Calamities and Quarrels of Authors. Disraeli Isaac

gown behind, as his locum tenens, to make his apology, by pinning on it a satirical farewell.

Whoever gives himself the pains to stoop, And take my venerable tatters up, To his presuming inquisition I, In loco Pattisoni, thus reply: “Tired with the senseless jargon of the gown, My master left the college for the town, And scorns his precious minutes to regale With wretched college-wit and college-ale.”

      He flew to the metropolis to take up the trade of a poet.

      A translation of Ovid’s “Epistles” had engaged his attention during two years; his own genius seemed inexhaustible; and pleasure and fame were awaiting the poetical emigrant. He resisted all kind importunities to return to college; he could not endure submission, and declares “his spirit cannot bear control.” One friend “fears the innumerable temptations to which one of his complexion is liable in such a populous place.” Pattison was much loved; he had all the generous impetuosity of youthful genius; but he had resolved on running the perilous career of literary glory, and he added one more to the countless thousands who perish in obscurity.

      His first letters are written with the same spirit that distinguishes Chatterton’s; all he hopes he seems to realise. He mixes among the wits, dates from Button’s, and drinks with Concanen healths to college friends, till they lose their own; more dangerous Muses condescend to exhibit themselves to the young poet in the park; and he was to be introduced to Pope. All is exultation! Miserable youth! The first thought of prudence appears in a resolution of soliciting subscriptions from all persons, for a volume of poems.

      His young friends at college exerted their warm patronage; those in his native North condemn him, and save their crowns; Pope admits of no interview, but lends his name, and bestows half-a-crown for a volume of poetry, which he did not want; the poet wearies kindness, and would extort charity even from brother-poets; petitions lords and ladies; and, as his wants grow on him, his shame decreases.

      How the scene has changed in a few months! He acknowledges to a friend, that “his heart was broke through the misfortunes he had fallen under;” he declares “he feels himself near the borders of death.” In moments like these he probably composed the following lines, awfully addressed,

101 AD CŒLUM! Good heaven! this mystery of life explain, Nor let me think I bear the load in vain; Lest, with the tedious passage cheerless grown, Urged by despair, I throw the burden down.

      But the torture of genius, when all its passions are strained on the rack, was never more pathetically expressed than in the following letter:—

      “Sir—If you was ever touched with a sense of humanity, consider my condition: what I am, my proposals will inform you; what I have been, Sidney College, in Cambridge, can witness; but what I shall be some few hours hence, I tremble to think! Spare my blushes!—I have not enjoyed the common necessaries of life for these two days, and can hardly hold to subscribe myself,

      “Yours, &c.”

      The picture is finished—it admits not of another stroke. Such was the complete misery which Savage, Boyse, Chatterton, and more innocent spirits devoted to literature, have endured—but not long—for they must perish in their youth!

      Henry Carey was one of our most popular poets; he, indeed, has unluckily met with only dictionary critics, or what is as fatal to genius, the cold and undistinguishing commendation of grave men on subjects of humour, wit, and the lighter poetry. The works of Carey do not appear in any of our great collections, where Walsh, Duke, and Yalden slumber on the shelf.

      Yet Carey was a true son of the Muses, and the most successful writer in our language. He is the author of several little national poems. In early life he successfully burlesqued the affected versification of Ambrose Philips, in his baby poems, to which he gave the fortunate appellation of “Namby Pamby, a panegyric on the new versification;” a term descriptive in sound of those chiming follies, and now become a technical term in modern criticism. Carey’s “Namby Pamby” was at first considered by Swift as the satirical effusion of Pope, and by Pope as the humorous ridicule of Swift. His ballad of “Sally in our Alley” was more than once commended for its nature by Addison, and is sung to this day. Of the national song, “God save the King,” it is supposed he was the author 102 both of the words and of the music.[73] He was very successful on the stage, and wrote admirable burlesques of the Italian Opera, in “The Dragon of Wantley,” and “The Dragoness;” and the mock tragedy of “Chrononhotonthologos” is not forgotten. Among his Poems lie still concealed several original pieces; those which have a political turn are particularly good, for the politics of Carey were those of a poet and a patriot. I refer the politician who has any taste for poetry and humour to “The Grumbletonians, or the Dogs without doors, a Fable,” very instructive to those grown-up folks, “The Ins and the Outs.” “Carey’s Wish” is in this class; and, as the purity of election remains still among the desiderata of every true Briton, a poem on that subject by the patriotic author of our national hymn of “God save the King” may be acceptable.

CAREY’S WISH. Cursed be the wretch that’s bought and sold, And barters liberty for gold; For when election is not free, In vain we boast of liberty: And he who sells his single right, Would sell his country, if he might. When liberty is put to sale For wine, for money, or for ale, The sellers must be abject slaves, The buyers vile designing knaves; A proverb it has been of old, The devil’s bought but to be sold. This maxim in the statesman’s school Is always taught, divide and rule. All parties are to him a joke: While zealots foam, he fits the yoke. Let men their reason once resume; ’Tis then the statesman’s turn to fume. 103 Learn, learn, ye Britons, to unite; Leave off the old exploded bite; Henceforth let Whig and Tory cease, And turn all party rage to peace; Rouse and revive your ancient glory; Unite, and drive the world before you.

      To the ballad of “Sally in our Alley” Carey has prefixed an argument so full of nature, that the song may hereafter derive an additional interest from its simple origin. The author assures the reader that the popular notion that the subject of his ballad had been the noted Sally Salisbury, is perfectly erroneous, he being a stranger to her name at the time the song was composed.

      “As innocence and virtue were ever the boundaries of his Muse, so in this little poem he had no other view than to set forth the beauty of a chaste and disinterested passion, even in the lowest class of human life. The real occasion was this: A shoemaker’s ’prentice, making holiday with his sweetheart, treated her with a sight of Bedlam, the puppet-shows, the flying-chairs, and all the elegancies of Moorfields; from whence, proceeding to the Farthing Pye-house, he gave her a collation of buns, cheesecakes, gammon of bacon, stuffed beef, and bottled ale; through all which scenes the author dodged them (charmed with the simplicity of their courtship), from whence he drew this little sketch of Nature; but, being then young and obscure, he was very much ridiculed for this performance; which, nevertheless, made its way into the polite world, and amply recompensed him by the applause of the divine Addison, who was pleased (more than once) to mention it with approbation.”

      In “The Poet’s Resentment” poor Carey had once forsworn “the harlot Muse:”—

Far, far away then chase the harlot Muse, Nor let her thus thy noon of life abuse; Mix with the common crowd, unheard, unseen, And if again thou tempt’st the vulgar praise, Mayst thou be crown’d with birch instead of bays!

      Poets make such oaths in sincerity, and break them in rapture.

      At the time that this poet could neither walk the streets nor be seated at the convivial board, without listening to his own songs and his own music—for, in truth, the whole nation was echoing his verse, and crowded theatres were applauding 104 his wit and humour—while this very man himself, urged by his strong humanity, founded a “Fund for decayed Musicians”—he was so broken-hearted, and his own common comforts so utterly neglected, that in despair, not waiting for nature to relieve him from the burden of existence, he laid violent hands on himself; and when found dead, had