Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets Part 14

"Come, to the beaming G.o.d your hearts unfold!

Draw from its fountain life! 'Tis thence alone We can excel. Up from unfeeling mold To seraphs burning round the ALMIGHTY's throne, Life rising still on life, in brighter tone, Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss.

In universal nature this clear shown Not needeth proof; to prove it were, I wis, To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss.

"It was not by vile loitering in ease That Greece obtained the brighter palm of art; That soft, yet ardent Athens learned to please, To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, In all supreme, complete in every part!

It was not thence majestic Rome arose, And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart: For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows: Renown is not the child of indolent repose.

"Had unambitious mortals minded naught But in loose joy their time to wear away; Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought, Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay; Rude Nature's state had been our state to-day; No cities here their towery fronts had raised, No arts had made us opulent and gay; With brother brutes the human race had grazed; None e'er had soared to fame, none honored been, none praised.

"Great Homer's song had never fired the breast To thirst of glory and heroic deeds; Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious rest, Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds; The wits of modern times had told their beads, And monkish legends been their only strains; Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapped in weeds; Our Shakspeare strolled and laughed with Warwick swains; Ne had my master, Spenser, charmed his Mulla's plains.

"Dumb, too, had been the sage historic Muse, And perished all the sons of ancient fame; Those starry lights of virtue that diffuse Through the dark depths of time their vivid flame, Had all been lost with such as have no name.

Who then had scorned his care for others' good?

Who then had toiled rapacious men to tame?

Who in the public breach devoted stood, And for his country's cause been prodigal of blood?

"Heavens! can you then thus waste in shameful wise Your few important days of trial here?

Heirs of eternity! yborn to rise Through endless states of being, still more near To bliss approaching and perfection clear; Can you renounce a fortune so sublime-- Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer, And roll with vilest brutes through mud and slime?

No! no! your heaven-touched hearts disdain the sordid crime!"

It is a pleasure to find that the spot where these n.o.ble sentiments were penned is still preserved sacred to the memory of the poet of truth and virtue. As far as the restless and rapid change of property would permit so near London, the residence of Thomson has been kept from destruction: changed it is, it is true, but that change has been made with a veneration for the Muse in the heart of the new inhabitant. The house of Thomson, in what is called Kew-foot Lane, at Richmond, as shown in the wood-cut at the head of this article, was a simple cottage; behind this lay his garden, and in front he looked down to the Thames, and on the fine landscape beyond. The cottage now appears to be gone, and in the place stands the goodly villa of the Earl of Shaftesbury; the cottage, however, is not really gone: it is only swallowed up in the larger house of the present time. After Thomson's death, his cottage was purchased by George Ross, Esq., who, out of veneration for his memory, forbore to pull it down, but enlarged and improved it at the expense of 9000. The walls of the cottage were left, though its roof was taken off, and the walls continued upward to their present height. Thus, what was Thomson's cottage forms now the entrance hall to Lord Shaftesbury's house. The part of the hall on the left hand was the room where Thomson used to sit, and here is preserved a plain mahogany Pembroke table of his, with a scroll of white wood let into its surface, on which are inlaid, in black letters, this piece of information:

"On this table James Thomson constantly wrote. It was therefore purchased of his servant, who also gave these bra.s.s hooks, on which his hat and cane were hung in this his sitting room.

F. B."

These initials, F. B., are those of the Hon. Frances Boscawen, the widow of Admiral Boscawen, who came into possession of the property after the death of Mr. Ross, whose name, however, still attaches to it, being called Rossdale, or, more commonly, Rosedale House. Mrs. Boscawen it was who repaired the poet's favorite seat in the garden, and placed in it the table on which he wrote his poems there; she it was, too, no doubt, who hung the inscriptions there, her initials being again found appended to one of them. Her son, Lord Falmouth, sold the place. No bra.s.s hooks are now to be seen, that I could discover or learn any thing of.

The garden of Thompson, which lay behind the house, has been preserved in the same manner and to the same extent as his house; the garden and its trees remain, but these now form only part of the present grounds, as the cottage forms only part of the present house. Mr. Ross, when he purchased the cottage and some adjoining grounds, and came to live here after Thomson, not only enlarged the house, but threw down the part.i.tion fence, and enlarged the grounds to their present extent. A pleasanter lawn and shrubberies are rarely to be seen; the turf, old and mossy, speaks of long duration and great care; the trees, dispersed beautifully upon it, are of the finest growth and of the greatest beauty. In no part of England are there so many foreign trees as in the grounds of gentlemen's villas near London; in many of them the cedars of Lebanon are of a growth and majesty which probably Lebanon itself can not now show. In these grounds there are some fine ones, but there is one of especial and surpa.s.sing loveliness: it is the _pinus picea_, or silver cedar. The growth is broad, like that of the cedar of Lebanon; but its boughs do not throw themselves out in that exact horizontal direction that those of the cedar of Lebanon do; they sweep down to the ground in a style of exquisite grace. Heavy, full of life, rich in hue as ma.s.ses of chased silver, their effect, with their young cones sitting birdlike on them, is like that of some tree of heaven, or of some garden of poetic romance. Besides this superb tree, standing on its ample portion of lawn, there are here the evergreen ilex, hickory, white sa.s.safras, scarlet and Ragland oaks, the tulip-tree, the catalpa, the tupelo, the black American ash, &c. The effect of their fine growth, their varied hues and foliage, their fine, sweeping branches, over the soft velvet turf, is charming, for trees display the effects of breeding and culture quite as much as horses, dogs, or men.

A large elm, not far from the house, is pointed out as the one under which Thomson's alcove stood; this alcove has, however, been removed to the extremity of the grounds, and stands now under a large Spanish chestnut-tree in the shrubbery. It is a simple wooden construction, with a plain back, and two outward, sloping sides, a bench running round it within, a roof and boarded floor, so as to be readily removable altogether. It is kept well painted of a dark green, and in it stands an old, small walnut table with a drawer, which belonged to Thomson. On the front of the alcove overhead is painted, on a white oval tablet,

"Here Thomson sang The Seasons and their change."

Within the alcove hang three loose boards, on which are painted the following inscriptions:

"Hail, Nature's Poet, whom she taught alone To sing her works in numbers like her own.

Sweet as the thrush that warbles in the dale, And soft as Philomela's tender tale; She lent her pencil, too, of wondrous power, To catch the rainbow, and to form the flower Of many mingling hues; and, smiling, said-- But first with laurels crowned her favorite's head-- These beauteous children, though so fair they s.h.i.+ne, Fade in my _Seasons_, let them live in _Thine_.

And live they shall; the charm of every eye, Till Nature sickens, and the Seasons die."

F. B.

"Within this pleasing retirement, Allured by the music of the nightingale, Which warbled in soft unison to the melody of his soul, In unaffected cheerfulness, And general though simple elegance, Lived James Thomson.

Sensitively alive to the beauties of Nature, He painted their images as they rose in review, And poured the whole profusion of them Into his inimitable Seasons.

Warmed with intense devotion To the Sovereign of the Universe, Its flame glowed through all his compositions.

Animated with unbounded benevolence, With the tenderest social sensibility, He never gave one moment's pain To any of his fellow-creatures, Save only by his death, which happened At this place on the 27th day of August, 1748."

"Here Thomson dwelt.

He, curious bard, examined every drop That glistens on the thorn; each leaf surveyed That Autumn from the rustling forest shakes, And marked its shape; and traced in the rude wind Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand A pencil, dipped in her own colors, placed, With which he ever faithful copies drew, Each feature in proportion just."

On a bra.s.s tablet in the top of the table in the alcove is inscribed, "This table was the property of James Thomson, and always stood in this seat."

Such is the state of the former residence of James Thomson at Richmond.

Here, no doubt, he was visited by many of his literary cotemporaries, though it does not appear that he ever was by Pope, who was so near a neighbor. Old poets grow exclusive. As Wordsworth nowadays says he reads no new poets--he leaves them to their cotemporaries--it is enough for him to stick to his old loves; so, in the correspondence of Pope, you find no further mention of Thomson than that "Thomson and some other young men have published lately some creditable things;" and Gray, writing to one of his friends, says, "Thomson has just published a poem called 'The Castle of Indolence,' which contains some good stanzas."

The view down to the Thames, and over the country beyond, which he enjoyed, is now obstructed by the walls, including part of the royal property, on which the queen has erected her laundry, sending, it seems, all the royal linen from Windsor, the Isle of Wight, and elsewhere, to be washed and got up here, sufficiently, as one would think, near enough to the smoke of London. The vicinity of the royal wash-house certainly does not improve Lord Shaftesbury's residence here, especially as a tall, square, and most unsightly tower, most probably intended to carry the soot from the drying fires pretty high, overlooks his grounds. But it will not disturb the remains of the poet; and let us hope that the queen's linen will enjoy the benefit of all the _Seasons_ from this close neighborhood.

Thomson is buried in Richmond Church, at the west end of the north aisle. There is a square bra.s.s tablet, well secured into the wall with ten large screws, bearing this inscription:

"In the earth below this Tablet Are the remains of JAMES THOMSON, Author of the beautiful Poems ent.i.tled The Seasons, Castle of Indolence, &c., &c., who died at Richmond on the 27th day of August, and was buried here on the 29th, old style, 1748. The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man and sweet a poet should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his interment for the satisfaction of his admirers, in the year of our Lord, 1792."

"Father of light and life, thou Good Supreme!

O teach me what is good; teach me myself!

Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, From every low pursuit! and feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure, Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss!"--_Winter_, p. 144.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

No poet of the same pretensions has been so much known through his residence as Shenstone. Without the Leasowes he would have been nothing.

His elegies and pastorals would have lain on the dustiest of book-shelves, and his Schoolmistress, by far the best of his productions, would hardly have retained vitality enough to make herself noticeable in the crowd of poetical characters. The Leasowes was the chief work of Shenstone's life, and it is the chief means of that portion of immortality which he possesses. Into every quarter of the kingdom the fame of this little domain has penetrated. Nature there formed the grand sub-stratum of his art, and nature is always beautiful.

But I do confess, that in the Leasowes I have always found so much ado about nothing; such a parade of miniature cascades, lakes, streams conveyed hither and thither; surprises in the disposition of woods and the turn of walks, with a seat placed here, and another there; with inscriptions, Latin and English; and piping Fauns _fauning_ upon you in half a dozen places, that I have heartily wished myself out upon a good rough heath, with the winds blowing away the cobwebs of so many conceits from my brain.

In the days of Shenstone there prevailed the falsest notions of life and poetry. If poetry be indeed "the eloquence of truth," as Campbell beautifully p.r.o.nounced it--if great pa.s.sions, great sentiments, great wrestlings with our destinies, and conflicts for the good of others--if these const.i.tute the sublimity of duty, and give occasion for the sublimity of poetry, how poor a delusion was that which led one to dream and drone in some fantastic retirement; to whimper over petty troubles, and waste the intellect on petty themes; exalting mole-hills into mountains, and the stings of a morbid selfishness into picturesque sorrows, when they should have been up and doing, dragging out to the light of day, like Crabbe, all the wretchedness and the wrong of social life, or breathing into the trumpet of a generous indignation the notes that rouse the world to a higher tone and task.

The remarks of Dr. Johnson appear to me, in the case of Shenstone, who was amiable but trifling, as very just: "Now was excited his delight in rural pleasures and his ambition of rural elegance. He began, from the time of occupying his own estate, to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters, which he did with such judgment and such fancy as made his little domain the envy of the great and the admiration of the skillful; a place to be visited by travelers, and copied by designers. Whether to plant a walk in undulating curves, and to place a bench at every turn where there is an object to catch the view; to make water run where it will be heard, and to stagnate where it will be seen; to leave intervals where the eye will be pleased, and to thicken the plantation where there is something to be hidden, demand any great powers of mind, I will not inquire; perhaps a sullen and surly spectator may think such performances rather the sport than the business of human reason. But it must be at least confessed that to embellish the form of nature is an innocent amus.e.m.e.nt, and some praise must be allowed by the most supercilious observer to him who does best what such mult.i.tudes are contending to do well."

This seems to me the precise merit of Shenstone. He introduced a better taste in landscape gardening, though _his_ taste was often questionable, and may be ranked with Browne and Kent. He was a man of taste rather than of genius, and may claim a full alliance with the lovers of nature, but is as far from the a.s.sociation with great poets--with such men as Milton or Shakspeare, Burns or Elliott, as the glow-worm is with the comet. Poetry is not only the highest art, but, next to religion itself, the most divine principle on earth. It is a religion itself, or, rather, forms part and parcel of that of Christ; for its object is to stimulate virtue, abash vice, raise the humble, abase the proud, call forth the most splendid qualities of the soul, and pour love like a river over the earth till it fills every house, and leaves behind it a fertility like that which follows the inundations of the Nile. We do injustice to Shenstone when we place him beside the giants, and thus provokingly display his true proportions.

"The pleasure of Shenstone," continues Johnson, "was all in his eye; he valued what he valued merely for its looks; nothing raised his indignation more than to ask if there were any fishes in his water.

"His house was mean, and he did not improve it; his care was of his grounds. When he came home from his walks, he might find his floors flooded by a shower through the broken roof, but could spare no money for its reparation. In time, his expenses brought clamors about him that overpowered the lamb's bleat and the linnet's song, and his groves were haunted by beings very different to fauns and fairies. He spent his estate in adorning it, and his death was probably hastened by his anxieties. He was a lamp that spent its oil in blazing. * * * He died at the Leasowes, of a putrid fever, in 1763, and was buried by the side of his brother in Halesowen churchyard.

"He was never married, though he might have obtained the lady, whoever she was, to whom his Pastoral Ballad was addressed. He is represented by his friend Dodsley as a man of great tenderness and generosity, kind to all that were within his influence, but if once offended, not easily appeased; inattentive to economy, and careless of his expenses. In his person he was larger than the middle size, with something clumsy in his form; very negligent of his clothes, and remarkable for wearing his gray hair in a particular manner; for he held that the fas.h.i.+on was no rule of dress, and that every man was to suit his appearance to his natural form. His mind was not very comprehensive, nor his curiosity active; he had no value for those parts of knowledge which he had not himself cultivated."

Gray visited the Leasowes, and his opinion of Shenstone was very similar to that of Johnson. "I have read, too, an octavo volume of Shenstone's letters. Poor man! he was always wis.h.i.+ng for money, for fame, and other distinctions; and his whole philosophy consisted in living against his will in retirement, and in a place which his taste had adorned, but which he only enjoyed when people of note came to see and commend it.

His correspondence is about nothing else but this place and his own writings, with two or three neighboring clergymen, who wrote verses too."

I have ascertained the present condition of the Leasowes through an intelligent friend who visited it the other day at my request. The Leasowes is about six or seven miles distant from Birmingham, on the road to Kidderminster, and about four miles from Hagley, in the parish of Halesowen. Arriving at Halesowen, you have to descend a long and steep hill, from the top of which you have a view of the Bromsgrove, Clent, and Dudley hills, which are in the immediate neighborhood--Hagley Park being situated on one of the Clent hills--and of the Clee hills in the distance; these form a boundary between the counties of Hereford and Salop. About half way down this descent, which is a mile long, you turn to the left down a shady lane; this leads to the Leasowes, and in some degree partakes of the character of the place; winding continually, yet still presenting a beautiful archway of trees, of nearly all descriptions. From this lane you enter the Leasowes, and, crossing a bridge, pa.s.s on to the lawn. On your left lies a beautiful piece of still water, overshadowed with evergreens, and conveying the idea of infinite depth. This is nearly the lowest part of the grounds, which here begin to ascend toward the house, commanding, not an extensive, but a beautifully condensed prospect. Going round the house to the right, and still ascending, you gain another prospect equally beautiful, yet different, and in both cases must be surprised by the skill which presents to the eye the artificial depth of forest which there strikes it. A ca.n.a.l which has been cut through the valley, between the house and Halesowen, so far from injuring the prospect, as many of these things are apt to do, rather improves it than otherwise, giving a rest to the eye, and shutting out, by its embankment, sundry forges which would otherwise be visible. In order to discover, however, the true spirit of the place, you must cross the lawn at the back of the house, where you are reminded of pa.s.sages in Shenstone's pastorals.