ROBERT POLLOK. ears." 163 parody of a modern opera, intro- | this very penknife I will cut off his ducing sailors and their claptraps, rustics, &c., and making the poet and his supposed flame the hero and heroine. He parodied music as well as words, giving us the most received cadences and flourishes, and calling to mind-not without some hazard to his filial duties-the commonplaces of the pastoral songs and duets of the last half century; so that if Mr. Dignum, the Damon of Vauxhall, had been present, he would have doubted whether to take it as an affront or a compliment. He then went to the dean's house, and, not finding him at home, followed him to the house of a friend, where being shown into a back room, he desired the doctor might be sent for; and on Swift entering the room, and asking what were his commands, "Sir," said he, "I am Sergeant Bettesworth." "Of what regiment, pray, sir?" said Swift. "O, Mr. Dean, we know your powers of raillery-you know me well enough; I am one of his majesty's sergeants-at-law, and I am come to demand if you are the author of this poem, [producing it,] and these villanous lines on me.' Campbell certainly took the theme of the parody as a compliment; for having drunk a little more wine than usual that evening, "Sir," said Swift, "when I was and happening to wear a wig on a young man, I had the honour of account of having lost his hair by being intimate with some great a fever, he suddenly took off the legal characters, particularly Lord wig, and dashed it at the head of Somers, who, knowing my propenthe performer, exclaiming, "You sity to satire, advised me, when I dog! I'll throw my laurels at you." lampooned a knave or fool, never to own it. Conformably to that adSWIFT AND MR. SERGEANT BETTES-vice, I tell you I am not the author." WORTH. The following lines on Sergeant Bettesworth, which Swift inserted in one of his poems, gave rise to a violent resentment on the part of the barrister : ROBERT POLLOK. Robert Pollok, author of the Course of Time, while a student of theology, once delivered a trial discourse before the Secession Divinity Hall, Glasgow, the subject of which was Sin. His manner of treating it, in the opinion of his fellowstudents, was rather turgid; and Who knows in law nor text nor mar-at those passages which they conCalls Singleton his brother sergeant."sidered to be particularly outrage So at the bar the booby Bettesworth, Though half-a-crown o'erpays his sweat's worth, gent, ous, they did not scruple to give audible symptoms of the amusement they derived from Mr. Pollok's highflown phrases. At last one flight was so extravagant that the professor himself was fairly obliged to give way—and smiled. The poem was sent to Bettesworth at a time when he was surrounded with his friends in a convivial party. He read it aloud till he had finished the lines relative to himself. He then flung it down with great violence-trembled and turned pale— At this moment the young and after some pause, his rage for preacher was just upon the point a while depriving him of utterance, of a climax expressing the dreadful he took out his penknife, and open- evils which sin had brought into ing it vehemently, swore, "With the world, and he closed it with the following remark: "And had it | years before this time, he had been not been for sin, the smile of folly speaking to some friends in Edinhad never been seen upon the brows burgh on the subject. "When I of wisdom." think of the existence which shall commence when the stone is laid over my head, how can literary fame appear to me, to any one, but as nothing? I believe, when I am gone, justice will be done to me in this way-that I was a pure writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of life, to be able to look back and feel that I have not written one line against religion or virtue.” This anecdote is related upon the authority of a person who was present; but it may be remarked that, perhaps, if Mr. Pollok's discourse had been listened to with that decorum which the gravity of the occasion demanded, it might not, to an unprejudiced auditor, have seemed deserving of the unfavourable reception it met with. But when the speaker became sensible that his compeers were making merry at his expense, it must have produced in his manner a degree of confusion, or perhaps of vehemence, by which language and ideas, in themselves not inappropriate, might be rendered ridiculous. It is also to be kept in view the county of Durham, when a wag, that Pollok was not popular among his fellow-students: so that they may be supposed to have been on the watch for an opportunity to testify their jealousy of him. DEATH OF CAMPBELL, THE POET. COLERIDGE. Mr. Coleridge was a remarkably awkward horseman, so much so as generally to attract notice. On a certain occasion he was riding along the turnpike road, in approaching him, noticed his peculiarity, and, quite mistaking his man, thought the rider a fine subject for a little sport; when, as he drew near, he thus accosted Mr. C.: "I say, young man, did you meet a tailor on the road?" "Yes," reOn the 16th he was able to con- plied Mr. C., who was never at a verse more freely; but his strength loss for a rejoinder, "I did; and he had become more reduced, and be- told me if I went a little farther I ing assisted to change his posture, should meet a goose!" The ashe fell back insensible. Conversa-sailant was struck dumb, while the tion was carried on in the room in traveller jogged on. whispers; and Campbell uttered a few sentences, so unconnected, that his friends were doubtful whether he was conscious or not of what was going on in his presence, and had recourse to an artifice to learn. One of them spoke of the poem of Hohenlinden, and pretending to forget the author's name, said he had heard it was by Mr. Robinson. Campbell saw the trick, was amused, and said playfully, but in a calm and distinct tone, "No; it was one Tom Campbell." The poet had, as far as a poet can, become for years indifferent to posthumous fame. In 1838, five IZAAK WALTON. Dr. Hawes bequeathed a great portion of his library to the dean and chapter of Salisbury; and his executor and friend presented the celebrated prayer-book, which was Walton's, to Mr. Pickering, the publisher. The watch which belonged to Walton's connection, the excellent Bishop Ken, has been presented to his amiable biographer, the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles. Walton died at the house of his son-in-law, Dr. Hawkins, at Winchester. He was buried in Winchester Cathedral, in the south SAMUEL ROGERS. aisle, called Prior Silkstead's Chapel. A large black marble slab is placed over his remains; and to use the poetical language of Mr. Bowles, "the morning sunshine falls directly on it, reminding the contemplative man of the mornings when he was, for so many years, up and abroad with his angle, on the banks of the neighbouring stream." CURIOUS TITLE. The title which George Gascoigne, who had great merit in his day, has given to his collection, may be considered a specimen of the titles of his times. They were printed in 1576. He calls it "A Hundred Sundrie Flowres bounde vp in one small Poesie: gathered partly by translation in the fyne and outlandish gardens of Euripides, Ovid, Petrarke, Ariosto, and others; and partly by invention out of our own fruitefull orchardes in Englande; yielding sundrie sweet savours of tragicall, comicall, and morall discourses, both pleasaunt and profitable to the well-smelling noses of learned readers." THE FIRST POET LAUREATE. The first mention of the king's poet, under the appellation of laureate, was John Kay, who was appointed poet laureate to Edward IV. It is extraordinary that he should have left no pieces of poetry to prove his pretensions in some degree to this office, with which he is said to have been invested by the king, at his return from Italy. The only composition he has left to posterity is a prose English translation of a Latin history of the siege of Rhodes. In the dedication, addressed to King Edward, -or rather in the title,-he styles himself "hys humble poete laureate." Although this our laureate furnishes us with no materials as a poet, yet his office, which here 165 occurs for the first time under this denomination, must not pass unnoticed in the annals of literature. SAMUEL ROGERS. A writer in an American periodical, in 1845, gives the following description of a visit to Samuel Rogers : - "Samuel Rogers is an exception to the almost general rule, that authors are poor. And who has not, at some time or other, heard of the author of Pleasures of Memory? He is not gifted, as Byron was, with beauty of person; so far from it, he is the very opposite of 'good looking,' as it is termed; but he is rich-a very Croesus. A London banker, he can draw checks alike on the Bank of England and on the treasury of the Muses; and, what is better, find each duly honoured. He has an exquisite taste, and possesses abundantly the means of gratifying it. Art lays her tributes at his feet, and Genius is at his beck and call. For him Science labours, and at his bidding Music pours forth its melodious offerings. He possesses the magic talisman MONEY-which, like the slave of the lamp, in the Arabian tale, fulfils all his requirements, and surrounds him with all that heart can wish. Verily, if wealth, taste, and refinement can confer happiness on mortals, Samuel Rogers must be a satisfied man. "About six years ago, while on a visit to some friends in London, I spent a day with Coleridge, who then resided with Mr. Gilman, at Highgate. While there, the poet received a note from Mr. Rogers, inviting him to breakfast, in St. James's Place on the following morning. Coleridge, knowing that it would gratify me to accompany him, very kindly asked me to do so, saying that he could take the liberty of introducing a friend, and I agreed to go. "On the following morning, for tionalist was not in a very talking humour, and I was rather glad of it, as it gave me a better opportunity of using my eyes than I should have had, had his words fallen on my charmed ear. a wonder, Mr. Coleridge called for me at the time he had appointed, and we proceeded together in a hack carriage to St. James's Place. Mr. Rogers himself received us, and as none of the other invited guests had arrived, I had a favourable opportunity of observing the venerable poet. "I had anticipated seeing what is termed a plain face, but I had not pictured to myself one so unpoetical as Rogers'. Byron's lines on it, ill-natured and uncalled for as they were, were at least pictorially true to nature. There was recently published in the Pictorial Times, or London Illustrated News, I forget which, a sketch of him, taken at the National Gallery, in the act of examining a painting. "Mr. Rogers received me very kindly, without an introduction; for Coleridge, with his usual absence of mind, or rather utter disregard of all the minor courtesies and usages of society, neglected to present me to Mr. Rogers, until the latter looked very hard at me, and I reminded Coleridge that he had a companion. "What a magnificent room was that library of Rogers'! There were paintings from the hands of the best ancient and modern masters, in gorgeous frames; portfolios of the choicest and rarest prints; water-colour drawings, by every artist of celebrity of past and present times; rare specimens of vertu, which would have thrown the proprietor of Strawberry Hill into a "That likeness is correct in every respect. The sunken eye, shrivelled nose, toothless jaws, and retracted lips are to the life. But though time has been busy with the poet's mortal part, he has not interfered very flutter of excitement; busts, with the jewel it contains. That remains undimmed, and although it emits fewer rays than of yore, its capability of doing so is not destroyed. "The poet is of middle stature, and unbowed by age. Indeed, in his motions he is, to use a common but expressive figure, as brisk as a boy. Nothing on earth is more delightful, I think, than a cheerful, intelligent old man. And such is Samuel Rogers. He, indeed, possesses all 'the pleasures of memory,' and has had the rare good fortune to live and experience what he sang about years and years ago. "His conversation was lively and piquant, but did not exhibit any of those sallies of wit which are so often attributed to him in the newspapers, under the head of 'Sam Rogers' last,' &c. To Coleridge's observations he was profoundly attentive; but the great conversa some brown with age, and others in all the brilliant modern whiteness of Carrara marble; costly gems and princely intaglios; books curious in their old literal board covers, with ancient silver clasps and venerable letters; manuscripts so precious from time, and in consequence of the labour which had been bestowed on them by gray monks, in solemn old cells, ages since, that they were shrined in crystal cases. 66 There was a large piece of amber, in which was a fly inclosed, perfect and unmutilated, leaving us to wonder how it got there, and achieved its transparent immortality. Sidney Smith, once taking it up, said, 'Perhaps it buzzed in Adam's ear.' And there were vases of exquisite form and workmanshiprelics from Pompeii and from far away Ind; and all so tastefully disposed that no museum effect was produced, nor did any one object CHARLES LAMB AND THE COMPTROLLER OF STAMPS. 167 obtrude itself so as to detract from | behind us as a background. Wordsthe apparent value of the impres-worth was in fine cue, and we had sion produced by another. a glorious set-to on Homer, Shak"On a pedestal was a bust of speare, Milton, and Virgil. Lamb Pope, modelled, at least so far as a got exceedingly merry and exquipart of the drapery was concerned, sitely witty, and his fun in the by the artist (Roubilliac, I believe) midst of Wordsworth's solemn inin the presence of Mr. Rogers. But tonations of oratory was like the there were two objects in the room sarcasm and wit of the fool in the which, more than any others, en- intervals of Lear's passion. Lamb grossed my attention the one re- soon got delightfully merry. He presented the enormous wealth of made a speech and voted me abits possessor, and the other indi- sent, and made them drink my cated his keen appreciation of the health. "Now," said Lamb, "you value of mind. old lake poet, you rascally poet, "These articles were simply two why do you call Voltaire dull ?" small pieces of paper, in gold frames. We all defended Wordsworth, and One of them was a Bank of Eng-affirmed there was a state of mind land note for one million pounds when Voltaire would be dull. sterling, and the other the original "Well," said Lamb, "here's Volreceipt of John Milton for five taire, the Messiah of the French pounds (the sum he received for the copyright of Paradise Lost, from Simmonds, the bookseller). The bank-note was one of the only four which were ever struck from a plate, which was afterwards destroyed. The Rothschilds have one impression; the late Mr. Coutts had another; the Bank of England the third; and, as I have said, Mr. Rogers decorates his parlour with the remaining one. nation, and a very proper one too." He then, in a strain of humour beyond description, abused me for putting Newton's head into my picture. "A fellow," said he, "who believed nothing unless it was as clear as the three sides of a triangle." And then he and Keats agreed he had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow, by reducing it to the prismatic colours. It was impossible to resist him, and we all drank, "Newton's health, and confusion to mathematics." It was delightful to see the good-humour of Wordsworth in giving in to all our frolics without affectation, and laughing as heartily as the best of us. By this time other friends joined, amongst them poor Ritchie, who was going to penetrate by Fezzan to Timbuctoo. I introduced him as "A gentleman going to Africa." Lamb seemed to take no notice; but all of a sudden, he roared out, "Which is the gentleman we are going to lose?" CHARLES LAMB AND THE COMPTROL-We then drank the victim's health, in which Ritchie joined. In the On December 28th the immortal morning of this delightful day a dinner came off in my painting-gentleman, a perfect stranger, had room, with Jerusalem towering up called on me. He said he knew "There it hangs, within any one's reach; a fortune for many, but valueless to all excepting its owner. No one would think of stealing it, for it would be only as so much waste paper. It never could be negotiated without detection, and, were it destroyed by fire, from its peculiar character, no loss would ensue to Mr. Rogers. At his word, however, it might be transformed into a golden shower. He, alone, is the magician who can render it all-powerful for good or evil." LER OF STAMPS. |