The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase Part 39

Footnotes:

[Footnote 1: Second son of George II.; born in 1721; he was five years old at the date of the publication of the 'Fables,' which were written for his instruction. He is 'Culloden' c.u.mberland.]

[Footnote 2: 'Siam,' a country famous for elephants.]

[Footnote 3: 'Gresham Hall,' originally the house of Sir Thomas Gresham in Winchester. It was converted by his will into a college, no remains of which now exist.]

[Footnote 4: 'Curl,' a famous publisher to Grub Street.]

[Footnote 5: Garth's Dispensary.]

[Footnote 6: 'Porta:' a native of Naples, famous for skill in the occult sciences. He wrote a book on Physiognomy, seeking to trace in the human face resemblances to animals, and to infer similar correspondences in mind.]

[Footnote 7: '----When impious men bear sway, The post of honour is a private station.'-ADDISON.]

[Footnote 8: 'Antiochus': See Plutarch.]

[Footnote 9: Barrow.]

[Footnote 10: 'The Macedonian:' Alexander the Great.]

[Footnote 11: 'Corelli:' Arcangelo, the greatest fiddler, till Paganini, that has appeared. He was born in the territory of Bologna, in 1653, and died in 1713.]

[Footnote 12: 'Antoninus:' Marcus, one of the few emperors who have been also philosophers.]

THE

LIFE OF WILLIAM SOMERVILLE.

There is a chapter in an old history of Iceland which has often moved merriment. The t.i.tle of it is, "Concerning Snakes in Iceland," and the contents are, "Snakes in Iceland there are none." We suspect, when our "Life of William Somerville" is ended, not a few will find in it a parallel for that comprehensive chapter, although we strenuously maintain that the fault of an insipid and uninteresting life is not always to be charged on the biographer.

In "Sartor Resartus" our readers remember an epitaph, somewhat coa.r.s.e, although disguised in good dog-Latin, upon a country squire, and his sayings and doings in this world. We have not a copy of that work at hand, and cannot quote the epitaph, nor would we, though we could, since even the dog-Latin is too plain and perspicuous for many readers. We recommend those, however, who choose to turn it up; and they will find in it (with the exception of the writing of "the Chase") the full history of William Somerville, of whom we know little, but that he was born, that he hunted, ate, drank, and died.

He was born in 1682; but in what month, or on what day, we are not informed. His estate was in Warwickshire, its name Edston, and he had inherited it from a long line of ancestors. His family prided itself upon being the first family in the county. He himself boasts of having been born on the banks of Avon, which has thus at least produced two poets, of somewhat different calibre indeed--the one a deer-stealer, and the other a fox-hunter--Shakspeare and Somerville. Somerville was educated at Winchester School, and was afterwards elected fellow of New College. From his studies--of his success in which we know nothing--he returned to his native county, and there, says Johnson, "was distinguished as a poet, a gentleman, and a skilful and useful justice of the peace;"--we may add, as a jovial companion and a daring fox-hunter. His estate brought him in about 1500 a-year, but his extravagance brought him into pecuniary distresses, which weighed upon his mind, plunged him into intemperate habits, and hurried him away in his 60th year. Shenstone, who knew him well, thus mourns aver his departure in one of his letters:--"Our old friend Somerville is dead; I did not imagine I could have been so sorry as I find myself on this occasion. _Sublatum quoerimus_, I can now excuse all his foibles; impute them to age and to distressed circ.u.mstances. The last of these considerations wrings my very soul to think on; for a man of high spirit, conscious of having (at least in one production) generally pleased the world, to be plagued and threatened by wretches that are low in every sense; to be forced to drink himself into pains of the body in order to get rid of the pains of the mind, is a misery."

Somerville died July 19, 1742, and was buried at Wotton, near Henley-on-Arden. His estate went to Lord Somerville in Scotland, but his mother, who lived to a great age, had a jointure of 600. He describes himself, in verses addressed to Allan Ramsay, as

"A squire, well-born and six feet high."

He seems, from the affection and sympathy discovered for him by Shenstone, to have possessed the virtues as well as the vices of the squirearchy of that age; their frankness, sociality, and heart, as well as their improvidence and tendency to excess; and may altogether be called a sublimated Squire Western.

As to his poetry, much of it is beneath criticism. His "Fables," "Tales,"

"Hobbinol, or Rural Games," &c., have all in them poetical lines, but cannot, as a whole, be called poetry. He wrote some verses, ent.i.tled "Address to Addison," on the latter purchasing an estate in Warwickshire (he gave his Countess 4000 in exchange for it). In this there are two lines which Dr Johnson highly commends, saying "They are written with the most exquisite delicacy of praise; they exhibit one of those happy strokes that are seldom attained."--Here is this bepraised couplet:--

"When panting virtue her last efforts made, You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid."

Clio, of course, refers to Addison's signatures in the "Spectator,"

consisting of the four letters composing the name of the Muse of History, used in alternation. We cannot coincide in Johnson's encomium. The allusion is, we think, at once indecent and obscure; and what, after all, does it say, but that Addison's papers aided the struggling cause of virtue?

In the same verses we find a fulsome and ridiculous preference of Addison to Shakspeare!

"In heaven he sings, on earth your Muse supplies The important loss, and heals our weeping eyes; Correctly great, she melts each flinty heart, With EQUAL GENIUS, but SUPERIOR ART."

Surely the force of falsehood and flattery can go no further.

It is a pleasure to turn from these small and shallow things to the "Chase," which, if not a great poem, is founded on a most poetical subject, and which, here and there, sparkles into fine fancy. Dr Johnson truly remarks, that Somerville "set a good example to men of his own cla.s.s, by devoting a part of his time to elegant knowledge, and has shewn, by the subjects which his poetry has adorned, that it is practicable to be at once a skilful sportsman and a man of letters." But besides this purpose to be the poet--and hitherto he has been almost the sole poet of the squirearchy, as considered apart from the aristocracy--Somerville has the merit of being inspired by a genuine love for the subject. He writes directly from the testimony of his own eyes, and the impulses of his own heart. He has obviously had the mould of his poem suggested by Thomson's "Seasons," but it is the mould only; the thoughts and feelings which are poured into it are his own. He loves the giddy ride over stock and stone, hedge and petty precipice; the invigoration which the keen breath of autumn or winter, like that of a st.u.r.dy veteran, gives the animal spirits; the animated aspect of the "a.s.sembled jockeyship of half a province;" the wild music of hounds, and horns, and hollas, vieing with each other in mirth and loudness; the breathless interest of the start; the emulous pant of the coursers; the excitement of the moment when the fox appears; the sweeping tumult of the pursuit; the dreamlike rapidity with which five-barred gates are cleared, the yellow or naked woods are pa.s.sed, and the stubble-ridges "swallowed up in the fierceness and rage" of the rushing steeds; the indifference of those engaged in the headlong sport to the danger or even the death of their companions; the lengthening and deepening howl of the hounds as they near their prey; the fierce silence of the dying victim; and the fiercer shout of victory which announces to the echoes that the brush is won, and the glorious (or inglorious) day's work is over;--all this Somerville loves, and has painted with considerable power. In the course of the poem, he sings also of the mysteries of the dog-kennel--pursues the blood-hound on his track of death--describes a stag-hunt in Windsor Forest--paints the fearful phenomena of canine madness--hunts the hare in a joyous spirit--and goes down after the otter into its watery recesses, and watches its divings and devious motions as with the eyes of a sea-eagle. And, besides, (here also imitating Thomson,) he is led away from the comparatively tame "Chase" of England to the more dangerous and more inspiring sports of other lands, where "the huntsmen are up in Arabia," in pursuit of the wolf, where the bear is bayed amidst forests dark as itself, where the leopard is snared by its own image in a mirror, where the lion falls roaring into the prepared pit, and where the "Chase"

is pursued on a large scale by a.s.sembled princes amidst the jungles of India.

We doubt not, however, that, were a genuine poet of this age taking up the "Chase" as a subject for song, and availing himself of the accounts of recent travellers, themselves often true poets, such as Lloyd, Livingstone, c.u.mming Bruce, and Charles b.o.n.e.r, (see the admirable "Chamois Hunting in Bavaria" of the latter,) he would produce a strain incomparably higher than Somerville's. Wilson, at least, as we know from his "Christopher in his Sporting Jacket," and many other articles in _Maga_, was qualified, in part by nature and in part by extensive experience, to have written such a poem. Indeed, one sentence of his is superior to anything in the "Chase." Speaking of the charge of the cruelty of chasing such an insignificant animal as a fox, he says, "What though it be but a smallish, reddish-brown, sharp-nosed animal, with p.r.i.c.ked-up ears, and pa.s.sionately fond of poultry, that they pursue?

After the first tallyho, reynard is rarely seen till he is run in upon--once, perhaps, in the whole run, skirting a wood, or crossing a common. It is an _idea that is pursued_ on a whirlwind of horses, to a storm of canine music, worthy both of the largest lion that ever leaped among a band of Moors sleeping at midnight by an extinguished fire on the African sands." We do not answer for the humanity of this description, but it certainly seems to us to exhaust the subject of the chase, alike in its philosophy and its poetry.[1]

SOMERVILLE'S CHASE.

BOOK I.

THE ARGUMENT.

The subject proposed.--Address to his Royal Highness the Prince.--The origin of hunting.--The rude and unpolished manner of the first hunters.--Beasts at first hunted for food and sacrifice.--The grant made by G.o.d to man of the beasts, &c.--The regular manner of hunting first brought into this island by the Normans.--The best hounds and best horses bred here.--The advantage of this exercise to us, as islanders.--Address to gentlemen of estates.--Situation of the kennel and its several courts.--The diversion and employment of hounds in the kennel.--The different sorts of hounds for each different chase.-- Description of a perfect hound.--Of sizing and sorting of hounds.--The middle-sized hound recommended.--Of the large, deep-mouthed hound for hunting the stag and otter.--Of the lime-hound; their use on the borders of England and Scotland.--A physical account of scents.--Of good and bad scenting days.--A short admonition to my brethren of the couples.

The Chase I sing, hounds, and their various breed, And no less various use. O thou Great Prince![2]

Whom Cambria's towering hills proclaim their lord, Deign thou to hear my bold, instructive song.

While grateful citizens with pompous show, Rear the triumphal arch, rich with the exploits Of thy ill.u.s.trious house; while virgins pave Thy way with flowers, and, as the royal youth Pa.s.sing they view, admire, and sigh in vain; While crowded theatres, too fondly proud _10 Of their exotic minstrels, and shrill pipes, The price of manhood, hail thee with a song, And airs soft-warbling; my hoa.r.s.e-sounding horn Invites thee to the Chase, the sport of kings; Image of war, without its guilt. The Muse Aloft on wing shall soar, conduct with care Thy foaming courser o'er the steepy rock, Or on the river bank receive thee safe, Light-bounding o'er the wave, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

Be thou our great protector, gracious youth!

_20 And if in future times, some envious prince, Careless of right and guileful, should invade Thy Britain's commerce, or should strive in vain To wrest the balance from thy equal hand; Thy hunter-train, in cheerful green arrayed, (A band undaunted, and inured to toils,) Shall compa.s.s thee around, die at thy feet, Or hew thy pa.s.sage through the embattled foe, And clear thy way to fame; inspired by thee The n.o.bler chase of glory shall pursue _30 Through fire, and smoke, and blood, and fields of death.

Nature, in her productions slow, aspires By just degrees to reach perfection's height: So mimic Art works leisurely, till Time Improve the piece, or wise Experience give The proper finishing. When Nimrod bold, That mighty hunter, first made war on beasts, And stained the woodland green with purple dye, New and unpolished was the huntsman's art; No stated rule, his wanton will his guide.

_40 With clubs and stones, rude implements of war, He armed his savage bands, a mult.i.tude Untrained; of twining osiers formed, they pitch Their artless toils, then range the desert hills, And scour the plains below; the trembling herd Start at the unusual sound, and clamorous shout Unheard before; surprised alas! to find Man now their foe, whom erst they deemed their lord, But mild and gentle, and by whom as yet Secure they grazed. Death stretches o'er the plain _50 Wide-wasting, and grim slaughter red with blood: Urged on by hunger keen, they wound, they kill, Their rage licentious knows no bound; at last Inc.u.mbered with their spoils, joyful they bear Upon their shoulders broad, the bleeding prey.

Part on their altars smokes a sacrifice To that all-gracious Power, whose bounteous hand Supports his wide creation; what remains On living coals they broil, inelegant Of taste, nor skilled as yet in nicer arts _60 Of pampered luxury. Devotion pure, And strong necessity, thus first began The chase of beasts: though b.l.o.o.d.y was the deed, Yet without guilt. For the green herb alone Unequal to sustain man's labouring race, Now every moving thing that lived on earth Was granted him for food. So just is Heaven, To give us in proportion to our wants.

Or chance or industry in after-times Some few improvements made, but short as yet _70 Of due perfection. In this isle remote Our painted ancestors were slow to learn, To arms devote, of the politer arts Nor skilled nor studious; till from Neustria's[3] coasts Victorious William, to more decent rules Subdued our Saxon fathers, taught to speak The proper dialect, with horn and voice To cheer the busy hound, whose well-known cry His listening peers approve with joint acclaim.

From him successive huntsmen learned to join _80 In b.l.o.o.d.y social leagues, the mult.i.tude Dispersed, to size, to sort their various tribes, To rear, feed, hunt, and discipline the pack.

Hail, happy Britain! highly-favoured isle, And Heaven's peculiar care! To thee 'tis given To train the sprightly steed, more fleet than those Begot by winds, or the celestial breed That bore the great Pelides through the press Of heroes armed, and broke their crowded ranks; Which proudly neighing, with the sun begins _90 Cheerful his course; and ere his beams decline, Has measured half thy surface unfatigued.

In thee alone, fair land of liberty!

Is bred the perfect hound, in scent and speed As yet unrivalled, while in other climes Their virtue fails, a weak degenerate race.

In vain malignant steams, and winter fogs Load the dull air, and hover round our coasts, The huntsman ever gay, robust, and bold, Defies the noxious vapour, and confides _100 In this delightful exercise, to raise His drooping head and cheer his heart with joy.

Ye vigorous youths, by smiling Fortune blest With large demesnes, hereditary wealth, Heaped copious by your wise forefathers' care, Hear and attend! while I the means reveal To enjoy those pleasures, for the weak too strong, Too costly for the poor: to rein the steed Swift-stretching o'er the plain, to cheer the pack Opening in concerts of harmonious joy, _110 But breathing death. What though the gripe severe Of brazen-fisted Time, and slow disease Creeping through every vein, and nerve unstrung, Afflict my shattered frame, undaunted still, Fixed as a mountain ash, that braves the bolts Of angry Jove; though blasted, yet unfallen; Still can my soul in Fancy's mirror view Deeds glorious once, recal the joyous scene In all its splendours decked, o'er the full bowl Recount my triumphs past, urge others on _120 With hand and voice, and point the winding way: Pleased with that social sweet garrulity, The poor disbanded veteran's sole delight.

First let the Kennel be the huntsman's care, Upon some little eminence erect, And fronting to the ruddy dawn; its courts On either hand wide opening to receive The sun's all-cheering beams, when mild he shines, And gilds the mountain tops. For much the pack (Roused from their dark alcoves) delight to stretch, _130 And bask in his invigorating ray: Warned by the streaming light and merry lark, Forth rush the jolly clan; with tuneful throats They carol loud, and in grand chorus joined Salute the new-born day. For not alone The vegetable world, but men and brutes Own his reviving influence, and joy At his approach. Fountain of light! if chance[4]

Some envious cloud veil thy refulgent brow, In vain the Muses aid; untouched, unstrung, _140 Lies my mute harp, and thy desponding bard Sits darkly musing o'er the unfinished lay.

Let no Corinthian pillars prop the dome, A vain expense, on charitable deeds Better disposed, to clothe the tattered wretch, Who shrinks beneath the blast, to feed the poor Pinched with afflictive want. For use, not state, Gracefully plain, let each apartment rise.