Literary Fame, Lord Byron affected to despise, in the following entry in his entertaining Ravenna Journal, January 4th, 1821:
I was out of spirits—read the papers—thought what fame was, on reading in a case of murder that Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faithfully) a book, the Life of Pamela, which he was tearing for waste paper, &c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c., and a leaf of Pamela wrapped round the bacon. What would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of living authors (i. e. while alive)—he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature), and of Pope (the most beautiful of poets)—what would he have said could he have traced his pages from their place on the French prince’s toilets (see Boswell’s Johnson) to the grocer’s counter and the gipsy murderess’s bacon? What would he have said—what can any body say—save what Solomon said long before us. After all, it is but passing from one counter to another—from the bookseller’s to the other tradesman’s, grocer or pastry-cook. For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks; so that I am apt to consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of authorship.
The Letters of Southey afford some of the most truthful experiences of an author to be found in any record of human life and character. At the age of thirty, when struggling with the world, he wrote thus reverentially:
No man was ever more contented with his lot than I am; for few have ever had more enjoyments, and none had ever better or worthier hopes. Life, therefore, is sufficiently dear to me, and long life desirable, that I may accomplish all which I design. But yet, I could be well content that the next century were over, and my part fairly at an end, having been gone well through. Just as at school one wished the school-days over, though we were happy enough there, because we expected more happiness and more liberty when we were to be our own masters, might lie as much later in the morning as we pleased, have no bounds, and do no exercise,—just so do I wish that my exercises were over, that that ugly chrysalis state were passed through to which we must all come, and that I had fairly burst my shell, and got into the new world, with wings upon my shoulders, or some inherent power like the wishing-cap, which should annihilate all the inconveniences of space.
How lifelike also is the following passage upon Southey’s meeting his friend and schoolfellow, Combe! “It is about six years since I saw him. Both he and I have grown into men with as little change as possible in either; and yet, after a few minutes, there was a dead weight upon me which was not to be shaken off. We met with the heartiness of old and thorough familiarity,—something like a family feeling,—but it was necessary to go back to school; for the moment we ceased to be schoolboys there was nothing in common between us. We had no common acquaintance or pursuit; and I feel that of all things in the world there is nothing more mortifying than to meet an old friend from whom you have had no weaning, and to find your friendship cut through at the root.”
The life of John Britton, the topographer and antiquary, presents a remarkable instance of a man born to trouble, yet so successfully struggling with difficulties of all kinds, as to attain a respectable position in life, and to be honoured in his declining years with a public testimonial of esteem. He was born at Kington, Wilts, in 1771: his father, through failure in trade, became insane; the boy learnt his letters from a hornbook, but received little further schooling. He came to London, and, until manhood, worked hard in wine-cellars; but his health breaking down in this employment, he engaged himself at fifteen shillings a week as clerk to an attorney. He had grown fond of reading, but could only get snatches at book-stalls from books, having no money to buy them. However, he at length succeeded in getting a few, read early and late, and made some attempts at authorship, which led him to an enterprise that may be said to have indicated his future fortune. He projected publishing a description of his native county, Wiltshire, and with this view waited upon the Marquis of Lansdowne, at Bowood, to solicit his patronage.[[113]] He had neither card nor prospectus; but he told his early struggles and his love of reading so artlessly, that the kind-hearted nobleman directed his librarian to provide young Britton with books and maps; to allot him a bedroom; and depute a person to show him over the house and pleasure-grounds. He remained at Bowood four days, much of which time he passed in the well-stored library. All this kindness[[114]] Mr. Britton gratefully acknowledges in his Autobiography, adding that, had he been coldly repulsed by Lord Lansdowne, “it is probable that the Beauties of Wiltshire would never have appeared before the public, nor its author become known in literature.” He wrote, edited, and published nearly one hundred works, and in this way laboured for some sixty years. This success we attribute to his great energy of character, nurtured by the kindness with which he was received at Bowood; and aided in after-life by qualities which we rarely see associated in the same individual. Mr. Britton was not only industrious and persevering, but cheerful under defeat; his evenness of temper was very remarkable; yet he was not cold in his attachments. He tells us that from his boyhood he was ambitious to be in the company of his elders and superiors in knowledge: we can testify that he was well-behaved, though not obsequious; well-ordered and accurate in business and money-matters; always living within his means, from youth, when he read books in bed to save the expense of fire,—to his green old age of comfort in his quiet and elegant home in Burton-street: “years had not blunted his sympathies, but to the last his heart overflowed with genial kindness and benevolence;” and he passed away peacefully and resignedly in his eighty-sixth year, on New-Year’s-day, 1857. It will thus be seen that John Britton possessed qualities which, if less striking than his industry, were equally essential to his success in life, although they were but fully known to his more immediate circle of friends and acquaintance.
The career of Mr. Britton’s friend and neighbour, Francis Baily, the astronomer, presents a memorable instance of a well-spent life, although commenced with a mistake. He was apprenticed to a London tradesman; but disliking the business, at the expiration of the term, his taste for science having already been developed, at the age of one-and-twenty he made a very remarkable tour in the unsettled parts of North America. Returning to England, he became a member of the Stock Exchange, wrote some important papers upon subjects connected with commercial affairs, and applied himself to astronomy in his leisure-hours. In 1820 he took a conspicuous part in the foundation of the Astronomical Society. After realising a competent fortune, he retired from business, and devoted himself to his favourite pursuits. He died in 1844, in his seventieth year, after performing a vast amount of valuable work, of which his labours in the remodelling of the Nautical Almanac; in the fixation of the standard of length, involving more than 1200 hours’ watching the oscillations of the pendulum; in the determination of the density of the earth; and in the revision of catalogues of the stars,—were only a part. He passed away with these memorable words almost upon his lips: “My life is nearly closed. I leave life with the same tranquillity and equanimity which I have generally felt and acted on in my personal intercourse with friends and strangers. I have been blessed with uninterrupted health. In short, I have had more than my share of terrestrial happiness, and leave it, as fulfilling an inscrutable law of animal nature, with thankfulness and resignation.” “Among Mr. Baily’s friends,” says Prof. de Morgan, “there is surely not one who will venture to say positively that he ever knew a better or a happier man.”
The rise of Chantrey, the sculptor, from peasant-life was nobly earned. He was born in the village of Norton, Derbyshire, in 1781, of parents in humble circumstances. When a boy carrying milk to the next town, he would stop to form grotesque figures of the yellow clay; and he moulded his mother’s butter on churning-days into various forms. From his fondness for drawing and modelling he was apprenticed to a carver and gilder at Sheffield. Thence he came to London, and began to work at carving in stone, not having received a single lesson from any sculptor; and he laboured for eight years without earning 5l. in his profession. At length, a single bust brought him 12,000l.-worth of commissions, and he rose to be the first sculptor of his day. He died in 1841, and was buried in a tomb which he had built for himself in the churchyard of his native village, where a granite obelisk has been raised to his memory. He was ever mindful of his lowly origin; for when he had become famous, and had received knighthood, at a party given by his patron, Mr. Thomas Hope, Sir Francis Chantrey was observed to notice a piece of carved furniture; on being asked the reason, he replied, “This was my first work.”
It is scarcely possible to name Chantrey without being reminded of his friend, “honest Allan Cunningham,” who, born in the county of Dumfries, in 1784, received but scanty education, and at the age of eleven was apprenticed to a mason. In the intervals of his laborious occupation, “he sought knowledge wherever he could obtain it,” and drew his earliest poetic inspiration from the dear country of Burns—the wilds of Nithsdale, and the lone banks of the Solway. Here he earned his daily bread as a common stonemason until his twenty-sixth year, when he came to London, wavering between labour and literature. He chose the latter, in reporting for the newspapers; but, soon tired of its perplexities, he resumed his first calling, and by a fortunate opportunity, to which his own excellent character recommended him, he became foreman of the works of Chantrey, in which honourable employment he remained until the sculptor’s death, in 1841. In his intervals of business, by untiring industry, Allan Cunningham produced a succession of works noteworthy in the poetry and general literature of his day. His first poetry was printed in 1807: he also wrote stirring romances; and in collecting Tradition Tales of the Scottish Peasantry, by the light of an evening fire, he sweetened many an hour of remission from daily labour. Later in life he became a critic of the Fine Arts, and wrote with amiable feeling, honesty, and candour, and mature and liberal taste: it was well observed of him in his lifetime: “He needs no testimony either to his intellectual accomplishments or his moral worth; nor, thanks to his own virtuous diligence, does he need any patronage.” His genius and artistic judgment have been inherited by his third son, Peter Cunningham, the well-known critic, topographer, and antiquary.[[115]]
The greatest author of the present century, whether we regard the beneficial influence of his writings, or its extent, is Sir Walter Scott. We have already spoken of his diligence and economy of time; his characteristics as an author have been ably sketched as follows: