  The landlady, his lordship, and another lodger, are accustomed to dine in common; and his lordship easily persuaded me to join the party. Accordingly, just as I had finished my last letter, dinner was announced, so having braided my tresses, I tripped up stairs, and glided into the room. You must know I have practised tripping, gliding, flitting, and tottering, with great success. Of these, tottering ranks first, as it is the approved movement of heroic distress. 'I wonder where our mad poet can be?' said the hostess; and as she spoke, an uncouth figure entered, muttering in emphatic accents, 'The hounds around bound on the sounding ground.' He started on seeing me, and when introduced by his lordship, as Mr. Higginson, his fellow lodger, and a celebrated poet, he made an unfathomable bow, rubbed his hands, and reddened to the roots of his hair. This personage is tall, gaunt, and muscular; with a cadaverous countenance, and black hair in strings on his forehead. I find him one of those men who spend their lives in learning how the Greeks and Romans lived; how they spoke, dressed, ate; what were their coins and houses, &c.; but neglect acquainting themselves with the manners and customs of their own times. Montmorenci tells me that his brain is affected by excessive study; but that his manners are harmless. At dinner, Montmorenci looked all, said all, did all, which conscious nobility, united with ardent attachment, could inspire in a form unrivalled, and a face unexcelled. I perceived that the landlady regarded him with eyes of tender attention, and languishing allurement, but in vain. I was his magnet and his Cynosure. As to Higginson, he did not utter a word during dinner, except asking for a bit of lambkin; but he preserved a perpetuity of gravity in his face, and stared at me, the whole time, with a stupid and reverential fixedness. When I spoke, he stopped in whatever attitude he happened to be; whether with a glass at his mouth, or a fork half lifted to it. After dinner, I proposed that each of us should relate the history of our lives; an useful custom established by heroines, who seldom fail of finding their account in it; as they are almost always sure to discover, by such means, either a grandmother or a murder. Thus too, the confession of a monk, the prattle of an old woman, a diamond cross on a child's neck, or a parchment, are the certain forerunners of virtue vindicated, vice punished, rights restored, and matrimony made easy. The landlady was asked to begin. 'I have nothing to tell of myself,' said she, 'but that my mother left me this house, and desired me to look out for a good husband, Mr. Grundy; and I am not as old as I look; for I have had my griefs, as well as other folks, and every tear adds a year, as they say; and 'pon my veracity, Mr. Grundy, I was but thirty-two last month. And my bitterest enemies never impeached my character, that is what they did'nt, nor could'nt; they dare'nt to my face. I am a perfect snowdrop for purity. Who presumes to go for to say that a lord left me an annuity or the like? Who, I ask? But I got a prize in the lottery. So this is all I can think to tell of myself; and, Mr. Grundy, your health, and a good wife to you, Sir.' After this eloquent piece of biography, we requested of Higginson to recount his adventures; and he read a short sketch, which was to have accompanied a volume of poems, had not the booksellers refused to publish them. I copy it for you. MEMOIRS OF JAMES HIGGINSON BY HIMSELF: 'Of the lives of poets, collected from posthumous record, and oral tradition, as little is known with certainty, much must be left to conjecture. He therefore, who presents his own memoirs to the public, may surely merit the reasonable applause of all, whose minds are emancipated from the petulance of envy, the fastidiousness of hypercriticism, and the exacerbation of party. 'I was born in the year 1771, at 24, Swallow Street; and should the curious reader wish to examine the mansion, he has every thing to hope from the alert urbanity of its present landlord, and the civil obsequiousness of his notable lady. He who gives civility, gives what costs him little, while remuneration may be multiplied in an indefinite ratio. 'My parents were reputable tobacconists, and kept me behind the counter, to negociate the titillating dust, and the tranquillizing quid. Of genius the first spark which I elicited, was reading a ballad in the shop, while the woman who sold it to me was stealing a canister of snuff. This specimen of mental abstraction (a quality which I still preserve), shewed that I would never make a good tradesman; but it also shewed, that I would make an excellent scholar. A tutor was accordingly appointed for me; and during a triennial course of study, I had passed from the insipidity of the incipient hic, hÆc, hoc, to the music of a Virgil, and the thunder of a Demosthenes. 'Debarred by my secluded life from copying the polished converse of high society, I have at least endeavoured to avoid the vulgar phraseology of low; and to discuss the very weather with a sententious association of polysyllabical ratiocination. 'With illustrations of my juvenile character, recollection but ill supplies me. That I have always disliked the diurnal ceremony of ablution, and a hasty succession of linen, is a truth which he who has a sensitive texture of skin will easily credit; which he who will not credit, may, if he pleases, deny; and may, if he can, controvert. But I assert the fact, and I expect to be believed, because I assert it. Life, among its quiet blessings, can boast of few things more comfortable than indifference to dress. 'To honey with my bread, and to apple-sauce with my goose, I have ever felt a romantic attachment, resulting from the classical allusions which they inspire. That man is little to be envied, whose honey would not remind him of the Hyblean honey, and whose apple-sauce would not suggest to him the golden apple. 'But notwithstanding my cupidity for such dainties, I have that happy adaptation of taste which can banquet, with delight, upon hesternal offals; can nibble ignominious radishes, or masticate superannuated mutton. 'My first series of teeth I cut at the customary time, and the second succeeded them with sufficient punctuality. This fact I had from my mother. 'My first poetical attempt was an epitaph on the death of my tutor, and it was produced at the precocious age of ten. EPITAPH Here lies the body of John Tomkins, who Departed this life, aged fifty-two; After a long and painful illness, that He bore with Christian fortitude, though fat. He died lamented deeply by this poem, And all who had the happiness to know him. 'This composition my father did not long survive; and my mother, to the management of the business feeling quite unequal, relinquished it altogether, and retired with the respectable accumulation of a thousand pounds. 'I still pursued my studies, and from time to time accommodated confectionaries and band-boxes with printed sheets, which the world might have read, had it pleased, and might have been pleased with, had it read. For some years past, however, the booksellers have declined to publish my productions at all. Envious enemies poison their minds against me, and persuade them that my brain is disordered. For, like Rousseau, I am the victim of implacable foes; but my genius, like an arch, becomes stronger the more it is opprest. 'On a pretty little maid of my mother's, I made my next poetical effort, which I present to the reader. TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFT If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ran One tide of ink to Ispahan; If all the geese in Lincoln fens, Produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens; If Holland old or Holland new, One wond'rous sheet of paper grew; Could I, by stenographic power, Write twenty libraries an hour; And should I sing but half the grace Of half a freckle on thy face; Each syllable I wrote, should reach From Inverness to Bognor's beach; Each hairstroke be a river Rhine, Each verse an equinoctial line. 'Of the girl, an immediate dismission ensued; but for what reason, let the sedulous researches of future biographers decide. 'At length, having resolved on writing a volume of Eclogues, I undertook an excursion into the country to learn pastoral manners, and write in comfort, far from my tailor. An amputated loaf, and a contracted Theocritus, constituted my companions. Not a cloud blotted the blue concave, not a breeze superinduced undulation over the verdant tresses of the trees. 'In vain I questioned the youths and maidens about their Damons and Delias; their Dryads and Hamadryads; their Amaboean contentions and their amorous incantations. When I talked of Pan, they asked me if it was a pan of milk; when I requested to see the pastoral pipe, they shewed me a pipe of tobacco; when I spoke of satyrs with horns, they bade me go to the husbands; and when I spoke of fawns with cloven heel, they bade me go to the Devil. While charmed with a thatched and shaded cottage, its slimy pond or smoking dunghill disgusted me; and when I recumbed on a bank of cowslips and primroses, my features were transpierced by wasps and ants and nettles. I fell asleep under sunshine, and awoke under a torrent of rain. Dripping and disconsolate, I returned to my mother, drank some whey; and since that misadventurous perambulation have never ruralized again. To him who subjects himself to a recurrence of disaster, the praise of boldness may possibly be accorded, but the praise of prudence must certainly be denied. 'A satirical eclogue, however, was the fruit of this expedition. It is called Antique Amours, and is designed to shew, that passions which are adapted to one time of life, appear ridiculous in another. The reader shall have it. ANTIQUE AMOUR AN ECLOGUE 'Tis eve. The sun his ardent axle cools In ocean. Dripping geese shake off the pools. An elm men's shadows measure; red and dun, The shattered leaves are rustling as they run; While an aged bachelor and ancient maid, Sit amorous under an old oak decayed. He (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass) Strews fodder underneath the hoary lass; Then thus,—O matchless piece of season'd clay, 'Tis Autumn, all things shrivel and decay. Yet as in withered Autumn, charms we see, Say, faded maiden, may we not in thee? What tho' thy cheek have furrows? ne'er deplore; For wrinkles are the dimples of threescore: Tho' from those azure lips the crimson flies, It fondly circles round those roseate eyes; And while thy nostrils snuff the fingered grain, The tinct thy locks have lost, thy lips obtain. Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet, Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet. To clasp that waist compact in stiffened fold, Of woof purpureal, flowered with radiant gold; Then, after stately kisses, to repair That architectural edifice of hair, These, these are blessings.—O my grey delight, O venerable nymph, O painted blight, Give me to taste of these. By Heaven above, I tremble less with palsy than with love; And tho' my husky murmurs creak uncouth, My words flow unobstructed by a tooth. Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet, Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet. Come, thou wilt ne'er provoke crimconic law, Nor lie, maternal, on the pale-eyed straw. Come, and in formal frolic intertwine, The braided silver of thy hair with mine. Then sing some bibulous and reeling glee, And drink crusht juices of the grape with me. Sing, for the wine no water shall dilute; 'Tis drinking water makes the fishes mute. Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet; Ah! press the wedding, ere the winding sheet. So spoke the slim and elderly remains Of once a youth. A staff his frame sustains; And aids his aching limbs, from knee to heel, Thin as the spectre of a famished eel. Sharpening the blunted glances of her eyes, The virgin a decrepid simper tries, Then stretches rigid smiles, which shew him plain, Her passion, and the teeth that still remain. Innocent pair! But now the rain begins, So both knot kerchiefs underneath their chins. And homeward haste. Such loves the Poet wrote, In the patch'd poverty of half a coat; Then diadem'd with quills his brow sublime, Magnanimously mad in mighty rhime. 'With my venerable parent, I now pass a harmless life. As we have no society, we have no scandal; ourselves, therefore, we make our favourite topic, and ourselves we are unwilling to dispraise. 'Whether the public will admire my works, as well as my mother does, far be from me to determine. If they cannot boast of wit and judgment, to the praise of truth and modesty they may at least lay claim. To be unassuming in an age of impudence, and veracious in an age of mendacity, is to combat with a sword of glass against a sword of steel; the transparency of the one may be more beautiful than the opacity of the other; yet let it be recollected, that the transparency is accompanied with brittleness, and the opacity with consolidation.' I listened with much compassion to this written evidence of a perverted intellect. O my friend, what a frightful disorder is madness! My turn came next, and I repeated the fictitious tale that Montmorenci had taught me. He confirmed it; and on being asked to relate his own life, gave us, with great taste, such a natural narrative of a man living on his wits, that any one who knew not his noble origin must have believed it. Soon afterwards, he retired to dress for the theatre; and when he returned, I beheld a perfect hero. He was habited in an Italian costume; his hair hung in ringlets, and mustachios embellished his lip. He then departed in a coach, and as soon as he had left us: 'I declare,' said the landlady to me, 'I do not like your cousin's style of beauty at all; particularly his pencilled eyebrows and curled locks, they look so womanish.' 'What!' said I, 'not admire Hesperian, Hyacinthine, clustering curls? Surely you would not have a hero with overhanging brows and lank hair? These are worn by none but the villains and assassins.' I perceived poor Higginson colouring, and twisting his fingers; and I then recollected that his brows and hair have precisely the faults which I reprobated. 'Dear, dear, dear!' muttered he, and made a precipitate retreat from the room. I retired soon after; and I now hasten to throw myself on my bed, dream of love and Montmorenci, and wake unrefreshed, from short and distracted slumbers. Adieu. |
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