RAMBLINGS OF A POET. "That spirit is never idle that doth waken THERE is no inconsistency in the Ramblings of a Poet being related in prose: all poetry is not verse, any more than all verse is poetry-a fact which no one will be inclined to deny who reads one hundreth part of the poems, whether blank or in rhyme, which issue from the press. But I am not assuming now the character of a poet; I am relating no high wrought fictions; no impassioned scenes:-I am not endeavouring "to raise the show of things to the desires of the mind"-I am expressing on paper my own solitary musings; in which, though nothing new may be found, something old may be at least represented in a new dress. Among my stated rambles there is one which I retread with pleasure, unalloyed by repetition-It is a path which leads to a church-yard; and here I have lingered for hours unwearied, occupied by the reflections produced by surrounding objects. The spot of which I speak is situated on an eminence which commands a lovely prospect. I have been seated on my favourite seat, a large mossy stone, over which a spreading beech throws its shade, when the close of day was approaching:-there was the stone church, with its sombre ivy grown walls and steeple the thick leafy grove, with its music-breathing inhabitants-the green hill, and the little murmuring rivulet that wandered at its bottom, over its pebble-gemmed bed, dashing its light spray over its violet banks the whitewashed cottage and barn, with the horse-shoe nailed over the door, the lingering relic of drooping faith in demonology-the spreading fields, and clump of trees, and thinly scattered habitations and farther on, the majestic windings of the river, beyond which, dim hills raised their eternal barrier to close all further view-and, most beautiful of all, the deep gentle shade of evening, sinking and reddening on hill, and plain, and valley:-it is then Eur, Mag. Vol. 82. that the soul, emancipated from earthly thoughts and earthly hopes, holds closer sympathy with the scenes around, and holier visionings flit before the mind; and what spot could better harmonize with such thoughts than the one I have described? A church-yard, is of all places the one most calculated to call up those feelings which, abstracted from the pleasures, are uncontaminated with the evils of the world-in the evening too, the charm is stronger-on every side lie "relics of mortality". the fantastic or fearful shapes, which the gloom lends to indistinct objects, Like a demon thing, Or shadow hovering, give a mysterious awe to this ultima thule of human schemes-and the doubtful certainty (if the expression may be used) of shortly becoming a companion of the mouldering dust, and hideous corruption beneath us, doubtful as to its period but certain as it regards the event, is fraught with deep, though fearful and appalling interest. Am I wrong in saying that this is the place-the school-the theatre for a poet? Is it not here that the casualties of rank and station are destroyed; and is it not the work of the poet also to overlook these accidental distinguishments, to develop the rise of simple and unadorned loveliness, and to see and properly to estimate the intrinsic excellence of things and actions? Death is your only sure balance in which to weigh the real worth or importance of individuals—themagic girdle that fits none but those whose deeds have been pure-the wild steed that none can manage but those who encounter him undismayed- the infallible touchstone of greatness or power-he is like the gust, which blows away the thistledown of splendour and vanity, and exposes the nakedness which lies beneath he is the best of friends who relieves us from our cares-our greatest enemy who bereaves us of that B we love best-our life:-in short, he is the most paradoxical of things, who is every day present, but never seen the most unwelcome of visitors, who, whenever he comes, is an unwished-for guest. 6 I am fond of a church, particularly an old one: it is, as it were, the home for the soul; the refuge from the world; and I am fond of its venerable antique gloom; its painted windows; its monuments which speak of the dead and their houses, the grave,' and of its music :-there is an awful solemn beauty in church music which stills each unhallowed thought; each wish that speaks of earth; and throws its calm of holiness over the mind-the deep roll of the organ; the thrilling enthusiasm creating sound of human voices trembling to the throne of eternity; which when I think of, I reflect with complacency upon the abodes of monkish superstition, Those deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns: and could almost wish that I had been an inhabitant of them, blest with peace, and undisturbed by vice and folly. Pshaw, pshaw, I am dreaming; and these are the dreams of a poet doomed to wake-an essay writer. But there is another ornament to a church-the greatest perhaps in my estimation-its bells; its organs of speech; with which it calls together fellow-worshippers. I love these eloquent inanimations -these metallic tractors of the soul, whose vibrations call up into view the past, which is fled, the present, which dies in its existence, and the future, which will fade away like its predecessors: that simple stroke of two pieces of metal gives me an infinity of ideas the burst into life, and quick sinking into nothing, the reiteration of the strokes, one succeeding another in measured intervalsall speak of the mutability of every thing earthly, and the rapid succession of beings, which bloom and perish and are forgotten. I cannot admire the Mahometan custom of employing the human voice as a substitute for bells-methinks the invitation, which calls to such exercises of devotion, should be addressed to the mind in some sound which may awaken suitable thoughts -not spoken in the every-day dialect of business and pleasure.-An English steeple will continue, in my thinking, to be very preferable to a Turkish minaret. And what is it that lends this magic to so simple a music? what is it, but that which lends beauty to every thing-the fertile power of associa tion. It is the connexion which subsists between it and the inward workings of the soul-the relation which it bears to the operations of life and of death, which renders it thus pleasing. It is this principle of association, which is the vivifying soul of matter, which gives interest and beauty to inanimate objects—which engages the soul through the medium of the senses which is the spirit of poetry ---it is not the mere sentiment conveyed by the words of the poet-it miniscences, which starts upon the is the flood of sweet and gentle rereader, varied as it must of ne cessity be in different individuals, as their respective views, characters, situations, and mental organizations differ; from which is derived the highest pleasure of poetical_compositions I am not young-I am indeed approaching to the period when I shall cease to indite these dotings of age, but in these recurrences to the feelings of past days consists my fondest pleasure-these and a few other loved associations linger in my memory, and shall sink with me to my peaceful bed. It was a saying worthy of Pope, that he should not care to have an old stump pulled down which he had known in his childhood. I am deeply imbued, I might say saturated, with such feelings I have a piece of an oak, which grew by the school where I was educated, and has long since fallen a prey to the axe of the spoiler. I remember, as well as I do any thing, the cutting down of the venerable tree; how we crowded about it; and how each busy discipulus was cutting off relics of their old friend. The branches, which were left by the workmen as useless, were gathered up, and in the evening made into a bonfire then too we had a feast, and we sat round the glowing embers with every one his apple, his gingerbread, his nuts, and his glass of currant wine. Then tales of school heroism and school mischief were recounted; and still the wit became brighter as the fire decayed the mirth and fun grew fast and furious.'Ah! those were happy days. I often visit this scene of my infant years; the school is there, with the stone, the owl with its goggle eyes perched above it; there is the play-ground; the dark stone walls with their soft and solemn brownness-but I will write an essay on the school and my school-daysthere are many faces too, but they are strange to me those of my time, alas! where are they they are scattered over the world-those that survive at least there was Zouch, and C, with his bright wit and clear judgment, and Phillips with his lively sallies of good-humoured mirth, and dozens whom I could mention-One of them I must mention, 'tis R, the most singular inoffensive mortal I ever met with: R fell in love-a thing of common occurrence and slight moment with most men. But it was otherwise with him-his constitution was delicate, and his feelings sensitive beyond the conception of any but his intimates; to such a being -to love as he loved-was an exertion of energies almost alarming. He succeeded-the object of his adoration loved him-the day was fixed for their marriage-before it came she died, and R- -s fond ties were broken-From that hour all his time was spent in retracing the walks they had taken together. There was a rose-tree which she had planted, and R- watched over it with incessant care, for "he was the slave of sympathy.' I found him near it one day he said to me, 'You see that tree-I shall live as long as it no longer.'-He would not be persuaded that it was a mere whim of the imagination. Two months after this he died-I passed through the garden-the tree was withered. I am perfectly sensible not half my readers will believe this story. To those who do-who will look upon it as an instance of the strong power of the imagination over the mental and physical faculties-I relate this short notice of a gentle and innocent being, poor R- ; it is an humble stone that covers his remains in yonder church-yard—his name is unknown, save to a few-but by those it will long be honoured, loved, and wept over! CINNA DIGRESSIONS BY GEOFFREY HARDCASTLE, GENT. Pha.-Thinke what you will of it, I think 'tis done, and I think 'tis acting by this time; harke, harke, what drumming's yonder; I'll lay my life they are comming to present the shew I spake off. Common Sense. It may be so; stay, wee'le see what 'tis. I AM neither a disciple of Jeremy Collier, nor of the author of Histriomastrix; both of whom, with more zeal than discretion, have occupied themselves in railing against stage plays, and play-goers. More especially, the latter author has contrived to steal sufficient time from the labours of his profession, to indite a goodly " quarto tractate" of some thousand and odd pages, in which he logically proves the immorality of the stage, by well arranged and subtle syllogisms, such as Things derived from the devil are evil-stage as LINGUA. plays are sprung from the devil ergo, stage plays are evil which syllogism would, indubitably, be conclusive on the subject, were it not that it is unfortunately necessary. to prove his major, which he attempts to do, by the testimony of divers fathers of the Primitive Church, and among others, Tertullian, Cyprian, Chrysostom, Ignatus, Lactantius, and many other long-named men, whom few in the present time know, nor if they knew, would care for. Leaving, therefore, the reverend and learned gentlemen to slumber out their days in undisturbed forget fulness, I confess that. I am a playgoer,-a confession, which certainly demands no extraordinary share of resolution to make, as a thousand people do the same every day. But I persuade myself, that I enjoy many pleasures in my theatrical hours, which other people do not experience. I have not a greater number of senses than the rest of my species, but I possess, perhaps, in theatrical pleasures, a more lively power of association than the o Too who throng the gallery, pit, and boxes around me. Very probably, there may appear in this a great degree of over-weening egotism, but this I do not much regard. All people are egotists in their hearts; the only difference is between those who keep it pent up, and those who let it loose when occasion offers, without caring where it flies, or whose habits or prejudices it runs a tilt against. To proceed the primary object with most frequenters of the theatre is, presume, at least nominally, I THE PLAY. No one goes, or at any rate acknowledges that he goes, to sit in a box, or on a bench. But many make going to see a play an excuse for passing away a portion of time, which they would not otherwise know how to occupy. Some go to meet their friends-others, for less laudable meetings with "fair mischiefs," as that facete personage, Master Janus Weathercock hath it-some to clap-others to hiss-these go to applaud, and those to damn-some few, perhaps, go out of real love to dramatic entertainments, and a multitude, because they have nothing else to do. As for myself, I go out of many motives.-There are a variety of circumstances which conspire to furnish the satisfaction I experience. I am not cursed with that disposition to be displeased, which throws the darkest shade on every thing in life. I derive pleasure from that, which any one else may derive pleasure from by using the same means-by absolutely banishing from the mind all inclination to cavil and find fault, by looking on the golden side of the shield, by encouraging that spirit of optimism, which softens down the harsh, and elevates, or brings into more distinct points of view, the mild and lovely features of what we see spread around us. I go to the theatre purposely as a recreation, and I determine, from the moment I enter the pit door or box lobby, not to suffer anything to divert me from my object.-I remember, with great delight, the feelings I used to experience in my childhood, on a visit to the theatre. It was but seldom that I went, but it was a real treat, and I know scarce anything that could equal my joy when I found myself fairly seated-the portentous green curtain, on which I was wont to gaze with expecting wonderment, before me, while I waited with impatience for the moment that should reveal the hidden scenes.-Then, there was the multitude of company; the lights of the house; the painting, gilding, and other decorations, which, to my youthful eye, seemed gorgeous magnificence. Then, too, when the prompter's bell sent forth its silver accents, and was immediately succeeded by the agitation of the dark curtain, as it folded itself up as if by its own voluntary motion, disclosing the scene behind-I felt my heart bound within me at the sight of the varied scene, where castles and rocks, and woods and cataracts, and trees, spread forth in mimic beauty-the heroes and kings of gorgeous tragedy Romeo-smile not, gentle reader, at went sweeping by-I loved with a lover of twelve summers-I then but thought I loved, and my imagination was ever on the wing. With Juliet I wept for her sad mischance, and listened with mingled feelings the Denmark prince. But it was in to the "meaning in his madness" of strongly excited. There was pity Lear, that my soul was then most for his misfortunes-hatred for the unnatural daughters to whom he had given his all-wonder and commiseration for the maniac whom the miration, and esteem for her, who foul fiend torments—and pity, adexposed her tender limbs and delipitiless storm," to shield his head, cate frame to the "peltings of the had driven her from his home and and give solace to his misery, who from his heart. advantages of increasing years, may Amongst the advantages, and disbe reckoned as one of the latter, that familiarity with the scenes and pleasures of our youth, which takes away their sweetest bloom. The prompter's bell is no longer delightful to me-it is no more the "sweetest achromatic," the rarest and most exquisite, Most spherical, divine, angelical. The mystery of the green curtain has faded away-the scenes are fa miliar to me-and the multitude of company (for I never can bear to stay to look on empty benches,) with the lights and music and bustle, fail so powerfully to excite in me. But still I am fond of occasionally taking my accustomed seat on the fourth bench of the pit.-'Tis to me like frequenting Wills' coffee-house, the Metropolitan academy of Queen Ann's time—where Pope and Addison, and Wycherley and Steele, and their fellow wits, enjoyed the feast of each other's converse, and laughed at the puny critics, the Dennises of the day. They are gone-but at the theatre, and some other favourite haunts of mine-the Old Hummums in Covent-garden is one-I can sometimes meet with a circle of men, whose conversation is not inferior, I imagine, to that of the author of the Dunciad, or the writers of the Spectator. There is my friend proud am I to call him my friend— Charles Lamb, that sportive child of fancy, "Quem qui non prorsus amet, illum omnes et virtutes et ve neres odere." With his endless fund of anecdote derived from his acquaintance with the old fellows-his various reading—his skill in using his resources and his free and open nature;-who has ever read his essays, and not rejoiced in their strong and energetic application, the full, ancient, lovely quaintness of his style, and then turned, with disgust, from the mawkish, vapid, flat medium insipidity of writers like me and my brethren? Then there is that wild, hair-brained English opiumeater, De Q――y; and there, in yonder box, in his black coat and silks, and venerable placid-looking countenance, is Bowles-what is he thinking of? Of Pope's follies with Martha Blount, think ye?-or of a sharp "rubber" for his titled and gifted opponent, the wandering Harold ? Who is that peaceful, but cleverlooking little man? That is Campbell, the Minstrel of Hope, and the Editor of the New Monthly. By the way, speaking of editors, turn your eyes that way, yonder is a bench full of them.-You see the man with the sharp, quick eye, and the black cravat-that is our Princi pal, the magnus parens—beside him, is Galt, the Northern Editor, with two of his coadjutors, Lockart and W. -n.-That young beauish man with his hair curled up in thick ringlets, rather dark complexion,d'ye see? that is a limb of the law, a barrister expectant, the head man of the Gazette of Fashion.-Next to him, is a man of much repute,-the Editor of the Examiner, and with him, his brother Leigh,—" par nobile fratrum. As somebody calls them," Arcades ambo." I But the play hour approaches, and must give up my ideal visionings, in order to enjoy the realities of the scene. I hope to God there will be a full house-I abominate empty benches to sit alone on a whole bench, whose very vacuity increases its infernal extent-the house like a desert-the musicians scraping away their rosined bows with careless hands, creating harsh discords-actors looking about them, kicking their heels, and looking, with a most sleepy and insolent indifference on the rari nantes discernible in the house, with here and there a stray wanderer like myself, lolling at full length, or wandering in discontented other; and in the boxes, the exsolitariness from one side to the pected bright circle of splendour, to spy occasionally a gloomy face looking abroad, or, perhaps, a of group a dozen, forming a half, probably, in one box, to have something like of the whole set, gathered together the appearance of close neighbourhood. I would rather see the face his damned proof-sheet or unfinished of a printer's devil, importuning for article. Rap, rap, rap!-Zounds! Speak of the devil, and he's at your elbow 'tis he, by all the gods!And so, kind and fair readers, and you readers who are neither fair nor kind, Good night. Query. Meaning ourselves? Ed. |