LITERARY GOSSIP;

OR, A VISIT TO MY PUBLISHER.

I Do love a gossip heartily-not "the bald, disjointed chat" which passes for conversation amongst west-end-of-the-town exquisites; no, nor the vain discourse concerning the pedigree of caps and bonnets, which forms the staple commodity of the suburban talkatives, adorned as it is with such tales to the disadvantage of the neighbours as can be coined by an inventive imagination, or retailed by a malicious memory. I love none of these, and yet I do love a gossip nevertheless. In the olden time, the word gossip signified a relation or familiar acquaintance; a man's pot companion-a woman's confidant--the sponsor of their children, and, in a word, their most intimate friend was their " gossip." We have transferred the signification from the person to his discourse, and discarding the word from the friendly society to which it was formerly accustomed, have condemned it to be for the most part a companion of the silly and insignificant tattler. But surely this is very unjust; a British word (and this is moreover in its origin true Saxon) ought no more to be punished without offence, than a British subject be condemned without hearing: and it would puzzle our Crown lawyers, with the devil* at their back, to discover any offence that may fairly be laid to the charge of these two unoffending syllables. It would, indeed, be a matter of slight importance, if this change of signification had not transferred the word gossip to the most absurd of human beings. Why should a gossip" merely refer to old wives' tattling? Are there no tattlers in other ranks of life? Is there no gossiping except amongst old wives? Is there not a professional gossip which your attorney practises, when you have posed him by a sudden question? off he starts, at the rate of six shillings and eight-pence every five minutes, upon subjects connected with every thing, except that very thing about which you came to consult him. Does not your physician practise it, when, after having administered to you all the poisonous combinations he can call to mind, he chatters for ten minutes-turns upon his heeldirects the dose to be repeated, and receives-a guinea? There is also your forensic gossip, when a barrister prates for an hour of a cause about which he knows no more than that he has received the fee marked upon his unread brief. Your traveller's gossip, when the modern Munchausen describes countries he never visited, and gives accurate and minute accounts of sights which are not to be seen. Your soldier's gossip, wherein the Bobadil conquers in battles which are yet to be fought, and performs most dreadful havoc with a sword which "mamma" fastened into the scabbard, lest the "poor thing" should hurt himself. Oh! there is an infinite variety of gossiping. The man hath no wit that could not show every class of society,

* It may be necessary to inform some of our readers, that the Crown "Devil" is the lawyer who is employed to draw indictments in Crown prosecutions. Several of our present judges have played this part. ED.

men, women, and children, to be all gossipers. But the gossip which I love is unlike all of these-it is your literary gossip, and the only place in the world in which to have such a gossip, is a study well stocked with books. There are literary Bobadils, and literary Munchausens, who will quote from works they never saw, and pretend a knowledge of sciences, the names of which they have just heard for the first time; but if you are surrounded with an extensive collection of these repositories of dead men's wit, few will be so fool hardy as to make shew of learning which has no reality. There is something in the very sight of shelves bending under the weight of the immortal labors of illustrious men, that reduces the beholder within his proper compass, and causes him in some degree to know himself. For my part, whenever I find myself inclined to recreate-whenever study or business of any description has exhausted my energies, I have a never-failing remedy in a visit to my publisher's, where I am certain of enjoying all the luxury of a glorious chit-chat. But it will perhaps be better to conduct the reader to the council-chamber, and give him the benefit of a formal introduction. The relation of one day's proceedings will give a tolerable idea of our gossiping.

Having mounted the narrow and winding staircase, in ascending which-save that you go upwards--you almost perform the part of a cork-screw-threading its mazes in the dark-the door of the chamber opened to my "Sesame," and I found Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, jun. Mr. Maurice Penn, and our friend " B.," seated most comfortably round the fire, quite a l'Anglaise. l'Anglaise. The room is one of a good size, not too large to be comfortable, nor too small to be useful. Our worthy brisk little friend, the publisher, takes good care, indeed, that no available space shall be left unoccupied, and sometimes a little discomposes us with the multitude of his reams, which are strewed about in all directions; but he makes amends for these little inconveniences by supplying the table in the centre of the room with all the newly published works, and the shelves with an extensive and well-arranged collection of standard authors. As I entered, Mr. Maurice Penn, who had The Times in his hand, exclaimed, in reference to the conversation then carrying on, and which had arisen from an article in that newspaper "Here comes the man who can tell us.-Pray, X., who wrote God save the King?""

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Pray, Penn," was my reply, "who was Junius? The one question may be answered almost as satisfactorily as the other." "Has not the matter been disputed in the Gentleman's Magazine?" enquired Mr. Oldbuck.

"I believe it has, several times," I answered, "and a copy of it is to be found in that Magazine for October, 1745, under the title of 'God save our Lord the King, a new Song.' A notion at one time existed, that a Dr. John Bull was the composer of the music; but Dr. Kitchener has lately shewn, in the preface to his Loyal and National Songs,' that there is no foundation for that opinion. It has been said the air is German, but that, I believe, is a mistake. The best claimant is an unfortunate son of the muses, called Henry Carey,

the father of the well-known George Saville Carey. Henry Carey was the author of several burlesque plays; 'The Dragon of Wantley,' and Chrononhotonthologos,' were his productions; and he also wrote a burlesque imitation of Ambrose Phillips, styled, Namby Pamby,' which Pope and Swift each attributed to the other. The name of this poem has survived, and is still in frequent use; but few persons have seen the poem itself; being merely an imitation, of course it cannot rank very high."

Whilst I was giving them this account, my friend Oldbuck, although listening to what was going on, had risen, and taken from a shelf a volume to which he was referring. No sooner did I pause, than he exclaimed, in his usual dry and rather melancholy strain— for he would fain be thought something of a moralizer, " In what an extraordinary manner our recollections are classified! the words, Henry Carey, were the key to my remembrance-the moment you uttered them, I recollected the whole history. D'Israeli mentions him in his Calamities of Authors,' and, besides the works you have named, states him to be the author of the popular and well-known ballad Sally in our Alley,' and adds, ' of the national song, God save the King, he was the author both of the words and music.' It does not appear upon what authority he asserts this, but if it had been doubtful, so correct a man as D'Israeli would not have asserted it so positively. Thus vanishes your Junius difficulty, Mr. X.! Poor fellow! the conclusion of his melancholy history deserves to be known; D'Israeli relates it thus:- At the time that this poet could neither walk the streets, nor be seated at the convivial board, without listening to his own songs and his own music-for, in truth, the whole nation was echoing his verse, and crowded theatres were clapping his wit and humor-while this very man himself, urged by his strong humanity, had founded a fund for decayed musicians'at this moment was poor Carey himself so broken-hearted, and his common comforts so utterly neglected, that, in despair, not waiting for nature to relieve him from the burthen of existence, he laid violent hands on himself; and, when found dead, had only a halfpenny in his pocket! Such was the fate of the author of some of the most popular pieces in our language.""

"It is, indeed, a dreadful story," remarked B.; "but I fear misery, like that of Carey, is but too frequent amongst the children of the muses. Is it not extraordinary, that when men find authorship so unproductive of any thing but misfortune, they should still persevere in it! Who ever heard of a professed author forsaking his pen for a business, and sinking into a quiet, money-getting tradesman?"

"No one!" answered Oldbuck, promptly; " and Lord Byron shall tell you why-' Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell!'-and who ever willingly consigned himself to torment, save from a much stronger feeling than any which can prompt a poet to forsake his muse? Sir, the circumstance you remark as extraordinary, will not appear so if properly considered. We find, in other men, decided biasses equally strong-we find men's minds bending, as it were, before some power,

whose operations, however extraordinary, cannot be governed. Look at the avaricious man-reason, common sense, generosity, every honorable and honest feeling, cries aloud against him-but does he desist? That is an instance of a prevailing law controlling a mean mind. See also the lover-can any of the cold calculations of worldly wisdom uproot his passion-are its effects to be guided by pecuniary considerations, or does it not exist the same unchanged and unchangeable in weal and woe? And, think you, that, even if habits of life did not render such a change as you suppose impossible, do you think the poet's ardour is weaker or more governable than the miser's for his gold-the lover's for his mistress? The eagle stoops not to prey on flies; the poet cannot sink,' as you properly termed it, into a state in which his mind, his quick bosom,' must be worse than unemployed."

"If your argument is correct," replied B., "the boasted effects of experience are all groundless. We see that some men do forsake habits of life upon experience of their unsatisfactoriness, and why should not the poet?"

Oldbuck had thrown himself back in his chair, concluding that he should not have been replied to, and looking as wisely as his grey eyes, and rather inexpressive countenance, would permit; but when he found that B. was still unsatisfied, he leant forward in his chair, and immediately answered him in his most authoritative manner:

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"Sir, the poet may change his habits of life, and very frequently does so, and, you correctly define the province of experience, which continually produces new habits of life in all men; but can experience change the mind? Can it eradicate those governing principles which, in infinite variety, are stamped upon men's minds? If a man's habits of life are suitable to his capacity of mind, he will desire no change, experience will not produce any; but if they are unsuited, then experience will convince him of their unsuitableness, and produce a change, not in the quality of the mind, but in the circumstances of life. But you were supposing that experience could work a change of mind, which is impossible; and, it is quite clear, there must be a change of mind before the poet can sink' his wondrous thoughts and fancies infinite' to the level of the quiet, money-getting tradesman.' Experience continually proves the truth of what I assert: we find men in the humblest walks of life, but possessed of uncommon abilities: does the mind ever sink to the level of the man's rank in society, or does he not throw off the shackles with which poverty, want of education, and all other untoward circumstances, may bind him, and rise above his fellow men by mere strength of unassisted intellect? The mind of the money-getting tradesman is essentially different from that of the poet; and to condemn him to occupy a situation so entirely unsuitable, would be to thrust a giant into the armour of a dwarf."

Penn, who probably thought the conversation had taken too serious a turn, now interposed with a remark, that Miss Aikin had, in her brief memoir of the late Miss Benger, published in the Literary

Gazette, related an extraordinary fact, which shewed the irrepressibility of superior abilities-her words are:-" in the want of books, which she at one time experienced, it was her common practice to plant herself at the window of the only bookseller's shop in the little town which she then inhabited, to read the open pages of the new publications there displayed, and to return again, day after day, to examine whether, by good fortune, a leaf of any of them might have

been turned over."

"That," replied Oldbuck, " is, indeed, an extraordinary fact, and instances how deeply the thirst of knowledge is seated in some minds, and against what difficulties an ardent student will struggle in order to gratify it. I have before heard that circumstance related of Miss Benger, with this addition, that when, by good fortune, she obtained the loan of a volume, she would commit to memory the passages which struck her most forcibly, whatever might be their length, and in this manner acquired a most extensive fund of knowledge."

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"But all this," still continued B., " does not overturn my argument, nor can I yet discover the incompatibility which you seem to imagine there exists in the mind of the poet to become a tradesman." Sir," said Oldbuck, "I have not said that a poet cannot be a tradesman; I have said, and believe, that no true poet would forsake the muse for the sake of trade; but were he to do so, it would be in vain, the restlessness of a superior mind might be repressed for a moment, a volcano does not always throw forth lava; but the quietude would be but for a time; you may fetter the body, but by so doing you destroy its utility; you may force a man to act against the impulse of his mind, but will he act well? Certainly not; nor will a tradesman, who is such against his will, ever be a quiet,' or a 'money-getting,' man. The man whose works our friend Penn is looking at, Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, is a striking instance of the truth of this. He was a shepherd, but did he succeed as such? before he was fifteen years of age he had served twelve masters; and when he went to Edinburgh to sell his master's flock, instead of driving a bargain or attending to his business, he was writing poetry. I need not tell you what Horace says upon this point--indeed the matter appears to me almost self-evident."

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Whether Penn thought so too or not, I cannot tell; but he seemed uneasy during the discussion, and upon every opportunity endeavoured to turn the subject. "The life of Hogg," he remarked, as soon as he could find an opportunity, " contains one or two passages something similar to those we have referred to in Miss Benger's. Before he could read or write, he learnt by heart most of the Psalms of David in the Scotch version, merely from hearing them sung. These and the Bible were the only books he heard read, and no sooner did he learn to read himself, in the nineteenth year of his age, than his long imprisoned spirit burst forth, and he at once began to write.”

"Is there not," said I, turning the conversation again, and en