made by those who deserve to keep them, we either | I tell you that the river was converted into so thick a pitied him, or fancied we did so, and excused ourselves to ourselves and each other, by saying, "Poor Mr. Mallay if we were all to cut him, what would become of him?" We continued to live in a sort of mental nettle-rash, until relieved in a singular way, by as singular a person -a certain Major Harley took one of our detached" cottages, a pretty little damp place in a hollow, covered with ivy and matted clematis, and a favourite residence of the insect tribe-a perfect halo of gnats hovered over it during spring and summer; and even in winter, when the sun came out, the gnats came also, and danced and stung as gaily as though the month were July; however, the Major was a naturalist, and seemed to like his companions-earwigs, blackbeetles, and spiders-great mottled spiders, with gouty legs, who spun their insides out, and yet increased in size. Like all naturalists, he was a silent, patient person; he listened very quietly to all that Mr. Mallay said, as if it was all plain, straightforward truth, without a shade of colour, or an iota of exaggeration. Mr. Mallay was delighted; he thought he had got a safe "butt"—he knew he had got a patient listener -one of those tame creatures who never complain, and whom you may know at first sight by the bend of the neck, as if it were bowed down by the weight of words; the dropping of the eyelids in a sleepy sort of way, and a habit of repressing a half-drawn sigh before it has vigour to become a whole one; uttering occasionally an "Oh!" or an "Oh la!"-a "Dear me!" or sometimes a "Won-der-ful!"—indeed, the Major seemed determined to swallow Mr. Mallay's tales, and endured his "Quizzing," in a way that was unaccountable. One morning they both met at the house of a mutual acquaintance, having taken shelter from a heavy shower of rain. "Did you ever see such rain?" exclaimed the fair hostess. "Yes," said Mallay, "I did, in the Bay of Dublin; I saw a shower there that dashed into the Hill of Howth like grape-shot, sweeping the rocks like marbles into the Bay. What do you think of that, Major ?" "Dear me!" was the quiet reply; and he rested his wooden leg upon a footstool. "However," continued the narrator, "it only lasted five minutes, but at the end of that time there was not a rag of canvass upon seven sail of the line that were swaying about like cockle-shells right in the Bay." "Won-der-ful!" said the Major. "But," continued the Quiz, "that was not as 'wonder-ful! (and he winked at the company while mimicking the Major's voice and expression) as what occurred to me on the Shaunon-I never was so near being smothered in all my life. A boat laden with flour was met by a high wind, and it blew all the flour across the water; I could hardly breathe for three days, and you may judge of the quantity when paste that all the boats at Castle Connel were stuck together. Now dear me!' was not that 'wonderful?"-another wink accompanied this mimicry. The Major only bowed, but "the Quiz" having, as be considered, "caught his hare" in a roomful of young ladies, had no inclination to let him go, and continued, in a way which none but a practical Quiz could continue, probing the little weakness of the old officer's nature, and ridiculing those habits which he knew he was prone to indulge in. Elated with success, and excited by the foolish laughter of thoughtless girls, he surpassed himself, and, not being observant, imagined that the Major's silence meant subjection. The veteran's pale cheek had at first flushed slightly, but afterwards the colour gathered and gathered until it became a deep crimson spot on either cheek bone, and his "Las!" and "Oh dears!" sunk into a murmur or an inclination of the head, when addressed or talked at. The rain ceased, and the "great Quiz" departed, eager to repeat "his good things" at the next house he called at. He had not, however, gone far, when he heard the well-known sharp stumping of the Major's wooden leg advancing rapidly-not in the methodical way it usually did, the stump of the leg replying to the "tap" of the cane, but rat-tat, rat-tat, quite fast. Mr. Mallay was not a brave man-he never pretended to be a brave man-he only wished to be considered a "pleasant fellow ;" and there was something bloodthirsty and determined in the rat-tap that struck upon his ear. He quickened his pacehe was in an awkward predicament; he could not return, and face the man he felt at that moment was his enemy; and he was sure to be overtaken by him in a few moments, for fast as he walked, the rat-tap came faster. He heard his name pronounced in the palpitating voice of an angry man, and he commenced whistling one of those popular opera airs which indicate so many moods-defiance, courage, indifference, or impertinence, according to the accentuation. The notes were rather confused, and ceased altogether, when the Major, as erect as a ramrod, passed before him, and turning suddenly round, exclaimed, "Sir! have insulted me." you 66 Me, Sir!" replied Mallay. "Insult you? It is quite a mistake-I never insult any one-a little harmless jest a simple quiz." "Falsehood upon falsehood, and lie upon lie!" said the veteran. "Any man who attempts to pawn a lie in jest or earnest upon society, insults both its integrity and its understanding. I demand satisfaction for the affronts you have put upon me." "Really, my dear Sir, you have misunderstood me." "But you do not misunderstand me, I trust ?" interrupted the Major. "My friend shall wait upon you in the course of an hour." And so he did; the officer was implacable; he had got the idea firmly fixed in his mind that he had been insulted, and that he must have satisfaction. The brain. This is not as it should be: and we will not now pause to inquire whether the fault is or is not entirely that of society, in not having dealt justly with the author. We copy the following passage from the introductory chapter: meeting was arranged; the Major and his "friend sues him even at threescore and ten; and he is still walked up and down on the damp grass, at the ap-doomed to earn his daily bread by the work of his pointed place, for more than an hour, but they saw nothing of Mr. Mallay. The Major posted him with great form as a coward, and returned with fresh laurels to his animated museum in the pretty damp cottage, while we congratulated ourselves on the fact that Mr. Mallay had disappeared at midnight-that his furniture was to be sold-his house let-and we had got rid of the GREAT QUIZ. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF WILLIAM JERDAN.1 THE autobiography of a gentleman who has, for more than fifty years, occupied a prominent position in letters, and who has directed for nearly a quarter of a century one of the most influential literary journals of modern times, cannot fail to prove very generally interesting. The press has sent forth the first part of the memoirs of Mr. William Jerdan; he lives to write, to publish, and to abide the issue: the task is one that requires no ordinary courage, and at the same time, no small degree of prudence: it may be dangerous to say too much; it may be dishonest to say too little many of the persons, freely noticed and descanted upon, are living to praise or to blame; to uphold or to refute personalities will be unavoidable: strictures will, no doubt, be frequently considered as calumnies in short, there is no task which an author can set himself at once so difficult and so perilous; or which requires so much either of boldness or of recklessness. This task Mr. Jerdan has but commenced judgment, therefore, would be premature; we have before us the first of four, five, or six volumes; and that first gives the writer's earlier life and adventures: less embarrassing, no doubt, than his work will be as he proceeds. It would be, therefore, unwise to anticipate what the whole may be from this sample of the weaker portion if it increase in interest as it proceeds; if, mingling among the men more immediately our contemporaries, and amid scenes more exciting because more directly associated with our own time, Mr. Jerdan speaks more thoroughly "out," and is original in proportion, he will have contributed to his age and country a work of deep interest and value, and one that will greatly aid the future historian of art and letters in the nineteenth century. Considering, however, that this work is but commenced, we shall abstain from reviewing it until it is in its entirety before us; contenting ourselves for the present with extracting some interesting portions: and referring our readers to the volumes for the more extended information they will demand. Suffice it, for the present, that William Jerdan was born at Kelso in 1782; he is consequently 70 years of age; and his literary labours have extended over half a century; they are not yet closed, however; grim necessity pur(1) Publishers, Hall and Virtue: London. struggle, and latterly of very grave misfortune. "My life has been one of much vicissitude, of infinite Оп looking back from the harassed, would it were the calm untroubled goal of threescore and ten years, I can trace with a faithful pencil much that has been owing to mistakes, to errors, to faults, and to improvidence on my own side; and more to misconceptions, injustice, wrongs, and persecutions, unprovoked by any act of mine, on the part of others. I believe that the retroand most signally so to those who have embarked, or spect may be very serviceable to my fellow-creatures, are disposed to embark, in the pursuits of literature as a provision for the wants of life. Of all the multitude I have known who leant upon this crutch as a sole thing like a desirable status either in fortune or society. support, I could not specify ten who ever attained anyOn the contrary, the entire class may be assured that although felony may be more hazardous, literature is, of the two, by far the most unprofitable profession." From the sentiment expressed in the concluding think Mr. Jerdan would have recorded it, if he had passage, we presume entirely to dissent: we do not given himself time to think it is true that very few have made fortunes by literature; comparatively few have amassed wealth by any profession; but we affirm that many men and women have lived by the pen, honourably and prosperously. This topic might afford scope for an article of some length: and we have no doubt, that as Mr. Jerdan's memoirs proceed, he will name many more than "ten" who have not found literature an "unprofitable profession," taking into account that which it produces, and that to which it leads. But our present purpose is, as we have said, rather to review it or its author: when the latter is to be done, we select some interesting portions of this book than to shall have some grounds of quarrel with both; especially with such a sentence as this, which does not tell well for the writer, and may be dangerous, nay pernicious, to those who may be influenced by his autobiography : "For myself, I can say that not many men have enjoyed so much of pleasure, and endured so much of pain as I have done. I have drained the Circe-cup to the lees, but I still gratefully acknowledge the enchanting draught of its exquisite and transporting sweetness, in spite of the emptiness of its froth, and the bitterness of its dregs." This is not what should be written by an aged man whose highest duty is to train others "in the way they should go." Think we rather, at this moment, of the kindly critic of so many years, who, reviewing thousands, nay, tens of thousands, of books, not only did his spiriting gently, but considerately, generously, and with the warm heart of a friend, wherever a tyro was to be encouraged or desert rewarded; we are happy rather in answering his question, "Will ever those who have known me, find interest in the re-awakened memories of scenes which we have interest I felt in all that concerned his progress and shared together?" And we are happy in answering it by a passage written by L. E. L. in 1833. welfare. A pleasing anecdote may illustrate this part conspicuous pattern of high exaltation through similar of my narrative, as I had it from the lips of another merits, from a humbler walk in life-the Bishop of "Who lifts the fallen-who cherishes the despon- London. In a conversation with his lordship a few ding-who animates the weary-who encourages the months since, at Hatton, be informed me that his perfainting-who pities and solaces the unfortunate-sonal knowledge of the Chief Baron was nearly as old as my own, for he said, 'We were at College together forty-seven years ago, when Pollock read Greek with me in the forenoon every day, and I read mathematics with him every evening. This,' he added, was good his legal studies; and so we did not meet again togefor both, but I then went to my curacy, and he pursued ther for some time.' who sustains the enthusiastic-who is the friend of talent-who the idolator of Genius ?" All this we verily believe Mr. Jerdan was-and isfor a long series of years, as editor of the "Literary Gazette"-when that Journal enjoyed a power of which we can now have little idea; and surely much of error, much of wrong, may be pardoned in a man who very rarely, if ever, used his strength for evil, but was continually exerting it for good. : We are to consider, then, this volume but as the Induction and as such, it is highly interesting. It relates the incidents of Mr. Jerdan's early life, and those of his career up to his occupation as Editor of the Sun" newspaper; of the companions of his younger days, some striking anecdotes are introduced: the following passages are not without their moral: happy would it have been had such ideas occurred to the writer at the commencement, rather than the close of his career. "David and Frederick Pollock, and Thomas Wilde, were the most active and distinguished contributors, and when I reflect on the circumstance, and that the first died Sir David and Chief Justice of Bombay, the second is Sir Frederick and Lord Chief Baron of Her Majesty's Court of Exchequer, and the third, Lord Truro, the other day Lord High Chancellor of England, the foremost civil subject of the realm, I cannot but marvel at the fate of their fourth and their not very unequal competitor. My prospects were apparently as bright as theirs, my cleverness (not to use a vainer phrase) was only too much acknowledged, and my career has not been altogether fruitless in the service of my country and fellow-creatures. I have laboured, too, as constantly and severely, and produced effects which have had beneficial contemporary influence, and may, I trust, secure for my name a remembrance in times to come; yet look I with my aspirations crushed, from the clouded bottom of the hill, rejoicing in and admiring, not envying, my early comrades, who having bravely climbed the summit, they range along the height, and in happiness enjoy the brilliant region, on which, humanly speaking, warm and eternal sunshine settles. "But what is the moral lesson I would draw from these facts? Why did my friends so nobly succeed, and why did I, ultimately, so grievously fail? The reasons are not far to seek. Frederick Pollock completed his education in an English University, where the highest honours were awarded to his great abilities, and indefatigable and zealous exertions. In every branch and class he was among the foremost, and, as Senior Wrangler, was the foremost of his year, carrying off the glorious prize from many a splendid and dangerous rival. In short, he had the vision of the future distinctly before his eyes, and he devoted himself heart and soul to its realization. He never flagged, and after the first great College step, his even path needed no more than unflinching perseverance in the course he had so auspiciously begun. From Edinburgh I corresponded with him in his onward movement, and occasionally added my mite of research to his studious investigations, which was of some advantage to me, though it could be of very little to him, and only proves the deep "I now turn to Thomas Wilde, who had to struggle against infinitely greater difficulties than his schoolfellow of St. Paul's. In the first place his birth was not so respectable, in the second he had an impediment in his speech, and in the third he had no college connexions or reputation to lift him forward. But he had a strong and indomitable will, and a natural energy that could not be repulsed-unswerving firmness and untiring application were his marked characteristics: he would give up nothing he had determined upon; he would yield to no opposition; and his abilities were already of a very masculine order. Accordingly, when he entered the law as an attorney he was as sure of success as Pollock was at the bar, and thus they speedily outstripped and left me far in the distance. "For why? I unsteadily forsook the choice of a profession, and, within a few years, found myself leaning for life on the fragile crutch of literature for my support. And here again would I earnestly advise every enthusiastic thinker, every fair scholar, every ambitious author, every inspired poet, without independent fortune, to fortify themselves also with a something more worldly to do. A living in the Church is not uncongenial with the pursuits of the thinker and scholar, the practice of medicine is not inconsistent with the labours of the author, and the chinking of fees in the law is almost in tuning with the harmony of the poet's verse. Let no man be bred to literature alone, for, as has been far less truly said of another occupation, it will not be bread to him. Fallacious hopes, bitter disappointments, uncertain rewards, vile impositions, and censure and slander from the oppressors are their lot, as sure as ever they put pen to paper for publication, or risk their peace of mind on the black, black sea of printer's ink. With a fortune to sustain, or a profession to stand by, it may still be bad enough; but without one or the other it is as foolish as alchemy, as desperate as suicide." A subsequent chapter contains a minute account of the circumstances connected with the assassination of Mr. Perceval, in 1812. The subject is of little interest; and scarcely merits the importance Mr. Jerdan seems to have attached to it. There was nothing remarkable in the affair: the page which contains a plan of "the lobby" in which it took place, no one will now care for ; while the expression of regret that the page was not big enough to give a tracing of the pistol used, savours somewhat too much of "the Victoria." Subsequent chapters contain accounts of a visit to Paris, in the ever-memorable year 1814. These accounts are meagre but they are written entirely from memory; unhappily, it was never the practice of Mr. Jerdan to make notes: he lived far too little with the past. From this part of the book we extract the following: "It was on the first or the second day I dined at Beauvilliers, that a fair Saxon-looking gentleman came asked my leave to communicate to him what I had said. I could have no objection; but after a short colloquy, Blucher did not send his glass to me-he came himself, and I hob-nobbed with the immortal soldier. I addressed him in French, to which he would not listen; and I then told him in English of the glorious estimation in which he was held in my country, which Mr. Parris translated into German; and if ever high gratification was evinced by man, it was by Blucher on this occasion. I had the honour of breakfasting with him at his hotel next morning, when the welcome matter was discussed more circumstantially, and he evinced the greatest delight." We hope and believe that as these volumes proceed, they will increase in interest; no doubt by their aid we shall be enabled to make, or to renew, acquaintance with many of the notabilities of our age and country: we shall learn something too, it may be, of writers whose anonymous works have obtained fame while they are themselves forgotten. But again we warn Mr. Jerdan that he has undertaken a task of great difficulty: upon the issue of which more perhaps than he imagines may depend. The position of a man of letters is, as he well explains, one of peril, at the outset in life. Mr. Jerdan can do what many cannot do and seated himself at my table. I think he chose the seat advertently, from having observed, or gathered. that I was fresh from London. We speedily entered into conversation, and he pointed out to me some of the famous individuals who were doing justice to the Parisian cookery at the various tables around-probably about twenty in all. As he mentioned their names I could not repress my enthusiasm-a spirit burning over England when I left it only a few days before-and my new acquaintance seemed to be much gratified by my ebullitions. Well,' said he, to a question from me, that is Davidoff, the colonel of the Black Cossacks.' I shall not repeat my exclamations of surprise and pleasure at the sight of this terrific leader, who had hovered over the enemy everywhere, cut off so many resources, and performed such incredible marches and actions as to render him and his Cossacks the dread of their foes. 'Is this,' inquired my companion, 'the opinion of England?' I assured him it was, and let out the secret of my editorial consequence, in proof that I was a competent witness. On this a change of scene ensued. My incognito walked across to Davidoff, who forthwith filled and sent me a glass of his wine (the glass he was using), and drank my health. I followed the example, and sent mine in return, and the compliment was completed. But it did not stop with this single instance. My new fair-complexioned friend went to another table, and spoke with a bronzed and hardy-looking warrior, from whom he came with another similar bumper to me, and the request that I would drink wine with speak of this peril for half a century, from the age General Czernicheff. I was again in flames; but it is of twenty to that of three-score and ten: but he must unnecessary to repeat the manner in which I, on that, do so, with the full knowledge he possesses of the to me, memorable day, took wine with half-a-dozen of the most distinguished generals in the allied service. causes that make it perilous; and it will be his duty "While this toasting-bout was going on, a seedy- so to expose these causes as to warn, and thus secure, looking old gentleman came in, and I noticed that some those who are to come after him. We believe he will younger officers rose and offered him a place, which he not seek to wear the mask himself: but he must exrejected, till a vacancy occurred, and then he quietly hibit others also unmasked. We repeat, that upon sat down, swallowed his two dozen of green oysters as a whet, and proceeded to dine with an appetite. By this the volumes here begun very much may depend. We time my vis-à-vis had resumed his seat, and, after what earnestly hope that Mr. Jerdan will consider how much had passed, I felt myself at liberty to ask him the favour of he may teach posterity. But one thing is certain; informing me who he himself was! I was soon answered. we cannot conclude the brief notice of his introductory He was a Mr. Parris of Hamburgh, whose prodigious commissariat engagements with the grand army had been volume, without bearing testimony to the character of fulfilled in a manner to prosper the war; and I was now the writer, in so far as regards his public career as at no loss to account for his intimacy with its heroes. Editor of the "Literary Gazette." Upon this subject it It so happened that I knew and was on friendly terms will be no doubt our duty to dilate, when we come to consider the publication in its completed state. with some of his near relations; and so the two hours I have described took the value of two years. But the climax had to come. Who was the rather scedy-looking personage whom the aides-de-camp appeared so ready to accommodate? Oh that was Blucher! If I was outrageous before, I was mad now. I explained to Mr. Parris the feeling of England with regard to this hero: and that amid the whole host of great and illustrious names, his had become the most glorious of all, and was really the one which filled most unanimously and loudly the trump of fame. He told me that an assurance of this would be most gratifying to the marshal, who thought much of the approbation of England, and That the first part has been loosely put together, without plan or arrangement, is quite clear. Mr. Jerdan seems to have been embarrassed by the multiplicity of his memories, and the mass of correspondence through which he has had to wade; they are confused, mingled together without harmony; and although highly interesting and often valuable, lose much of their effect from the want of apparent purpose putting them forth. in END OF VOL. XV. |