David Lester Richardson: Sonnets and Other Poems (1827)•
David Lester Richardson (1838)David Lester Richardson
(1801-1865)
Calcutta Monthly Journal and General Register (1838)
Calcutta Monthly Journal and General Register:
Biographical Sketches,
1 - D. L. R.
The consciousness that he is writing for a small community is as a mill-stone round the neck of an author. He may have more readers in a narrow than in an extended circle; but it is not to this that we allude - it is to the constant recurrence of the feeling, that he cannot preserve an incognito; that to be anonymous is not to be unknown; that he cannot separate the author from the man in the minds of his readers; that there is no impervious veil of mystery to shroud him from the vulgar gaze; that he is self-manifested in all that he commits to paper, and that his dicta are only of value in proportion to the estimate which each reader, in his own little world, may form of the individual's capacity to instruct him: these are the feelings, which act so gallingly upon his spirit, whenever he takes up the pen with a desire to instruct or to inform society. The public writer in such a situation, knows full well that there are many, who will dispute his right to be an instructor; that many think him a very poor creature, for some private reasons of their own; and that that there are few people, who like to be dictated to at all when they know who is the dictator (an unknown dogmatist they can endure because he does not attack their self-love so directly) - he knows this and the knowledge is accompanied with an embarrassment, which pains at the same time that it fetters. But this is not all; as his writings are known he must be very careful indeed what he writes; for there are a multitude of readers, whose discernment is only to be equalled by their charity, and who not only discover an author's motives for writing in a particular strain, but discover also that those motives are corrupt. People know something of his private history and trace his own feelings in all that he writes. It is not enough even that his compositions should assume a form of fictitious narrative and that ideal speakers should be introduced, whose sentiments must be consistent with their characters: - oh! no, if there be anything of a doubtful morality in these sentiments, they are instantly said to be the sentiments of the writer, and then the causes, which have conduced to such a tone of sentiment, are discovered and dilated upon with a degree of candour and good-nature, which must be delightfully exhilarating to the disciples of that school, which the wit of Brinsley Sheridan has immortalized.
These remarks have a close application to the difficulties under which a writer labours in our Indian community. Almost everybody in Calcutta knows the names and perhaps the persons of each writer in the different periodicals; they know more than this, they know his character, his history, his means, his way of life, but this would be nothing if they did not know his style in such a manner as to identify every article he writes, and to forbid the preservation of an incognito. The editorial we is but a transparent veil, through which all see Mr. --, or Mr. *** ; and it is most true, though it may seem strange, that the opinions of an unknown writer, of whose general powers, and of whose honesty and integrity the reader can have no knowledge whatever, are received with far more respect than those of an author, with whom we are acquainted, either personally or by report, although our knowledge of the individual may have had no other effect than that of implanting within us a deeply-rooted conviction of his excellence, intellectual and moral. One person will not think much of a writer, who happened to be, many years ago at college, inferior to him in scholastic attainments ; another will recognize in a particular writer a junior officer, and will not admit of intellectual, where there is not military precedence; a third will say, that A. is un-educated, or B, quite a boy, or C. too fond of society - and thus deny their right to set themselves up as public instructors; but all this is exceedingly unfair, exceedingly mortifying, and exceedingly embarrassing. The writings, not the writers, should be canvassed. If an article contain dangerous or unsound opinions, let it be attacked with all violence; let its arguments be rebutted and overthrown in any mode, however truculent, by the supporters of the opposite cause; but let not the individual be attacked - let the person be kept sacred. It has nothing to do with the merits of the question that Mr. Jones is a drunkard, or Mr. Brown an atheist, or that Mr. Thompson has been confined in a mad-house. Party rancour, not political but literary, in this our City-of-Palaces, has for some time been raging most fearfully. Would to God that we could see it extinguished!
To apply these observations more immediately to the matter now under our consideration. A public writer is invited to prepare for a certain periodical, a biographical notice of a cotemporary. He undertakes the task, but at the same time he is well aware that upon the appearance of his biography, his authorship of the article will be identified not only by the biographized individual himself, but by all that individual's associates, - by every literary man in the community, and indeed by the majority of his readers. He must be prepared, therefore, to have his motives as well as his opinions canvassed: whatever may be the tone of the article he has written, he is sure to have his sincerity questioned by some party or other. If he has spoken unfavorably or even lukewarmly, of his co-temporary's writings, the charge of envy is laid at his door; if on the other hand he has bestowed on them generous laudations, it is either said that he is one of the author's personal friends and is afraid of a schism if he were to give an honest opinion , or else that he has some object in view - some purpose to answer - perhaps that he expects on a future occasion to be paid back for his flattery in kind. Immediately that the work appears it is said "Oh! this is 's article; and dines with * * * three times a week," or "is paying his addresses to ***'s daughter," or owes him money, or borrows his horses, or is his cousin: some reason or other is sure to be found for the eulogistic nature of the review; and just as many kindly motives, should the notice be unfavorable, are readily discovered by the discerning enquirer. We are perfectly aware of all this; but we acknowledge that we are but little affected by it. We intend to write just what we think; and we leave our friends to find out our motives. We must premise, however, for their information, that we neither owe D. L. R. any money, nor do we dine with him three times a week, nor are we paying our addresses to his daughter, nor in the habit of borrowing his horses. That we are D. L. R.'s friend we readily and proudly acknowledge. If we were not so we should be little fit to write this account of him; for as with things so is it with persons , a writer must have some acquaintance with that which he undertakes to describe, or his description will be, most probably, a failure.
Hazlitt says, that "it is often harder to praise a friend than an enemy." But, we must confess, that we have never found much difficulty in bestowing praise on our friends. He says in another place, that, "to speak highly of one, with whom we are intimate, is a species of egotism;" if it be so, we are sadly afraid that we must prove ourselves to be egotists, in this month's magazine. But our readers will have already wearied of this long exordium, and will be longing to hear something of their friend D. L. R. Let us commence then without further periphrasis and tell them all that we know concerning one, who has afforded so much delight and instruction to the community of British India.
DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON, was born, we believe, in the first year of the present century, so that he is now about thirty-seven years of age. His Father, (Colonel David Thomas Richardson, of the Bengal Establishment, ) was lost on his passage home to Europe about thirty years ago. He was not destitute of literary talent, as may be seen by his contributions to the Asiatic Researches, and being an excellent oriental linguist, he occasionally amused himself by translating passages of Eastern poetry, which he rendered into English verse with a considerable degree of felicity. We have seen a translation by him of one of Qoodrut's odes, which was published in the Weekly Review, and which struck us as being an elegant version of a somewhat philosophic poem. D. L. R. entered the service in 1819 and first appeared as a poet in the following year, when he began to send his verses to the Calcutta Journal, which was then under Buckingham's editorial management. To these contributions he affixed the triple initials, now so familiar to all Indian readers. In 1822, he published in Calcutta a small volume of poems, with his name in full on the title-page ; of this publication he is, we believe, at the present time considerably ashamed ; but few are the poets who, in the zenith of their fame, do not look back with supreme contempt on the first sprouts of their juvenile muse. In 1824, D. L. R. went to Europe on medical certificate. His first impressions on reaching England he has recorded in his works with a truthfulness most touchingly beautiful. We need in this place but allude to the Essay on Children and the poem entitled The Return from Exile ; it will be our province to speak of them fully anon. In 1825, D. L. R. published in London a volume entitled Sonnets and other Poems. This work was received, as it deserved to be, with an uncommon share of public favour. Reviewers, both metropolitan and provincial, almost without an exception, agreed in their laudations of Richardson's poetry. The public press has been rarely so unanimous in their opinions of an individual work. Indeed, as a proof of this volume's popularity, we may mention, that Messrs . Jones and Co., applied to the author for permission to include it in their well-known diamond-edition of the British poets ; a compliment, which will be better understood, when it is stated, that Richardson is the only living bard whose works are included in the collection. This edition of D. L. R.'s poems, appeared in 1827, about which time he bethought himself of establishing in the metropolis a periodical, to be called the London Weekly Review. On this speculation he expended a large portion of his patrimony, which was far from being inconsiderable. His uncle, Colonel Sherwood of the Artillery , who was like- wise the poet's guardian, had often said to him, " You are the richest Ensign in India; if you go home, you will return a beggar. " The Colonel's prediction was almost verified. D. L. R. established the Weekly Review, of which he was sole proprietor. He edited it in conjunction with Mr. St. John, author of the Anatomy of Society, Margaret Ravenscroft, and some works of oriental travel . Hazlitt, Bowring, Roscoe, Moir, Pringle, and many other eminent writers were amongst the contributors to this journal; and, it was, undoubtedly, the most talented and the most honest weekly periodical that ever issued from the London press. The undertaking prospered, as it deserved ; indeed, it was so successful , that John Murray was anxious to purchase a half -share in the proprietorship of the work. This, D. L. R. most imprudently declined : had he accepted the proposal, the chances are, that he would never have returned to India, but have been now living in England, upon the profits of his half - share; for D. L. R. is about as bad a man of business as John Murray is a good one, and nothing but a connexion with such a person as the latter, could have enabled Richardson to carry on with profit to himself an extensive undertaking like that of the London Weekly Review. This was certainly the greatest mistake D. L. R. ever made in his life ; and, subsequently, he bitterly repented of it . In 1828, it may be remembered by many, the literary world was agitated by several extensive failures amongst the leading book-sellers of the country. In this number were a considerable portion of those houses, who had supported the Weekly Review by their advertisements, a circumstance which considerably lessened the profits arising from the work. This was a critical period too with D. L. R.; his time of fur- lough had nearly expired, and it became imperative upon him to take some decisive steps as to his future establishment in life. He was disheartened by a variety of circumstances, all chiefly resulting from his inexperience in the details of busi- ness ; and he began to think that he had better return to his old profession in India. He carried on the London Weekly Review until the conclusion of the year 1828, when he sold it to Mr. Colburn, reserving to himself a certain share in the concern, the proceeds from which were to be increased in the same ratio as the increase of circulation. But, unfortunately, Mr. Colburn being endowed with more ingenuity than most people, contrived to dispossess D. L. R. of his rightful claims by changing the name of the periodical. D. L. R. had stipulated for a certain share in the profits of the London Weekly Review- Mr. Colburn metamorphosed it into the Court Journal, and by this adroit manœuvre deluded Richardson out of his property. We never doubted Mr. Colburn's abilities as a tactician, but we should scarcely have expected such a specimen of his ingenuity as this.
We must not forget to mention in this place that when D. L. R. made known his intention of returning to the shores of India, his literary associates gave him a farewell dinner, at which Thomas Campbell, the poet, presided. We cannot do better than transfer to our pages a brief notice of this dinner, which appear- ed in the London journals at the time, for it must be most gratifying to D. L. R.'s friends to peruse the well merited compliment paid to him by one of the most gifted men of the age :-
"DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON, ESQ."D. L. R. returned to India in 1829. He had over-staid the five years allowed by act of Parliament to officers absent from duty. In the month of October, in the preceding year, he had gained the permission of the Court of Directors to return to India, and although it would have been impossible for him to have reached Bengal, within the boundaries of the five years' limitation, the Court gained the consent of the Board of Controul to an indulgence, which, in this special instance, they were pleased to confer on our friend. They decreed, that if D. L. R. took his passage in a ship, to sail in the ensuing month, they would not visit him with any ill consequence, on account of having over - staid his time. He then took a passage in a vessel , advertized to sail early in November; it was accidentally delayed till December, and on this account the Government of Bengal suspended him from the service, until such time as the decision of the Court of Directors might be made known to them. This threw D. L. R. entire- lyupon his literary resources, and whilst he was waiting for the decision of the Court , concerning which he had very few misgivings, he employed himself in conducting certain literary periodicals. The answer which he received froin the Court of Directors, after a suspension of about a year and half , was , as he antici- pated, favourable ; he was then appointed a Member of the Arsenal Committee ; which detained him at Calcutta, until his promotion to a Captaincy, whereon he applied for permission, which was granted, to be transferred to the Invalid list. From the middle of the year 1829 to the end of 1835, he was employed upon editing various literary works, of which the following is, we believe, a correct enumeration :-
“The friends of D. L. Richardson, Esq., projector of The London Weekly Review, whose poetical talents and amiable private character have endeared him to a large and distinguished circle, comprehending some of the most illustrious names in the republic of letters, met on Saturday, the 3d inst. at the Free Masons' Tavern, forthe purpose of paying him the public compliment of a farewell dinner, previous to his departure for India. The chair was taken by Thomas Campbell, Esq. , whose con- vivial talents are only eclipsed by his splendid poetical reputation. "At half -past six o'clock , the company sat down to an elegant dinner ; and on the removal of the cloth, after the customary toasts, the health of Mr. Richardson was proposed in an animated speech by the Chairman. It was, he said, an unexpected pleasure to him, on joining the party assembled that evening - to pay a farewell tribute to their excellent friend and guest -to find it graced by the company of two individuals, whose presence on this occasion afforded him particular gratification ; he meant his distinguished military friend Gen. Miller, who had signalized himself by his more than chivalrous services in a cause far more honourable than chivalry ; and Mr. Martin, the poet painter, who, by the extraordinary creations of his unrivalled genius , has exceeded all that the most imaginative minds had ever conceived of beauty, grandeur, and magnificence. In proposing the health of Mr. Richardson, it would be needless for him to expatiate upon his merits ; they were known to all his friends, and to none better than the party then assembled. Deep as might be his (Mr. Richard- son's) regret at leaving his native country, it would be soothed by the conviction, that he left behind him those favourable impressions, which would afford to a heart constituted like his , the truest consolation, and best mitigate the pain of separation. And, though the occasion of the present meeting could not fail to give birth to some melancholy reflections, connected as it was, with the loss they were about to sustain of a dear and valued friend, whose elegant acquirements and refined taste are so conspicuous, it was his wish that it should be considered less in the light of a valedictory ceremony, than as an occasion of offering their sincere congratulations to their friend and guest, on the literary reputation he had already so creditably achieved, and their fervent hopes that his departure for India, which he had resolved upon, for reasons perfectly consistent with the spirit and manliness of his character, would furnish no bar to his fair and promising prospects in literature. The best wishes of his friends would accompany him to the scenes he was about to visit ; and he trusted this public expression of their high opinion would be the more valuable, coming, as it did, from a body of men who never dealt in the base traffic of praise, nor stooped their independent heads to flatter. He concluded an eloquent and affectionate address, by proposing the health of Mr. Richardson, their valued friend and guest, which was drank with the greatest applause. "Mr. RICHARDSON returned thanks in a short but feeling speech . " The Chairman gave the health of General Miller with an eulogium on his services in South America. " General Miller, in returning thanks, spoke as follows : ' In all my proceedings in South America, which have been so kindly adverted to, I have had the benefit of two great advantages, to which I have been more indebted than to any merits of my own -I mean good friends and good fortune. These have done nearly everything for me, and have left me no other title to approbation than what may be derived from a plain and straightforward course of conduct, and a steady perseverance in what I considered to be my duty-encouraged and animated by a fervent desire to do credit to my native country. And in this slight allusion to my personal history, I should be guilty of an injustice, if I omitted to express my obligation and gratitude to the heroism and valour of the common people, the common peasantry, and common soldiery of South America. " The Chairman then gave the health of Mr. Martin. At the retirement of the Chairman at rather an early hour, in consequence of indisposition, General Miller was called to the Chair, and the evening concluded with great hilarity. The party broke up at a late hour."
Bengal Annual, from 1830 to 1836,........................ 7 vols
Calcutta Literary Gazette, from 1830 to 1835,............ 6 "
Calcutta Magazine, from 1830 to 1833,....... ............ 10 "
Total, ....... 23
We have somehow or other neglected in this brief sketch of D. L. R.'s life to speak, in its proper place, of the publication of his two principal works. We do not much regret the omission, as it has furnished us with a natural link of transition, whereby we may pass from the author to his works.
The Ocean Sketches and other Poems were printed in 1833, and the Literary Leaves, in 1835. It is of the latter work, that we purpose to speak, as in this volume the better portion of all his previous writings, both prose and poetry, has been incorporated. We hope to receive all credit for the sincerity with which we intend to execute our task ; we will do our best to be strictly impartial, and angels could do no more.
If we were called upon to characterize D. L. R. as a poet, we should say, without a moment's hesitation, that he is the poet of domestic life. We do not remember any English writer (and we think that our poetical readings have embraced the whole range of British bards ) who has given utterance, with such a touching air of truthfulness, to the beautiful, affectionate yearnings of the husband, the parent, and the friend. It would be impossible to peruse, with attention either his essays or his poems, without inwardly saying, " These are the out-pourings of a kindly, affectionate heart." He who does not feel the generous sympathies of his nature excited by such appeals, full of the best spirit of hu- manity , as they are, must indeed have
- a hideous heart,
A heart of stone - of smooth, cold, frightful stone ;
In D. L. R. there is nothing over-strained -all is quiet, all subdued, all natural. There is one poem, certainly, in the collection, which may in some measure be subjected to the charge of exaggeration ; and we like it less than any poem in the book, although the critics one and all have commended it. We have a notion, however, that D. L. R. perfectly coincides with us in this opinion. The poem to which we refer is called the Soldier's Dream, and is something in the Charnel-house style. With this solitary exception all D. L. R.'s writings, both prose and poetry, are full of quiet beauty and natural grace. They do not strike or startle us, but they gently win their way to our hearts . They have a sort of Claude-like repose about them, and we dwell lingeringly upon the scenes he describes as we do upon the painted creations of the Italian. There is nothing petulant or ill- natured in his writings - no pride, no misanthropy, no sarcasm. He is imbued with too noble a philosophy, ever to scorn, to abuse, or to insult his fellows. He is a little of an optimist we think, and we like him the better for being so . There is an exculpatory vein running through his writings, which to us is peculiarly delightful. He seeks for good in everything, and is full of sanctifying charities . Take, for example, the following passage from an essay entitled Summer and Winter. He is dilating upon the soothing influences of a calm summer's day. See, how charitably he makes excuse for that, which is the most frequent source of petulant complaint in people of ardent temperament -we mean, the want of sympathy in others :
"Even actual misfortune comes in a questionable shape, when our physical constitution is in perfect health, and the flowers are in full bloom, and the streams are glittering in the sun. So powerfully does the light of external nature sometimes act upon the moral system, that a sweet sensation steals gradually over the heart, even when we think we have reason to be sorrowful, and while we almost accuse ourselves of a want of feeling. The fretful hypochondriac would do well to bear this in mind, and not take it for granted that all are cold and selfish who fail to sympathize in his fantastic cares. He should remember, that men are sometimes so buoyed up by the sense of corporeal power, and a communion with nature in her cheerful moods, that things connected with their own personal interest, which at other times would irritate them to madness, pass by them like the wind. He himself must have had his intervals of comparative happiness , in which the causes of his present afflictions would have appeared trivial and absurd. He should not then, expect persons whose blood is warm in their veins, and whose eyes are open to the blessed sun in heaven, to think more of his sorrows than he would himself , were his mind and body in a healthful state.We are fully alive to the merits of D. L. R. as a descriptive poet. It is his own opinion, and the opinion, we believe, of all his friends, that his descriptions of inanimate nature are superior to his other metrical performances . We can not think this - for us the Ocean Sketches have far less charm than his domestic pieces ; his lesser poems which he has addressed more immediately to the human heart. We are at issue upon this point with the whole host of Richardson's reviewers . The Ocean Sketches are bright Turner-like sea- views -they are beautiful, and dazzling, and highly-coloured; they attract the eye at once , but we cannot linger on them - they awaken scenic remembrances but not heart-felt associations, and therefore they do not dwell upon the mind. The spirit of humanity pervades them not. They are gorgeous views without a figure in them, and therefore they lack vitality. This is a fault which, we acknowledge, lies more in the subject than in the execution of the pictures, but we have a fault to find with their execution. The Ocean Sketches are over- laden with epithets ; it is the nature of descriptive poetry to abound in them to a certain extent, but a few will be as graphic as a multitude. Now D. L R.'s epithets are always descriptive ; they are always the best that can be chosen ; but there are too many of them and their multiplicity dazzles rather than illuminates our view. The Ocean Sketches are admirably true to nature. Indeed, but a little time ago, when ocean- voyagers ourselves , we found that we were frequently repeating passages of the Sketches, which had been long buried in the store- house of our memory, but of whose possession we were utterly ignorant, until we beheld in reality the very images the poet has described. Higher praise to their truthfulness we cannot bestow ; but we wish that they had been less elaborated. We wish that the artist had dashed a little less colour upon his canvas, and struck out a more simple effect. Wordsworth's descriptions are the finest in the language, but they are very little burthened with epithets . We will quote one of the Ocean Sketches entire, which will enable our readers to perceive at once both the characteristic beauties and defects of these graphic poems.
"With what a light heart and eager appetite did I enter the little breakfast parlour, whose glass-doors opened upon a bed of flowers ! The table was spread with dewy and delicious fruits from our own garden, and gathered by fair and friendly hands. Sweet and luscious as were these natural dainties to the sight and taste, they were of small account in comparison with the fresh cheeks and cherry lips that so frankly accepted the wonted early greeting. Alas ! how that dear domestic circle is now divided, and what a change has since come over the spirit of our dreams ! Yet still I cherish boyish feelings, and the past is sometimes present. As I give an imaginary kiss to an "old familiar face," and catch myself almost unconsciously, yet literally, returning imaginary smiles, my heart is as fresh and fervid as of yore. Fifteen thousand miles do not change or separate faithful spirits, nor annihilate early associations. Parted friends may still share the light of love, as severed clouds are equally kindled by the same sun."*
Now here the first passage we have marked with italics is eminently beautiful and descriptive ;it is not only admirably true to nature, but it is a fine specimen of " Imitative Harmony"*. There is not a word too few or too many and any change would be for the worse. But a little further on, where he describes the flying fish, the same image is introduced three times in the same number of lines . The bright- winged tribe flash, and glitter in the sun . The word flash is the most graphic word in the language that the poet could have employed. It might well have afforded to stand alone without any assistance from its brethren. We have the same objections to make to the description of the tropic bird a little lower down in the same poem. There is a like redundant display of glittering words " dazzling", " silver," " gleam" and " light, " are all to be found in the same paragraph. One of the most popular, but, in our opinion, one of the most over- rated poets of the age, has subjected himself to a similar accusation, in a far more extraordinary degree. Our readers will have little difficulty in discovering that we allude to Thomas Moore, whose principal work, though the most popular book ever written, is all spangle and tinsel, with very little of the genuine ore of poetry in its composition. As a specimen of its tinsel, we may parenthetically quote a passage, which glitters about fifty times more than the extracts we have quoted from . D. L. R. We must premise that this is an admired passage -one of those which boys of sixteen and girls at a boarding-school under- line with a pencil , and scratch opposite to it, in the margin , the word " beautiful" –A CALM - AT MID-DAY. Now in the fervid noon the smooth bright sea Heaves slowly, for the wandering winds are dead That stirred it into foam. The lonely ship Rolls wearily, and idly flap the sails Against the creaking must. The lightest sound Is lost not on the ear, and things minute Attract the observant eye. The scaly tribe , Bright-winged , that upward flash from torrid seas, Like startled birds, now burst their glassy caves , And glitter in the sun ; while diamond drops From off their briny pinions fall like rain , And leave a dimpled track . The horizon clouds Are motionless, and yield fantastic forms Of antique towers, vast woods and frozen lakes, Huge rampant beasts, and giant phantoms seen In wildering visions only. High o'er head, Dazzling the sight, hangs, quivering like a lark, The silver Tropic- bird ; - at length it flits Far in cerulean depths and disappears, Save for a moment, when with fitful gleam It waves its wings in light. The pale thin moon, Her crescent floating on the azure air, Shows like a white bark sleeping on the main When not a ripple stirs . Yon bright clouds form, (Ridged as the ocean sands, with spots of blue, Like water left by the receding tide,) A fair celestial shore ! How beautiful ! The spirit of eternal peace hath thrown A spell upon the scene ! The wide blue floor Of the Atlantic world -a sky-girt plain- Now looks as never more the Tempest's tread Would break its shining surface ; and the ship Seems destined ne'er again to brave the gale, Anchored for ever on the silent deep !
Now, if an artist were desirous of transferring this gorgeous scene to the canvas, he would find it necessary, as a preliminary step, to betake himself to Mr. Fuller's - "Temple of Fancy, " or some other depôt of a similar nature, and there to purchase an immoderate supply of gold leaf to work out his design. We protest against this glittering array of words ; it dazzles, it does not charm the senses. A diamond-beetle is a very pretty thing, but an antelope is more grace- ful, and a lion much more sublime. Mr. Moore's poems are all diamond-beetles.To one, who looked from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there; How beauteous must have been the glow The life, the sparkling from below! Fair gardens, shining streams , with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sun-light falls ; Gay lizards, glittering on the walls Of ruined shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light ; And yet more splendid numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks With their rich, restless wings that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west, as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, &c. , &c . , &c .
But all this has very little to do with our friend D. L. R. We have spoken, thus freely of his Ocean Sketches, because he can afford to be blamed a little where there is so much to praise. Hazlitt says, that " those who are tenacious on the score of their faults, show that they have no virtues to bring as a set-off against them." Now D. L. R. having plenty of virtues, will readily allow us to say something of his faults . We have nothing more, however, to say about them, and we are heartily glad of it . But we have much to say of his merits, and happy are we that can we do so in a spirit as sincere as it is cordial. Here is a passage on which we have first lighted in the Ocean Sketches ; and who is there amongst our readers who will not recognize the truthfulness of the picture?
Here is another full of graphic power and beauty; it gives us little trouble to find such gems for they are clustering in every page. How finely he describes a ship in a storm : -How fitfully the struggling day-beams pierce The veil of heaven ! On yon far line of light, That like a range of breakers streaks the main, The ocean swan-the snow- white Albatross, Gleams like a dazzling foam- flake in the sun!- Gaze upward -and, behold ! where parted clouds Disclose ethereal depths, its dark-hued mate Hangs motionless on arch- resembling wings, As though ' twere painted on the sky's blue vault.
These are, we think, fair specimens of the Ocean Sketches ; they are of the " average quality" of the whole, and have been culled with no particular care. Of the lesser poems we have marked a number for extract, and we are at a loss how to choose amongst them. The following lines will, we are sure, find an echo in many a lonely exile's breast. They are touchingly beautiful and plaintive : -Her snow-white sails, Outspread like wings of some gigantic bird Struck with dismay, are fluttering in the gale, And sound like far-off thunder. Now the heart Of ocean quails to its profoundest depths ; - The dark heavens groan , - the wildly scattered clouds, Like routed hosts, are thickly hurrying past The dim- discovered stars. Up lofty hills, Or down wide-yawning vales, the lone ship drives As if to swift destruction. Still she braves, Though rudely buffetted by tempest-fiends, The elemental war. Ah! that dread wave, As though some huge sea- monster dealt the blow, Hath made her start and tremble! -Yet again , For one hushed moment, with recovered power , She proudly glides in majesty serene, Calm as a silver cloud on summer skies , Or yon pale moon amid the strife of heaven !
As a sort of appendix to these lines we must quote a stanza from an exquisite poem entitled "Consolations of exile, " and we wish that we could extract the whole : -HOME-VISIONS . WRITTEN IN INDIA. I. The skies are blue as summer seas -the plains are green and bright- The groves are fair as Eden's bowers -the streams are liquid light- The sun-rise bursts upon the scene, like glory on the soul, And richly round the couch of Day the twilight curtains roll. II. But, oh ! though beautiful it be, I yearn to leave the land, - It glows not with the holier hues that tinge my native strand, Where shadows of departed dreams still float o'er hill and grove, And mirrored in the wanderer's heart, immortalize its love ! III . I gaze upon the stranger's face -I tread on foreign ground, And almost deem Enchantment's wand hath raised up all around : - My spirit may not mingle yet with scenes so wild and strange, And keeps in scorn of fleshly bonds its old accustomed range. IV. In that sweet hour when Fancy's spell inebriates the brain, And breathing forms to phantoms turn, and lost friends live again , Oh! what a dear, delirious joy unlocks the source of tears, While, like unprisoned birds , we seek the haunts of happier years !
And now what better can we do than let our readers know how the " Home visions" of the poet were realized , when once again he trod the shores of his own native land. Oh! is it not worth a few years' exile - a few years of heart-solitude in a strange land - to feel the exulting spirit, the bounding pulse, the access of animal life, the buoyancy, the hopes which stir within us, when we plant our foot upon the strand of Merry England, and feel its mild airs breathing on us once more ? How well do we remember all the sensations which D. L. R. has so beautifully described. We, at least, can vouch for the truth of the verses . How naturally does the poet allude to the first sight of his native fields and their spirit-stirring influence on his soul :-Fair children ! still, like phantoms of delight, Ye haunt my soul on this strange distant shore, As the same stars shine through the tropic night That charmed me at my own sweet cottage door . Though I have left ye long, I love not less ; Though ye are far away, I watch ye still ; Though I can ne'er embrace ye, I may bless, And e'en though absent, guard ye from each ill ! Still the full interchange of soul is ours, A silent converse o'er the waters wide, And fancy's spell can speed the lingering hours And fill the space that yearning hearts divide.
We doubted, whether we would quote these lines, as there is a passage of a similar tendency in a delightful Essay on Children, which we had half promised ourselves to cite in this review. We hardly know which most to admire, the passage in the essay or in the poem; but we could not resist the temptation of giving a sort of unity to the three last quotations ; they, indeed, form a series of beautiful pieces, each serving to illustrate the others. But we must be more chary of extracts or we shall soon run out of our bounds . We have as yet said nothing of D. L. R's sonnets; but we are not there . fore blind to their merits. They are most of them exquisitely finished and full of genuine poetry. We think that, with the exception of Milton's and Wordsworth's, they are equal to any in the language. We have neither time nor inclination in the present place, to speak of the capabilities of the sonnet ; there has been much controversy on the subject, and should any of our readers wish to carry on the enquiry, we would refer them at once to the preliminary observations which introduce D. L. R.'s masterly essay on the mysterious sonnets of Shakespeare, whilst we take at random a few of D. L. R.'s own, and offer them to the admiration of those who prefer following us in our criticisms.And when among my native fields I wandered in the sun, I felt as if my morn of life had only just begun. IV. The shining golden butter-cup -the daisy's silver crest- The living gems of every hue on Nature's verdant breast- The cheertul songs of British birds, that rose from British trees- The fragrance from the blossomed hedge, that came on every breeze- V. The white cot peeping from the grove, its blue smoke in the sky The rural group of ruddy boys , that gaily loitered nigh- The silent sheep-besprinkled hill-the rivulet- watered vale- The lonely lake, where brightly shone, the fisher's sun- lit sail ; - VI. A while these seemed illusions brief of beauty and delight , A dear but transitory dream -a mockery of the night ! For often in my slumbering hours on India's sultry strand, In visions, scarce less palpable, 1 hailed my native land. VII. But when upon my wildering doubts reflection flashed the truth, Oh! never in my childhood years, nor in my fervid youth , So deep a rapture thrill'd my breast as while I gazed around, And recognized the thousand charms that hallow English ground !
There are two poems, which we would fain quote entire did not their extreme length prevent us. The one is called Retrospection, the other Stanzas to my Child. We must, however, cite an extract from each of them, before we pass on to the consideration of D. L. R.'s merits as a prose writer. The latter of the two poems will lose nothing by a comparison with those exquisite verses of Leigh Hunt ' commencing.SONNET - TO MY TWIN BOYS. Ye seem not, sweet ones, formed for human care- Your dreams are tinged by heaven ;-your glad eyes meet A charm in every scene ; for all things greet The dawn of life with hues divinely fair ! How brightly yet your laughing features wear The bloom of early joy ! Your bosoms beat With no bewildering fear, your cup is sweet- The manna of delight is melting there ! Twin buds of life and love! My hope and pride ! Fair, priceless jewels of a father's heart ! Stars of my home ! No saddening shadows hide Your beauty now. Your stainless years depart Like glittering streams that softly murmur by, Or white-winged birds that pierce the sunny sky ! SONNET. Oh ! now glad Nature bursts upon mine eye ! The night of care is o'er. Deep rapture thrills My waking heart ; for Life's deforming ills, That come like shadows when the storm is nigh, Foreboding strife, at length have floated by, And left my spirit free ! -The sky-lark trills His matin song ; the cloud-resembling hills In dim cerulean beauty slumbering lie, And form the throne of Peace ; the silver stream Is sparkling in the sun -its bright waves seem Instinct with joy ; the verdant breast of earth Teems with delight. -The past is like a dream , A dull trance broken by the voice of mirth, Or grey mist scattered by the morning beam ! – SONNET - YOUTH. Oh ! there are green spots on the path of time The morning traveller, passing gaily by, Views with irreverent and careless eye, - Till, with reverted gaze, when doomed to climb With ceaseless toil adversity's rough steep, He marks them in the shadowy distance lie Like radiant clouds, that o'er an April sky, 'Mid gloom and strife, in silent beauty sleep. Scenes of departed joy, -now mourned in vain ! To which my weary feet can ne'er return, Farewell ! -farewell ! -Alas ! how soon we learn, Urged o'er Life's later paths of care and pain, Where hang the shadows of the tempest stern, That all is drear beyond Youth's flowery plain. SONNET. Our paths are desolate, and far apart- Our early dreams have vanished ; -never more May we together mingle, as before , Our fond, impassioned spirits . Quick tears start As eager memories rush upon my heart, And rend oblivion's veil. E'en now the store Of star-like spells that softly glimmered o'er The twilight maze of youth , a moment dart Their clouded beams on Care's reverted eye. Alas ! the promise of the past hath been A brief though dear delusion ? -All things fly My onward way, and mock the lengthening scene, - Through Life's dim mist thy form oft seemeth nigh, Though lone and distant as the Night's fair Queen.
And we do not think that any higher praise than this could be bestowed on a domestic poem.Sleep breathes at last from out thee Thou little patient boy.
We have already given a general estimate of the character of D. L. R.'s genius. Those remarks bore an equal reference to his prose and his poetical works. The spirit of all his writings is there faithfully described ; but we shall be expected to say something in this place about the style of his prose-writings ; and most honestly do we record our opinion that in grace of diction and felicity of expression few writers have surpassed D. L R. There is a delicacy and refinement, without an approach to coxcombry, in all his essays, which has seldom been equalled . It would be impossible to find in any one of his productions a coarse or vulgar expression. All that he has written bears the impress of an exquisite taste and a cultivated mind. There is no straining after effect, no glaring display of words, no vicious colouring in D. L. R.'s essays ; all is quiet, elegance and subtle grace; the chaste beauties of his style are in fine keeping with the delicacy of his sentiments ; he offends neither in thought nor diction. He has been a great reader in his day, and his reading is self -evident in his works ; but there is no ostentatious display of it ; it does not look like scrap- book learning. His illustrations are always apt and striking, and seem as though they had been naturally called to his memory by the previous reflexions, which they are made to exemplify, and not , as in the writings of some pedants we could name, as though the reflexion were merely a peg on which to hang a long string of portfolio-preserved book-scraps. There is often great subtlety in D. L. R.'s critical observations and much depth and knowledge of human nature in his moral essays and sketches of character. His reading has been chiefly in poetry, biography and critical history. He is neither a classic, nor a mathematician, nor a natural-pbilosopher ; but he is a moralist and a first rate critic . We would take his opinion of a poem, or an essay, or a painting, or an actor sooner than that of any person we know. He has his prejudices, as have all critics , whose writings are worth a jot, but they are neither very numerous nor very strong. He is a cordial admirer of such writers as Wordsworth, Shelley, Hazlitt, Keats, Leigh Hunt and Charles Lamb ; but he can read Pope and Addison with pleasure, though he cannot tolerate Johnson's inflations, anywhere else than in Boswell's book. If we were to liken him to any living writer, it would be to Leigh Hunt purified of his conceits. He has less fancy than Hunt, but he has more taste, and though not such a good linguist, he has an equal acquaintance with English literature and full as much critical discrimination. In the Literary Leaves there are some able criticisms on Drummond, Pope, Brydges, Mrs. Charlotte Smith and others, as likewise a most subtle enquiry into the character of Shakespeare's Shylock. We entirely agree with D. L. R. in the estimate there formed; there is an exculpatory spirit pervading it , which to us is most pleasant , for we cordially execrate national prejudices . Though in this country, alas ! they are most rife. It would be an injury to D. L. R. to extract a portion of this article, and our limits will scarcely permit us to give the criticism entire . We must seek for quotations in those essays which are more of a moral than a critical nature.I. ' Tis sweet on this far strand, When memory charms the fond reverted eye, To view that hallowed land Where early dreams like sun - touched shadows lie ! II. The dear familiar forms , That caught the fairest hues of happier hours, Flash forth through after storms , As bursts of light between autumnal showers . III . The green- wood's loveliest spot- The summer walk-the cheerful winter fire- The calm domestic cot- The village church with ivy- covered spire- IV . Each scene we loved so well- With faithful force the mind's true mirror shows , As Painting's mighty spell Recalls the past, and lengthened life bestows . ___ I see my own first hours, While lingering over thine ; I see thee pluck the fresh spring-flowers , An artless wreath to twine ; The same bright hues their beauty yields As those I sought in dewy fields, When kindred bliss was mine ; And while by memory thus beguiled, I almost deem myself a child. Ah! dearest child, if thou A child couldst thus remain , And I for ever gaze as now On one without a stain Of earthly guilt or earthly care, With heart as pure and form as fair As sainted spirits gain , Methinks e'en this drear world might seem A heaven as sweet as man could dream But mortal flowerets grow 'Till all their bright tints fade, And thy maturer bloom must know The bleak world's tempest-shade ;- Thine eyes a father's fall shall trace, His form shall sink before thy face, And when thine heart hath paid Its tribute brief of natural tears, Thou'lt seek awhile what soothes and cheers . Oh ! spirit-gladdening sight ! Oh! happiness divine ! To feel a father's sacred right, To call such cherub mine! A humble name, and lowly state Have been, and still may be, my fate, Yet how can I repine At want of wealth, or fame, or power, While blest with this fair human flower !
We will take a passage from the essay on Summer and Winter , which we have quoted some pages back. The author has been describing the several delights of these seasons in our own country. He then turns his thoughts towards India, and in a fine spirit of cheerful philosophy, endeavours to reconcile his readers to their lot of exile in this land of the stranger. We need not say how cordially we concur in the sentiments herein expressed :-
As happiness then depends upon the right direction and employment of our faculties and not on worldly goods or mere localities , our countrymen might be cheerful enough even in this foreign land, if they would only accustom themselves to a proper train of thinking , and be ready on every occasion to look on the brighter side of all things.* In reverting to home-scenes we should regard them for their intrinsic charms , and not turn them into a source of disquiet by mournfully comparing them with those around us . India, let Englishmen murmur as they will, has many attractions and enjoyments. The princely and generous style in which we live in this country, the frank and familiar tone of our little society, and the general mildness and equality of the climate, can hardly be denied by the most determined malcontent. It is true that the weather is often, in the summer months, a great deal warmer than we like it , but if " the extreme heat" did not form a convenient subject for complaint and conversation, it is perhaps doubtful if it so often would be thought of or alluded to . And what climate is without its evils ?From a triumphant vindication of poetry against the attacks of the Utilitarians, we select the following brief passage, which is, we think, remarkable for its truth :-
Matter-of-fact people conceive poetry to be opposed to truth; because it is chiefly conversant with that order of things and thoughts , which is beyond the range of their own minds. Whenever they attempt to be poetical themselves, they invariably do violence to nature and common sense, If they attempt to paint human passion they are merely bombastic ; their want of imagination renders them at once blind and cold. Nothing can be more false and extravagant than the verses of a literal -minded man.Nothing could be more strikingly just than these observations, nor more illustrative of the causes, which conduce to the Utilitarians' contempt of poetry. It is one of the most notable tricks , which our self-love plays upon us, to make us despise those qualities in others which we do not possess in ourselves. A lame man will call a dancer a mountebank and say that a puppet can beat him hollow in these merry-andrew accomplishments. The man who has no ear for music will profess an utter contempt for it, and tell an accomplished songster that " he would not give much to be endowed with a faculty, which birds of the air possess in a far greater degree than human beings." A scholar despises a man of the world, knowing himself to be unfit for society ; and the man of the world despises a scholar, knowing himself to be an ass . And the Benthamite feeling conscious that he could not write a couplet of poetry for his life, is pleased to think that it must be a very contemptible accomplishment, because he is unable to arrive at it himself . He is asked if he can write poetry and he replies, in the true spirit of the coxcombical Greek, " No, Sir, I can't write poetry, but I can compose a rationale of education." The truly wise man despises nothing ; petits maitres are the most full of contempt.
The following passage is from the Essay " On Children" and very beautiful it is : -
The changing looks and attitudes of children afford a perpetual feast to every eye that has a true perception of grace and beauty : they surpass the sweetest creations of the poet or the painter. They are prompted by maternal Nature, who keeps an incessant watch over her infant favorites, and directs their minutest movements, and their most evanescent thoughts . Beneath such holy tutorage they can never err. They throw their sleek and pliant limbs into every variety of posture, and still preserve the true line of beauty , as surely as a ball preserves its roundness . They live in an atmosphere of loveliness, and, like moving clouds, are ever changing their ethereal aspects, and yet , always catch the light. Even the moral defects of maturer years are often beautiful in childhood and bear a different character. The cunning of the man is innocent archness in the child. Ignorance in the one, is a gross and miserable condition ; in the other, it is purity and bliss. The imperfections that are ludicrous or offensive in manhood, in infancy are inexpressibly engaging . The stammering of an adult, or his mistakes in acquiring a new language, are unpleasing to the most friendly ear, and even lower him in some degree in his own estimation . But the first imperfect sounds and broken words of a child, are as sweet as the irregular music of interrupted rivulets . They stir the heart like magic, and impel us, as it were, in the sudden wantonness of affection , to shut the little rosy portals of the cherub's soul with a shower of impetuous kisses. The garrulity of age is not like the eager prattling of infancy. The child's artless talk can never weary us . Our ears are as tireless as his tongue .From a delightful essay on Physiognomy we must quote the fine burst of enthusiasm, with which the article so eloquently concludes : -Timidity in manhood is degrading, but in a little child it is interesting and lovely, whether he flies from the object of alarm like a startled fawn, or nestles closer in his mother's lap. The coquetry of a woman is vanity and deceit, but in a child it is mere playfulness and innocent hilarity . Everything connected with childhood changes its nature . Words of abuse become words of endearment. Imp and rogue when applied to an infant, are soft and fond expressions that fall gracefully from the fairest lips .E'en thrice- told tales are sweet That cheerful children tell, On sounds their rosy lips repeat The soul for aye could dwell ; Unlike all other things of earth, Their winning ways and sinless mirth, Still hold us as a spell ; In every mood, in every hour, They bear the same enchanting power.
The drums and rattles of the child are objects of unalloyed delight, but the playthings of the man are grave and terrible delusions. They goad him with secret thorns that rankle in his heart for ever . Envy, avarice, and ambition, mingle their poison in his sweetest cup. Even his superior knowledge is but a source of evil . It surrounds him with temptations, while it throws a shadow upon all his hopes, and takes off the bloom from life. It is too little for his mind and too much for his heart.
The child, on the other hand, revels in his happy consciousness of present good, and foresees no future ill. He knows neither weariness nor discontent. ' Solitude' to him is sometimes blithe society , ' and in the thickest crowds, he is as free and unconstrained as in his loneliest haunts . His ingenuous heart is never chilled by the glance of a human eye, nor can he fashion his innocent features into a false expression . His own eye is as lucid as the breeze-bared heavens. If he reads no 'ser-mons in stones,' he sees ' good in every thing. ' He has universal faith . He discovers nothing evil, and sees none but friends. He gives up his whole being to gentle affections, and a sense of un- equivocal enjoyment. He is not what cold age would make him, ' nothing, if not critical .' To him the rise of the green curtain at the theatre reveals a real world. He has ever a tear for the distresses of the heroine, and breathes harder as he gazes, with all his soul in his eyes, on the hero's adventurous exploits. The tricks and conundrums of the clown are never flat , or stale , or unprofitable to him, and he fitly testifies to their merit, when holding his lovely head aside ( his cheek as round and blooming as a sun-kissed peach,) he claps his little palms together in an ecstacy of admiration and then turns to the maternal face, as if assured of her hearty sympathy in his delight.
It is a sweet employment to watch the first glimmering of the human mind, and to greet the first signs of joy that give life and animation to the passive beauty of an infant's face, like the earliest streaks of sunshine upon opening flowers. But, alas ! this pleasure is too often interrupted by the sad reflection , that the bright dawn of existence is succeeded by a comparatively clouded noon, and an almost starless night . Each year of our life is a step lower on the radiant ladder that leads to heaven, and when we at last descend into the horrible vault of death, our best hope is that we may rise again to a state resembling the happy purity of our childhood .
How delightful is the study of the human head! It is a mystery and a glory ! It at once perplexes the reason and kindles the imagination ! What a wondrous treasury of knowledge -what a vast world of thought is contained within its ivory walls ! In that small citadel of the soul what a host of mighty and immortal images are ranged uncrouded ! What floods of external light and what an endless variety of sounds are admitted to the busy world within, through those small but beautiful apertures, the eye and the ear ! Those delicately penciled arches that hang their lines of loveliness above the mental heaven, are more full of grace and glory than the rainbow ! Those blue windows of the mind expose a sight more lovely and profound than the azure depths of the sea or sky! Those rosy portals that give entrance to the invisible Spirit of Life, and whence issue the "wingèd words" that steal into the lover's heart or the sage's mind, or fly to the uttermost corners of the earth and live for ever, surpass in beauty the orient cloud-gates of the dawn ! To trace in such exquisite outworks the state of the interior is an occupation almost worthy of a God !We have never had the good fortune to hear D. L. R. in his new capacity of lecturer at the Hindoo College; but well-knowing the fertility of his imagination, the copiousness of his illustrative knowledge, the truth of his critical canons, and the readiness, with which he can bring his extensive reading to bear upon the elucidation of any question, we should think that he is eminently fitted for the responsible situation, which he holds. D. L. R.'s conversational powers are of no ordinary excellence; he can talk, when it pleases him to do so, in a strain, which would stamp him at once in a stranger's mind, as a man of genius and a great reader. Upon a favorite author, a picture, or an engraving, he is often-times delightfully eloquent and, when speaking of home-scenes and home associations, he is charmingly natural and graceful. He is very little ambitious of display ; he does not aim at being thought a wit ; and he can play with his children, or row in his boat , or talk upon indifferent subjects with as much delight as anybody else who has " never seen Wertenburg, never read book." Indeed, we believe, that at the present time, he would rather do anything in the world than write essays or poems . He is the idlest of all idle authors, and it is at all times a difficult task to tempt him into composition. What he has done is nothing in comparison with what he might have done. We doubt whether he has energy of character, and enduring perseverance enough to carry him through a long sustained work. What he does , he does fitfully -it is impossible to keep him " up to his work ; " a sudden thought may cause him to take up his pen, but it is soon thrown away in disgust. Physical causes, more than anything else, have conduced to this instability . He has suffered much from ill-health, and the lassitude of frame which ever accompanies frequent attacks of corporeal pain, produces a corresponding lassitude of mind, which makes us revolt from intellectual exertion . Moreover, there are few occupations in life, of which a man is so soon tired as of writing for the periodical press ; it is , as we well know, from our own experience, one of the most toilsome, the most wearying, the most thankless of all offices. When a man ceases to derive pleasure from " seeing himself in print," all the charms of authorship are gone ; he may enjoy the after-fruits, but he hates the present labour ; he likes to have written but writing he detests.
D. L. R. has great satirical powers, but, to his honour be it spoken, he rarely, very rarely indulges them. He has a giant's strength but he uses it not like a giant . Few people have been so long connected with the public press and made so few enemies. He is a good actor, though we do not know that he has ever trod the boards of a theatre. But we have heard him improvise " imaginary conversations" and imitate not only the tone of another's sentiments, but also his style of language and his mode of speaking to the life. He is an excellent judge of paintings and was himself once no mean proficient of the art. Most of the criticisms on the fine-arts in the Weekly Review are by D. L. R. , and they are admirable for their discrimination and truth. When in England he was intimately associated with many of our most eminent writers and artists, but here he goes little into society. He does not like the trouble of it. He is hospitable himself and would much rather meet his friends in his own house than any where else. He is uniformly kind and courteous, and all who know him, must love and esteem him for his amiable qualities and his moral worth. As a man, his character is unimpeachable. No one has breathed a syllable against it. In all the domestic relations of life he is every- thing that a man ought to be. And with this we conclude our attempt to do justice to D. L. R. Others might have done it better, but we have done our best ; and whatever may be our faults of commission or omission, what we have written is, at all events' - TRUTH. There are few, who will be disposed to gainsay us.
* Literary Leaves.- Pp. 308-9.* D. L. R. has an admirable essay on this subject in the Literary Leaves, which we warmly recommend to all poetical students.* I was ever more disposed," says Hume, "to see the favorable than the unfavorable side of things; a turn of mind which it is more happy to possess, than to be born to an estate often thousand a year.
1. Literary Leaves.- Pp. 308-9.2. D. L. R. has an admirable essay on this subject in the Literary Leaves, which we warmly recommend to all poetical students.3. I was ever more disposed," says Hume, "to see the favorable than the unfavorable side of things; a turn of mind which it is more happy to possess, than to be born to an estate often thousand a year.
Jones's Diamond Cabinet Editions of Select British Poets. 4 vols (c.1836)
[photograph: Bronwyn Lloyd]
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- category - English Poetry (pre-1900): Anthologies & Secondary Literature
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