Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 350, January 3, 1829», страница 2

THE POET, CHATTERTON

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

Should the following notice of Chatterton, which I copy from a small handkerchief in my possession, be thought worthy of a place in the MIRROR, you will oblige me by inserting it. The handkerchief has been in my possession about twenty-five years, and was probably printed soon after the poet's death; he is represented sitting at a table, writing, in a miserable apartment; behind him the bed turned up, &c.

SUFFOLK.

The Distressed Poet, or a true representation of the unfortunate Chatterton.

The painting from which the engraving was taken of the distressed poet, was the work of a friend of the unfortunate Chatterton. This friend drew him in the situation in which he is represented in this plate. Anxieties and cares had advanced his life, and given him an older look than was suited to his age. The sorry apartment portrayed in the print, the folded bed, the broken utensil below it, the bottle, the farthing candle, and the disorderly raiment of the bard, are not inventions of fancy. They were realities; and a satire upon an age and a nation of which generosity is doubtless a conspicuous characteristic. But poor Chatterton was born under a bad star: his passions were too impetuous, and in a distracted moment he deprived himself of an existence, which his genius, and the fostering care of the public would undoubtedly have rendered comfortable and happy. Unknown and miserable while alive, he now calls forth curiosity and attention. Men of wit and learning employ themselves to celebrate his talents, and to express their approbation of his writings. Hard indeed was his fate, born to adorn the times in which he lived, yet compelled to fall a victim to pride and poverty! His destiny, cruel as it was, gives a charm to his verses; and while the bright thought excites admiration, the recollection of his miseries awakens a tender sympathy and sorrow. Who would not wish that he had been so fortunate as to relieve a fellow creature so accomplished, from wretchedness, despair, and suicide?

WRITTEN ON VIEWING THE PORTRAIT OF CHATTERTON

 
Ah! what a contrast in that face portray'd,
Where care and study cast alternate shade;
But view it well, and ask thy heart the cause,
Then chide, with honest warmth, that cold applause
Which counteracts the fostering breath of praise,
And shades with cypress the young poet's bays:
Pale and dejected, mark, how genius strives
With poverty, and mark, how well it thrives;
The shabby cov'ring of the gentle bard,
Regard it well, 'tis worthy thy regard,
The friendly cobweb, serving for a screen,
The chair, a part of what it once had been;
The bed, whereon th' unhappy victim slept
And oft unseen, in silent anguish, wept,
Or spent in dear delusive dreams, the night,
To wake, next morning, but to curse the light,
Too deep distress the artist's hand reveals;
But like a friend's the black'ning deed conceals;
Thus justice, to mild complacency bends,
And candour, all harsh influence, suspends.
Enthron'd, supreme in judgment, mercy sits,
And, in one breath condemns, applauds, acquits:
Whoe'er thou art, that shalt this face survey,
And turn, with cold disgust, thine eyes away.
Then bless thyself, that sloth and ignorance bred
Thee up in safety, and with plenty fed,
Peace to thy mem'ry! may the sable plume
Of dulness, round thy forehead ever bloom;
May'st thou, nor can I wish a greater curse;
Live full despis'd, and die without a nurse;
Or, if same wither'd hag, for sake of hire,
Should wash thy sheets, and cleanse thee from the mire,
Let her, when hunger peevishly demands
The dainty morsel from her barb'rous hands,
Insult, with hellish mirth, thy craving maw
And snatch it to herself, and call it law,
Till pinching famine waste thee to the bone
And break, at last, that solid heart of stone.
 

LAY OF THE WANDERING ARAB

 
"Away, away, my barb and I,"
As free as wave, as fleet as wind,
We sweep the sands of Araby,
And leave a world of slaves behind.
 
 
'Tis mine to range in this wild garb,
Nor e'er feel lonely though alone;
I would not change my Arab barb,
To mount a drowsy Sultan's throne.
 
 
Where the pale stranger dares not come,
Proud o'er my native sands I rove;
An Arab tent my only home,
An Arab maid my only love.
 
 
Here freedom dwells without a fear—
Coy to the world, she loves the wild;
Whoever brings a fetter here,
To chain the desert's fiery child.
 
 
What though the Frank may name with scorn,
Our barren clime, our realm of sand,
There were our thousand fathers born—
Oh, who would scorn his father's land?
 
 
It is not sands that form a waste,
Nor laughing fields a happy clime;
The spot, the most by Freedom graced,
Is where a man feels most sublime!
 
 
"Away, away, my barb and I."
As free as wave as fleet as wind,
We sweep the sands of Araby,
And leave a world of slaves behind!
 

NOSTALGIA—MALADIE DE PAYS—CALENTURE

(For the Mirror.)

This disease, according to Dr. Darwin, is an unconquerable desire of returning to one's native country, frequent in long voyages, in which the patients become so insane, as to throw themselves into the sea, mistaking it for green fields or meadows:—

 
So, by a calenture misled,
The mariner with rapture sees,
On the smooth ocean's azure bed,
Enamell'd fields and verdant trees.
With eager haste he longs to rove
In that fantastic scene, and thinks
It must be some enchanting grove,
And in he leaps, and down he sinks.
 

SWIFT.

The Swiss are said to be particularly liable to this disease, and when taken into foreign service, frequently to desert from this cause, and especially after hearing or singing a particular tune, which was used in their village dances, in their native country, on which account the playing or singing this tune was forbidden by the punishment of death.

 
"Dear is that shed, to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill, which lifts him to the storms."
 

GOLDSMITH.

Rousseau says, "The celebrated Swiss tune, called the Rans des Vaches, is an air, so dear to the Swiss, that it was forbidden under the pain of death to play it to the troops, as it immediately drew tears from them, and made those who heard it desert, or die of what is called la maladie de pays, so ardent a desire did it excite to return to their native country. It is in vain to seek in this air for energetic accents capable of producing such astonishing effects, for which strangers are unable to account from the music, which is in itself uncouth and wild. But it is from habit, recollections, and a thousand circumstances retraced in this tune by those natives who hear it, and reminding them of their country, former pleasures of their youth, and all those ways of living, which occasion a bitter reflection at having lost them. Music, then, does not affect them as music, but as a reminiscence. This air, though always the same, no longer produces the same effects at present as it did upon the Swiss formerly; for having lost their taste for their first simplicity, they no longer regret its loss when reminded of it. So true it is, that we must not seek in physical causes the great effects of sound upon the human heart."

This disease (says Dr. Winterbottom) affects the natives of Africa as strongly as it does those of Switzerland; it is even more violent in its effects on the Africans, and often impels them to dreadful acts of suicide. Sometimes it plunges them into a deep melancholy, which induces the unhappy sufferers to end a miserable existence by a more tedious, though equally certain method, that of dirt eating.

Such is the powerful influence of the lore of one's native country.

P.T.W.

SINGULAR CUSTOM OF THE SULTAN OF TURKEY

(For the Mirror.)

After the opening of the Bairam,² a ceremony among the Turks, attended with more than ordinary magnificence; the Sultan, accompanied by the Grand Signior and all the principal officers of state, goes to exhibit himself to the people in a kiosk, or tent near the seraglio point, seated on a sofa of silver, brought out for the occasion. It is a very large, wooden couch covered with thick plates of massive silver, highly burnished, and there is little doubt from the form of it, and the style in which it is ornamented that it constituted part of the treasury of the Greek emperors when Constantinople was taken by the Turks.

INA.

THE SKETCH-BOOK

EL BORRACHO. ³

Not long since, a couple resided in the suburbs of Madrid, named Perez and Juana Donilla; and a happy couple they might have been, had not Perez contracted a sad habit of drinking, which became more and more confirmed after every draught of good wine; and such draughts were certainly more frequent than his finances were in a state to allow. Night after night was spent at the tavern; fairly might he be said to swallow all that he earned by his daily labour; and Juana and himself (fortunately they had no children to maintain) must have been reduced to absolute mendicity, but for the exemplary conduct of the former, who contrived to support her spouse and herself upon the scanty produce of her unwearied industry. If ever a sentiment of gratitude for undeserved favours animated the bosom of Perez Donilla, he took, it must be confessed, a strange method of declaring it; not only would he, upon his return from his lawless carousals, grumble over that humble fare, the possession of which at all he ought to have considered as scarce less than a miracle, but, in his madness, unmerciful strappings were sure to be the portion of his miserable wife. Poor Juana bore these cruelties with a patience that ought to have canonized her under the title of St. Grizzle: she could not, indeed, forbear crying out, under these frequent and severe castigations; nor could she refrain from soliciting the aid of three or four favourite gentlemen saints, who, little to the credit of their gallantry and good-nature, always turned a deaf ear upon her plaints and entreaties; not a word, however, of the inhuman conduct of her worser half did she breathe to mortal ear. Neighbours, however, have auricular organs like walls and little pitchers, tongues like bells, and a spice of meddling and mischief in them like asses; so that no wise person will suppose the conduct of Perez Donilla to his wife was long a secret in Madrid. Juana had two brothers and a cousin resident in the city—Gomez Arias, chief cook to his reverence the Canon Fernando; Hernan Arias, head groom to Don Miguel de Corcoba, a knight of Calatrava; and Pedro Pedrillo, a young barber-surgeon, in business for himself. Gomez and Hernan, hearing of Juana's misfortunes, said, like affectionate brothers. "God help our poor sister, and may her own relations help her also; for if they do not, nobody else will, and she certainly can't help herself." The like words they repeated to Pedro Pedrillo, until he, being a sharp, handsome young fellow, and particularly fond of showing forth his fine person and finer wit, agreed to visit his cousin, and contrive some plan to extricate her from the cruelty of Perez. Making himself, therefore, as fascinating as possible, he marched directly to the house, or rather cabin, of Juana Donilla, and stood before her, smiling and watching her small, thin fingers plaitting straw for hats, some minutes ere she was aware of his presence. "Pedro!" exclaimed she, with a countenance and voice of pleasure, as she recognised the intruder.—"Ay, Pedro it is, indeed, Juana; but, improved as I am. O, mercy upon me, how black you are looking!"—"Black, cousin? Nay, then, I'm sure 'tis not for want of washing. Come, come, Pedro, no jokes, if you please."—"By St. Jago, fair cousin, I'm as far from a joke as I am from a diploma; and my business in this house, as in most houses, is no jest, I assure you. In a word, the cries which you utter when suffering from the insane fury of your sottish husband have reached even me, and I'm come to offer you a little advice and assistance. No denial of the fact, Juana; those black bruises avouch it without a tongue."—Juana held down her head, colour mounted into her cheeks, tears suffused her eyes, her bosom heaved convulsively, and for some moments she was silent from confusion, shame, grief, and gratitude. At length, withdrawing her hand from the affectionate grasp of Pedro, and dashing it athwart her eyes, she looked up and said mildly, "Thanks, many thanks, dear cousin, for your kindness. I cannot dissemble with you; what would you have me do? I could not beat him in return; and, oh! save him from the arm of my brothers!"—"What have you always done?"—"Borne his stripes, and called for help upon St. Jago, St. Francis Xavier, St. Benedict, and St. Nicholas!"—"And did you never invoke the three holy Maries?"—"Never."—Then that's what you ought to have done," returned Senor Pedrillo, with the utmost gravity. "Now mind me,—call upon them for aid next time your husband maltreats you."—"Alas!" sighed the afflicted wife, "that will most surely be to-night. I've not much faith in your remedy, Pedro; but may be there's no harm in trying it."—"Farewell, then, my poor, pretty, patient, black-bruised cousin," cried Pedrillo; "next time you see the doctor, let him know how his remedy has sped;" and with a comical expression of countenance, half melancholy, half mirthful, the "trusty and well-beloved cousin" departed.