Retirement properly so called, for busy scenes and active employments; from a space in which there was not room for ambition, to one where ambition appeared to have no limit; from a spot where a few wild flowers occasionally charmed the sight with their beauty, and the senses with their fragrance, to the prolific and auspicious nursery of every science and every art; from knowing every body, to knowing nobody; from ⸺ to London!!
Here let us take time to breathe awhile. He who for the first time in his life leaves the white cliffs of Dover, on an excursion to France, on his landing at Calais, is for a few moments bewildered with the strangeness, the novelty, the wonderful change of the scene. He feels as if he was removed to another planet. The language, the dress, the manners, every thing he beholds, dazzles and confounds him: till at length reflection and judgment resume their influence, and experience makes the contrast familiar. Such was, and such, under similar circumstances, will ever be, the first periods of residence in London, after a long familiarity with the quiet, repose, and ordinary pursuits of the country.
The first impression, the first subject of reflection, the first determination, was that from which there was never any deviation—Literature. A noble field opened its expanded bosom to emulation, exertion, honour, and reward. But how was an obscure, unknown individual, without connection, introduction, or seeming opportunity of any, to surmount the difficulties, perplexities, and intricacies, which threatened to obstruct his path, and interrupt his progress? Patience and perseverance finally succeeded, and over what opposition will not these qualities triumph?
The first necessary and indeed indispensable step was to form literary connections; but this was by no means found difficult. Similar propensities and endowments soon discover one another, and induce frequent and familiar association. Generally speaking, in London at least, there is great liberality among literary men, a ready disposition to interchange communications, which may be mutually useful, to accommodate one another with the loan of books, to point out sources of information, indeed to carry on, by a sort of common treaty among one another, a pleasant, friendly, and profitable commerce.
One material assistance in forming and cementing literary intercourse, is presented at book-auctions; another, and still a better, occurs in the shops of eminent booksellers. The few old fellows that are yet left, chuckle at the recollection of the numerous and cheerful meetings which used to take place at honest Tom Payne’s, at the Mews Gate, and at Peter Elmsley’s, in the Strand.
In these places of resort, at a certain period of the afternoon, a wandering scholar, in search of Pabulum, might be almost certain of meeting Cracherode, George Steevens, Malone, Windham, Lord Stormont, Sir John Hawkins, Lord Spencer, Porson, Burney, Mr. T. Grenville, Wakefield, Bishop (then Dean) Dampier, King of Mansfield-street, Townley, Col. Stanley, and various other bookish men.
Honest Tom Payne! and well indeed did he deserve the name so universally bestowed upon him, and happily and effectually has he entailed it on his successor, than whom a worthier character does not exist. He who willingly pays this tribute, does it from the experience of almost forty years.
The earliest literary efforts are almost always of the same kind. The first productions are most probably poetical, but soon, very soon, the ardour of immortalizing “the tangles of Neæra’s hair” subsides, and gives place to austerer studies, and more elaborate pursuits. This is more particularly the case, if the olive branches should multiply apace, and two puddings are found necessary to smoke upon the board. After poetry is in some degree gone by, as every young author dearly loves to see himself in print, the next display of talent or erudition, is made in the periodical publications of the day. In this particular path, old Sylvanus Urban has been found exceedingly commodious, and many a maiden pen, which has subsequently been entitled to have its letters wreathed with laurels, has first of all inked itself in his pages. If the propensity shall lead to politics, the popular journals of the day are invitingly ready to enlist the zeal of youthful authorship. But the appetite of literary reputation progressively increases, nor will it finally be satisfied, till it fancies at least that it has established some monumental column, “ære perennius.”