upon by the Whig wits as affording an opportunity for satirising some of the political and literary characters of the day, conspicuous as members or supporters of the government. Pitt, Dundas, Jenkinson (Lord Liverpool), Lord Thurlow, Kenyon, Sir Cecil Wray, Dr Prettyman (afterwards Bishop of Winchester), and others, were the objects of these humorous sallies and personal invectives; while among literary men, Thomas Warton, Sir John Hawkins, and Macpherson (the translator of Ossian), were selected for attack. The contributors to this gallery of burlesque portraits and clever caricatures were: I. DR LAURENCE (called 'French Laurence') the friend of Burke, who was the chief editor or director of the satires: he died in 1809. 2. GENERAL RICHARD FITZPATRICK (1747-1813), a brother of the last Earl of Upper Ossory, who was long in parliament, and held successively the offices of Secretary-at-war and Irish Secretary. Fitzpatrick was the intimate friend of Charles James Fox-a fact recorded on his tomb-and his quatrain on that eminent statesman may be quoted as remarkable for condensed and happy expression : A patriot's even course he steered, 'Mid faction's wildest storms unmoved; By all who marked his mind revered, By all who knew his heart beloved. 3. RICHARD TICKELL, the grandson of Addison's friend, and the brother-in-law of Sheridan, besides his contributions to the Rolliad, was author of The Wreath of Fashion and other poetical pieces, and of a lively political pamphlet entitled Anticipation, 1778. Tickell was a commissioner of stamps; he was a great favourite in society; yet in a moment of despondency he threw himself from a window in Hampton Court Palace, November 4, 1793, and was killed on the spot. 4. JOSEPH RICHARDSON (1758-1803) was author of a comedy, called The Fugitive, and was partner with Sheridan in Drury Lane Theatre. Among the other contributors to the Rolliad were LORD JOHN TOWNSEND (1757-1833); Mr GEORGE ELLIS, the poetical antiquary and friend of Scott; SIR R. ADAIR; and GENERAL BURGOYNE, author of some dramatic pieces. All these were gay, fashionable, and somewhat hard-living men, whose political satire and malice, as Moore has remarked, 'from the fancy with which it is mixed up, like certain kinds of fireworks, explodes in sparkles.' Some of their sallies, however, are coarsely personal, and often irreverent in style and allusion. The topics of their satire are now in a great measure forgotten -superseded by other party-men and partymeasures; and the very qualities which gave it immediate and splendid success, have sunk it sooner in oblivion. Character of Mr Pitt. Pert without fire, without experience sage, Nor rum-contractors think his speech too long, WILLIAM GIFFORD. 66 WILLIAM GIFFORD, a poet, translator, and critic, afforded a remarkable example of successful application to science and literature under the most unfavourable circumstances. He was born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, in April 1756. His father had been a painter and glazier, but both the parents of the poet died when he was young; and after some little education, he was, at the age of thirteen, placed on board a coasting-vessel by his godfather, a man who was supposed to have benefited himself at the expense of Gifford's parents. ' It will be easily conceived,' he says, 'that my life was a life of hardship. I was not only a shipboy on the high and giddy mast," but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot; yet if I was restless and discontented, I can safely say it was not so much on account of this, as of my being precluded from all possibility of reading: as my master did not possess, nor do I recollect seeing, during the whole time of my abode with him, a single book of any description, except the Coasting Pilot. Whilst thus pursuing his life of a cabin-boy, Gifford was often seen by the fishwomen of his native town running about the beach in a ragged jacket and trousers. They mentioned this to the people of Ashburton, and never without commiserating his change of condition. This tale, often repeated, awakened at length the pity of the auditors, and as the next step, their resentment against the man who had reduced him to such a state of wretchedness. His godfather was on this account induced to recall him from the sea, and put him again to school. He made rapid progress, and even hoped to succeed his old and infirm schoolmaster. In his fifteenth year, however, his godfather, conceiving that he had got learning enough, and that his own duty towards him was fairly discharged, put him apprentice to a shoemaker. Gifford hated his new profession with a perfect hatred. At this time he possessed but one book in the world, and that was a treatise on algebra, of which he had no knowledge; but meeting with Fenning's Introduction, he mastered both works. This was not done,' he states, 'without difficulty. I had not a farthing on earth, nor a friend to give me one pen, ink, and paper, therefore-in despite of the flippant remark of Lord Orford-were, for the most part, as completely out of my reach as a crown and sceptre. There was indeed a resource, but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applying Young, with more art than Shelburne gleaned from it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as pos age, Too proud from pilfered greatness to descend, sible, and wrought my problems on them with a blunted awl for the rest, my memory was tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent.' He next tried poetry, and some of his 'lamentable doggerel' falling into the hands of Mr Cookesley, a benevolent surgeon of Ashburton, that gentleman set about a subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time of his apprenticeship, and enabling him to procure a better education. The scheme was successful; and in little more than two years, Gifford had made such extraordinary application, that he was pronounced fit for the university. The place of Biblical Lecturer was procured for him at Exeter College, and this, with such occasional assistance from the country as Mr Cookesley undertook to provide, was thought sufficient to enable him to live, at least till he had taken a degree. An accidental circumstance led to Gifford's advancement. He had been accustomed to correspond on literary subjects with a person in London, his letters being inclosed in covers, and sent, to save postage, to Lord Grosvenor. One day he inadvertently omitted the direction, and his lordship, necessarily supposing the letter to be meant for himself, opened and read it. He was struck with the contents; and after seeing the writer, and hearing him relate the circumstances of his life, undertook the charge of his present support and future establishment; and, till this last could be effected to his wish, invited him to come and reside with him. These,' says the grateful scholar,' were not words of course they were more than fulfilled in every point. I did go and reside with him, and I experienced a warm and cordial reception, and a kind and affectionate esteem, that has known neither diminution nor interruption from that hour to this, a period of twenty years.' Part of this time, it may be remarked, was spent in attending the earl's eldest son, Lord Belgrave, on a tour of Europe, which must have tended greatly to inform and expand the mind of the scholar. Gifford appeared as an author in 1794. His first production was a satirical poem entitled The Baviad, which was directed against a class of sentimental poetasters of that day, usually passing under the collective appellation of the Della Cruscan School -Mrs Piozzi, Mrs Robinson, Mr Greathead, Mr Merry, Weston, Parsons, &c.-conspicuous for their affectation and bad taste, and their high-flown compliments on one another. 'There was specious brilliancy in these exotics,' he remarks, which dazzled the native grubs, who had scarce ever ventured beyond a sheep, and a crook, and a rose-tree grove; with an ostentatious display of "blue hills," and "crashing torrents," and "petrifying suns." Gifford's vigorous exposure completely demolished this set of rhymesters, who were probably the spawn of Darwin and Lichfield. Anna Matilda, Laura Maria, Edwin, Orlando, &c. sunk into instant and irretrievable contempt; and the worst of the number-a man Williams, who assumed the name of Pasquin for his 'ribald strains-was nonsuited in an action against Gifford's publisher. The satire was universally read and admired. In the present day, it seems unnecessarily merciless and severe, yet lines like the following still possess interest. The allusion to Pope is peculiarly appropriate and beautiful: Degeneracy of Modern Literature. Oh for the good old times! when all was new, a Whate'er we paint-a grot, a flower, a bird, F-'Tis pitiful, Heaven knows ; P.-Pshaw; I have it here. F-You suppose These lines perhaps too turgid; what of those? 'The mighty mother ' P.-Now, 'tis plain you sneer, For Weston's self could find no semblance here: Weston! who slunk from truth's imperious light, Swells like a filthy toad with secret spite, And, envying the fame he cannot hope, Spits his black venom at the dust of Pope. Reptile accursed!-O 'memorable long, If there be force in virtue or in song,' O injured bard! accept the grateful strain, Which I, the humblest of the tuneful train, With glowing heart, yet trembling hand, repay, For many a pensive, many a sprightly lay! So may thy varied verse, from age to age, Inform the simple, and delight the sage. The contributions of Mrs Piozzi to this fantastic garland of exotic verse are characterised in one felicitous couplet : See Thrale's gay widow with a satchel roam, Others like Kemble, on black-letter pore, The Baviad was a paraphrase of the first satire of Persius. In the year following, encouraged by its success, Gifford produced the Maviad, an imitation of Horace, levelled at the corrupters of dramatic poetry. Here also the Della Cruscan authors-who attempted dramas as well as odes and elegies-are gibbeted in satiric verse; but Gifford was more critical than just in including O'Keefe, the amusing farce-writer, among the objects of his condemnation. The plays of Kotzebue and Schiller, then first translated and much in vogue, he also characterises as 'heavy, lumbering, monotonous stupidity,' a sentence too unqualified and severe. Gifford tried a third satire, an Epistle to Peter Pindar (Dr Wolcot), which, being founded on personal animosity, is more remarkable for its passionate vehemence and abuse than for its felicity or correctness. Wolcot replied with A Cut at a Cobbler, equally unworthy of his fame. These satirical labours of our author pointed him out as a fit person to edit the Anti-Jacobin, a weekly paper set up by Canning and others for the purpose of ridiculing and exposing the political agitators of the times. It was established in November 1797, and continued only till the July following. The conection thus formed with politicians and men of rank was afterwards serviceable to Gifford. He obtained the situation of paymaster of the gentlemen-pensioners, and was made a commissioner of the lottery, the emoluments of the two offices being about £900 per annum. In 1802, he published a translation of Juvenal, to which was prefixed his sketch of his own life, one of the most interesting and unaffected of autobiographies. This translation of Juvenal was attacked in the Critical Review, and Gifford replied in a pamphlet, An Examination of the Strictures, &c. which contains one remarkable passage: discharge his duties as editor until within two That spurned the crowd's malign control— He was high-spirited, courageous, and sincere. In most of his writings, however, there was a strong tinge of personal acerbity, and even virulence. He was a good hater, and as he was opposed to all political visionaries and reformers, he had seldom time to cool. His literary criticism, also, where no such prejudices could interfere, was frequently disfigured by the same severity of style ventured to say aught against Ben Jonson, or write or temper; and whoever, dead or living, had what he deemed wrong comments on his favourite dramatists, were assailed with a vehemence that His attacks on Hazlitt, Lamb, Hunt, and others, was ludicrously disproportioned to the offence. in the Quarterly Review, have no pretensions to fair or candid criticism. His object was to crush such authors as were opposed to the government A Reviewer compared to a Toad. of the day, or who departed from his canons of During my apprenticeship, I enjoyed perhaps as many literary propriety and good taste. Even the best places as Scrub; though I suspect they were not of his criticisms, though acute and spirited, want altogether so dignified: the chief of them was that of a candour and comprehensiveness of design. As a planter of cabbages in a bit of ground which my master politician, he looked with distrust and suspicion held near the town. It was the decided opinion of on the growing importance of America, and kept Panurge that the life of a cabbage-planter was the safest alive among the English aristocracy a feeling of and pleasantest in the world. I found it safe enough, I dislike or hostility towards that country, which confess, but not altogether pleasant; and therefore took was as unwise as it was ungenerous. His best every opportunity of attending to what I liked better, service to literature was his edition of Ben Jonson, which happened to be, watching the actions of insects in which he successfully vindicated that great and reptiles, and, among the rest, of a huge toad. I never loved toads, but I never molested them; for my English classic from the unjust aspersions of his mother had early bid me remember that every living countrymen. His satirical poetry is pungent, and thing had the same Maker as myself; and the words often happy in expression, but without rising always rang in my ears. The toad, then, who had into moral grandeur or pathos. His small but taken up his residence under a hollow stone in a hedge sinewy intellect, as some one has said, was well of blind nettles, I used to watch for hours together. It employed in bruising the butterflies of the Della was a lazy, lumpish animal, that squatted on its belly, Cruscan Muse. Some of his short copies of verses and perked up its hideous head with two glazed eyes, possess a quiet, plaintive melancholy and tenderprecisely like a Critical Reviewer. In this posture, per-ness; but his fame must rest on his influence and fectly satisfied with itself, it would remain as if it were a part of the stone, till the cheerful buzzing of some winged insect provoked it to give signs of life. The dead glare of its eyes then brightened into a vivid lustre, and it awkwardly shuffled to the entrance of its cell, and opened its detestable mouth to snap the passing fly or honey-bee. Since I have marked the manners of the Critical Reviewers, these passages of my youth have often occurred to me. Never was a toad more picturesquely treated! Besides his version of Juvenal, Gifford translated Persius, and edited the plays of Massinger, Ford, and Shirley, and the works of Ben Jonson. In 1808, when Sir Walter Scott and others resolved on starting a Review, in opposition to the celebrated one established in Edinburgh, Mr Gifford was selected as editor. In his hands, the Quarterly Review became a powerful political and literary journal, to which leading statesmen and authors equally contributed. He continued to * Farquhar's Beaux' Stratagem, Act III.: Scrub. Ah, Lord help you! I'll tell you. Of a Monday I drive the coach, of a Tuesday I drive the plough, on Wednesday I follow the hounds, on Thursday I dun the tenants, on Friday I go to market, on Saturday I draw warrants, and on Sunday I draw beer. talents as a critic and annotator, or more properly, on the story of his life and early struggles honourable to himself, and ultimately to his country-which will be read and remembered when his other writings are forgotten. The Grave of Anna. I wish I was where Anna lies, Go and partake her humble bier. And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and would fate allow, Should visit still, should still deplore- Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy matchless eloquence of eye; Thy courage by no ills dismayed, Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye; Cold turf which I no more must view, The above affecting elegiac stanzas were written by Gifford on a faithful attendant who died in his service. He erected a tombstone to her memory in the burying-ground of Grosvenor Chapel, South Audley Street, with the following inscription and epitaph: Here lies the body of Ann Davies, (for more than twenty years) servant to William Gifford. She died February 6th, 1815, in the forty-third year of her age, of a tedious and painful malady, which she bore with exemplary patience and resignation. Her deeply afflicted master erected this stone to her memory, as a painful testimony of her uncommon worth and of his perpetual gratitude, respect, and affection for her long and meritorious services. Though here unknown, dear Ann, thy ashes rest, Greenwich Hill. FIRST OF MAY. Though clouds obscured the morning hour, All soon, propitious to our prayer, The blasts in zephyrs died away. So have we, love, a day enjoyed, On which we both-and yet, who knows!May dwell with pleasure unalloyed, And dread no thorn beneath the rose. How pleasant, from that dome-crowned hill, We overhung that long-drawn dale, The sportive wile, the blameless jest, Which richer tables may not know. Looks up to catch a parting smile; Feels less assured than thou, dear maid, When, ere thy ruby lips could partAs close to mine thy cheek was laidThine eyes had opened all thy heart. Then, then I marked the chastened joy That lightly o'er thy features stole, From vows repaid-my sweet employFrom truth, from innocence of soul : While every word dropt on my ear So soft-and yet it seemed to thrill- To gaze in silence on the tide, So hours like moments winged their flight, Recalled us by the dashing oar. Well, Anna, many days like this I cannot, must not hope to share ; For I have found an hour of bliss Still followed by an age of care. Yet oft when memory intervenesBut you, dear maid, be happy still, Nor e'er regret, midst fairer scenes, The day we passed on Greenwich Hill. THE ANTI-JACOBIN POETRY. We have alluded to the Anti-Facobin weekly paper, of which Mr Gifford was editor. In this publication, various copies of verses were inserted, chiefly of a satirical nature. The poetry, like the prose, of the Anti-Facobin was designed to ridicule and discountenance the doctrines of the French Revolution; and as party-spirit ran high, those effusions were marked occasionally by fierce personality and declamatory violence. Others, however, written in travesty, or contempt of the bad taste and affectation of some of the works of the day, contained well-directed and witty satire, aimed by no common hand, and pointed with irresistible keenness. Among those who mixed in this loyal warfare was Mr J. H. FRERE (noticed in a subsequent section), and GEORGE CANNING (1770-1827), whose fame as an orator and statesman fills so large a space in the modern history of Britain. Canning was then young and ardent, full of hope and ambition. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less than feeling and principle, he exerted them in support of the existing administration. Previous to this, he had distinguished himself at Eton School for his classical acquirements and literary talents. To a periodical work, the Microcosm, he contributed several clever essays. Entering parliament in 1793, he was, in 1796, appointed undersecretary of state, and it was at the close of the following year that the Anti-Facobin was commenced, Gifford being editor. The contributions of Mr Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin, the greater part of The Rovers-a burlesque on the sentimental German dramaand New Morality, a spirited and caustic satire, directed against French principles, and their supporters in England. In this poem of New Morality occur four lines often quoted : Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe; As party effusions, these pieces were highly popular and effective; and that they are still read with pleasure on account of their wit and humour, and also perhaps on account of their slashing and ferocious style, is instanced by the fact, that the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, collected and published in a separate form, has attained to a sixth edition. The genius of Canning found afterwards a more appropriate field in parliament. As a statesman, 'just alike to freedom and the throne,' though somewhat prone to intrigue, and as an orator, eloquent, witty, and of consummate taste, his reputation is established. He had, however, a strong bias in favour of elegant literature, and would have become no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public life, and been so incessantly occupied with its cares and duties. From a speech delivered at Plymouth in 1823, we extract a short passage containing a fine simile: Ships of the Line in Port. The resources created by peace are means of war. In cherishing those resources, we but accumulate those means. Our present repose is no more a proof of inability to act, than the state of inertness and inactivity in which I have seen those mighty masses that float in the waters above your town, is a proof they are devoid of strength, and incapable of being fitted out for action. You well know, gentlemen, how soon one of those stupendous masses, now reposing on their shadows in perfect stillness-how soon upon any call of patriotism, or of necessity, it would assume the likeness of an animated thing, instinct with life and motion-how soon it would ruffle, as it were, its swelling plumage— how quickly it would put forth all its beauty and its bravery, collect its scattered elements of strength, and awaken its dormant thunder. Such as is one of these magnificent machines when springing from inaction into a display of its might-such is England herself: while apparently passive and motionless, she silently The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder. In this piece, Canning ridicules the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afforded a tempting subject for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the following stanza, lest he should be suspected of painting from fancy, and not from life: 'Cold was the night-wind: drifting fast the snows fell; Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked; When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore.' FRIEND OF HUMANITY. Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Or the attorney? |