Part 13

Southey was, by this time, animated and deluded by all the too sanguine credulity and glowing enthusiasm which so often mark and cloud the morning of genius, and lead its possessor astray. While in a state of intellectual fever and political excitement he made the acquaintance of Coleridge, with whom he soon devised the fanciful and bubble-like scheme since known and ridiculed as “Pantisocracy.” This consisted of fantastic plans for collecting a number of discontented youths, as brother-adventurers, and forming a colony in the New World, on a thoroughly social basis. Southey wasted much time and care on this chimerical idea; and it was decided that the aspirants to perfect earthly content and felicity should commence operations by purchasing, with their common contributions, a quantity of land, which they were all to spend their labor in cultivating. Each was to have a fair share of work assigned to him, while it was arranged that the female emigrants――for one important regulation provided that they were, without exception, to be married men――should manage all domestic matters. Southey luxuriated in golden dreams and visionary anticipations; his ardent spirit swelled and rose high. All obstacles disappeared before his enthusiastic gaze, and he engaged the hand and affections of a dowerless but captivating damsel in his native place, who rejoiced in the very romantic name of Edith, and had no insuperable objections to accompany him to the land of promise, which lay sweetly, as his fancy pictured it, ready to receive them on the banks of the Susquehannah River, flowing with milk and honey. So far all went as smoothly with Southey as a total inexperience of the real world, and full and entire confidence in his own untried powers of action, could render matters to a strong imagination. But there was yet a lioness of no ordinary ferocity in the way. Miss Tyler had still to be informed, and the startling intelligence that her hopeful nephew had, without consulting her wishes, selected a partner for life, was instantly productive of one most inconvenient result. It brought upon him the sudden and rebounding torrents of her wrath. The night was rainy, but she was cut to the heart; and, mercilessly turning him out of doors, she never condescended to see his face again. This was a sufficiently portentous commencement for the Pantisocratic form of society; and the scheme, as might have been foreseen, proving utterly impracticable, the day-dream vanished into thin air when the most distant effort was made to realize it.

Southey was now, for the first time, thrown entirely on his own resources, and that struggle for existence by exertion, which invigorates the mind and influences the understanding, began in earnest. Under no circumstances could his ambitious spirit have been still at this date. The stream was still near its rise, and fretted itself into foam against each opposing rock; but the time was approaching when its course was to be more smooth, and its waters not less clear. His first step was to arrange with Mr. Cottle, of Bristol, for the publication of “Joan of Arc,” with which he had been for a considerable time occupied, and the next to deliver a course of historical lectures, which were numerously attended. Nevertheless, it appears that his pecuniary affairs were not by any means in a flourishing condition at this crisis.

In 1794 he had, in conjunction with his friend Mr. Lovell, under the names of Moschus and Bion, published a volume of poems; and about the same period Southey, then glowing with revolutionary zeal, composed his “Wat Tyler.” It is spoken of as a production of no merit, and utterly harmless from its weakness. Long after the author had recanted his early heresies, it was published surreptitiously to annoy him, and he, in self-defense, applied for an injunction against the printers. But the Chancellor refused to interfere in the matter, on the ground of the peculiarly objectionable principles which the book contained. The writer of this hapless――and, as it turned out, perplexing――revolutionary _brochure_, in after life thus accounted for its unwelcome existence:

“In my youth, when my stock of knowledge consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and Roman history as is acquired in the course of a scholastic education, when my heart was full of poetry and romance, and Lucan and Akenside were at my tongue’s end, I fell into the political opinions which the French revolution was then scattering throughout Europe; and, following those opinions with ardor, wherever they led, I soon perceived that inequalities of rank were a light evil compared to the inequalities of property, and those more fearful distinctions which the want of moral and intellectual culture occasions between man and man. At that time, and with those opinions, or rather feelings (for the root was in the heart, and not in the understanding), I wrote ‘Wat Tyler,’ as one who was impatient of all the oppressions that are done under the sun. The subject was injudiciously chosen; and it was treated as might be expected by a youth of twenty, in such times, who regarded only one side of the question. Were I to dramatize the same story now, there would be much to add, but little to alter; I should write as a man, not as a stripling; with the same heart and the same desires, but with a ripened understanding, and competent stores of knowledge.”

Next year, while “Joan of Arc” was still in the press, Southey was, with a view to his welfare, urged and persuaded to accompany his uncle, Mr. Hill, to Lisbon, where that gentleman was chaplain to the factory. Consequently, when the epic poem appeared, its author had left the country; but not until he had contracted a matrimonial alliance, under circumstances so romantic as to put to shame the inventive faculty of novelists, and furnish another instance of truth being often stranger than fiction. His reverend friend and patron was under the impression that a change of scene and society would effectually dissipate and banish all fine visions of love, emigration, and social perfection on the banks of a North American river: but Southey clung to the object of his affection with poetic indiscretion and disinterestedness, and took a very conclusive precaution that the first part of this anticipation should be falsified. On the eve of departure for the continental excursion, he took the bold and irretrievable course of privately leading the adored Edith to the altar, where he received her hand as his bride, and united their earthly fortunes forever. It is stated that they parted immediately after their marriage, at the portico of the church; and the bridegroom set off on his travels. Doubtless, in subsequent years he had no cause to repent of having thus baffled the well-meant designs of his relative, anxious as the latter unquestionably was to promote his interests; and many, as well as Southey, who have, after a similar fashion, defied the fears of the wise, and rushed desperately on matrimony, have found in the duties which attend it, the best incitements to exertion, and the elements of honorable success in life. Yet early marriages in circumstances like his are extremely unsafe to stand upon; and Southey’s kinsman was quite justified in telling him to beware.

In the year 1796 Southey joyfully returned to England where his poem had in his absence been published; and he began to form the notes he had made while abroad into “Letters from Spain and Portugal.” He found it necessary to accept the fulfillment of an old promise of pecuniary assistance from a very intimate college friend; and then he proceeded to London, with the grand intention of studying and accomplishing himself in the laws of the realm. He was duly entered as a student at Gray’s Inn, and made an attempt to combine legal studies with poetical prepossessions; but this, as might have been expected, proved quite futile. Law and poetry――the perusal of Blackstone and the writing of “Madoc”――were not very harmonious conjunctions, as he soon discovered, to the neglect of the former.

Sometime afterward Southey took a small house at Westbury, a beautiful village, where, in the society of his beloved wife, he resided about twelve months, and spent some of his most satisfactory days. He then produced more poetry than he ever did in the same space of time before or after; and he enjoyed the particular intimacy of Sir Humphry Davy, whose ardent genius was then making itself felt at Bristol. The rising man of science took a deep interest in, and heard passages read from, “Madoc,” as its composition was proceeded with by the aspiring and painstaking author.

Southey was likewise employed, at this time, in preparing a volume of minor poems, and a new edition of his “Letters from Spain and Portugal,” to which he had paid a second visit; besides editing the “Annual Anthology,” the first portion of which then appeared. His literary occupations were so decidedly and undeniably to his taste, and became so much “the life of his life,” that the idea of being chained to the law, and harassed by the beckonings of conscience in the direction of dry and dusty volumes, was gradually found to be more irksome and intolerable. Thus his attention was wisely and deliberately withdrawn from the concerns of a profession for which he was not calculated, and wholly concentrated on literature. Indeed the law is, of all others, a jealous mistress, and will accept of no divided allegiance; and such a result as that at which the poet arrived might easily have been foretold, in the case of one who commenced the marvelous achievement of “eating terms,” with indulging in the prospective pleasure of burning his law-books after he should, by their aid, have amassed a magnificent fortune, and retired to enjoy it in Christmas festivities among lakes and mountains.

Trusting now chiefly for support and distinction to his literary effusions, Southey speedily became one of the most industrious of living mortals. His devotion to his pursuits was intense and unparalleled, and indeed so great, that he considered the correcting of proof-sheets as a luxury of the highest kind. In fact, he seems to have regarded literature as the most agreeable of worldly concerns, and the fame arising from its successful cultivation as that kind of which a wise man should be principally ambitious, because the most permanent. This principle regulated his conduct and stimulated his exertions in his chosen field. He guided himself by it with singular resolution; his actions became extremely uniform; and the eccentric workings of his youthful spirit having ceased, his life was as calm and cheerful as could have been desired.

In 1801 Southey had the good fortune to obtain the appointment of private secretary to the Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer, whom he accompanied to Dublin; and in the same year published “Thalaba the Destroyer,” an Arabian fiction of considerable power, beauty, and magnificence. Soon after this, a pension was bestowed upon him by Government.

Southey now deemed it advisable to settle on the banks of the Greta, near Keswick, and pursued his avocations with keen and constant diligence. He wrote perpetually. Each day, and each hour of the day, had their appropriate tasks. He secluded himself much from society, but found consolation in the company of his pretty numerous household, and the well-stocked library which it was his fortune to collect and possess. He now sent into the world, from his agreeable retreat, a volume of “Metrical Tales,” and “Madoc.” After them appeared “The Curse of Kehama,” considered as the most meritorious of his poetic works, but founded on the Hindoo mythology, and therefore not peculiarly interesting to general readers. Some years later he published “Roderick, the last of the Goths,” a noble and pathetic poem.

In the mean time, Southey had not disdained the less pretending species of composition. His “Life of Nelson” is considered the best of his admirable prose works. When published, in 1813, it instantly rose into popular favor, and was recognized by the public as a standard biography. It was originally issued in two small volumes, since compressed into one. He subsequently contributed to “Lardner’s Cyclopædia” a series of lives of British admirals. Besides, he again testified his biographic skill by a “Life of Wesley,” the celebrated founder of Methodism. He evinced therein a minute acquaintance with the religious controversies of the day, and presented curious and interesting sketches of field-preachers and their performances. There were successively other works, less generally admired, relating to history, politics, morals, and philosophy. His numerous writings are characterized by an easy and flowing style, yet they did not secure him much real popularity; but this must, in a great measure, be attributed to the nature of the subjects. His prose was described as perfect by Lord Byron, who styled him “the only existing entire man of letters.”

Southey had, long ere this, relinquished the opinions which prompted him to produce “Wat Tyler;” and when the “Quarterly Review” was established in 1809, he became connected with the enterprise which was then entered upon, and furnished several of the prominent articles to that distinguished periodical in the earlier stage of its career.

Though not enjoying that measure of popular favor to which, as an author of merit and a man of worth and prudence, he was justly entitled, Southey ranked high among the writers of his day; and he was fully appreciated by those most capable of judging critically.

In 1821, the degree of LL.D. was conferred on him by the University of Oxford; and other marks of distinction were within his grasp, if he had chosen to accept them. He was unambitious of public celebrity, and cared little for going into the world. In fact, he is pronounced to have mixed too little with his fellow men, and was therefore wanting in that particular kind of intelligence and information which can only be obtained by a free and familiar intercourse with the world. That “the proper study of mankind is man,” is a doctrine with which he appears to have had little or no sympathy, so long as he had it in his power to say with truth:

“Around me I behold, Where’er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse night and day.”

One of Southey’s latest prose compositions consisted of his “Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society,” in which Montesinos is made to converse with the ghost of Sir Thomas More.

On the death of Mr. Pye, the poet-laureate, the vacant dignity had been offered to Sir Walter Scott; but the great Border Minstrel declining to accept of it, used his influence in favor of Southey, who was accordingly appointed. In this capacity he composed his “Carmen Triumphale” and “The Vision of Judgment,” which, like the productions of other laureates, encountered much ridicule. His latest poetical emanations were, “All for Love,” and “The Pilgrim of Compostella.”

Southey’s repute as an author and political writer rose so high, that he was offered a baronetcy, and election to the representation in Parliament of a ministerial borough. However, his knowledge was rather of books than human affairs; he was by no means qualified to “make himself formidable” as a senator; he was ever in extremes, and had no experience of that middle path which can alone be permanently maintained in dealing with public affairs, and which is ever chosen by those not incapacitated by nature to learn from the past, and meet the shadowy future with prescience. Under these circumstances he acted with wisdom and prudence: he considered that his fame and prosperity could only be preserved by a resolute adherence to his studious occupations; and he declined both distinctions, continuing his habits of ceaseless reading and composition. It seems that, in his entranced devotion to his literary projects, he had neglected that exercise which he had declared so essential to health, and during his three last years he became the victim of disease. The early partner of his joys and sorrows had already sunk into the grave; and Southey had contracted a second union with a lady known for her poetic accomplishments. He is said to have left a considerable fortune――the result of his industry――at his death, which took place on the 21st of March, 1843. He was buried in the church-yard at Crosthwaite, in the neighborhood of his residence by lake and mountain; and an inscription for the tablet to his memory was furnished by the venerable Bard of Rydal Mount, who succeeded him in the laureateship, and was, ere long, laid at rest at no great distance from his former compeer.

THOMAS MOORE.

The original genius, exquisite sensibility, independent spirit, and incorruptible integrity, which the greatest scholar of his age ascribed in his will to this bright and fanciful bard from the “Emerald Isle,” have been generally admired and acknowledged. Indeed, notwithstanding his multitudinous and peculiar temptations to love patrician personages not wisely, but too well, few men of genius have ever excelled or equaled Moore in these important and laudable qualities for which Dr. Parr gave him credit, any more than in the brilliancy of his intellect or the strength of his domestic affections. That he passed through a severe ordeal, and was exposed to many trials, can hardly be doubted. The early recognition of rare talent is too frequently fatal to its possessor; and the celerity of Moore’s transit from the humble parlors in the Irish capital to fashionable saloons and the banquets of princes was quite amazing, and well-nigh unprecedented. Yet he appears, without ostentatiously and perpetually proving the fact by bellowing it into the public ear, to have maintained his freedom of thought and action almost unimpaired to the end of his life. The career of such a man is necessarily fraught with interest and instruction; and the boyhood of a poet is always a subject especially worthy of being dwelt upon, as being replete with profit to the young and information to all. Who, indeed, can read without emotion of the gentle Cowper, being maltreated by his school-fellows at Westminster, and not daring to lift his eyes above the shoe-buckles of the elder boys; or of Scott, seated by some ruined edifice devouring ancient ballads, and gazing with rapture on the landscape in view; or of Byron, stretched on the old tombstone of Harrow, with the strong ambition in his mind and the bitter disappointment in his heart that were destined to unite and bring forth glorious but melancholy fruits; or of Wordsworth, the Bard of Contemplation, receiving the poetic impulse while led to and fro on the romantic banks of the Derwent? In a different and less attractive scene must we look for the earliest aspirations and exploits of the gifted youth whose songs, so gay, rich, and choice in their language, afterward held the fair and courtly in mute attention――whose sparkling wit proved so effective a weapon in political controversy; and whose spirit qualified him so perfectly to unite his national music to immortal verse.

Thomas Moore was born on the 28th of May, 1779, in the city of Dublin, where his father, a decent and respectable tradesman, at that time carried on a limited business as a wine-merchant. His mother appears to have been a rollicking Irish woman, with much honest humor, and no particular indisposition to indulge occasionally in an expletive, indicating any thing rather than Asiatic repose or excessive respect for the third commandment. This worthy dame, joyous and dashing, was fond of all such festivities as came in her way, and of all such society as she could obtain access to. She could, doubtless, sing delightfully at the supper-parties she frequented, enjoy herself without stint, when “the mirth and fun grew fast and furious,” and let care and all its horrid concomitants wait for her attention till the morning. In fact, she was blessed with no small portion of Hibernian indifference as to the future. Moreover, she had the advantage of being a strict and sincere Roman Catholic; and her husband also “held the ancient faith,” though with a philosophical moderation which his decorous spouse by no means approved of. Though a genuine Irishman by parentage and nativity, Moore, strangely, advanced no imaginary claim to estates confiscated for centuries, to wealth dissipated before he entered the vale of tears, or to ancestral honors. He even declined the distinction of having aristocratic kindred; and it must be admitted, that without these aids to inspiration he contrived to do “excellently well,” and leave a brilliant name. In one quality he assuredly was not deficient, that of fervid nationality and warm love of his country.

Almost in the earliest stage of his existence the prophetic eye of Mrs. Moore discerned signs of her little Tom being a marvelous child, and he was nursed and reared with a view to his attaining due and enviable eminence ere his sun set. The happy days of the boy have, perhaps, too often no certain existence save in the imagination of the same being when grown into a man, and looking on past scenes with that enchantment which distance lends to the view. Gibbon remarks, that while the poet gaily describes the short hours of juvenile recreation he forgets the tedious daily labors of the school, which is approached each morning with anxious and reluctant step. He declares that he never knew the boasted happiness of boyhood, against the existence of which, as a general luxury, he therefore enters a feeling protest; but in this respect the experience of the fanciful Irish poet was quite the opposite of that confessed to by the skeptical historian of the Roman Empire. Moore was sent, with all convenient haste, to a day-school, kept by a person who “quaffed his noggin of poteen” with much less than proper consideration for his tutorial avocations. He was afterward placed under Mr. Samuel White, who had been the preceptor of Sheridan, and proved his want of prophetic skill by pronouncing the future wit and orator an incorrigible dunce. At this seminary Moore displayed a remarkable taste for music, poetry and recitation. This was much strengthened by the master of the school, who encouraged a habit of acting which was not in any degree relished by the majority of his pupils. However, Moore speedily became a favorite “show scholar,” and in that capacity had the gratification of seeing his name in print at the age of ten, as one of the juvenile performers who were to contribute to an evening’s entertainment at the private theatre of a lady of rank. He began forthwith to compose in numbers, and became more and more the delight of his mother’s eye. She watched with tender anxiety and sanguine hope his extraordinary ascent, step by step, of the social ladder; and he repaid her solicitude by a filial devotion which no poetic triumphs were ever in subsequent life allowed to interfere with. Being extremely ambitious in regard to his worldly prospects, she early, despite the disabilities then attaching to those of her religious faith, destined him for the bar, and afforded him every opportunity of cultivating his mind and extending his knowledge which her means and position permitted. He soon gave cheering indications of being not unworthy of such anxious care, and was highly applauded by his teacher, who, while doing so, did not neglect so opportune an occasion of saying a good word for himself; and he signalized his precocious powers at the age of fourteen by contributing verses to the pages of a Dublin Magazine. “Master Moore” was already a sort of celebrity on the banks of the Liffey.