AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN HUGGINS. I HAVE read, with the deepest interest, the very affecting account in your last number, of poor Perrinson the poet, who, by an unexampled concurrence of untoward circumstances, was so perpetually defrauded of his literary reputation, at the very moment when he seemed about to establish it on the firmest and most lasting foundation. "Mors omnibus commis:"-it is no use to regret his fate and yet it is painful to reflect, that there are so few discerning Mæcenases to rescue brilliant talents from unmerited obscurity. "Slow rises worth by poverty depressed," (Dr. Johnson). The fate of Chatterton has not operated as a warning upon the patrons of literature; although it must be confessed, that if in some instances Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, GRAY. yet cases have occurred in our times, in which genius has been brought forward from the humblest stations, and exalted to the very pinnacle of renown. To say nothing of the Bristol Milkmaid, we have Bloomfield, the Farmer's Boy; Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant-Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, and others: to which list, (as I was alway partial to Oxfordshire, where I was born,) I am happy to make the addition of my own name, as "Huggins, the Oxfordshire Tollboy."-Methinks I hear you exclaim, as was said of Cardinal Wolsey "How high his honour holds his haughty head!" but I flatter myself that when you have heard my history, and read some of my productions, you will instantly admit my claim to this distinction. My father, Sir, besides being receiver of one of the river tolls, near Henley upon Thames, kept two teams of horses for towing barges up and down the river; and I occasionally acted as his substitute in both capacities, sometimes remaining at the lock to receive the sixpences; sometimes riding the front horse of the team to wards Marlow or Reading. My recreations were swimming and angling, in summer; shooting and skaiting, in winter; and my hours of childhood were passing rapidly away without the least cultivation of the "mens divinior," when Squire Woodgate, of Effingham-court, accosted me one day as I was fishing just above our lock. "What! my lad," said the Squire, who is a perfect wag, as well as a bit of an angler,-" are you fishing for pickled salmon?" "No, Sir," said I, without a moment's hesitation "for red herrings ;' a retort, which in so young a lad, obviously excited his surprise; and he pursued the conversation, for the purpose of drawing out my talents, until it began to rain, when I invited him into the toll-house. As my sister Mary, who is a good many years, older than myself, is reckoned very like me, I ought not perhaps to say that she is uncommonly handsome ; but the Squire was so much occupied with my shrewd replies, that he hardly seemed to notice her. For the purpose of enjoying my conversation, he now became a constant visitant, particularly when my father was absent with the horses; and at length, determining that such promising talents should not be lost for want of cultivation, he offered to send me, at his own expence, to the Grammar School of Marlow, which was of course thankfully accepted. Mary found herself very dull without me, he kindly continued his visits to keep up her spirits, and finally gave. her the management of a small farm, about two miles from the mansion; which must have been a capital place for her, as she shortly after came to see me in a rich velvet pelisse, with a gold chain round her neck. One boy of real talent will often make the fortune of a whole family. As "The child's the father of the man," says Wordsworth, and at school, I soon began to exhibit indications of those talents, which have since ripened into such exuberant profusion ;-particularly in my bias for poetry. Pope attributed his rhyming propensity to an odd volume of Spenser's Fairy Queen; and I am inclined to derive mine from two odd volumes of Hayley's poems, which had been given to one of my schoolfellows by his god-mother, a very worthy old woman. We have all heard of Dr. Johnson's epitaph on the duck, and of Co:vley's precocious writings; yet I question whether the candid and impartial reader will find anything in their boyish productions, much more smart and piquant than the following, which I wrote on Tom Sullivan, one of our school-fellows, who broke his arm by a fall from a restive horse, which I had dissuaded him from mounting. And not have had your right arm broken! The sting is every thing in these cases, and the point here was much admired at the time, yet I could not have been twelve years old when it was written! I have no wish, how ever, to disparage Dr. Johnson's or Cowley's youthful attempts, which certainly have merit in their way. Such was my capacity and application, that in an unusually short time, I had learnt every thing that old Vincent Harbord, the master, could teach me; when the Squire, having very kindly married Mary to his Gamekeeper, sent word that he could no longer pay for my education, and I was consequently taken home. I told my father candidly, that talents such as mine would be sacrificed altogether, unless I had an opportunity of displaying them in one of the liberal professions, though, I certainly gave the preference to the bar, with an ultimate eye to the House of Commons; but he was blind to my attainments, deaf to my entreaties, and actually bound me apprentice to a saddler at Marlow." O day and night, but this is wondrous strange," said I to myself; this is indeed, to yoke the antelope, and cage the eagle:-I, who never thought of saddling any horse, except Pegasus, to be polishing spurs, plaiting whips, and stitching girths! The thing was too ridiculous, and in my own defence, I must say, that I never bestowed the smallest attention on business, and invariably held myself above all the duties of my station. Ireland's Confessions fell at this period into my hands, and I set about imitating his Imitations with such ardour, that my master discovered me one day writing poetry, and in great horror and consternation of mind, instantly cancelled my indentures. Once more "the world was all before me,"—and disdaining to return to my father to associate with brainless clowns and uneducated mechanics, I determined on supporting myself comfortably and respectably by my own literary abilities, as Rowe, Otway, Chatterton, Savage, Dermody, and other men of genius had done before me. For this purpose, I took lodgings in a garret in this town, and as I began to consider on what subject I should first exercise my talent, it occurred to me, that it was absolutely necessary to fall in love. This point was soon settled. Sally Potts, whose father kept the White Hart, had always struck my fancy, from her strong resemblance to an engraving of Sappho, in old Vincent Harbord's parlour; and in order to get into her good graces, I got pretty deep into the Inn-keeper's books, or rather into his slates, of which he had a formidable row hanging up in the bar. Sally evidently enjoyed my sprightly ebullitions; she smiled, tittereddid every thing but blush; in the meantime, although the White Hart was " open to all that have wherewith to pay," (Goldsmith,) I found it could be very expeditiously shut against visitants of a different description. After one or two civil hints of my having been slated for above a month, I was plainly ordered not to enter the house any more, unless I could show-up my score, as the vulgar fellow termed it.—I could not exclaim with Shenstone Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, Whate'er its stages may have been, May sigh to think that he has found His warmest welcome at an inn. For alas! "the little dogs and all, Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, seemed to bark at me," (Shakspeare). As I could not pay the Inn-keeper's bill, I wrote a satire on him, which was so caustie and severe, that he horse whipped me the next day, a plain proof that I had hit him pretty hard. Dryden was cudgelled in Rose Alley, and I feel not a little proud, that a similar exertion of talent enabled me to share the fate of that great man. About this time I wrote the following little pastoral. DAMON AND AMANDA. One morning Cupid, God of love, Sate Damon with his pipe and crook. I need not tell you that myself and Miss Potts are shadowed forth under the names of Damon and Amanda.Miss Emmett, an old maid of Marlow, who reads two or three Reviews every month, and is, in fact, a perfect Blue, pretends that the thought in the first stanza, is in Dr. Donne; and that the phrase, "babbling brook," in the second, is in Thomson's Seasons.-Now I never read Dr. Donne in my life, and I remember that particular expression occurring to me one morning as I was lying in bed. So much for Miss Emmett's criticism! She can see no merit in any body's writings but her own, though I never heard of her publishing any thing but one Sonnet to the Moon, which she had interest enough to get inserted either in the Gentleman's or Lady's Magazine, I am not sure which. I do not myself attach much importance to my little effort, or I should rather say impromptu, for I wrote it one idle afternoon; but it is certainly curious to observe, how by avoiding hacknied rhymes and trite modes of treating a subject, one may impart grace and dignity even to the most trifling production. Having seen specimens of my epigrammatic and pastoral powers, you may perhaps desire a sample of my talent for descriptive poetry, a vein in which my muse has been so multifarious and prolific, that the only difficulty consists in selection. As the shortest, though by no means the best, take the following SONNET TO AMANDA. Cynthia has hung her crescent lamp on high, Round Henley's Church, on plumy pinions borne, This is a mere transcript from nature, images are happily selected, and the curiosa felicitas, (Horace) of expression, bestows an additional grace 2 G upon the conception. Further extracts would be needless, as the parcel accompanying this letter will afford abundant materials, were such necessary, for judging of my poetical merits. The literary world will see with delight that I have supplied a grand desideratum by executing that which Milton contemplated, but left unaccomplished—an epic poem on the subject of King Arthur; while I flatter myself that my domestic tragedy on the pathetic subject of Mrs. Brownrigg, the apprenticide, will be found free from all fault, unless it may by some be thought too intensely interesting. Should you comply with the very moderate terms noted at the foot of each work, you may enclose me the money, directed to the Post-office here: I am not mercenary; it is "my poverty, and not my will consents." (Shakspeare). And now, Mr. Editor, as both your self,and your readers, must be extremely anxious to know some personal particulars of the new literary phenomenon, I shall proceed to furnish them, although I know the difficulty of the task Incidis in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdin" (Gualterus). However, I shall observe Shakspeare's injunction, "nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice." My countenance, as I intimated when speaking of Mary's resemblance to me, is handsome, and I suffer my light hair to fall in curls over my shoulders, so as to resemble the engravings of Cowley, who was particularly good looking. My general health, thank God! is very good. I am of a cheerful disposition, constant in my friendships, naturally benevolent, and I may say, constitutionally well disposed towards the whole human race, an assertion which I should scorn to make, if I did not believe it to be true, for I am scrupulous in my adherence to veracity. "Praise undeserved is censure in disguise," (Pope); you may therefore be sure that mine is merited.-" Ogni medaglio ha il suo reverso," say the Italians; and Rochefoucault observes, with his usual sagacity, "Il n'appartient qu'aux grands hommes d'avoir des grands defauts."-Why should I, therefore, blush in admitting mine. Let me confess that, considering my circumstances, I am sometimes heedlessly charitable ;—that I am a bad getter-up of a morning;-that I have more than once eaten to excess of roast shoulder of mutton and onion sauce; and that, according to Dr. Johnson, I am capable of picking a pocket, since I occasionally like to indulge in a pun, provided it be original and unpremeditated. As for instance: -- Tom Sullivan, whose name I have already immortalized, told me one day, that my godfather, who had a club foot, had just died and left me ten pounds.-Egad, said I, I hope not, for I should be sorry to have such a Leg-as-he: and again, he was giving me an account of a man in the pillory, whose whole face was covered with eggs, except his nose. Then said I, if he were a poet he would compose the longest verses in the world-Versos Alexandrinos i. e. all-eggs-and-dry-nose.--I desired him to repeat them to Miss Emmett, offering to bet ten to one that she would say they were in Swift, or some other author; and sure enough she fell into the trap, exclaiming with her usual sneer"both in Swift!" so Tom and I had a famous laugh together at her expence. You will have seen by my quotations, that I am a good linguist, and that in my reading I have ranged principally, if not entirely, among the less accessible departments of literature.-Plagiarism I detest."O imitatores, servum pecus!" (Horace.) Such as I am I offer myself to your notice, and to the perusal of the public, satisfied that in the present state of taste and literary discernment, neither of you can be long blind to the claims of JOHN HUGGINS. Henley-upon-Thames, 12th March, 1821. Mr. Huggins's bale is lying in our publisher's warehouse, and if he will send a cart for it, shall be delivered to his order.--Judging from the above specimens, we doubt not, his larger productions are of transcendant merit; but unfortunately his terms are so exorbitant, that we have no alternative, but to decline the publication of his works.-Ed. ATHERSTONE'S LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM, &c. THIS is, we believe, the first acknowledged production of a young writer; and, as such, is certainly entitled to very considerable attention. The subject of the principal poem is one of appalling interest. A great city situated amidst all that nature could create of beauty and of profusion; or art collect of science and magnificence-the growth of many ages the residence of enlightened multitudes the scene of splendour, and festivity, and happiness-in one moment withered as by a spell-its palaces, its streets, its temples, its gardens "glowing with eternal spring," and its inhabitants in the full enjoyment of all life's blessings, obliterated from their very place in creation, not by war, or famine, or disease, or any of the natural causes of destruction to which earth had been accustomed but in a single night, as if by magic, and amid the conflagration, as it were, of nature itself, presented a subject on which the wildest imagination might grow weary without even equalling the grand and terrible reality. The eruption of Vesuvius, by which Herculaneum and Pompeii were overwhelmed, has been chiefly described to us in the letters of Pliny the younger to Tacitus, giving an account of his uncle's fate, and the situation of the writer and his mother. The elder Pliny had just returned from the bath, and was retired to his study, when a small speck or cloud, which seemed to ascend from Mount Vesuvius, attracted his attention. This cloud gradually encreased, and at length assumed the shape of a pine tree, the trunk of earth and vapour, and the leaves, "red cinders." Pliny ordered his galley, and, urged by his philosophic spirit, went forward to inspect the phenomenon. In a short time, however, philosophy gave way to humanity, and he zealously and adventurously employed his galley in saving the inhabitants of the various beautiful villas, which studded that enchanting coast. "The Last Days of Herculaneum," "Abradates and Panthea," and "Leonidas," a dramatic sketch. By Edwin Atherstone, pp. 137. Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy, London. |