The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 475, February 5, 1831

LORD BYRON

(From Moore's "Life," Vol. II.)

To those who have, from his childhood, traced him through these pages, it must be manifest, I think, that Lord Byron was not formed to be long-lived.—Whether from any hereditary defect in his organization—as he himself, from the circumstance of both his parents having died young, concluded—or from those violent means he so early took to counteract the natural tendency of his habit, and reduce himself to thinness, he was, almost every year, as we have seen, subject to attacks of indisposition, by more than one of which his life was seriously endangered. The capricious course which he at all times pursued respecting diet—his long fastings, his expedients for the allayment of hunger, his occasional excesses in the most unwholesome food, and, during the latter part of his residence in Italy, his indulgence in the use of spirituous beverages—all this could not be otherwise than hurtful and undermining to his health; while his constant recourse to medicine—daily, as it appears, and in large quantities—both evinced, and, no doubt, increased the derangement of his digestion. When to all this we add the wasteful wear of spirits and strength from the slow corrosion of sensibility, the warfare of the passions, and the workings of a mind that allowed itself no sabbath, it is not to be wondered at that the vital principle in him should so soon have burnt out, or that, at the age of thirty-three, he should have had—as he himself drearily expresses it—"an old feel." To feed the flame, the all-absorbing flame, of his genius, the whole powers of his nature, physical as well as moral, were sacrificed;—to present that grand and costly conflagration to the world's eyes, in which,

"Glittering, like a palace set on fire,His glory, while it shone, but ruined him!"5

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

AN UNEDUCATED POET

One of the best papers in the Public Journals for the present month is in the Quarterly Review, No. 87. It purports to be a notice of "Attempts in Verse, by John Jones, an Old Servant. With some Account of the Writer, written by himself: and an introductory Essay on the Lives and Works of our Uneducated Poets. By Robert Southey, Esq." We extract such portion of the paper as relates to JONES, reserving a few notices of other uneducated poets for a future number.

In the autumn of 1827, Mr. Southey was spending a few weeks with his family at Harrowgate, when a letter reached him from John Jones, butler to a country gentleman in that district of Yorkshire, who, hearing that the poet laureate was so near him, had plucked up courage to submit to his notice some of his own "attempts in verse." He was touched by the modest address of this humble aspirant; and the inclosed specimen of his rhymes, however rude and imperfect, exhibited such simplicity of thought and kindliness of disposition—such minute and intelligent observation of Nature—such lively sensibility—and, withal, such occasional felicities of diction—that he was induced to make further inquiries into the history of the man. It turned out that Jones had maintained, through a long life the character of a most faithful and exemplary domestic, having been no fewer than twenty-four years with the family, who, still retaining him in their service, had long since learned to regard and value him as a friend. The poet laureate encouraged him, therefore, to transmit more of his verses, and the result is the volume before us—not more than a third of which, however, is occupied with the 'Attempts' of the good old butler of Kirby Hall, the rest being given to a chapter of our literary history from his editor's own pen, which, we venture to say, will be not less generally attractive than the "Life of John Bunyan," reviewed in our last Number.

"There were many," says Mr. Southey, "I thought, who would be pleased at seeing how much intellectual enjoyment had been attained in humble life, and in very unfavourable circumstances; and that this exercise of the mind, instead of rendering the individual discontented with his station, had conduced greatly to his happiness; and if it had not made him a good man, had contributed to keep him so. This pleasure should in itself, methought, be sufficient to content those subscribers who might kindly patronize a little volume of his verses."

John Jones's own account of the circumstances under which his "Attempts" have been produced, cannot fail to impress every mind with the moral lesson thus briefly pointed to by the editor. After a simple chronicle of his earlier life, he thus concludes:—

"I entered into the family which I am now serving in January, 1804, and have continued in it, first with the father, and then with the son, only during an interval of eighteen months, up to the present hour, and during which period most of my trifles have been composed, and some of my former attempts brought (perhaps) a little nearer perfection: but I have seldom sat down to study any thing; for in many instances when I have done so, a ring at the bell, or a knock at the door, or something or other, would disturb me; and not wishing to be seen, I frequently used to either crumple my paper up in my pocket, or take the trouble to lock it up, and before I could arrange it again, I was often, sir, again disturbed. From this, sir, I got into the habit of trusting entirely to my memory, and most of my little pieces have been completed and borne in mind for weeks before I have committed them to paper. From this I am led to believe that there are but few situations in life in which attempts of the kind may not be made under less discouraging circumstances. Having a wife and three children to support, sir, I have had some little difficulties to contend with; but, thank God, I have encountered them pretty well. I have received many little helps from the family, for which I hope, sir, I may be allowed to say that I have shown my gratitude, by a faithful discharge of my duty; but, within the last year, my children have all gone to service. Having been rather busy this last week, sir, I have taken up but little time in the preparation of this, and I am fearful you will think it comes before you in a discreditable shape; but I hope you will be able to collect from it all that may be required for your benevolent purpose: but should you wish to be empowered to speak with greater confidence of my character, by having the testimony of others in support of my own, I believe, sir, I should not find much difficulty in obtaining it; for it affords me some little gratification, sir, to think that in the few families I have served, I have lived respected, for in none do I remember of ever being accused of an immoral action; nor with all my propensity to rhyme have I been charged with a neglect of duty. I therefore hope, sir, that if some of the fruits of my humble muse be destined to see the light, and should not be thought worthy of commendation, no person of a beneficent disposition will regret any little encouragement given to an old servant under such circumstances."—pp. 179, 180.

The tranquil, affectionate, and contented spirit that shines out in the "Attempts" is in keeping with the tone of this letter; and if Burns was right when he told Dugald Stewart that no man could understand the pleasure he felt in seeing the smoke curling up from a cottage chimney, who had not been born and bred, like himself, in such abodes, and therefore knew how much worth and happiness they contain; and if the works of that great poet have, in spite of many licentious passages, been found, on the whole, productive of a wholesome effect in society, through their aim and power to awaken sympathy and respect between classes whom fortune has placed asunder, surely this old man's verses ought to meet with no cold reception among those who appreciate the value of kindly relations between masters and dependents. In them they will trace the natural influence of that old system of manners which was once general throughout England; under which the young domestic was looked after, by his master and mistress, with a sort of parental solicitude—admonished kindly for petty faults, commended for good conduct, advised, and encouraged—and which held out to him, who should spend a series of years honestly and dutifully in one household, the sure hope of being considered and treated in old age as a humble friend. Persons who breathe habitually the air of a crowded city, where the habits of life are such that the man often knows little more of his master than that master does of his next-door neighbour, will gather instruction as well as pleasure from the glimpses which John Jones's history and lucubrations afford of the interior machinery of life in a yet unsophisticated region of the country. His little complimentary stanzas on the birthdays, and such other festivals of the family—his inscriptions to their neighbour Mrs. Laurence, of Studley Park, and the like, are equally honourable to himself and his benevolent superiors; and the simple purity of his verses of love or gallantry, inspired by village beauties of his own station, may kindle a blush on the cheeks of most of those whose effusions are now warbled over fashionable piano-fortes.

The stanzas which first claimed and won the favourable consideration of the poet laureate were these 'To a Robin Red-breast:'

"Sweet social bird, with breast of red,How prone's my heart to favour thee!Thy look oblique, thy prying head,Thy gentle affability;"Thy cheerful song in winter's cold,And, when no other lay is heard,Thy visits paid to young and old,Where fear appals each other bird;"Thy friendly heart, thy nature mild,Thy meekness and docility,Creep to the love of man and child,And win thine own felicity."The gleanings of the sumptuous board,Convey'd by some indulgent fair,Are in a nook of safety stored,And not dispensed till thou art there."In stately hall and rustic dome,The gaily robed and homely poorWill watch the hour when thou shall come,And bid thee welcome to the door."The Herdsman on the upland hill,The Ploughman in the hamlet near,Are prone thy little paunch to fill,And pleased thy little psalm to hear."The Woodman seated on a logHis meal divides atween the three,And now himself, and now his dog,And now he casts a crumb to thee."For thee a feast the Schoolboy strewsAt noontide, when the form's forsook;A worm to thee the Delver throws,And Angler when he baits his hook."At tents where tawny Gipsies dwell,In woods where Hunters chase the hind,And at the Hermit's lonely cell,Dost thou some crumbs of comfort find."Nor are thy little wants forgotIn Beggar's hut or Crispin's stall;The Miser only feeds thee not,Who suffers ne'er a crumb to fall."The Youth who strays, with dark design,To make each well-stored nest a prey,If dusky hues denote them thine,Will draw his pilfering hand away."The Finch a spangled robe may wear,The Nightingale delightful sing,The Lark ascend most high in air,The Swallow fly most swift on wing,"The Peacock's plumes in pride may swell,The Parrot prate eternally,But yet no bird man loves so well,As thou with thy simplicity."

Among many affectionate tributes to the kind family in whose service he has spent so many years, not the worst are some lines occasioned by the death of Miss Sadlier Bruere, written a few months afterwards (December 1826) at Tours:

"Thou wert miss'd in the group when the eye look'd around,And miss'd by the ear was thy voice in the sound;Thy chamber was darksome, thy bell was unrung,Thy footstep unheard, and thy lyre unstrung:A stillness prevail'd at the mournful repast;In tears was the eye on thy vacant seat cast.Each scene wearing gloom, and each brow bearing care,Too plainly denoted that death had been there.To earth we consign'd thee, and made an advance,The thought to beguile, to the vineyards of France.But 'twould not be cheated; of all that was rare,Fond Nature kept whispering a wish thou could'st share:No air softly swelling, no chord struck with glee,But awoke in the bosom remembrance of thee.Even now, as the cold winds adown the leaves bring,We sigh that our flow'ret was blighted in spring."

THE NECROMANCER

BY MRS. HEMANS."Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please?Resolve me of all ambiguities?Perform what desperate enterprises I will?I'll have them fly to India for gold,Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,And search all corners of the New-found WorldFor pleasant fruits and princely delicates."MARLOWE'S Faustus.An old man on his death-bed lay, an old, yet stately man;His lip seemed moulded for command, tho' quivering now, and wan;By fits a wild and wandering fire shot from his troubled eye,But his pale brow still austerely wore its native mastery.There were gorgeous things from lands afar, strewn round the mystic room;From where the orient palm-trees wave, bright gem and dazzling plume:And vases with rich odour fill'd, that o'er the couch of deathShed forth, like groves from Indian isles, a spicy summer's breath.And sculptured forms of olden time, in their strange beauty white,Stood round the chamber solemnly, robed as in ghostly light;All passionless and still they stood, and shining through the gloom,Like watchers of another world, stern angels of the tomb.'Twas silent as a midnight church, that dim and mystic place,While shadows cast from many thoughts, o'er-swept the old man's face:He spoke at last, and low and deep, yet piercing was the tone,To one that o'er him long had watched, in reverence and alone."I leave," he said, "an empire dread, by mount, and shore, and sea,Wider than Roman Eagle's wing e'er traversed proudly free;Never did King or Kaiser yet such high dominion boast,Or Soldan of the sunbeam's clime, girt with a conquering host."They hear me, they that dwell far down where the sea-serpent lies,And they, th' unseen, on Afric's hills, that sport when tempests rise;And they that rest in central caves, whence fiery streams make way,My lightest whisper shakes their sleep—they hear me, and obey."They come to me with ancient wealth—with crown and cup of gold,From cities roof'd with ocean-waves, that buried them of old;They come from Earth's most hidden veins, which man shall never find,With gems that have the hues of fire deep at their heart enshrined."But a mightier power is on me now—it rules my struggling breath;I have sway'd the rushing elements—but still and strong is DeathI quit my throne, yet leave I not my vassal-spirits free—Thou hast brave and high aspirings, youth!—my Sceptre is for thee!Now listen! I will teach thee words whose mastery shall compelThe viewless ones to do thy work, in wave, or blood, or hell!But never, never mayst thou breathe those words in human ear,Until thou'rt laid, as I am now, the grave's dark portals near."His voice in faintness died away—and a sudden flush was seen,A mantling of the rapid blood o'er the youth's impassion'd mien,A mantling and a fading swift—a look with sadness fraught—And that too pass'd—and boldly then rush'd forth the ardent thought."Must those high words of sovereignty ne'er sound in human ear?I have a friend—a noble friend—as life or freedom dear!Thou offerest me a glorious gift—a proud majestic throne,But I know the secrets of his heart—and shall I seal mine own?"And there is one that loves me well, with yet a gentle love—Oh! is not her full, boundless faith, all power, all wealth above?Must a deep gulf between the souls—now closely link'd, be set?Keep, keep the Sceptre!—leave me free, and loved, and trustful yet!"Then from the old man's haughty lips was heard the sad reply—"Well hast thou chosen!—I blame thee not—I that unwept must die;Live, thou beloved, and trustful yet! No more on human head,Be the sorrows of unworthy gifts from bitter vials shed!"Blackwood's Magazine.

A MOORE-ISH MELODY

Oh! give me not unmeaning smiles,Though worldly clouds may fly before them;But let me see the sweet blue islesOf radiant eyes when tears wash o'er them.Though small the fount where they begin,They form—'tis thought in many a sonnet—A flood to drown our sense of sin;But oh! Love's ark still floats upon it.Then give me tears—oh! hide not one;The best affections are but flowers,That faint beneath the fervid sun,And languish once a day for showers.Yet peril lurks in every gem—For tears are worse than swords in slaughter:And man is still subdued by them,As humming-birds are shot with water.Monthly Magazine

THE LAST WORDS OF A MOTH

I burn—I die—I cannot fly—Too late, and all in vain:The glow—the light—charmed sense and sight—Now naught is left but pain.That wicked flame, no pencil's aim,No pen can e'er depict on paper;My waltz embraced that taper waist,Till I am wasted like a taper.Worthy the brightest hours of GreeceWas that pure fire, or so I felt it;Its feeder towered in steadfast peace,While I believed for me it melted.No use in heighos! or alacks!My cure is past the power of money;Too sure that form of virgin waxRetained the bee's sting with the honey.Its eye was blue, its head was cold,Its round neck white as lilied chalice;In short, a thing of faultless mould,Fit for a maiden empress' palace.So round and round—I knew no better—I fluttered, nearer to the heat;Methought I saw an offered letter—Now I but see my winding-sheet.Some pearly drops fell, as for grief–Oh, sad delusion;—ah, poor Moth!I caused them not; 'twas but a thiefHad got within to wrong us both,Now I am left quite in the dark,The light's gone out that caused my pain;Let my last gaze be on that spark—Kind breezes, blow it in again.Then snuff it well, when once rekindled,Whoe'er about its brilliance lingers,But though 'twere to one flicker kindled,Be careful, or you'll burn your fingers.It sought not me; and though I die,On such bright cause I'll cast no scandal—I fled to one who could not fly—Then blame the Moth, but not the Candle.Ibid.

THE GATHERER

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."SHAKSPEARE.

THE LAST FRIEND

A respectable character, after having long figured in the gay world of Paris, was at length compelled to live in an obscure retreat in that city, the victim of severe and unforeseen misfortunes. He was so indigent that he subsisted on an allowance from the parish every week; a quantity of bread was sent to him sufficient for his support; and yet, at length, he demanded more. On this the curate sent for him—he went. "Do you live alone?" said the curate. "With whom, sir," answered the unfortunate man, "is it possible I should live? I am wretched, you see that I am, since I thus solicit charity, and am abandoned by all the world." "But, sir," continued the curate, "if you live alone, why do you ask for more bread than is sufficient for yourself?" The other was quite disconcerted, and at last, with great reluctance, confessed that he had a dog. The curate did not drop the subject; he desired him to observe "that he was only the distributor of the bread that belonged to the poor, and that it was absolutely necessary that he should dispose of his dog." "Ah! Sir," exclaimed the poor man weeping, "and if I lose my dog, who is there then to love me?" The good pastor melting into tears, took his purse, and giving it to him, "Take this, sir," said he, "this is mine; this I can give you."

W.G.C.

ELECTIONEERING PIETY

In the year 1768, the following printed notices were stuck upon the doors and walls of the churches in the City of London, one Sunday morning:—"The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired for the restoration of liberty, depending on the election of Mr. Wilkes."

J.R.S.

FAZIO

"They have brought out Fazio with great and deserved success at Covent Garden: that's a good sign. I tried during the directory, to have it done at Drury Lane, but was overruled."—Byron's Letters.

THE DEVIL AMONG THE PRINTERS

In the year 1561, a work was printed, entitled the Anatomy of the Mass. It contained one hundred and seventy pages, accompanied with errata of fifteen pages! The author, a monk, in an advertisement prefixed to the errata states, that the devil, to ruin the fruit of his work, employed two very malicious frauds, by first drenching the manuscript in the kennel, reducing it to a most pitiable state, and rendering some parts altogether illegible, and then obliging the printers to commit such numerous blunders, never before equalled in so small a work. To combat this double machination of Satan, he was obliged carefully to reperuse the work, and to form this singular list of the blunders of printers working under the influence of the devil.

W.A.R.

CHARTER

Translation of "a Charter, originally written in Saxon, and granted by William the Conqueror to the Inhabitants of London:"

"William, King, greets William, Bishop, and Godfrey Portgrave" (the same in office as Lord Mayor) "and all the Borough of London, French and English friendly. And I now make known to you, that you are worthy to enjoy all those laws and privileges which you did before the decease of King Edward. And it is my will that every child be his father's heir after his father's decease. And I will not suffer any man to do you wrong. God you keep."

J.H.N.

A "SPECTATOR" NEWSPAPER

"P.S. If you thought of a middle plan between a Spectator and a newspaper, why not?—only not on a Sunday. Not that Sunday is not an excellent day, but it is engaged already. We will call it the 'Tenda Rossa,' the name Tassoni gave an answer of his in a controversy, in allusion to the delicate hint of Timour the Lame, to his enemies, by a 'Tenda' of that colour, before he gave battle. Or we will call it 'Gli,' or 'I Carbonari,' if it so please you—or any other name full of 'pastime and prodigality,' which you may prefer. * * * Let me have an answer. I conclude poetically, with the bellman, 'a merry Christmas to you!"'—Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, in his Life of the Noble Poet, vol. ii. p. 387.

FOR ALL FAMILIES

In a closely-printed volume, price 5s. theFAMILY MANUAL,AND SERVANTS' GUIDE

"This little volume contains much useful information upon every subject in which a domestic servant ought to be well versed. From the housekeeper to the scullery-maid, and from the butler to the groom, advice, cautions, receipts, and general hints, are given to each and all. They are written in a plain and sensible manner, and appear, as far as we are able to judge, the results of practical experience. To the master and mistress, as well as to those whose duties are of a more humble nature, the book may be strongly recommended. It is one from which the high and low may derive much benefit, and should find a place in the kitchen or servants'-hall of those who desire to blend comfort with elegance, and prudence with luxury."—New Monthly Magazine for the present month.

1

Born May 22, 1770; married April 7, 1818, to Frederick Joseph Lewis, Landgrave of Hesse Homburg, who died April 2, 1829 aged 61.

2

All places in the neighbourhood of Alderley Edge and Mobberley.

3

Printed by mistake Tor-withiel, in No. II. of these Recollections: see Mirror, vol. xv. p. 356.

4

See Mirror, vol. xiii. p. 259.

5

Beaumont and Fletcher.