Books and Authors Part 16

BUTLER AND BUCKINGHAM.

Of Butler, the author of _Hudibras_--which Dr. Johnson terms "one of those productions of which a nation may justly boast"--little further is known than that his genius was not sufficient to rescue him from its too frequent attendant, poverty; he lived in obscurity, and died in want. Wycherley often represented to the Duke of Buckingham how well Butler had deserved of the royal family by writing his inimitable _Hudibras_, and that it was a disgrace to the Court that a person of his loyalty and genius should remain in obscurity and suffer the wants which he did. The Duke, thus pressed, promised to recommend Butler to his Majesty; and Wycherley, in hopes to keep his Grace steady to his word, prevailed on him to fix a day when he might introduce the modest and unfortunate poet to his new patron. The place of meeting fixed upon was the "Roebuck." Butler and his friend attended punctually; the Duke joined them, when, unluckily, the door of the room being open, his Grace observed one of his acquaintances pa.s.s by with two ladies; on which he immediately quitted his engagement, and from that time to the day of his death poor Butler never derived the least benefit from his promise.

THE MERMAID CLUB.

The celebrated club at the "Mermaid," as has been well observed by Gifford, "combined more talent and genius, perhaps, than ever met together before or since." The inst.i.tution originated with Sir Walter Raleigh; and here, for many years, Ben Jonson regularly repaired with Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Selden, Cotton, Carew, Martin, Donne, and many others whose names, even at this distant period, call up a mingled feeling of reverence and respect. Here, in the full flow and confidence of friendship, the lively and interesting "wit-combats" took place between Shakspeare and Jonson; and hither, in probable allusion to some of them, Beaumont fondly lets his thoughts wander in his letter to Jonson from the country:--

"What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid? heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whom they came, Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest."

For the expression, "wit-combats," we must refer to Fuller, who in his "Worthies," describing the character of the Bard of Avon, says: "Many were the wit-combats between Shakspeare and Ben Jonson. I behold them like a Spanish great galleon, and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learning, solid, but slow in his performances; Shakspeare, like the latter, less in bulk but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." With what delight would after generations have hung over any well-authenticated instances of these "wit-combats!" But, unfortunately, nothing on which we can depend has descended to us.

PORSON'S MEMORY.

Professor Porson, the great Graecist, when a boy at Eton, displayed the most astonishing powers of memory. In going up to a lesson one day, he was accosted by a boy in the same form: "Porson, what have you got there?" "Horace." "Let me look at it." Porson handed the book to his comrade; who, pretending to return it, dexterously subst.i.tuted another in its place, with which Porson proceeded. Being called on by the master, he read and construed the tenth Ode of the first Book very regularly. Observing that the cla.s.s laughed, the master said, "Porson, you seem to me to be reading on one side of the page, while I am looking at the other; pray whose edition have you?" Porson hesitated. "Let me see it," rejoined the master; who, to his great surprise, found it to be an English Ovid. Porson was ordered to go on; which he did, easily, correctly, and promptly, to the end of the Ode. Much more remarkable feats of memory than this, however, have been recorded of Porson's manhood.

WYCHERLEY'S WOOING.

Wycherley being at Tunbridge for the benefit of his health, after his return from the Continental trip the cost of which the king had defrayed, was walking one day with his friend, Mr. Fairbeard, of Gray's Inn. Just as they came up to a bookseller's shop, the Countess of Drogheda, a young, rich, n.o.ble, and lovely widow, came to the bookseller and inquired for the _Plain Dealer_--a well-known comedy of Wycherley's. "Madam," said Mr. Fairbeard, "since you are for the _Plain Dealer_, there he is for you"--pushing Wycherley towards her. "Yes,"

said Wycherley, "this lady can bear plain dealing; for she appears to me to be so accomplished, that what would be compliment said to others, would be plain dealing spoken to her." "No, truly, sir," said the Countess; "I am not without my faults, any more than the rest of my s.e.x; and yet I love plain dealing, and am never more fond of it than when it tells me of them." "Then, Madam," said Fairbeard, "You and the Plain Dealer seem designed by Heaven for each other." In short, Wycherley walked with the Countess, waited upon her home, visited her daily while she was at Tunbridge, and afterwards when she went to London; where, in a little time, a marriage was concluded between them. The marriage was not a happy one.

A CAROUSE AT BOILEAU'S.

Boileau, the celebrated French comedian, usually pa.s.sed the summer at his villa of Auteuil, which is pleasantly situated at the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne. Here he took delight in a.s.sembling under his roof the most eminent geniuses of the age; especially Chapelle, Racine, Moliere, and La Fontaine. Racine the younger gives the following account of a droll circ.u.mstance that occurred at supper at Auteuil with these guests. "At this supper," he says, "at which my father was not present, the wise Boileau was no more master of himself than any of his guests.

After the wine had led them into the gravest strain of moralising, they agreed that life was but a state of misery; that the greatest happiness consisted in having been born, and the next greatest in an early death; and they one and all formed the heroic resolution of throwing themselves without loss of time into the river. It was not far off, and they actually went thither. Moliere, however, remarked that such a n.o.ble action ought not to be buried in the obscurity of night, but was worthy of being performed in the face of day. This observation produced a pause; one looked at the other, and said, 'He is right.' 'Gentlemen,' said Chapelle, 'we had better wait till morning to throw ourselves into the river, and meantime return and finish our wine;'" but the river was not revisited.

THOMSON'S INDOLENCE.

The author of the _Seasons_ and the _Castle of Indolence_, paid homage in the latter admirable poem to the master-pa.s.sion or habit of his own easy nature. Thomson was so excessively lazy, that he is recorded to have been seen standing at a peach-tree, with both his hands in his pockets, eating the fruit as it grew. At another time, being found in bed at a very late hour of the day, when he was asked why he did not get up, his answer was, "Troth, man, I see nae motive for rising!"

A LEARNED YOUNG LADY.

Fraulein Dorothea Schlozer, a Hanoverian lady, was thought worthy of the highest academical honours of Gottingen University, and, at the jubilee of 1787, she had the degree of Doctor of Philosophy conferred upon her, when only seventeen years of age. The daughter of the Professor of Philosophy in that University, she from her earliest years discovered an uncommon genius for learning. Before she was three years of age, she was taught Low German, a language almost foreign to her own. Before she was six, she had learned French and German, and then she began geometry; and after receiving ten lessons, she was able to answer very difficult questions. The English, Italian, Swedish, and Dutch languages were next acquired, with singular rapidity; and before she was fourteen, she knew Latin and Greek, and had become a good cla.s.sical scholar. Besides her knowledge of languages, she made herself acquainted with almost every branch of polite literature, as well as many of the sciences, particularly mathematics. She also attained great proficiency in mineralogy; and, during a sojourn of six weeks in the Hartz Forest, she visited the deepest mines, in the common habit of a labourer, and examined the whole process of the work. Her surprising talents becoming the general topic of conversation, she was proposed, by the great Orientalist Michaelis, as a proper subject for academical honours. The Philosophical Faculty, of which the Professor was Dean, was deemed the fittest; and a day was fixed for her examination, in presence of all the Professors. She was introduced by Michaelis himself, and distinguished, as a lady, with the highest seat. Several questions were first proposed to her in mathematics; all of which she answered to satisfaction. After this, she gave a free translation of the thirty-seventh Ode of the first Book of Horace, and explained it. She was then examined in various branches of art and science, when she displayed a thorough knowledge of the subjects. The examination lasted two hours and a half; and at the end, the degree of Doctor of Philosophy was unanimously conferred upon her, and she was crowned with a wreath of laurel by Fraulein Michaelis, at the request of the Professors.

A HARD HIT AT POPE.

Pope was one evening at b.u.t.ton's Coffee-house, where he and a set of literati had got poring over a Latin ma.n.u.script, in which they had found a pa.s.sage that none of them could comprehend. A young officer, who heard their conference, begged that he might be permitted to look at the pa.s.sage. "Oh," said Pope, sarcastically, "by all means; pray let the young gentleman look at it." Upon which the officer took up the ma.n.u.script, and, considering it awhile, said there only wanted a note of interrogation to make the whole intelligible: which was really the case. "And pray, Master," says Pope with a sneer, "what is a _note of interrogation_?"--"A note of interrogation," replied the young fellow, with a look of great contempt, "is a little _crooked thing_ that asks questions."

DRYDEN DRUBBED.

"Dryden," says Leigh Hunt, "is identified with the neighbourhood of Covent Garden. He presided in the chair at Russell Street (Will's Coffee-house); his plays came out in the theatre at the other end of it; he lived in Gerrard Street, which is not far off; and, alas for the anti-climax! he was beaten by hired bravos in Rose Street, now called Rose Alley. The outrage perpetrated upon the sacred shoulders of the poet was the work of Lord Rochester, and originated in a mistake not creditable to that would-be great man and dastardly debauchee." Dryden, it seems, obtained the reputation of being the author of the _Essay on Satire_, in which Lord Rochester was severely dealt with, and which was, in reality, written by Lord Mulgrave, afterwards the Duke of Buckinghamshire. Rochester meditated on the innocent Dryden a base and cowardly revenge, and thus coolly expressed his intent in one of his letters: "You write me word that I am out of favour with a certain poet, whom I have admired for the disproportion of him and his attributes. He is a rarity which I cannot but be fond of, as one would be of a hog that could fiddle, or a singing owl. If he falls on me at the blunt, which is his very good weapon in wit, I will forgive him if you please, _and leave the repartee to Black Will with a cudgel_." "In pursuance of this infamous resolution," says Sir Walter Scott, "upon the night of the 18th December 1679, Dryden was waylaid by hired ruffians, and severely beaten, as he pa.s.sed through Rose Street, Covent Garden, returning from Will's Coffee-house to his own house in Gerrard Street. A reward of fifty pounds was in vain offered in the _London Gazette_ and other newspapers, for the discovery of the perpetrators of this outrage. The town was, however, at no loss to pitch upon Rochester as the employer of the bravos; with whom the public suspicion joined the d.u.c.h.ess of Portsmouth, equally concerned in the supposed affront thus revenged.... It will certainly be admitted that a man, surprised in the dark, and beaten by ruffians, loses no honour by such a misfortune. But if Dryden had received the same discipline from Rochester's own hand, without resenting it, his drubbing could not have been more frequently made a matter of reproach to him; a sign, surely, of the penury of subjects for satire in his life and character, since an accident, which might have happened to the greatest hero that ever lived, was resorted to as an imputation on his character."

ROGERS AND "JUNIUS."

Samuel Rogers was requested by Lady Holland to ask Sir Philip Francis whether he was the author of _Junius' Letters_. The poet, meeting Sir Philip, approached the ticklish subject thus: "Will you, Sir Philip--will your kindness excuse my addressing to you a single question?" "At your peril, Sir!" was the harsh and curt reply of the knight. The intimidated bard retreated upon his friends, who eagerly inquired of him the success of his application. "I do not know," Rogers said, "whether he is Junius; but, if he be, he is certainly Junius _Brutus_."

ALFIERI'S HAIR.

Alfieri, the greatest poet modern Italy produced, delighted in eccentricities, not always of the most amiable kind. One evening, at the house of the Princess Carignan, he was leaning, in one of his silent moods, against a sideboard decorated with a rich tea service of china, when, by a sudden movement of his long loose tresses, he threw down one of the cups. The lady of the mansion ventured to tell him, that he had spoiled the set, and had better have broken them all. The words were no sooner said, than Alfieri, without reply or change of countenance, swept off the whole service upon the floor. His hair was fated to bring another of his eccentricities into play. He went one night, alone, to the theatre at Turin; and there, hanging carelessly with his head backwards over the corner of the box, a lady in the next seat on the other side of the part.i.tion, who had on other occasions made attempts to attract his attention, broke out into violent and repeated encomiums on his auburn locks, which were flowing down close to her hand. Alfieri, however, spoke not a word, and continued his position till he left the theatre.

Next morning, the lady received a parcel, the contents of which she found to be the tresses which she had so much admired, and which the erratic poet had cut off close to his head. No billet accompanied the gift; but it could not have been more clearly said, "If you like the hair, here it is; but, for Heaven's sake, leave _me_ alone!"

SMOLLETT'S HARD FORTUNES.

Smollett, perhaps one of the most popular authors by profession that ever wrote, furnishes a sad instance of the insufficiency of even the greatest literary favour, in the times in which he wrote, to procure those temporal comforts on which the happiness of life so much depends.

"Had some of those," he says, "who were pleased to call themselves my friends, been at any pains to deserve the character, and told me ingenuously what I had to expect in the capacity of an author, when first I professed myself of that venerable fraternity, I should in all probability have spared myself the incredible labour and chagrin I have since undergone." "Of praise and censure both," he writes at another time, "I am sick indeed, and wish to G.o.d that my circ.u.mstances would allow me to consign my pen to oblivion." When he had worn himself down in the service of the public or the booksellers, there scarce was left of all his slender remunerations, at the last stage of life, enough to convey him to a cheap country and a restoring air on the Continent.

Gradually perishing in a foreign land, neglected by the public that admired him, deriving no resources from the booksellers who were drawing the large profits of his works, Smollett threw out his injured feelings in the character of Bramble, in _Humphrey Clinker_, the warm generosity of his temper, but not his genius, seeming to fleet away with his breath.

And when he died, and his widow, in a foreign land, was raising a plain memorial over his ashes, her love and piety but made the little less; and she perished in unbefriended solitude. "There are indeed," says D'Israeli, "grateful feelings in the public at large for a favourite author; but the awful testimony of these feelings, by its gradual process, must appear beyond the grave! They visit the column consecrated by his name--and his features are most loved, most venerated, in the bust!"

JERROLD'S REBUKE TO A RUDE INTRUDER.

Douglas Jerrold and some friends were dining once at a tavern, and had a private room; but after dinner the landlord, on the plea that the house was partly under repair, requested permission that a stranger might take a chop in the apartment, at a separate table. The company gave the required permission; and the stranger, a man of commonplace aspect, was brought in, ate his chop in silence, and then fell asleep--snoring so loudly and discordantly that the conversation could with difficulty be prosecuted. Some gentleman of the party made a noise; and the stranger, starting out of his nap, called out to Jerrold, "I know you, Mr. Jerrold, I know you; but you shall not make a b.u.t.t of me!" "Then don't bring your hog's head in here!" was the instant answer of the wit.