i^ITT i \ / e ine univciuiii 9 « VIMiO«>V3iO • A^A RECOLLECTIONS OP A LITERAKY LIFE; OR, BOOKS, PLACES, AND PEOPLE. BY MAEY EUSSELL MITFOED, AUTHOR OF "our VILLAGE," "bELFORD REGIS," ETC. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, No. 82 CLIFF STREET. 1852. tR LIBRARY KWIVERSn V ' ■: ■ -MFORNIA -vjiA c ?srp- turt{ /. CjinrUii, d^sq My dear Frisnd, But for you this "booli would never have existed. It has "been to me throughout a source of great gratification. Aa I wrote line after line of our fine old Poets, ma.ny a cherished scene and a happy- hour seemed to live again in my memory and my heart. But no higher pleasure can it afford me, than the opportunity of express- ing to you my sincere respect and admiration for talent, espe- cially dramatic talent not even yet sufficiently tno-wn, and for jnnumerahle personal qualities -worth all the talent in the -world. MART RUSSELL MITFORD. SWAI.I.OWPIELD, NEAR READINO, DECEMBER, 1851. PREFACE. The title of this Book gives a very imperfect idea of the contents. Perhaps it would be difficult to find a short phrase that would accurately describe a work so miscella- neous and so wayward ; a work where there is far too much of personal gossip and of local scene-painting for the grave pretension of critical essays, and far too much of criticism and extract for any thing approaching in the slightest degree to autobiography. The courteous reader must take it for what it is : — an attempt to make others relish a few favorite writers as heartily as I have relished them myself My opinions, such as they are, have at least the merit of being honest, earnest, and individual, unbiased by the spirit of coterie or the influence of fashion. Many of my extracts will be found to comprise the best bits of neglected authors ; and some, I think, as the noble murder speech of Daniel Web- ster, the poems of Thomas Davis, of Mrs. James Gray, of Mr. Darley, of Mr. Noel, and of Dr. Holmes, will be new to the English public. Some again, as the delightful pleasantries of Praed, and Frere, and Catherine Fanshawe are difficult, if not impossible to procure ; and others pos- sess in perfection the sort of novelty which belongs to the forgotten. Among these I may class " Hoi croft's Me- VI I'KKFACK. iiUMr>, Uichanlson's Correspondence," the curious "Trial of Captnin Gooderc," and the " Pleader's Guide." I even fear that the choicest morsels of my book, the delicious specimens of Cowley's prose, may come under the same categorv. Ah ! I wish I were as sure of ray original mat- ter as I am of my selections. It is right to say that a few of these papers (like the first volume of my earliest prose work " Our Village") have appeared in an obscure journal. • WALLOWriELD, NEAR READINO, DECEMBER, 1851. CONTENTS. I. VARIOUS AUTHORS. PAGE Percy's eeliqdes 1 II. IRISH AUTHORS. THOMAS DAVIS — JOHN BANIM 15 III. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. THOMAS NOEL .25 OLD AUTHORS ABRAHAM COWLEY 9'^ V. COMIC POETS. J. ANSTEY 52 VI. AMERICAN POETS. HENRY WAD9W0RTH LONGFELLOW 62 Vni roNTKNTS. VM. AUTHORS SPRUNG FROif THE PEOPLE. PAOB Til '".M . tiMl.i HllfT ........... 71 VIIT. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. <>ii n.KTLlIEB 89 IX. FASHIONABLE POETS. WINTnROP MACKWORTH PRAED 100 X. PEASANT POETS. JOHN CLAKE 116 XI. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. ■aMUEL JOHNSON 127 XII. OLD POETS. EOBEBT HEBRICK — GEORGE WITHERS 142 XIII. FEMALE POETS. JOaVNa BAILME — CATHERINE FANSHaWE 152 XIV. MARRIED POETS. Et.tlABErn B^RRr.TT RROWvrsr. — ROBTRT BROWNTINO .... 169 CONTENTS. IX XV. PROSE PASTORALS. PAGB BiR PHILIP Sydney's arcadia — isaac Walton's complete angler . 185 XVI. SPANISH BALLADS 204 XVII. FEMALE POETS. MISS BLAMIRE — MRS. JAMES GRAY 215 XVIII. AMERICAN ORATORS. DANIEL WEBSTER 228 XIX. OLD AUTHORS. BEN JONSON ............ 240 XX. FASHIONABLE POETS. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENUEK 247 XXI. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DRAMATIC AUTHORS. COLLEY GIBBER — RICHARD CUMBERLAND 260 XXII. FEMALE POETS. MRS. CLIVE — MRS. ACTON TINDAL — MISS DAY — MRS. ROBERT DERING . 274 1* X I'll N 1 KN IS. XXlll. CAVALIER POETS. PAOK ■ llllARD I.OVKI.AOE — ROllER d'ESTRANOK — THE MARflUIS OF MONTROSE 287 XXIV. POETRY THAT POETS LOVE. Walter savage landor — leigii hunt — percv bysshe shelley — john keat8 304 XXV. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY 322 XXVI. AMERICAN POETS. JOHN OBEENLEAF WHITTIER— FITZ-GREENE HALLOCK .... 334 XXVII. VOLUMINOUS AUTtfORS. HaRGRAVe's state TRIALS 343 XXVIII. FISHING SONGS. MR. OOCBLEDaY — MISS CORBETT ...:.... 362 XXIX. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. 372 iOUS KENYON XXX. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. THOMA. CHATTERTON-ROBERT SOUTHEY-SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE- WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 386 CONTENTS, XI XXXI. AMERICAN POETS. PAOB OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 399 XXXII. LETTERS OF AUTHORS. SAMUEL RICHARDSON 411 XXXIII. FINE SINGLE POEMS. SIR WALTER SCOTT 424 XXXIV. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. W. C. BENNETT 442 XXXV. IRISH AUTHORS. GERALD GRIFFIN 457 XXXVI. MOCK-HEROIC POETRY. JOHN HOOKHAM FHERE 474 XXXVII. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. LORD CLARENDON — GEOFFREY CHAUCER — JOHN HUGHES .... 488 XXXVIII. UNRECOGNIZED POETS. GEORGE DARLEY — THE REV. EDWAIID WILLIAM BARNARD . . SUJ? \!l to N IK NTS. XXX IX. AMERICAN PROSE WRITERS. rAoa .VATUA.MKL IIaWTIIOK.NK 515 XL. OLD POETS. >.vuRi:w makvi-ll 532 XLl. SCOTTISH POETS. WILLIAM .MOTHERWELL 540 XLII. GREAT PROSE WRITERS. LORD Bacon — Juii.v .miltok — jerk.my taylor — john rcsk/n . . 547 KECOLLECTIONS A LITERARY LIFE. I. VARIOUS AUTHORS. Percy's reliques. I NEVER take up these three heavily- bound volumeB, the actual last edition, at which Dr. Johnson was wont to scoff, without feeling a pleasure quite apart from that excited by the charming book itself; although to that book, far more than to any modern school of minstrelsy, we owe the revival of the taste for romantic and lyrical poetry, which had lain dormant since the days of the Commonwealth. This pleasure^springs from a very simpje cause. The associa- tion of these ballads with the happiest days of my happy child- hood. In common with many only children, especially where the mother is of a grave and home-loving nature, I learned to read at a very early age. Before I was three years old my father would perch me on the breakfast-table to exhibit my one accom- plishment to some admiring guest, who admired all the more, because, a small, puny child, looking far younger than I really was, nicely dressed, as only children generally are, and gifted with an affluence of curls, I might have passed for the twin sister of my own great doll. On the table was I perched to read some Foxite newspaper, " Courier," or *' Aforning Chronicle," the A 2 Ki:i'oi,i,i:cTioNs ok \\ Iiig{;i»h orarli'S oftlu' day, and as my dili^'ht in Uio liigh-soar Killed politics of sixty years npo was imturally less than that of my honrrrs, this display of precocious acquirement was commonly n'wanli-d. not by cakes or supar-plums, too plentiful in my case to Ih) ver)- preatly cared for, but by a sort of payment in kind. I road loading articles to please the company ; and my dear mother recited the " Children in the Wood" to please me. This was my rewanl ; and I looked for my favorite ballad after every per- fonnancc, just as the piping bullfinch that hung in the window looked for his lump of sugar after going through " God save the King." The two cases were exactly parallel. One day it happened that I was called upon to exhibit, during some temjwrary absence of the dear mamma, and cried out amain for the ditty that I loved. My father, who spoilt me, did not know a word of it, but he hunted over all the shelves till he had found the volumes, that he might read it to me himself; and then I grew unreasonable in my demand, and coaxed, and kissed, and begged that the book might be given to my maid Nancy, that she might read it to me, whenever I chose. And (have I not said that my father spoilt me ?) I carried my point, and the three volumes were actually put in charge of my pretty, neat maid, Nancy (in those days nursery-governesses were not), and she, waxing weary of the " Children in the Wood," gradually look to reading to me some of the other ballads ; and as from three years old I grew to four or five, I learned to read them my- self, and the book became the delight of my childhood, as it is now the solace of my age. Ah, well-a-day ! sixty years have passed, and I am an old woman, whose nut-brown hair has turned to white ; but I never see that heavily-bound copy of " Percy's Uchques" without the home of my infancy springing up before my eyes. A pleasant home, in truth, it was. A large house in a little town of the north of Hampshire, — a town, so small that but for an ancient market, very slenderly attended, nobody would have dreamt of calling it any thing but a village. The breakfast-room, where I first poBsessed myself of my beloved ballads, was a lofty and spacious apartment, literally lined with books, which, with its Turkey carpet, its plowing fire, its sofas and its easy chairs, wcmed, what indeed it was, a very nest of English comfort. The windows opened on a large, old-fashioned garden, full of old- A LITERARY LIFE, 6 fashioned flowers — stocks, roses, honeysuckles, and pinks ; and that again led into a grassy orchard, abounding with fruit-trees, a picturesque country church with its yews and lindens on one side, and beyond, a down as smooth as velvet, dotted with rich islands of coppice, hazel, woodbine, hawthorn, and holly reaching up into the young oaks, and overhanging flowery patches of prim- roses, wood-sorrel, wild hyacinths, and wild strawberries. On the side opposite the church, in a hollow fringed with alders and bulrushes, gleamed the bright clear lakelet, radiant with swans and water-lilies, which the simple townsfolk were content to call the Great Pond. What a play-ground was that orchard ! and what playfellows were mine ! Nancy, with her trim prettiness, my own dear father, handsomest and cheerfulest of men, and the great New- foundland dog Coe, who used to lie down at my feet, as if to in- vite me to mount him, and then to prance off" with his burden, as if he enjoyed the fun as much as we did. Happy, happy days I It is good to have the memory of such a childhood I to be able to call up past delights by the mere sight and sound of Chevy Chase or the battle of Otterbourne. And as time wore on, the fine ballad of " King Estmere," ac- cording to Bishop Percy, one of the most ancient in the collection, got to be among our prime favorites. Absorbed by the magic of the story, the old English never troubled us. I hope it will not trouble my readers. We, a little child, and a young country maiden, the daughter of a respectable Hampshire farmer, were no bad representatives in point of cultivation of the noble dames and their attendant damsels who had so often listened with de- light to wandering minstrels in bower and hall. In one point, we had probably the advantage of them : we could read, and it is most likely that they could not. For the rest, every age has its own amusements ; and these metrical romances, whether said or sung, may be regarded as equivalent in their day to the novels and operas of ours. KYNG ESTMERE. Hearken to me, gentlemen, Come, and you shall hears ; I'll tell you of two of the boldest brethren, That ever born y-were. i; l.^ul.I, KCTIuNS OF Tho tono of tliom wns Adler vonge, Tlie tolher was King Estmcre ; Tln'y wert" us boKk' mon in their deedes, As any woro fur and ueare. As they were drinking alo and wine, Witliin Kyng Estmerc's hallo; "When will ye marry a wyfe, brothdr; A wyfe to gladd us alle V Tlien bespake him, Kynge Estmere, And answered him hastilee : " I knowe not that ladye in any lande, That is able to marry with me." " King Adland hath a daughter, brother, Men call her bright and sheene ; If I were kyng here in your stead, That ladye sholde be queen." Saves, " Reade me, reade me, deare brother, Throughout merrle England ; Where we might find a messenger, Betweene us two to send 1" Saves, " You shal ryde yourself, brother, I'll bear you conipanee ; Many through false messengers are deceived. And I feare lest soe sholde we." Thus they renisht them to ryde, Of twoe good renisht steedes, And when they come to Kj-ng Adland's halle. Of red gold shone their weedes. And when they come to Kynge Adland's halle, Before the goodlye yate There they found good Kyng Adland, Rearing himself thereatt. ' Nowe Christe thee save, good Kyng Adland, Nowe Christ thee save and see !" Said, " You be welcome, Kyng Estmere, Right heartily unto me." " You have a daughter," said Adler yonge, " Mf-n f-all her bright and sheene. My brother wold marry her to his wyfe, fif V.'\n]nr,r] tn }ie qneeno." A LITERAKY LIFE. 5 " Yesterday was at my deare daughter, Syr Brenior the Kyng of Spayne : And then she nicked him of naye, I feare she'll do you the same." " The Kyng of Spayn is a foule paynim, And 'lieveth on Mahound ; And pitye it were that fayre ladye, Shold marry a heathen hound." " But grant to me," sayes Kyng Estmure, " For my love I you praye, That I may see your daughter deare, Before I goe hence awaye." " Although itt is seven yeare and more Syth my daughter was in halle, She shall come dawne once for your sake, To glad my guestes all." Down then came that mayden fayre, With ladyes laced in pall, And half a hundred of bolde knightes. To bring her from bovvre to halle ; And eke as many gentle squieres. To waite upon them all. [Scott has almost literally copied the four last lines of this stanza in the first canto of the " Lay of the Last Minstrel." One of the many obligations that we owe to these old unknown poets, is the inspiration that Sir Walter drew from them, an in- spiration to be traced almost as frequently in his prose, as in his verse.] The talents of golde were on her head sette Hunge lowe down to her knee ; And every rynge on her smalle finger Shone of the chrystall free. Sayes, " Christ you save, my deare madame ;" Sayes, " Christ you save and sec !" Sayes, "Yoil be welcome, Kyng Estmero, Right welcome unto me. " And iff you love mo as you saye, So well and hcartilee ; All that ever you are comcn about, Soone sped now itt may bee." K hL n I. I.KC'TIONS OK Then hoxpako lior fnthi-r dcaic : "My iliuifrlitor, I sny iioyi'; Rcnu-mbor wi-11 tlio Kyng of Spayn, What he sayd ycsterdaye. " He woldc pull down my halles and casiK's, And reove im* of my lyfe ; And ever I fi-are tliat paynim kyng, If I reeve bim of bis wyfe." " Your castles and your towres, father, Are stronglye built aboute ; And therefore of that foul paynim, Weo neede not stando iu doubte. " Plyghte mc your troth nowe, Kyng Estmero, By Heaven and your righte hande, That you will marrye me to your wyfe, And make me queen of your lande." Then Kj-ng Estmere, he plight his troth, By Heaven and his right hand, That he would marrye her to his wyfo, And make her queen of his lande. And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, To go to his own contree ; To fetch him dukes, and lordes, and knightes, That marryed they might be. They had not ridden scant a myle, A myle forthc of the towTie, But in did come the Kyng of Spayne, With kempes many a one. But in did come the Kyng of Spayne, With many a grimm barone Tone day to marrye Kyng Adland's daughter, Tother day to carrye her home. Then she sent after Kyng Estmere, In all the spede might bee. That he must either returne and fighte. Or goe home and lose his ladye. One whyle then the page he went. Another whyle he ranne ; Till he had o'ertaken K3mg Estmere, I wis he never blanne. A LITERARY LIFE. '• Tydinges ' tydinges ! Kyng Estmere !" " What tydiuges nowe, my boye 1" " Oh, tydiuges I can tell to you, That will you sore annoye. '• You had not ridden scant a mylo, ^ A myle out of the towne, But in did come the Kyng of Spayue, With kempes many a one. " But in did come the Kyng of Spayue, With many a bold barone Tone day to marrye Kyng Adland's daughter, Tother day to carry her home. " That ladye faire she greetos you well, And evermore well, by me : You must either turne again and fighte, Or goe home and lose your ladye." Sayes, " Reade me, reade me, deare brother, My reade shall ryde at thee. Which waye we best may turne and fighte, To save this fayre ladye"?" " Now hearken to me," sayes Adler yonge, " And your reade must rise at me, I quicklye will devise a waye, To sette thy ladye free. " My mother was a western woman, And learned in gramarye, And when I learned at the schole, Something she taught itt me. " There groweth an hearbe within this fioldc, And iff it were but known, His color which is whyte and redde. It Avill make blacke and browne. " His color which is browne and blacke. It will make redde and whyte; That sworde is not all Englande, Upon his coate will byte. " And you shall be a harper, brother, Out of the north countree ; And I'll be your boye so faine of (iglUc, To boarc your liarpe by your knee. K K C O L L K C r I O N S OF ' And you slmll In- the best harper, That over took Imrp in hand, Ami I will bo the best singer, That ever songe in the land. '• It shal be written in our forheads, All and in graniarye. That wo twoe are tlie boldest men, That are in all Christentye." And thus they renisht them to ryde, On twoe good renisht steedes, And when they came to Kyng Adland's halle, Of redd gold shone their weedes. And when they came to Kyng Adland's halle, Untill the fayre hall yate, There they found a proud porter, Rearing himselfe thereatt. Sayes, "Christ thee save, thou proud porter," Sayes, " Christ thee save and see." " Now you be welcome," sayd the port6r, " Of what land soever ye be." " We been harpers," sayd Adler yonge, " Come out of the north countree ; We been come hither untill this place, This proud wedding for to see." Sayd, " An your color were whyte and redd, As it is blacke and browne, I'd say Kyng Estmere and his brother, Were comen until this towne." Then they pulled out a ryng of gold, Layd it on the porter's arme, " And ever we will thee proud porter, Thou wilt say us no harme." Sore he looked on Kj-ng Estmere, And Bore he handled the ryng. Then opened to them the fayre hall yates. He lett for no kind of thyng. Kyng Estmere he light off his steede, Up at the fayre hall board; The frothe that came from his bridle bitto, Light on Kyng Brcmor's beard. A LITERAKY LIFE. Sayes, " Stable thy steede, thou proud harper, Goe stable him in the stalle ; It doth not become a proud harper, To stable him in a kyng's halle." '• My ladde he is so lither," he sayd, '• He will do nought that's meete, And aye that I could but find the man, Were able him to beate." " Thou speakest proud wordes," sayd the paynim king, " Thou harper, here to me ; There is a man. within this halle, That will beate thy ladd and thee." " lett that man come down," he sayd, " A sight of him vvolde I see, And when he hath beaten well my ladd. Then he shall beate of mee." Downe then came the kemperye man, And looked him in the eare, For all the golde that was under heaven, He durst not neigh him neare. " And how nowe, kempe," saj-d the Kyng of Spayn, " And now what aileth thee 1" He sayes, "It is written in his forehead, All, and in gramarye. That for alle the golde that is under heaven, I dare not neigh him nye." Kyng Estmere then pulled forth his harpe, And played thereon so sweete, Upstarte the ladye from the kyng. As he sate att the meate. " Now stay thy harpe, thou proud hari)er, Now staye thy harpe I saye; For an thou playest as thou beginnest, Thou'lt till my bride awaye." He struck upon his harpe agayne, And playde both fair and free ; The ladye was so pleas(;d thereatt, She laughed loud laughters three. 10 KKCOLLKCTIONS VF Now .si'll 1110 thy li!iri)0," said tlio Kyng of Spayn, ■• Thy hiir]>o ami stryngs oche ono, And as nmiiy gold nobles thou shalt have, As there bo stryngs thereon." " And what woldc yc doe with my harpe 1" ho sayd, "If 1 did sell it yeer' ' To playo my wyfe and I a fitt, When we together be." '• Nowe sell me, Sir KjTig, thy bryde soo gay, As she sits laced in pall, And as many gold nobles I will give, As there be ryngs in the hall." " And what wolde yc doe with my bryde soe gay, Iff I did sell her' yee V— " More seemly it is for that fair ladye To wed with me than thee." He played agayne both loud and shrille, And Adler he did syng; '• ladye, this is thy owne true love. No harper, but a kyng. " ladye, this is thy owne true love. As plajTilye thou mayst see ; And I'll rid thee of that foul payniui. Who parts thy love and thee." The ladye lookt and the ladye blusht, And blusht and lookt agayne, While Adler he hath drawn his brande, And hath Sir Bremor slayne. Up then rose the kemperye men, And loud they gan to crye : "Ah, traytors! yee have slayne our kyng, And therefore ye shall dye." Kj-ng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde, And swith he drew his brand ; And Estmere he, and Adler yonge, Right stiff' in etour can stand. And aye their swordes soe sore can byte, Through help of gramarye. That soon they have slayjie the kempers-e men, Or forst them forth to flee. A LITERARY LIFE. ll Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye, And married her to his wyfe, And brought her home to merry England, With her to leade his lyfe, I must not, however, attempt to quote more of those fine old ballads here ; the feuds of the Percy and the Douglas would take up too much space ; so would the loves of King Arthur's court, and the adventures of Robin Hood. Even the story of the Heir of Lynne must remain untold ; and I must content myself with two of the shortest and least hackneyed poems in a book that for great and varied interest can hardly be surpassed. The "Lie," is said to have been written by Sir Walter Raleigh the night before his execution. That it was written at that exact time is pretty well disproved by the date of its publication in " Davison's Poems," before Sir Walter's death ; it is even uncertain that Raleigh was the author ; but that it is of that age is beyond all doubt ; so is its extraordinary beauty — a beauty quite free from the conceits which deform too many of our finest old lyrics. Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand ; Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. Go tell the Court it glows And shines like rotten wood; Go tell the Church it shows Men's good, and doth no good: If Church and Court reply. Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates they live Acting by others' actions, Not loved unless they give. Not strong but by their factions: If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. TeU men of high condition That rule affairs of state, Their pui-pose is ambition, Their practice only hate : And if they once rei)ly, Then give them all the lie. 12 KtCUl-LKCTiO.Nd OF Toll Ihcm tljat brave it most Thoy lii'g for more by si)cnding, Who ill tlii'ir greatest cost tjfok nothing but commending : And if tiii-y make reply, yparc not to give the lie. Toil zonl it lacks devotion ; Tell love it is but lust ; Tell time it is but motion ; Toll tlesh it is but dust : And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth ; Tell honor how it alters . Tell beauty how she blasteth ; Tell favor how she falters ; And as they shall reply, Give each of them the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In fickle points of niceness ; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness : And if they do reply. Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness ; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness ; Tell law it is contention. And as they yield reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness ; Tell nature of decay ; Tell friendship of unkindness ; Tell justice of delaj' : And if they dare reply. Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming ; Tell schools they want profoundness. And stand too much on seeming : If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. A LITERARY LIFE. 13 Teil faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth ; Tell, manhood shakes off pity ; Tell, virtue least preferreth : And if they do reply. Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie Deserve no less than stabbing, Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soul can kill. WINIFREDA. About the authorship of this beautiful address to conjugal love, there is also much uncertainty. Bishop Percy calls it a " Transla- tion frona the Antient British," probably to vail the real writer. We find it included among Gilbert Cooper's poems, a diamond among pebbles ; he never could have written it. It has been claimed for Stevens, who did the world good service as one of the earliest restorers of Shakspeare's text ; but who is almost as famous for his bitter and cynical temper, as for his acuteness as a verbal critic. Could this charming love-song, true in its tender- ness as the gushing notes of a bird to his sitting mate, have been poured forth by a man whom the v/hole world agreed in hating ? After all, we have no need to meddle with this vexed question. Let us be content to accept thankfully one of the very few purely English ballads which contradict the reproach of our Scottish and Irish neighbors, when they tell us that our love-songs are of the head, not of the heart. This poem, at least, may vie with those of Gerald Griffin in the high and rare merit of conveying the noblest sentiments in the simplest language. Away ! let naught to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let naught delay the heavenly blessing. Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. What though no grant of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood 1 We'll shine in more substantial honors, And to be noble we'll be good. 14 KKCOLLECTIONS OV Our name, wliilo virtue thus wo tender, Shall sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke ; And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though from fortune's lavish bounty No mighty treasures wc possess 1 We'll fmd within our pittance plenty, And be content without excess. Still shall each kind returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason, And that's the only life to live. Through youth to age in love excelling. We'll hand in hand together tread; Sweet-smiling Peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures. While round my knees they fondly clung; To see them look their mother's features. To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. And when with env'y, time transported, Shall think to rob us of our joj's, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys. Surely this is the sort of poetry that ought to be popular — to be sung in our concert-rooms, and set to such airs as should be played on barrel-organs through our streets, suggesting the words and the sentiments as soon as the first notes of the melody make therii- selves heard under the window. A LITERARY LIFE. 15 11. IRISH AUTHORS. THOMAS DAVIS JOHN BANIM. Considering his immense reputation in the Sister Island, the name of Thomas Davis has hardly found its due place in our literature. He was an Irish barrister ; the most earnest, the most vehement, the most gifted, and the most beloved of the Young Ireland party! Until the spring of 1840, when, he was in his twenty-sixth year, he had only been remarkable for extreme good-nature, untiring industry, and very varied learning. At that period he blazed forth at once as a powerful and brilliant political writer, produced an eloquent and admirable " Life of Curran," became one of the founders of the " Nation" newspaper, and carried his zeal in the cause of nationality to such excess, that he actually proposed to publish a weekly journal in the Irish tongue — an impracticable scheme which happily ended in talk. To the newspaper which was established, and which the young patriots condescended to write in the language — to use their own phrase — of the Saxons, we owe the beautiful lyrics of Thomas Davis. The editor of the " Nation" had faith in the well-known saying of Fletcher of Saltown, " Give me the writing of the ballads, and let who will make the laws ;" and in default of other aid, the regular contributors to the new journal resolved to attempt the task themselves. It is difficult to believe, but the editor of his poems dwells upon it as a well-known fact, that up to this time the author of " The Sack of Baltimore" had never written a line of verse in his life, and was, indeed, far less san- guine than his coadjutors in the success of the experiment. How completely he succeeded there is no need to tell, although nearly all that he has written was the work of one hurried year, thrown off in the midst of a thousand occupations, and a thousand claim.s. 16 U EC OL SECTIONS OF A very Tew years more, and his brief and briglit career was cut short by a sudden illness, which carried him rapidly to the grave, bcJoved and lamented by his countrymen of every sect and of every party : '• His mourners wore two hosts, his friends and foes: ... He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept." Oh ! that he had lived to love Ireland, not better, but mort wisely, and to write volumes upon volumes of such lyrics as the two first which I transcribe, such biographies as his " Life of Curran," and such criticism as his " Essay upon Irish Song !'' I will deal more tenderly than he would have done with printei and reader, by giving them as little as I can of his beloved Cym- ric words (such is the young Irish name for the old Irish lan- guage) ; and by sparing them altogether his beloved Cymric character, Avhich I have before my eyes at this moment, looking exactly like a cross between Arabic and Chinese. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. Baltimore is a small seaport, in the barony of Carberry, in South Munster. It grew up round a castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old or too young, or too fierce, for their pur- pose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvon fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for that office. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. The summer sun is falling soft on Carberry's hundred isles ; The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles ; Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a molting bird ; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean-tide is heard ; The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children cease their play ; The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray ; And full of love and peace and rest, its daily labor o'er. Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. A LITERARY LIFE. 17 A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there, No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or air ; The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm ; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, those two long barques round Dunashad that glide, Must trust their oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing tide ; Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore, They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore. All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet ; — A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! — " The roof is in a flame !" From out their beds and to their doors rush maid and sire and dame, And meet upon the threshold stone, the gleaming saber's fall. And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl, The yell of" Allah !" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar — Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword ; Then sprang the mother on the brand with which her son was gored ; Then sank the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild ; Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and nestled with the child. But see yon pirate strangled lies and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him, in an Irish hand, there sweeps his Syrian steel. Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one heart well avenged in the sack of Baltimore ! Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing. They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring ! Midsummer day, this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town, Those hookers crossed from stormy Skull, the skiff" from Affadown, They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw five leagues before, The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed. This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh ! some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles, And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey ; She's safe ! she's dead ! she stabbed him in the midst of his serai ! And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, She only smiled — O'Driscoll's child ! — she thought of Baltimore ! 'Tis two long years since sank the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand. Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen, 'Tis Ilackctt of Dungarvon, he who steered the Algcrino, 18 KKl'O LL KCTIONS OK Ho foil ninia a suiii-ii shout, witli scarce a passing prayer, For ho Imd sltiiii the kith and kin of many a hundred tlicrc. 8omo nuittorcd of MacMurchadh, who had brought the Norman o'er ; Some cursed him witii Iscarlot, that day in Baltimore. The moio we study this ballad, the more extraordinary docs it appear, that it should have been the work of an unpracticed hand. Not only is it lull of spirit and of melody, qualities not incompatible with inexperience in poetical composition, but the ar- tistic merit is so great. Picture succeeds to .picture, each perfect in itself, and each conducing to the efiect of the whole. There is not a careless line, or a word out of place ; and how the epi- thets paint ; " fibrous sod," " heavy balm," " shearing sword I" The Oriental portion is as complete in what the French call local color as the Irish. He was learned, was Thomas Davis, and wrote of nothing that he could not have taught. It is something that he should have left a poem like this, altogether untinged by party politics, for the pride and admiration of all who share a common language, whether Celt or Saxon. MAIRE BHAN ASTOIR*— " FAIR MARY MY TREASURE." IRISH EMIGRANT SONG. In a valley far away. With my Maire bhan astoir. Short would be the summer day, Ever loving more and more. Winter days would all grow long With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song And her loving maith go leor.f Fond is Maire bhan astoir. Fair is Maire bhan astoir, Sweet as ripple on the shore Sings my Maire bhan astoir. Oh ! her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone ; But her brother bi'avely vowed She should be my bride alone ; ♦ Pronounced Maur-ya Vaun Asthore. t Much plenty, or in abundance. A LITERARY LIFE. 19 For he knew I loved her well, And he knew she loved me too, So he sought their pride to quell, But 'twas all in vain to sue. True is Maire bhan astoir. Tried is Maire bhan astoir, Had I wings I'd never soar From my Maire bhan astoir. There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil Where the broad Missouri iiows ; Through the trees the smoke shall rise From our hearth with maith go leor, There shall shine the happy eyes Of my Maire bhan astoir. Mild is Maire bhan astoir, Mine is Maire bhan astoir, Saints will watch about the door Of my Maire bhan astoir. I subjoin one of thelyrics, a ballad of. the '-Brigade," which produced so much effect, when printed on the broad sheet of the " Nation." It is a graphic and dramatic battle-song, full of life and action ; too well calculated to excite that most excitable people, for whose gratification it was written. FONTENOY. (1745.) Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed ; And twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed j For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride ! And mustering come his chosen troops like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head. Steady they step adown the slope, steady they mount the hill. Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still. Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench and palisade, and bullets showering fust; 20 KKCOLLKCTlOANd OF Ami on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With rvaily tiro, ami grim risolvo, tliat moclicd at liDstile force; Past Fontonoy, past Fontonoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break aa breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks ! More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round ; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground ; Bomb-shell and grajie and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired ; Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. '•Push on, my household cavalry !' King Louis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died. On, through the camp the column trod, King Louis turned his rein : " Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the Irish troops remain." And Foutenoy, famed Fontonoy, had been a Waterloo Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement and true. " Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes ! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay! The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day ; The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry ; Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry ; Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown ; Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, " Fi.x bayonets — charge !" Like mountain storm rush on these fiery bands I— Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind ; Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rocks the men behind ! One volley crashes from their line, w-hen through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza ! '■ Revenge 1 remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh !" Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang ; Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore ; Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore ; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scattered, fled ; The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain, and far away, passed on that hideous wrack. While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, AVith bloody plumes the Irish stand ; the field is fought and won ! A LITERARY LIFE. 21 John Banim was the founder of that school of Irish novelists, which, always excepting its blameless purity, so much resembles the modern romantic French school, that if it were possible to suspect Messieurs Victor Hugo, Eugene Sue, and Alexander Dumas of reading the English, which they never approach with- out such ludicrous blunders, one might fancy that many-volumed tribe to have stolen their peculiar inspiration from the O'Hara family. Of a certainty the tales of Mr. Banim were purely original. They had no precursors either in our own language or in any other, and they produced accordingly the sort of impression, more vivid than durable, which highly-colored and deeply-shadow- ed novelty is sure to make on the public mind. But they are also intensely national. They reflect Irish scenery, Irish char- acter, Irish crime, and Irish virtue, with a general truth which, in spite of their tendency to melo-dramatic effects, will keep them fresh and life-like for many a day after the mere fashion of the novel of the season shall be past and gone. The last of his works, especially, " Father Connell," contains the portrait of a parish, priest, scr exquisitely simple, natural, and tender, that in the whole range of fiction I know nothing more charming. The sub- ject was one that the author loved ; witness the following rude, rugged, homely song, which explains so well the imperishable ties which unite the peasant to his pastor. SOGGARTH AROON.* Am I the slave they say, Soggarth Aroon 1 Since you did show the way, Soggarth Aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Ould Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon ? Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfill Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth aroon *? * Anglice. Priest dfar. 22 K K C O 1. 1. K C r IONS O F Loyal and bravo to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be no slave to you, Soggarth aroon, Nor out of fear to you Stand up so near to you — Och ! out of fear to you, Soggarth aroon ! ^ Who in the winter night, Soggarth aroon, When the could blast did bite, Soggarth aroon. Came to my cabin-door. And on my earthen floor Knelt by me sick and poor, Soggarth aroon 1 Who on the marriage-day, Soggarth aroon, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth aroon, And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon 1 Who as friend only met, Soggarth aroon; Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon, And when my hearth was dim. Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth aroon'? Och ! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon ! And for this I was true to yon, Soggarth aroon ; In love they'll never shake. When for ould Ireland's sake. We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon ! There is a small and little-known volume of these rough peas- ant-ballads, full of the same truth and intensity of feeling, — songs which seem destined to be sung at the wakes and patterns of Ire- • . A LITERARY LIFE. 26 land. But, to say nothing of his fine classical tragedy of " Da- mon and Pythias," Mr. Banim, so successful in the delineation of the sweet, delicate, almost idealized girl of the people, has writ- ten at least one song that may rival Gerald Griffin in grace and sentiment. A lover sings it to his mistress. 'Tis not for love of gold I go, 'Tis not for love of fame ; Tliough fortune may her smile bestow, And I may win a name, Ailleen ; And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go, And yet it is for fame; That they may deck another brow, And bless another name, Ailleen ; And bless another name. For this, but this, I go — for this I leave thy love awhile, And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young faithful smile, Ailleen ; Of thy young faithful smile. And I go to brave a world I hate. And woo it o'er and o'er. And tempt a wave, and try a fate Upon a stranger shore, Ailleen ; Upon a stranger shore. Oh ! when the bays arc all my own, I know a heart will care ! Oh ! when the gold is sought and won, I know a brow will wear, Ailleen ; I know a brow will wear ! And, when with both returned again My native land I see, I know a smile will meet me then, And a hand will welcome me, Ailleen ; And n hand will welcome mc ! 24 K K C O I. L E C T I O X S O F Is it not strange thrit with such ballads as these of John Banim, Thomas Davis, and Gerald Griffin before us, Mr. Moore, that great and undoubted wit, should pass in the highest English cir- cles for the only song-writer of Ireland ? Do people really prefer flowers made of silk and cambric, of gum and wire, the work of human hands however perfect, to such as Mother Earth sends forth in tlie gushing spring-time, full of sap and odor, sparkling with sunshine and dripping with dew ? I can find no regular life of our poet ; nothing beyond a chance record of a kind word to one young struggling countryman, and a kind act to another. He died in the vigor of his age ; mar- ried, and, as I fear, poor. The too frequent story of a man of genius. A LITERARY LIFE. 25 III. AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES. THOMAS NOEL. Three summers ago I spent a few pleasant weeks among some of the loveliest scenery of our great river. The banks of the Thames, always beautiful, are nowhere more delightful than in the neighborhood of Maidenhead, — one side ramparted by the high, abrupt, chalky cliffs of Buckinghamshire ; the other edging gently away into our rich Berkshire meadows, checkered with villages, villas, and woods. My own temporary home was one of singular beauty, — a snug cottage at Taplow, looking over a garden full of honeysuckles, lilies, and roses, to a miniature terrace, whose steps led down into the water, or rather into our little boat ; the fine old bridge at Maidenhead just below us ; the magnificent woods of Cliefden, crowned with the lordly mansion (now, alas ! a second time burnt down), rising high above ; and the broad, majestic river, fringed with willow and alder, gay with an ever-changing variety — the trim pleasure-yacht, the busy barge, or the punt of the solitary angler, gliding by placidly and slowly, the veiy image of calm and conscious power. No pleasantcr residence, through the sul- try months of July and August, than the Bridge cottage at Taplow ! Besides the natural advantages of the situation, we were within reach of many interesting places, of which we, as strangers, con- trived — as strangers usually do — to see a great deal more than the actual residents. A six-mile drive took us to the lordly towers of Windsor — the most queenly of our palaces — with the adjuncts that so well be- come the royal residence, St. George's Chapel and Eton College, fitting shrines of learning and devotion ! Windsor was full of B 26 Ur.COL SECTIONS OF charm. The plioslly shadow of a tree, that is, or passes for, Heme's oak — for the very iii:m oi whom we inquired our way maiiitaiucd that the tree was apoeryphal, allhou<^h ia sueh cases I hohl it wisest and pleasanlest to believe — the quaint ohl town itself, with tlie localities immortalized by Sir John and Sir Huah, Dame Uuickly and Justice Shallow, and all the company of the Merry Wives, had to me an unfailing attraction. To Windsor ■we drove apaiu and again, until the pony spontaneously turned his head AViudsor-ward. Then we reviewed the haunts of Gray, the house at Stoke Pogis, and the church-yard M'here he is buried, and which con- tains the touching epitaph wherein the pious son commemorates "the careful mother of many children, one of whom only had the misfortune to survive her."' To that spot we drove one bright summer dav, and "we were not the only visitants. It was pleasant to see one admirer seated under a tree, sketching the church, and another party, escorted by the clergyman, walking reverently through it. Stoke Pogis, however, is not without its rivals ; and we also visited the old church at Upton, whose ivy-mantled tower claims to be the veritable tower of the " Elegy." A very curious scene did that old church exhibit — that of an edifice not yet decayed, but abandoned to decay ; an incipient ruin, such as probably might have been paralleled in the monasteries of England after the Reformation, or in the churches of France after the first Revolution. The walls were still standing, still full of monu- ments and monumental inscriptions ; in some the gilding was yet fresh, and one tablet especially had been placed there veiy recently, commemorating the talent and virtues of the celebrated astronomer, Sir John Herschell. But the windows were denuded of their glass, the font broken, the pews dismantled, while on the tottering reading-desk one of the great Prayer books, all moldy and damp, still lay open — last vestige of the holy services with which it once resounded. Another church had been erected, but it looked new and naked, and every body seemed to regret the old place of worship, the roof of which was remarkable for the purity of its design.* Another of our excursions was to Ockwells — a curious and beautiful specimen of domestic architecture in the days before the * Since writing this paper, the fine old cliuro.li in qni'stion has beon com- pletely restored. A LITERARY LIFE. 27 Tudors. Strange it seems to me that xio one has exactly imitated that graceful front, with its steep roof terminated on either side by two projecting gables, the inner one lower than the other, adorned with oak carving, regular and delicate as that on an ivory fan. The porch has equal elegance. One almost expects to see some baronial hawking party, or some bridal procession, issue from its recesses. The great hall, although its grand open roof has been barbarously closed up, still retains its fine propor- tions, its dais, its music gallery, and the long range of windows, still adorned with the mottoes and escutcheons of the Norreys's, their kindred and allies. It has long been used as a farm-house ; and one marvels that the painted windows should have remained uninjured through four centuries of neglect and change. Much that AVas interesting has disappeared, but enough still remains to gratify those who love to examine the picturesque dwellings of our ancestors. The noble staircase, the iron-studded door, the prodigious lock, the gigantic key (too heavy for a woman to wield) the cloistered passages, the old fashioned buttery-hatch, give a view not merely of the degree of civilization of the age, but of the habits and customs of familiar daily hie. Another drive took us to the old grounds of Lady Place, where, in demolishing the house, care had been taken to preserve the vaults in which the great Whig leaders wrote and signed the famous letter to Wilham of Orange, which drove James the Second from the throne. A gloomy place it is now — a sort of underground ruin — and gloomy enough the patriots must have found it on that memorable occasion : the tombs of the monks (it had formerly been a monastery) under their feet, the rugged walls around them, and no ray of light, except the lanterns they may have brought with them, or the torches which they lit. Surely the signature of that summons which secured the liberties of England would make an impressive picture — Lord Somers in the foreground, and the other Whig statesmen grouped around him. A Latin inscription records a visit made by George 111. to the vaults ; and truly it is among the places that monarchs would do well to visit — full of stern lessons ! Chief pilgrimage of all was one that led us first to Beacons- field, through the dclighti'ul lanes of Buckinghamshire, with thcii luxuriance of hedge-row timber, and their patches of heathy com iron. There we paid willing homage to all that remained ol 2S RECOLLECTIONS OF tlu» habitation coiisccratoil by tlic penius of Edmunil Burke. Little is left, boyciul