Volume I Part 15 (1/2)
I was much diverted the other morning with another volume on birds by Edwards, who has published four or five. The poor man, who is grown very old and devout, begs G.o.d to take from him the love of natural philosophy; and having observed some heterodox proceedings among bantam c.o.c.ks, he proposes that all schools of girls and boys should be promiscuous, lest, if separated, they should learn wayward pa.s.sions. But what struck me most were his dedications, the last was to G.o.d; this is to Lord Bute, as if he was determined to make his fortune in one world or the other.
Pray read Fontaine's fable of the lion grown old; don't it put you in mind of anything? No! not when his s.h.a.ggy majesty has borne the insults of the tiger and the horse, &c., and the a.s.s comes last, kicks out his only remaining fang, and asks for a blue bridle? _Apropos_, I will tell you the turn Charles Townshend gave to this fable. ”My lord,” said he, ”has quite mistaken the thing; he soars too high at first: people often miscarry by not preceding by degrees; he went and at once asked for my _Lord_ Carlisle's garter--if he would have been contented to ask first for my _Lady_ Carlisle's garter, I don't know but he would have obtained it!” Adieu!
_CAPTURE OF CARRICKFERGUS._
TO SIR HORACE MANN.
ARLINGTON STREET, _Feb._ 28, 1760.
The next time you see Marshal Botta, and are to act King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, you must abate about a hundredth thousandth part of the dignity of your crown. You are no more monarch of _all_ Ireland, than King O'Neil, or King Macdermoch is. Louis XV. is sovereign of France, Navarre, and Carrickfergus. You will be mistaken if you think the peace is made, and that we cede this Hibernian town, in order to recover Minorca, or to keep Quebec and Louisbourg. To be sure, it is natural you should think so: how should so victorious and heroic a nation cease to enjoy any of its possessions, but to save Christian blood? Oh! I know you will suppose there has been another insurrection, and that it is King John of Bedford, and not King George of Brunswick, that has lost this town. Why, I own you are a great politician, and see things in a moment--and no wonder, considering how long you have been employed in negotiations; but for once all your sagacity is mistaken.
Indeed, considering the total destruction of the maritime force of France, and that the great mechanics and mathematicians of this age have not invented a flying bridge to fling over the sea and land from the coast of France to the north of Ireland, it was not easy to conceive how the French should conquer Carrickfergus--and yet they have. But how I run on! not reflecting that by this time the old Pretender must have hobbled through Florence on his way to Ireland, to take possession of this sc.r.a.p of his recovered domains; but I may as well tell you at once, for to be sure you and the loyal body of English in Tuscany will slip over all this exordium to come to the account of so extraordinary a revolution. Well, here it is. Last week Monsieur Thurot--oh! now you are _au fait_!--Monsieur Thurot, as I was saying, landed last week in the isle of Islay, the capital province belonging to a great Scotch King, who is so good as generally to pa.s.s the winter with his friends here in London. Monsieur Thurot had three s.h.i.+ps, the crews of which burnt two s.h.i.+ps belonging to King George, and a house belonging to his friend the King of Argyll--pray don't mistake; by _his friend_, I mean King George's, not Thurot's friend. When they had finished this campaign, they sailed to Carrickfergus, a poorish town, situate in the heart of the Protestant cantons. They immediately made a moderate demand of about twenty articles of provisions, promising to pay for them; for you know it is the way of modern invasions to make them cost as much as possible to oneself, and as little to those one invades. If this was not complied with, they threatened to burn the town, and then march to Belfast, which is much richer. We were sensible of this civil proceeding, and not to be behindhand, agreed to it; but somehow or other this capitulation was broken; on which a detachment (the whole invasion consists of one thousand men) attack the place. We shut the gates, but after the battle of Quebec, it is impossible that so great a people should attend to such trifles as locks and bolts, accordingly there were none--and as if there were no gates neither, the two armies fired through them--if this is a blunder, remember I am describing an _Irish_ war. I forgot to give you the numbers of the Irish army. It consisted of four companies--indeed they consisted but of seventy-two men, under Lieut.-colonel Jennings, a wonderful brave man--too brave, in short, to be very judicious. Unluckily our ammunition was soon spent, for it is not above a year that there have been any apprehensions for Ireland, and as all that part of the country are most protestantly loyal, it was not thought necessary to arm people who would fight till they die for their religion. When the artillery was silenced, the garrison thought the best way of saving the town was by flinging it at the heads of the besiegers; according they poured volleys of brickbats at the French, whose commander, Monsieur Flobert, was mortally knocked down, and his troops began to give way. However, General Jennings thought it most prudent to retreat to the castle, and the French again advanced. Four or five raw recruits still bravely kept the gates, when the garrison, finding no more gunpowder in the castle than they had had in the town, and not near so good a brick-kiln, sent to desire to surrender. General Thurot accordingly made them prisoners of war, and plundered the town.
_THE BALLAD OF ”HARDYKNUTE”--MR. HOME'S ”SIEGE OF AQUILEIA”--”TRISTRAM SHANDY”--BISHOP WARBURTON'S PRAISE OF IT._
TO SIR DAVID DALRYMPLE.
STRAWBERRY HILL, _April_ 4, 1760.
Sir,--As I have very little at present to trouble you with myself, I should have deferred writing till a better opportunity, if it were not to satisfy the curiosity of a friend; a friend whom you, Sir, will be glad to have made curious, as you originally pointed him out as a likely person to be charmed with the old Irish poetry you sent me. It is Mr.
Gray, who is an enthusiast about those poems, and begs me to put the following queries to you; which I will do in his own words, and I may say truly, _Poeta loquitur_.
”I am so charmed with the two specimens of Erse poetry, that I cannot help giving you the trouble to inquire a little farther about them, and should wish to see a few lines of the original, that I may form some slight idea of the language, the measure, and the rhythm.
”Is there anything known of the author or authors, and of what antiquity are they supposed to be?
”Is there any more to be had of equal beauty, or at all approaching to it?
”I have been often told, that the poem called Hardykanute[1] (which I always admired and still admire) was the work of somebody that lived a few years ago. This I do not at all believe, though it has evidently been retouched in places by some modern hand; but, however, I am authorised by this report to ask, whether the two poems in question are certainly antique and genuine. I make this inquiry in quality of an antiquary, and am not otherwise concerned about it; for if I were sure that any one now living in Scotland had written them, to divert himself and laugh at the credulity of the world, I would undertake a journey into the Highlands only for the pleasure of seeing him.”
[Footnote 1: ”Hardyknute” was an especial favourite of Sir W. Scott. In his ”Life of Mr. Lockhart” he mentions having found in one of his books a mention that ”he was taught 'Hardyknute' by heart before he could read the ballad itself; it was the first poem he ever learnt, the last he should ever forget” (c. 2). And in the very last year of his life, while at Malta, in a discussion on ballads in general, ”he greatly lamented his friend Mr. Frere's heresy in not esteeming highly enough that of 'Hardyknute.' He admitted that it was not a veritable old ballad, but 'just old enough,' and a n.o.ble imitation of the best style.” In fact, it was the composition of a lady, Mrs. Hachet, of Wardlaw.]
You see, Sir, how easily you may make our greatest southern bard travel northward to visit a brother. The young translator has nothing to do but to own a forgery, and Mr. Gray is ready to pack up his lyre, saddle Pegasus, and set out directly. But seriously, he, Mr. Mason, my Lord Lyttelton, and one or two more, whose taste the world allows, are in love with your Erse elegies: I cannot say in general they are so much admired--but Mr. Gray alone is worth satisfying.
The ”Siege of Aquileia,” of which you ask, pleased less than Mr. Home's other plays.[1] In my own opinion, ”Douglas” far exceeds both the other. Mr. Home seems to have a beautiful talent for painting genuine nature and the manners of his country. There was so little of nature in the manners of both Greeks and Romans, that I do not wonder at his success being less brilliant when he tried those subjects; and, to say the truth, one is a little weary of them. At present, nothing is talked of, nothing admired, but what I cannot help calling a very insipid and tedious performance: it is a kind of novel, called ”The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy;”[2] the great humour of which consists in the whole narration always going backwards. I can conceive a man saying that it would be droll to write a book in that manner, but have no notion of his persevering in executing it. It makes one smile two or three times at the beginning, but in recompense makes one yawn for two hours. The characters are tolerably kept up, but the humour is for ever attempted and missed. The best thing in it is a Sermon, oddly coupled with a good deal of coa.r.s.eness, and both the composition of a clergyman.
The man's head, indeed, was a little turned before, now topsy-turvy with his success and fame. Dodsley has given him six hundred and fifty pounds for the second edition and two more volumes (which I suppose will reach backwards to his great-great-grandfather); Lord Fauconberg, a donative of one hundred and sixty pounds a-year; and Bishop Warburton[3] gave him a purse of gold and this compliment (which happened to be a contradiction), ”that it was quite an original composition, and in the true Cervantic vein:” the only copy that ever was an original, except in painting, where they all pretend to be so. Warburton, however, not content with this, recommended the book to the bench of bishops, and told them Mr. Sterne, the author, was the English Rabelais. They had never heard of such a writer. Adieu!
[Footnote 1: ”_Mr. Home's other plays._” Mr. Home was a Presbyterian minister. His first play was ”The Tragedy of Douglas,” which D'Israeli describes as a drama which, ”by awakening the piety of domestic affections with the n.o.bler pa.s.sions, would elevate and purify the mind;”
and proceeds, with no little indignation, to relate how nearly it cost the author dear. The ”Glasgow divines, with the monastic spirit of the darkest ages, published a paper, which I abridge for the contemplation of the reader, who may wonder to see such a composition written in the eighteenth century: 'On Wednesday, February 2, 1757, the Presbytery of Glasgow came to the following resolution: They, having seen a printed paper int.i.tuled an admonition and exhortation of the reverend Presbytery of Edinburgh, which, among other evils prevailing, observed the following _melancholy_ but _notorious_ facts, that one who is a minister of the Church of Scotland did _himself_ write and compose _a stage play_, int.i.tuled 'The Tragedy of Douglas,' and got it to be acted at the theatre of Edinburgh; and that he, with several other ministers of the Church, were present, and _some_ of them _oftener than once_, at the acting of the said play before a numerous audience. The presbytery being _deeply affected_ with this new and strange appearance, do publish these sentiments,'” &c., &c.--sentiments with which I will not disgust the reader.]
[Footnote 2: Walpole's criticism is worth preserving as a singular proof how far prejudice can obscure the judgement of a generally shrewd observer, and it is the more remarkable since he selects as its especial fault the failure of the author's attempts at humour; while all other critics, from Macaulay to Thackeray, agree in placing it among those works in which the humour is most conspicuous and most attractive. Even Johnson, when Boswell once, thinking perhaps that his ”ill.u.s.trious friend” might be offended with its occasional coa.r.s.eness, p.r.o.nounced Sterne to be ”a dull fellow,” was at once met with, ”Why no, Sir.”]
[Footnote 3: Bishop Warburton was Bishop of Gloucester, a prelate whose vast learning was in some degree tarnished by unepiscopal violence of temper. He was a voluminous author; his most important work being an essay on ”The Divine Legation of Moses.” In one of his letters to Garrick he praises ”Tristram Shandy” highly, priding himself on having recommended it to all the best company in town.]
_ERSE POETRY--”THE DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD”--”THE COMPLETE ANGLER.”_
TO SIR DAVID DALRYMPLE.
_June_ 20, 1760.
I am obliged to you, Sir, for the volume of Erse poetry: all of it has merit; but I am sorry not to see in it the six descriptions of night with which you favoured me before, and which I like as much as any of the pieces. I can, however, by no means agree with the publisher, that they seem to be parts of an heroic poem; nothing to me can be more unlike. I should as soon take all the epitaphs in Westminster Abbey, and say it was an epic poem on the History of England. The greatest part are evidently elegies; and though I should not expect a bard to write by the rules of Aristotle, I would not, on the other hand, give to any work a t.i.tle that must convey so different an idea to every common reader. I could wish, too, that the authenticity had been more largely stated. A man who knows Dr. Blair's character will undoubtedly take his word; but the gross of mankind, considering how much it is the fas.h.i.+on to be sceptical in reading, will demand proofs, not a.s.sertions.