance the art of thinking well

May teach you to think well of me!

THE HELMSMAN.

Hark the bell! it sounds midnight! all hail, thou new heaven!

How soft sleep the stars on the bosom of night! While o'er the full-moon, as they gently are driven, Slowly floating, the clouds bathe their fleeces in light.

The warm feeble breeze scarcely ripples the ocean; And all seems so hushed, all so happy to feel; So smooth glides the bark, I perceive not her motion,

While low sings the sailor who watches the wheel.

'Tis so sad, 'tis so sweet, and some tones come so swelling,

So right from the heart, and so pure to the ear, That sure at this moment his thoughts must be dwelling

On one who is absent, most kind and most dear.

Oh, may she who now dictates that ballad so tender, Diffuse o'er your days the heart's solace and ease, As yon lovely moon with a gleam of mild splendor, Pure, tranquil, and bright, over-silvers the seas!

A MATRIMONIAL DUET.

LADY TERMAGANT.

Step in, pray, Sir Toby, my picture is here,-
Do you think that 'tis like? does it strike you?

SIR TOBY.

Why, it does not as yet; but I fancy, my dear, In a moment it will-'tis so like you!

Walter Savage Landor.

Landor (1775-1864), the son of a Warwickshire gentleman, was born to wealth, and educated at Rugby and Oxford. He published his poem of "Gebir" in 1797. It was praised by Southey, but never hit the popular taste. There is one fine passage in it, descriptive of the sound which sea-shells seem to make when placed close to the ear:

"But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within; and they that lustre have imbibed
In the sun's palace-porch, where, when unyoked,
His chariot-wheels stand midway in the wave:
Shake one, and it awakens; then apply
Its polished lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there."

Between 1820 and 1830 Landor was engaged upon his most successful work, “Imaginary Conversations of Literary Men and Statesmen." A man of uncontrollable passions, a rampant republican, reckless and unscrupulous in his anger, fierce and overbearing in his prejudices, Landor acted at times like one almost irresponsible. As a poet, he often shows genuine power and high literary culture; but there is not much in his verse that promises to be of permanent value. His bitter resentments plunged him into disgraceful difficulties. He was dependent on the bounty of others for a support in his latter years, and reached the age of ninety. To the last he continued to find solace in his pen.

ROSE AYLMER.

Ah, what avails the sceptred race?
Ah, what the form divine?
What every virtue, every grace ?

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see!

A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

TO THE SISTER OF ELIA.

Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile!

Again shall Elia's smile

Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more. What is it we deplore?

He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years,
Far worthier things than tears;-

The love of friends, without a single foe-
Unequalled lot below!

His gentle soul, his genius-these are thine; For these dost thou repine?

He may have left the lowly walks of men; Left them he has-what then?

Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes
Of all the good and wise?
Though the warm day is over, yet they seek,
Upon the lofty peak

Of his pure mind, the roseate light that glows
O'er death's perennial snows.

Behold him! from the region of the blessed
He speaks: he bids thee rest!

JULIUS HARE.

Julius! how many hours have we
Together spent with sages old!

In wisdom none surpassing thee,

In Truth's bright armure none more bold.

By friends around thy couch in death My name from those pure lips was heard: O Fame! how feebler all thy breath Than Virtue's one expiring word! January 30th, 1855.

DEATH.

Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.

James Smith.

James Smith (1775-1839), known best in connection with his brother Horace, wrote clever parodies and criticisms in the popular magazines. In the Monthly Mirror appeared those imitations from his own and his brother's hand which were published in 1813 as "The Rejected Addresses"-one of the most successful of humorous productions, for it had reached its twentysecond edition in 1870, and is still in demand. James wrote the imitations of Crabbe, Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, and Cobbett; Horace, those of Scott, Moore, Monk Lewis, Fitzgerald, and Dr. Johnson. Having met at a dinner-party Mr. Strahan, the king's printer, then suffering from gout and old age, though his mental faculties remained bright, James sent him next morning the following jeu d'esprit :

verse.

"Your lower limbs seemed far from stout
When last I saw you walk;

The cause I presently found out,

When you began to talk.

The power that props the body's length,

In due proportion spread,

In you mounts upward, and the strength
All settles in the head."

Never was poet so munificently paid for eight lines of Mr. Strahan was so much gratified by the compliment that he at once made a codicil to his will, by which he bequeathed to the writer the sum of £3000. Horace Smith mentions, however, that Strahan had other motives for his generosity; for he respected and loved the man as much as he admired the poet. James Smith died at the age of sixty-five. Lady Blessington said of him: "If James Smith had not been a witty man, he must have been a great man.” His extensive information and refined manners, joined to his inexhaustible fund of liveliness and humor, and a happy, uniform temper, made him a delightful companion.

THE THEATRE.'

FROM "THE REJECTED ADDRESSES."

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
Our long wax-candles with short cotton wicks,
Touched by the lamplighter's Prometheau art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start;
To see red Phoebus, through the gallery-pane,
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,
While gradual parties fill our widened pit,
And gape and gaze and wonder ere they sit.

What various swains our motley walls contain!
Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane;
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,
With pence twice five, they want but twopence

more,

Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,
And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.
Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,
But talk their minds-we wish they'd mind their
talk;

Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live,
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give:
Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary
That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary;
And bucks with pockets empty as their pates,
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait,
Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ;
But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,
Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes:
Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy
Up as a corn-cutter-a safe employ;

In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred
(At number twenty-seven, it is said),
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's head.
He would have bound him to some shop in town,
But with a premium he could not come down.
Pat was the urchin's name, a red-haired youth,
Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

In imitation of the style of the Rev. George Crabbe.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe The Muse shall tell an accident she saw:

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat;
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat;
Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
And spurned the one to settle in the two.
How shall he act? pay at the gallery door
Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,
And gain his hat again at half-past eight?
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,
John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief.”
"Thank you," cries Pat, "but one won't make a line."
"Take mine," cried Wilson; "And," cried Stokes,
"take mine."

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue,
Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.
George Green below, with palpitating hand,
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band:
Upsoars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeigned,
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained;
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

Thy teeth are o' the ivory,

Oh, sweet's the twinkle o' thine e'e! Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, My only jo and dearie O.

The birdie sings upon the thorn Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie 0, Rejoicing in the summer morn,

Nae care to make it eerie O; But little kens the sangster sweet Aught o' the cares I hae to meet, That gar my restless bosom beat, My only jo and dearie O.

When we were bairnies on yon brae, And youth was blinking bonny O, Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day

Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0; Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea, And round about the thorny tree, Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie O.

I hae a wish I canna tine,

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me 0; I wish thou wert forever mine,

And never mair to leave me 0: That I wad daut thee night and day, Nor ither worldly care wad hae, Till life's warm stream forgot to play, My only jo and dearie O.

William Gillespie.

Gillespie (1776-1825) was a native of Kirkcudbright, Scotland. Educated at the University of Edinburgh, he studied for the Church, and became minister of Kells. His poem of "The Highlander" is interesting, not only for its own merits, but because Scott seems to have borrowed from it much of the music and some of the sentiment in his poem of "Helvellyn."

THE HIGHLANDER.

From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary, The Highlander sped to his youthful abode; Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary, Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was the road.

Till spent with the march that still lengthened before him,

He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat;

The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him,

The stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.

He sank to repose where the red heaths are blended, On dreams of his childhood his fancy passed o'er; But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended, The sound of the bagpipe shall wake him no more.

No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him, Thongh war launched her thunder in fury to kill; Now the Angel of Death in the desert has found him,

And stretched him in peace by the stream of the hill.

Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,

The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest; And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest, And moisten'st the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.

Thomas Campbell.

The son of a Glasgow merchant, Campbell (1777–1844) was the youngest of ten children. At the age of thirteen he was placed in the university of his native city, where he was noted for his Latin and Greek translations, and his compositions in prose and verse. In April, 1799, when twenty-one, he published his "Pleasures of Hope," a remarkable specimen of literary precocity, though marred by passages where sound takes the place of sense. Wordsworth regarded it as "strangely overrated." The poem passed through four editions in a year; and on the first seven editions the youthful poet received no less a sum than £900. After travelling on the Continent (where he was not a spectator of the Battle of Hohenlinden, as has been often asserted), he published, in 1801, "Ye Mariners of England," with several other lyrical pieces; and, in 1803, "Lochiel," "Hohenlinden,” "The Soldier's Dream," "The Battle of the Baltic :" so that the noble lyrics to which Campbell owes his fame were composed within a brief period, and when he was quite young. What he wrote after thirty has the marks of inferiority. "Gertrude of Wyoming" appeared in 1809. He appears to have been amiable, generous, and sympathetic, though irritable, irresolute, and lazy. His faults were largely caused, no doubt, by physical infirmity. He married his cousin, Miss Sinclair, and settled near London; but the death of one son and the madness of another cast a dark shadow on his existence. Though he struggled with narrow circumstances, he was generous to his mother, sisters, and other relations. From 1820 to 1831 he edited the New Monthly Magazine. During his later years, in the receipt of a merited pension, he resided chiefly in London. He died at Boulogne, whither he had gone for his health, in his sixty-seventh year. His dust lies in West

« ÎnapoiContinuă »