All this is so true in literary history, that he who affects to suspect the sincerity of Pope's declaration, may flatter his sagacity, but will do no credit to his knowledge.

If thus great poets pour their lamentations for having devoted themselves to their art, some sympathy is due to the querulousness of a numerous race of provincial bards, whose situation is ever at variance with their feelings. These usually form exaggerated conceptions of their own genius, from the habit of comparing themselves with their contracted circle. Restless, with a desire of poetical celebrity, their heated imagination views in the metropolis that fame and fortune denied them in their native town; there they become halfhermits and half-philosophers, darting epigrams which provoke hatred, or pouring elegies, descriptive of their feelings, which move derision: their neighbours find it much easier to ascertain their foibles, than comprehend their genius; and both parties live in a state of mutual persecution. Such, among many, was the fate of the poet HERRICK; his vein was pastoral, and he lived in the elysium of the west, which, however, he describes by the sullen epithet, "Dull Devonshire," where "he is still sad." Strange that such a poet should have resided near twenty years in one of our most beautiful counties in a very discontented humour. When he quitted his village of "Deanbourne," the petulant poet left behind him a severe "farewell," which was found still preserved in the parish, after a lapse of more than a century. Local satire has been often preserved by the very objects it is directed against, sometimes from the charm of the wit itself, and sometimes from the covert malice of attacking our neighbours. Thus he addresses "Deanbourne, a rude river in Devonshire, by which, sometime, he lived :—-”

"Dean-bourn, farewell!

Thy rockie bottom that doth tear thy streams,
And makes them frantic, e'en to all extremes.
Rockie thou art, and rockie we discover
Thy men,-

O men! O manners!

O people currish, churlish as their seas-"

He rejoices he leaves them, never to return till "rocks shall turn to rivers." When he arrives in London,

"From the dull confines of the drooping west, To see the day-spring from the pregnant east,"

he, "ravished in spirit," exclaims, on a view of the metropolis,

"O place! O people! manners form'd to please All nations, customs, kindreds, languages !"

But he fervently entreats not to be banished again:

"For, rather than I'll to the west return,
I'll beg of thee first, here to have mine urn."

The Devonians were avenged; for the satirist of the English Arcadia was condemned again to reside by "its rockie side," among "its rockie men."

Such has been the usual chaunt of provincial poets; and, if the "silky-soft Favonian gales" of Devon, with its "Worthies," could not escape the anger of such a poet as Herrick, what county may hope to be saved from the invective of querulous and dissatisfied poets?

In this calamity of authors I will show that a great poet felicitated himself that poetry was not the business of his life; and afterwards I will bring forward an evidence that the immoderate pursuit of poetry, with a very moderate genius, creates a perpetual state of illusion; and pursues gray-headed folly even to the verge of the grave.

Pope imagined that PRIOR was only fit to make verses, and less qualified for business than Addison himself. Had Prior lived to finish that history of his own times he was writing, we should have seen how far the opinion of Pope was right. Prior abandoned the Whigs, who had been his first patrons, for the Tories, who were now willing to adopt the political apostate. This versatility for place and pension rather shows that Prior was a little more "qualified for business than Addison."

Johnson tells us "Prior lived at a time when the rage of party detected all which was any man's interest to hide; and, as little ill is heard of Prior, it is certain that not much was known:" more, however, than Johnson supposes.

This great man

came to the pleasing task of his poetical biography
totally unprepared, except with the maturity of
his genius, as a profound observer of man, and
an invincible dogmatist in taste. In the history
of the times, Johnson is deficient, which has de-
prived us of that permanent instruction and delight
his intellectual powers had poured around it.
The character and the secret history of Prior
are laid open in the "State Poems*;" a bitter
Whiggish narrative, too particular to be entirely
fictitious, while it throws a new light on Johnson's
observation of Prior's " propensity to sordid con-
verse, and the low delights of mean company,"
which Johnson had imperfectly learned from some
attendant on Prior.

"A vintner's boy, the wretch was first preferr'd
To wait at Vice's gates, and pimp for bread ;
To hold the candle, and sometimes the door,
Let in the drunkard, and let out.

Vol. ii. p. 355.

But, as to villains it has often chanc'd,
Was for his wit and wickedness advanc'd.
Let no man think his new behaviour strange,
No metamorphosis can nature change;
Effects are chain'd to causes; generally,
The rascal born will like a rascal die.

"His Prince's favours follow'd him in vain ;
They chang'd the circumstance, but not the man.
While out of pocket, and his spirits low,
He'd beg, write panegyrics, cringe, and bow;
But when good pensions had his labours crown'd,
His panegyrics into satires turn'd;

O what assiduous pains does Prior take

To let great Dorset see he could mistake!
Dissembling nature false description gave,
Show'd him the poet, but conceal'd the knave."

I was big enough for Westminster School. But I
had two accidents in youth which hindered me
from being quite possessed with the Muse.
I was
bred in a college where prose was more in fashion
than verse, and, as soon as I had taken my first
degree, I was sent the King's Secretary to the
Hague; there I had enough to do in studying
French and Dutch, and altering my Terentian and
Virgilian style into that of Articles and Conven-
tions; so that poetry, which by the bent of my
mind might have become the business of my life,
was, by the happiness of my education, only the
amusement of it; and in this too having the
prospect of some little fortune to be made, and
friendships to be cultivated with the great men, I
did not launch much into Satire, which, however
agreeable for the present to the writers and en-
couragers of it, does in time do neither of them
good; considering the uncertainty of fortune, and
the various changes of Ministry, and that every
man, as he resents, may punish in his turn of
greatness and power."

Such is the wholesome counsel of the Solomon of Bards to an aspirant, who in his ardour for poetical honours, becomes careless of their consequences, if he can but possess them.

I have now to bring forward one of those unhappy men of rhyme, who, after many painful struggles, and a long querulous life, have died

To us the poet Prior is better known than the placeman Prior; yet in his own day the reverse often occurred. Prior was a State-Proteus; Sunderland, the most ambiguous of politicians, was the Erle Robert to whom he addressed his Mice; and Prior was now Secretary to the Embassy at Ryswick and Paris; independent even of the English ambassador-now a Lord of Trade, and, at length, a Minister Plenipotentiary to Louis XIV. Our business is with his poetical feelings. Prior declares he was chiefly "a poet by accident;" and hints, in collecting his works, that "some of them, as they came singly from the first impression, have lain long and quietly in Mr. | amid the ravings of their immortality-one of Tonson's shop." When his party had their downfall, and he was confined two years in prison, he composed his " Alma," to while away prison hours; and when, at length, he obtained his freedom, he had nothing remaining but that fellowship which, in his exaltation, he had been censured for retaining, but which he then said he might have to live upon at last. Prior had great sagacity, and too right a notion of human affairs in politics, to expect his party would last his time, or in poetry, that he could ever derive a revenue from rhymes!

I will now show that that rare personage, a sensible poet, in reviewing his life in that hour of solitude when no passion is retained but truth, while we are casting up the amount of our past days scrupulously to ourselves, felicitated himself that the natural bent of his mind, which inclined to poetry, had been checked, and not indulged, throughout his whole life. Prior congratulated himself that he had been only "a poet by accident," not by occupation.

In a manuscript by Prior, consisting of "An Essay on Learning," I find this curious and interesting passage entirely relating to the poet himself:

"I remember nothing farther in life than that I made verses; I chose Guy Earl of Warwick for my first hero, and killed Colborne the giant before

those miserable bards of mediocrity, whom no beadle-critic could ever whip out of the poetical parish.

-

There is a case in Mr. Haslam's "Observations on Insanity," who assures us that the patient he describes was insane, which will appear strange to those who have watched more poets than lunatics! "This patient, when admitted, was very noisy, and importunately talkative reciting passages from the Greek and Roman poets, or talking of his own literary importance. He became so troublesome to the other madmen, who were sufficiently occupied with their own speculations, that they avoided and excluded him from the common room; so that he was at last reduced to the mortifying situation of being the sole auditor of his own compositions. He conceived himself very nearly related to Anacreon, and possessed of the peculiar vein of that poet."

Such is the very accurate case drawn up by a medical writer. I can conceive nothing in it to warrant the charge of insanity; Mr. Haslam, not being a poet, seems to have mistaken the common orgasm of poetry for insanity itself.

Of such poets, one was the late PERCIVAL STOCKDALE, who, with the most entertaining simplicity, has, in "The Memoirs of his Life and Writings," presented us with a full-length figure of this class

of poets; those whom the perpetual pursuits of poetry, however indifferent, involve in a perpetual illusion; they are only discovered in their profound obscurity by the piteous cries they sometimes utter; they live on querulously, which is an evil for themselves, and to no purpose of life, which is an evil to others.

hand that heedlessly fixed the bias in the rolling bowl of his restless mind.

He tells us that while yet a boy of twelve years old, one day talking with his father at Branxton. where the battle of Flodden was fought, the old gentleman said to him with great emphasis—

"You may make that place remarkable for your birth, if you take care of yourself. My father's understanding was clear and strong, and he could penetrate human nature. He already saw that I had natural advantages above those of

common men."

I remember in my youth, Percival Stockdale, as a condemned poet of the times; of whom the bookseller Flexney complained, that whenever this poet came to town, it cost him twenty pounds. Flexney had been the publisher of Churchill's works; and, never forgetting the time when he But it seems that, at some earlier period even published "The Rosciad," which at first did not than his twelfth year, some good-natured Pythian sell, and afterwards became the most popular had predicted that Stockdale would be "a poet.' poem, he was speculating all his life for another This ambiguous oracle was still listened to, after Churchill, and another quarto poem. Stockdale a lapse of more than half a century, and the decree usually brought him what he wanted-and Flexney is still repeated with fond credulity:-" Notwithfound the workman, but never the work.

standing," he exclaims, "all that is past, O thou Many a year had passed in silence, and Stock-god of my mind! [meaning the aforesaid Pythian] dale could hardly be considered alive, when, to I still hope that my future fame will decidedly the amazement of some curious observers of our warrant the prediction!" literature, a venerable man, about his eightieth year, a vivacious spectre, with a cheerful voice, seemed as if throwing aside his shroud in gaiety -to come to assure us of the immortality of one of the worst poets of the time.

To have taken this portrait from the life would have been difficult; but the artist has painted himself, and manufactured his own colours; else had our ordinary ones but faintly copied this Chinese grotesque picture-the glare and the glow must be borrowed from his own pallet.

Our self-biographer announces his "Life" with prospective rapture, at the moment he is turning a sad retrospect on his "Writings;" for this was the chequered countenance of his character, a smile while he was writing, a tear when he had published! "I know," he exclaims, "that this book will live and escape the havoc that has been made of my literary fame." Again-" Before I die, I think my literary fame may be fixed on an adamantine foundation." Our old acquaintance, Blas of Santillane, at setting out on his travels, conceived himself to be la huitième merveille du monde; but here is one, who, after the experience of a long life, is writing a large work to prove himself that very curious thing.

What were these mighty and unknown works? Stockdale confesses that all his verses have been received with negligence or contempt; yet their mediocrity, the absolute poverty of his genius, never once occurred to the poetical patriarch.

I have said that the frequent origin of bad poets is owing to bad critics; and it was the early friends of Stockdale, who, mistaking his animal spirits for genius, by directing them into the walks of poetry, bewildered him for ever. It was their

Stockdale had, in truth, an excessive sensibility of temper, without any control over it—he had all the nervous contortions of the Sybil, without her inspiration; and shifting, in his many-shaped life, through all characters and all pursuits, "exalting the olive of Minerva with the grape of Bacchus," as he phrases it, he was a lover, a tutor, a recruiting officer, a reviewer, and, at length, a clergyman; but a poet eternally! His mind was so curved, that nothing could stand steadily upon it. The accidents of such a life he describes with such a face of rueful simplicity, and mixes up so much grave drollery and merry pathos with all he says or does, and his ubiquity is so wonderful, that he gives an idea of a character, of whose existence we had previously no conception, that of a Sentimental Harlequin *.

In the early part of his life, Stockdale undertook many poetical pilgrimages; he visited the house where Thomson was born; the coffee-room where Dryden presided among the wits, &c. Recollecting the influence of these local associations, he breaks forth, "Neither the unrelenting coldness, nor the repeated insolence of mankind, can prevent me from thinking that something like this enthusiastic devotion may hereafter be paid to ME."

Perhaps, till this appeared, it might not be

*My old favourite Cynic, with all his rough honesty and acute discrimination, Anthony Wood, engraved a

sketch of Stockdale when he etched with his aqua-fortis the personage of a brother:-"This Edward Waterhouse

wrote a rhapsodical, indigested, whimsical work; and not in the least to be taken into the land of any sober scholar, unless it be to make him laugh or wonder at the simplicity of some people. He was a cockbrained man, and afterwards took orders."

suspected that any unlucky writer of verse could ever feel such a magical conviction of his poetical stability. Stockdale, to assist this pilgrimage to his various shrines, has particularised all the spots where his works were composed! Posterity has many shrines to visit, and will be glad to know (for perhaps it may excite a smile) that "The Philosopher, a poem, was written in Warwick Court, Holborn, in 1769,"-"The Life of Waller, in Round Court in the Strand."-A good deal he wrote in " May's Buildings, St. Martin's Lane," &c. but

"In my lodgings at Portsmouth, in St. Mary's Street, I wrote my Elegy on the Death of a Lady's Linnet. It will not be uninteresting to sensibility, to thinking and elegant minds. It deeply interested me, and therefore produced not one of my weakest and worst written poems. It was directly opposite to a noted house, which was distinguished by the name of the green rails; where the riotous orgies of Naxos and Cythera contrasted with my quiet and purer occupations."

the scribbler, will ever be cancelled all human obligation for acts of benevolence, if we are cold to his fame!

And yet let us not too hastily condemn these unhappy men, even for the violation of the lesser moral feelings-it is often but a fatal effect from a melancholy cause; that hallucination of the intellect, in which, if their genius, as they call it, sometimes appears to sparkle like a painted bubble in the buoyancy of their vanity, they are also condemned to see it sinking in the dark horrors of a disappointed author, who has risked his life and his happiness on the miserable productions of his pen. The agonies of a disappointed author cannot, indeed, be contemplated without pain. If they can instruct, the following quotation will have its use.

Among the innumerable productions of Stockdale, was a History of Gibraltar; which might have been interesting, from his having resided there in a moment of despair, like Medea, he immolated his unfortunate offspring.

"When I had arrived at within a day's work of its conclusion, in consequence of some immediate and mortifying accidents, my literary adversity, and all my other misfortunes, took fast hold of my mind; oppressed it extremely; and reduced it to a stage of the deepest dejection and despondency. In this unhappy view of life, I made a sudden resolution-never more to prosecute the profession of an author; to retire altogether from the world, and read only for consolation and amusement. I committed to the flames my History of Gibraltar, and my translation of Marsollier's Life of Cardinal Ximenes; for which the bookseller had refused to pay me the fifty guineas according to agreement."

This claims a tear! Never were the agonies of literary disappointment more pathetically told.

I would not, however, take his own estimate of his own poems; because, after praising them outrageously, he seems at times to doubt if they are as exquisite as he thinks them! He has composed no one, in which some poetical excellence does not appear and yet in each nice decision he holds with difficulty the trepidations of the scales of criticism-for he tells us of " An Address to the Supreme Being," that "it is distinguished throughout with a natural and fervid piety; it is flowing and poetical; it is not without its pathos." And yet, notwithstanding all this condiment, the confection is evidently good for nothing; for he discovers that "this flowing, fervid, and poetical address" is "not animated with that vigour which gives dignity and impression to poetry." One feels for such unhappy and infected authors-they would think of themselves as they wish, at the moment that truth and experience come in upon them, and rack them with the most painful feelings. Stockdale once wrote a declamatory life of Waller. When Johnson's appeared, though in his biography, says Stockdale, "he paid a large tribute to the abilities of Goldsmith and Hawkesworth, yet he made no mention of my name." It is evident that Johnson, who knew him well, did not care to remember it. When Johnson My poetical spirit excited me to write my poem was busied on the life of Pope, Stockdale wrote of The Invincible Island.' I never found myself a pathetic letter to him, earnestly imploring a in a happier disposition to compose, nor ever wrote generous tribute from his authority." Johnson with more pleasure. I presumed warmly to hope, was still obdurately silent; and Stockdale, who that unless inveterate prejudice and malice were as had received many acts of humane kindness from invincible as our island itself, it would have the him, adds with fretful naïveté, diffusive circulation which I earnestly desired.

66

"In his sentiments towards me he was divided between a benevolence to my interests, and a coldness to my fame."

Thus, in a moment, in the perverted heart of

But as it is impossible to have known poor deluded Stockdale, and not to have laughed at him more than to have wept for him-so the catastrophe of this author's literary life is as finely in character as all the acts. That catastrophe, of course, is his last poem.

After many years his poetical demon having been chained from the world, suddenly broke forth on the reports of a French invasion. The narrative shall proceed in his own inimitable manner.

"Flushed with this idea-borne impetuously along by ambition and by hope, though they had often deluded me, I set off in the mail-coach from Durham, for London, on the 9th of December,

L