Part 7
Bourne, in a curious letter to his wife, written shortly before and in anticipation of his death, gives her the reasons which prevented him from taking orders; he says that the importance of so great a charge, joined with a mistrust of his own sufficiency, made him fearful of undertaking it. And he adds, "If I have not in that capacity assisted in the salvation of souls, I have not been the means of losing any; if I have not brought reputation to the function by any merit of mine, I have the comfort of this reflection, I have given no scandal to it by my meanness and unworthiness." This letter shows that he considered the pastoral office in a different light from most of his contemporaries, as one of great personal responsibility; and the whole letter breathes a spirit of intense contrition and pathetic humility at the thought of the opportunities he has missed and the idleness and vanity of his life. He does not however write as if with any sense of his shortcomings as a teacher, for he says that his one desire has been to be humbly serviceable in his quiet sphere of duty. But the most touching part of the letter is the vague dismay which, in spite of his deep and sincerely Christian hope, he finds in the thought of dissolution; the terrors of the grave lie very hard upon him, as they would upon a man of imagination and sensibility who had lived a thoughtless and easy-going life. The whole letter is a singular contrast to another rhetorical epistle which has been preserved, addressed to a young lady on the thoughts suggested by a graveyard, in which he says with a pretentious philosophy that the more human document belies, that "the frequent perusal of gravestones and monuments, and the many walks I have taken in a churchyard, have given me so great a distaste for life." Poor Vinny! When he came to die he had little of the philosopher about him, but shivered and cried at the dark passage.
It may be a matter of wonder how Bourne found time or inclination to marry; but he did so, and the maiden's name was Lucia. He even begat children, of whom one was a Lieutenant of Marines, and left some vague property, a house in Westminster and land in Bungay. The poet's death took place in 1747, not unexpected by himself, as I have said, and by a disease which, he records with grateful thankfulness, left him in full and calm possession of his faculties. He had written his own epitaph, which may be thus rendered: _Vincent Bourne, of unfeigned piety and utter humility, who in no place forgot his God or forgot himself, descends into the silence which he loved_. It is a touching estimate, and shows, in its anxiety to deal only with essentials, how incidental his work was to his character; he forms no pompous appreciation of the value of his writings, but leaves them, like Sibylline leaves, for the wind to whirl away, the only testimony to his quiet and observant eye, his love of simple things, his intense interest in nature and humanity. _Qui bene latuit, bene vixit_, he might have said.
Cowper wrote to Newton in 1781, in reply to a letter suggesting that he should translate Vincent Bourne's Latin poems, and offering literary assistance. It appears to have been one of the few occasions on which Newton gave Cowper sensible advice. Cowper replies that he is much obliged for the offer of help: "It is but seldom, however, and never, except for my amusement, that I translate; because I find it impossible to work by another man's pattern. I should at least be sure to find it so in a business of any length. Again, that is epigrammatic and witty in Latin which would be perfectly insipid in English, and a translator of Bourne would frequently find himself obliged to supply what is called the _turn_.... If a Latin poem is neat, elegant, and musical, it is enough; but English readers are not so easily satisfied. To quote myself, you will find, on comparing 'The Jackdaw' with the original, that I was obliged to sharpen a point, which, though smart enough in the Latin, would in English have appeared as plain and blunt as the tag of a lace.... Vincent Bourne's humour is entirely original; he can speak of a magpie or a cat in terms so exquisitely appropriated to the character he draws, that one would suppose him animated by the spirit of the creature he describes. And with all his drollery, there is a mixture of rational and even religious reflection at times, and always an air of pleasantry, good-nature, and humanity, that makes him in my mind one of the most amiable writers in the world. It is not common to meet with an author who can make you smile, and yet at nobody's expense, who is always entertaining and yet always harmless; and who, though always elegant and classical to a degree not always found in the classics themselves, charms more, by the simplicity and playfulness of his ideas, than by the neatness and purity of his verse."
To turn to the poems in detail, almost the first thing that strikes one is the originality of his subjects. Nothing was common or unclean to our poet, at a time when poetry, except in Cowper's hands, was grandiose and affected to an uncommon degree. Vincent Bourne may be held to have been in a remote connection the parent of the poetry of common life, for he undoubtedly exerted a strong influence on Cowper. I do not think it is too much to say that Cowper's best contributions to literature, his exquisite lyrics on birds and hares and dogs, which will live when "The Task" and "Tirocinium" have gone down to the dust, would never have been written had it not been for Vincent Bourne. In the year 1750, the future of English poetry was dark; there were only two considerable writers at work, Gray and Collins. There was, it is true, a certain respectful attitude to nature prevalent, but it was a conventional attitude. Cowper, as I believe inspired by Bourne, was the first to make it unconventional. Then came the sweet notes of Burns across the border, and the victory was won.
Let me now give a few instances of Bourne. First must come "The Jackdaw," and I have given Cowper's rendering; but I have also ventured to subjoin a version of my own, not because I challenge even the most distant comparison with Cowper's sparkling and graceful lyric, but because Cowper's is in no sense a translation. It is a poem of which the line of thought is suggested by Bourne, and at a few points touches the Latin poem; but the turn, the colouring is Cowper's own. In my own translation, though I have several times sacrificed verbal accuracy, I have endeavoured to keep as closely to the Latin as is consistent with writing English at all.
CORNICULA.
Nigras inter aves avis est, quae plurima turres, Antiquas aedes, celsaque fana colit. Nil tam sublime est, quod non audace volatu, Aeriis spernens inferiors, petit. Quo nemo ascendat, cui non vertigo cerebrum Corripiat, certe hunc seligit illa locum. Quo vix a terra tu suspicis absque tremore, Illa metus expers incolumisque sedet. Lamina delubri supra fastigia, ventus Qua coeli spiret de regione, docet; Hanc ea prae reliquis mavult, secura pericli, Nec curat, nedum cogitat, unde cadat. Res inde humanas, sed summa per otia, spectat, Et nihil ad sese, quas videt, esse videt. Concursus spectat, plateaque negotia in omni, Omnia pro nugis at sapienter habet. Clamores, quos infra audit, si forsitan audit, Pro rebus nihili negligit, et crocitat. Ille tibi invideat, felix cornicula, pennas, Qui sic humanis rebus abesse velit.
THE JACKDAW.
(BY WILLIAM COWPER.)
There is a bird, who by his coat, And by the hoarseness of his note, Might be supposed a crow; A great frequenter of the church, Where bishop-like he finds a perch, And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate, That turns and turns, to indicate From what point blows the weather; Look up--your brains begin to swim, 'Tis in the clouds; that pleases him, He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height, Thither he wings his airy flight, And thence securely sees The bustle and the raree-show That occupy mankind below, Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses Of future broken bones and bruises, If he should chance to fall; No! not a single thought like that Employs his philosophic pate, Or troubles it at all.
He sees that this great roundabout The world, with all its motley rout, Church, army, physic, law, Its customs and its businesses Is no concern at all of his, And says--what says he?--Caw.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen Much of the vanities of men, And sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine, And such a head between 'em.
* * *
Of fowls with black and glossy coat, One dear familiar bird I note; In towers and ancient piles he dwells, Above the din of sacred bells; High fanes he seeks; with daring flight Aspires, despising aught but height; He sits where mortals mount with pain Of reeling pulse and dizzy brain; And where you shudder with alarm, He's perched aloft, and free from harm. The vane that on the steeple shows Whither and whence the free wind blows, He choosing, owns no care at all, Much less is careful lest he fall; And thence in lofty ease surveys Mankind's inexplicable ways. He sees the streets, the concourse dim, They hold no interest for him; And if some murmur upward floats He heeds not, but with pensive notes Beguiles the hour. Blest bird, I'd be A winged and airy thing, like thee! From human things I'd sit aloof Like thee, above the minster-roof.
Next shall come Lamb's favourite, the Epitaph on the Beggar's Dog. Lamb's rendering is very fairly exact.
Pauperis hic Iri requiesco Lyciscus, herilis, Dum vixi, tutela vigil columenque senectae, Dux caeco fidus; nec, me ducente, solebat, Praetenso hinc atque hinc baculo, per iniqua locorum Incertam explorare viam; sed fila secutus, Quae dubios regerent passus, vestigia tuta Fixit inoffenso gressu; gelidumque sedile In nudo nactus saxo, qua praetereuntium Unda frequens confluxit, ibi miserisque tenebras Lamentis, noctemque oculis ploravit obortam. Ploravit nec frustra; obolum dedit alter et alter, Queis corda et mentem indiderat natura benignam. Ad latus interea jacui sopitus herile, Vel mediis vigil in somnis; ad herilia jussa Auresque atque animum arrectus, seu frustuia amice Porrexit sociasque dapes, seu longa diei Taedia perpessus, reditum sub nocte parabat. Hi mores, haec vita fuit, dum fata sinebant, Dum neque languebam morbis, nec inerte senecta, Quae tandem obrepsit, veterique satellite caecum Orbavit dominum: prisci sed gratia facti Ne tota intereat, longos deleta per annos, Exiguum hunc Irus tumulum de cespite fecit, Et si inopis, non ingratae munuscula dextrae; Carmine signavitque brevi, dominumque canemque Quod memoret, fidumque canem dominumque benignum.
* * *
Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted, Had he occasion for that staff, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear Over the highways and crossings, but would plant, Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd: To whom with loud and passionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there, The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave; I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear Prick'd up at his least motion: to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs, And common portion in his feast of scraps; Or when night warned us homeward, tired and spent With our long day and tedious beggary. These were my manners, this my way of life, Till age and slow disease me overtook, And sever'd from my sightless master's side. But, lest the grace of so good deeds should die, Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, In long and lasting union to attest, The virtues of the Beggar and the Dog.
It may be noted that Lamb treats Lyciscus, which was evidently intended merely as a name, as referring to the species of dog; Virgil uses Lycisca as a dog's name in the third Eclogue. Probably Bourne was thinking of a fox-terrier, and the term wolf-dog is pompous and incongruous. Lamb's last line but three is a very lame one; it is a difficult point to determine, but did not he mean "no ungrateful hand"? The true sense of the original line is, "the slender gift of a hand which although poor is not ungrateful."
Bourne shows also a remarkable observation of street life, the quaint water-side manners, the odd obscure life that eddied near the river highway and round about the smoky towers of Wren. Absent-minded he may have been, but observant he was to a peculiar degree, and that not of broad poetical effects, but of the minute detail and circumstance of every-day life. It would be easy to multiply instances, but this extract from the "Iter per Tamisin," of the bargeman lighting his pipe, will serve to show what I mean. Why does he call tobacco _poetum_, it may be asked? The only solution that I can suggest is that Pink-eye, or Squint-eye, was a cant term for some species of the weed at the time. It can hardly be, I think, the word _peat_ Latinised. The version, as in the case of those which follow, is my own.
His ita dispositis, tubulum cum pyxide magna Depromit, nigrum longus quem fecerat usus. Hunc postquam implerat paeto, silicemque pararat, Excussit scintillam; ubi copia ponitur atri Fomitis, hinc ignem sibi multum exugit, et haustu Accendens crebro, surgentes deprimit herbas Extremo digito: in cineres albescere paetum Incipit et naso gratos emittit odores.
* * *
This thus disposed, a pipe with ample bowl He handles, blackened with familiar use; Stuffs with the fragrant herb, and flint prepares To strike the spark: and thence from fuel stored, Black provender, he spouts a plenteous flame, Kindling with frequent gusts of breath indrawn: Meanwhile he tends with cautions finger-tip The rising fibres; into lightest ash Whitening, they pour the aromatic fumes.
Vincent Bourne had that passionate sympathy with and delight in youth that is the surest testimony to a heart that does not grow old. The pretty ways and natural gestures of childhood pleased him. He was fond of his boys, and allowed that fondness to be evident, at a time when brow-beating and insolent severity were too much the fashion. In his epitaphs it is curious to note how many deal with the young, and touch on the immemorial fragrance of early death with a peculiar pathos. There is an epitaph on a Westminster boy of twelve years old, where he most touchingly alludes to the thought that he died both beautiful and innocent; and an epitaph on a little girl who, he said in quaint phrase, had the modest red of roses and the pure whiteness of lilies in her face. Again the inscription to the memory of the young Earl of Warwick, who died at the age of twenty-four, is full of delicate beauty; but I will give in full what seems to me the sweetest of all. It is printed among the authentic epitaphs, but it is, I imagine, purely fanciful.
EPITAPHIUM IN SEPTEM ANNORUM PUELLULAM.
Quam suavis mea Chloris, et venusta, Vitae quam fuerit brevis, monebunt Hic circum violae rosaeque fusae: Quarum purpura, vix aperta, clausa est. Sed nec dura nimis vocare fata, Nec fas est nimium queri caducae De formae brevitate, quam rependit Aeterni diuturnitas odoris.
* * *
My pretty Chloris--ah, how sweet The roses o'er your head shall show; The violets, strewn above your feet How brief the life that sleeps below. We must not chide the grudging fates. Nor say how short a lot was thine, For, ah, how amply compensates The eternal fragrance of thy shrine.
I subjoin to these a couple of epigrams which give a good idea of the natural and solemn way in which he approaches death, as an event not necessarily of a gloomy and forbidding character, but as tending to draw out and develop an intimate and regretful hope in the survivors. There is nothing austere about his philosophy; it puts aside pompous and formal consolations, and goes right to the heart of the matter, with a child-like simplicity. The first deals with the Pyramids, the second with an incident, real or fancied, connected with the burial of Queen Mary at Westminster.
PYRAMIS.
Pyramidum sumptus, ad coelum et sidera ducti, Quid dignum tanta mole, quid intus habent? Ah! nihil intus habent, nisi nigrum informe cadaver; Durata in saxum est cui medicata caro. Ergone porrigitur monumentum in jugera tota! Ergo tot annorum, tot manuumque labor! Integra sit morum tibi vita: haec pyramis esto, Et poterunt tumulo sex satis esse pedes.
* * *
Aspiring monument of human toil What lies beneath that's worth so vast a coil? A shapeless blackened corpse, set all alone, Embalmed and mummied into silent stone. The mighty pile its ponderous circuit rears; Ah, ingenuity! ah, wasted years! Pure be thy life; let pompous trappings be! Six feet of kindly earth's enough for thee!
PIETAS RUBECULAE.
Quae tibi regalis dederant diadematis aurum, Dant et funereum fana, Maria, tholum. Quisque suis vicibus, maesto stant ordine flentes; Oreque velato femina triste silet. Parva avis interea, residens in vertice summo, Emittit tremula lugubre voce melos. Vespera nec claudit, nec lucem Aurora recludit, Quin eadem repetat funebre carmen avis, Tale nihil dederint vel Mausolea; Mariae Haec pietas soli debita vera fuit. Venales lacrymae, jussique facessite fletus; Sumptibus hic nullis luctus emendus erit.
* * *
The ancient fane that crowned thy flashing head, Oh queen, oh mother! now receives thee dead. The mourning train, in funeral pomp arrayed, Weeping adore the venerable shade. A duteous bird the while, high perched above, Utters the tremulous notes of tender love. Each waning eve, each dewy opening day, That gentle heart repeats his solemn lay. No lamentable anthem pealing high Can match the gift of pious minstrelsy. Tears, venal tears, ye cannot give relief. No lavished gold can purchase natural grief!
There have been several editions of Vincent Bourne; three of them deserve, bibliographically, a word. The first is the third of his publications, a very rare and beautiful book, which by the kindness of Mr. Austin Dobson I have been privileged to examine. This is _Poematia, Latine partim reddita, partim scripta_, printed by J. Watts, 1734, and dedicated to the Duke of Newcastle; it is a small volume printed in italics of the tribe of Aldus, with quaint head and tail pieces, and red lines ruled by hand. The next is the _Miscellaneous Poems_ of 1772, a handsome quarto, published by subscription. The third is _Poems by Vincent Bourne_ published by Pickering in 1840, with a memoir and notes by the Rev. John Mitford. This is a carefully and beautifully printed book, with but one drawback. Whenever an ornamental head-piece is inserted at the top of a page, the number of the page is omitted. This tiresome affectation makes it very difficult to find any particular poem.
An exhaustive account of Vincent Bourne's Latinity would be a long enumeration of minute mistakes--mistakes arising from the imperfect acquaintance of the scholars of the day with the principles of correct Latinity. To give a few obvious instances, metrically, Bourne is not aware of the rule which forbids a short syllable to stand before sp, sc, st, sq. In classical Latin, such a collocation of consonants does not _lengthen_ the preceding short syllable, but is simply inadmissible. Then again, he is very unsound in the quantity of final o. I am not speaking of such words as _quando, ego,_ where there is a certain doubt. But he makes short such words as _fall[)o]_, and even such a word as _experiend[)o]_;, which is quite impossible. He also ends his pentameters with trisyllables such as _niteat_, a practice which has no Ovidian countenance. Grammatically, a considerable licence is observable in the use of the indicative for the subjunctive, as, for instance, after _si forsitan_ and _nedum_. But these, it may be said, are minor points, and in form and arrangement his Latin is pure enough. His verse is of the school of Ovid and Tibullus, but his vocabulary is not Augustan; this, however, may be due to the fact that his choice of subjects necessitates the use of many words for which there is no Augustan authority.
It can hardly be expected that Vincent Bourne will be read or appreciated by the general reader. But any one with an adequate stock of Latin, who is given to wandering among the byways of literature, will find him a singularly original and poetical writer. His was no academic spirit, writing, with his back to the window, of frigid generalities and classical ineptitudes. He was rather a man with a warm heart and a capacious eye, finding any trait of human character, any grouping of the grotesque or tender furniture of life, interesting and memorable. He reminds one of the man in Robert Browning's poem, "How it Strikes a Contemporary," who went about in his old cloak, with quiet observant eyes, noting the horse that was beaten, and trying the mortar of the new house with his stick, and came home and wrote it all to his lord the king. Vincent Bourne had of course no moral object in his writings; he had merely the impulse to sing, and we may regret with Lamb that so delicate and sensitive a spirit chose a vehicle which must debar so many from walking in his company. With his greasy locks and dirty gown, his indolence and his good-humour, the shabby usher of Westminster, with his pure spirit and clear eyes, has a place reserved for him in the stately procession, "where is nor first, nor last."
THOMAS GRAY
EVERY boy who leaves Eton creditably is presented with a copy of the works of Gray, for which everything has been done that the art of printers, bookbinders and photographers can devise. This is one of the most curious instances of the triumphs of genius, for there is hardly a single figure in the gallery of Etonians who is so little characteristic of Eton as Gray. His only poetical utterance about his school is one which is hopelessly alien to the spirit of the place, though the feelings expressed in it are an exquisite summary of those sensations of pathetic interest which any rational man feels at the sight of a great school. And yet, though the attitude of the teacher of youth is professedly and rightly rather that of encouragement than of warning, though he points to the brighter hopes of life rather than brandishes the horrors that infest it, yet the last word that Eton says to her sons is spoken in the language of one to whom elegy was a habitual and deliberate tone.