These were truly Halcyon days, for my friend was a man of taste and talents, and his collection of books proved him to be so. Under such auspices, I essentially increased my store of knowledge. I remember (and the remembrance at this very distant period is still painful) that he was absent once for an interval, to me an eternity, of almost two months. What a dreadful void, and how was I to fill it up? I had exhausted the circulating library above-mentioned, long since. I had read again and again the little library of my Mentor, when in the corner of a village shop, I discovered an odd volume of the Town and Country Magazine. Might I be permitted to borrow it? The nod of assent was a signal to me to hurry home with it as fast as possible. I did not exactly know what to make of it, but it had the charm of novelty, and occasionally at the end of each month’s magazine I found some tolerable poetry. By the way, this incident induces me to mention a circumstance for which I could never satisfactorily account. I was, from the first moment of having ability to read, exceedingly fond of poetry, and almost as soon as I could write, made a compilation of those pieces which most suited my taste, and best pleased my fancy. I had subsequently read many popular authors, various admired specimens had been pointed out to me, many of them were indelibly engraved upon my memory. I have since composed a great deal in this branch of literature, and some of my compositions have been very favourably received. I attained afterwards a facility of versification, which seems hardly credible. I once in the course of a short day translated an heroic epistle from Ovid. It was printed, and has been approved by scholars. But at the period of which I am speaking, my repeated efforts to write any thing in verse, were ineffectual. My head was stored with poetical images. I had all the ardour of poetical feeling. I had scenes before me calculated to awaken and inspire any spark of genius, however latent; nay more, I fancied myself in love: but still it would not do. I could not succeed. What I wrote, wanted strength and nerves, wanted rithm, wanted harmony, wanted every thing. How is this to be explained? I must suppose that I had too great an abundance of ideas, and had not the skill and judgment to arrange them.
The scenes of Elysium which I have been describing, were not doomed to last. What would I not give, once more to see the fields, and woods, and streams, through and near which, with romantic and unwearied step, I so often wandered, with no companions but my desultory thoughts and unsubstantial visions. Accept, beloved village, this tribute of unaffected gratitude. I left your plains with anguish—I remember them with extacy.
A representation was made by my master, that he saw in me, indications of qualities and talents which pointed to some better station, than that of a village apothecary, and he recommended the sphere of my education to be enlarged; that I should be removed to a great school, and finally to the university. Whether I should have been more useful to the world, or intrinsically more happy in myself, if the humbler path had been pursued which was first chalked out for me, He only knows from whom no secrets are hid. Flattering representations in favour of a beloved and only son, are seldom listened to by parents with a deaf ear; they were cordially welcomed by mine. In the shortest interval possible, the plan recommended for my future instruction, was executed.
Inde iræ et lacrymæ.
CHAPTER IV.
I was now placed under the care of a great dragon of learning. My sensations, on my first arrival, at a scene so novel and so strange, cannot easily be expressed. I was long and seriously unhappy. I had so much to learn, to arrive at the level of those who were now my associates, so much to unlearn, to avoid derision and contempt, that my situation was for a time truly pitiable. I was humble, retired, and, as they thought, vulgar; whilst to me, they all appeared insolent, rude, intolerable. I had not been taught, or taught imperfectly, to make Latin verses. This was my first labour, and arduous it was. I conquered, however, the difficulty by perseverance, and became progressively reconciled to my situation. I cannot say more, for perhaps the period of my life, which I look back upon with the smallest degree of satisfaction, is the time consumed in this seminary. Perhaps I should qualify the term, consumed. I became a good scholar, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, but I by no means passed my time to my satisfaction, and lost, as I then thought, and still believe, no unimportant portion of time, in learning to unravel the complicated perplexities of Greek metre, which after all I very imperfectly understood. I could, however, at the time of my departure, compose in Latin with tolerable ease, read any Latin author without difficulty, and Greek with no great degree of labour. At this place and time, when probably the foundation of my literary character was laid, I have not half so much to remember, at all deserving commemoration, as I have of the hours spent at my remote but beloved village. Two incidents present themselves.
My difficulty in making verses long pursued me. The pains I took to conquer this inaptitude, this stupidity, if you please, were inconceivable; many a severe rebuke, and far worse than rebuke, had I to sustain from my Orbilius. At length my luckier stars beamed upon me all at once, in a manner beyond my comprehension. After being tossed about in a tumultuous ocean, the storm subsided, the clouds dispersed, and I saw land. We had always a double portion of verses for our Saturday’s exercise. I am not quite certain that the subject on this occasion was not “Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac.” I always went to this task with a heavy heart, but some how or other, for I cannot explain the process, words seemed to present themselves suitable, and in their proper places, and with little or no exertion I completed my number, with an equal mixture of self-complacency and self-astonishment. On the Monday I showed up, with greater confidence than I had ever before experienced. The master read my verses, sneered, which he was wont to do, and said nothing. I well knew what he meant, but was not discouraged. I felt within myself, that I had crossed the asses’ bridge, and I determined to persevere. I did so, and in the course of the week showed up another and a still better copy of verses. My master, when he had proceeded about half way through them, paused, and looking at me significantly, exclaimed in a half angry tone, Are these verses your own? I replied in a tone which satisfied him of the truth, Yes. I had in consequence, the appellation of good boy, a term very sparingly and reluctantly bestowed.
The other incident was this. I had not yet conquered the difficulty of writing English verse. Indeed I had long given it up in despair. I determined to make another effort. At a certain part of the school we were allowed occasionally to make English verses, instead of hexameters and pentameters; but it was an act of hardihood to do so, for the failure was attended with inevitable disgrace and punishment, derision from the boys, flagellation from the master. I resolved, however, to flesh my maiden sword in the enterprize. I succeeded with one single exception. I had my head full of old English poetry, of which I was exceedingly fond, and I unluckily transferred an obsolete epithet from Spenser, to a version of an ode from Horace. It was not unaptly applied, but it marks the extreme shrewdness and felicity with which boys catch the opportunity of conferring a cognomen. It gave me a nick-name, and I could not complain, that it was either absurd or unjust.
I know not whether it be worth the mention, but here it was that I first had lessons in the French language, from a raw-boned Scotchman, whose dialect was as much like the Parisian, as the barbarous vocabulary of Oonalashka resembles the polished language of Moscow.