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THE FULGORA, OR FIRE-FLY. VERSES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. VERSES WRITTEN IN A FOREST IN GERMANY. 74 75 MRS. TALBOT. This, my dear children, is one of those days when we must depend on ourselves to furnish amusement within the house; for, by the present appearance of the clouds, there is but little probability of our enjoying a walk. GEORGE. There were a few persons down on the beach early this morning, and one or two proposed to go into the sea, but the men refused to go with them, and said it was not safe.—There were two or three others, eagerly enquiring of the bathing men, and the fishermen, whether it would clear up; and they seemed very much out of humour, when they were told, that there was every ap-
76 pearance of stormy weather, for at least the next four and twenty hours. MRS. TALBOT. They had some match at cricket, or with their horses I suppose, upon the hills, which made them so anxious, and probably they were of a race of beings who find their existence rather tedious in very bad weather, because they do not know what to do with themselves, unless they are gallopping about. GEORGE. But Mother, the library was quite full this morning.—I suppose the people went to get books for the rest of the day? MRS. TALBOT. Some, undoubtedly, applied to that resource; but if the library was crowded, it is more likely there were more loungers than readers.—And I suspect, that if the billiard-room had been looked into, you would have seen it more occupied than the library, and with persons more eagerly engaged. EMILY. I wish, Mamma, I know what pleasure can be found in rolling or push-
77 ing those red and white balls about upon a table covered with green cloth. MRS. TALBOT. The pleasure is that, which all games of chance, and still more of skill, afford—something to engage the attention, and get the time passed by, without any other reflection. The avaricious, and the necessitous, (and professed gamesters are generally both_ are actuated by the hope of winning—and all the whit they have, is collected to enable them to succeed. Many men who are seen at places of public resort, and who make splendid figures, have no other resources then they obtain by their knowledge of these games. And many an unhappy desolate young person, date the commencement of their indigence and dependence, from the time their parents became addicted to the ruinous passion for gaming. You enquire what pleasure pushing these balls about can afford; which probably struck you, as not being a very entertaining method of passing the time, because you never happened
78 to have seen it till lately; while, perhaps, Emily, it never occurred to you, to enquire what great satisfaction could be found in looking at, and sorting pieces of thickened paper, painted with ugly figures. Yet in that occupation, many of my acquaintance, who are, notwithstanding, "mighty good sort of people," pass near half their lives. EMILY. You mean playing at cards. MRS. TALBOT. Yes; yet cards, and every amusement of that sort, are innocent, if they are used only as such, and do not engross the thoughts, or impair the fortunes of those who are attached to them. They are, merely as an condemned, than passing hours and days in flying about from place to place, only because such and such people frequent these places; or than driving round London in search of bargains, or in hunting after fashions, which many women make the business of their lives. All those who have
79 money, and time to dispose of, have not a taste for books; and many would think it the severest punishment that could be inflicted onthem, were they obliged to pass their hours in reading; these persons of either sex, must have something to fill up their hours, and some motive stronger than that of enjoying each other's conversation, to bring them together. EMILY. It is very dull tho', Mamma, to the sitters-by; and I must say, I have hated to see people so earnest round a card-table, ever since I was so tired when I was with you once for two days at Lady H's. I remember nobody dared to speak—and there was an old, little, odd, cross looking gentleman there, who frightened me with his fierce looks, tho' I hardly ventured to breathe, when I was told that he could not bear the least disturbance when he was at cards. MRS. TALBOT. That little, odd, cross old man, who, in fact, Emily, is not old,
80 but in the apprehension of the very young, is a man of great talents, a Statesman—a man capable of directing the government of kinghoms; and the amusement he was pursuing was merely the necessary relaxation, as he says, from severe application. There was not one of that party, which you thougbht so formidable, but what were really very worthy people; and none of them come under the description of professed gamesters. I am persuaded that every one of them would have given their winnings most readily to any indigent fellow creature; for I have known each do occasional acts of kindness of that sort; tho', perhaps, none of them would have taken much trouble to find out distressed objects, or have thought of them beyond the moment when their bounty was asked for; but we must not expect, that such characters as are represented in books, who are always on the alert to execute extraordinary acts of benevolence, are very frequently
81 found. Nor should we in an every-day life, suppose we are to meet with remarkable instances of perfection; though we must endeavour ourselves to attain it, as far as our situation in life will allow us. EMILY. But, Mamma, you never play at cards. MRS. TALBOT. I never play because I cannot keep up my attention; and therefore, while the attempt punishes me, my inability is very likely to disturb those I am at play with. Another reason is, that I know myself very unlikely to win, and cannot afford to lose even small sums. And it is for these causes, among others, that I should not, if I lived in what is called the world, mix in society where there is much play. GEORGE. But, my dear Mother, you said you were tired, when you went to what is called a conversation. MRS. TALBOT. Indeed, George, I was; though the persons collected, were
82 all of them remarkable for some talent, and were chiefly ranked among the literati. But the time passed at first, in listening to the sententious, though common place remarks of a lady who is considered as a sort of Sybil, a poetess, and a prophetess, and who talked at, rather than to the rest of the company; and when she withdrew, after telling us the charitable mission she was going upon, the greater part of the remaining company, as if to make themselves amends for the awful silence they had been compelled to observe, began to talk together. I remember in a periodical paper, (that called the World, I believe), a letter from a man, who had passed his whole life in the miseries of dependence, as an humble hearer, and who as length becoming deaf, thought himself better qualified than ever for that post; and in the assembly you mention, amidst all the loud talking, much of which sounded to me too much like wrangling, I wished to have been for a time in the
83 situation of that patient sufferer, so little was I edified by the conversation of these very clever people; while I envied the powers of abstraction, possessed by one of the company, who fairly fell asleep, after having made some ineffectual attempts to fasten himself, in the way of argument, on some other man whom he could consider as worthy of the intellectual exertion he was disposed to make. GEORGE. Mother, those people would have been better employed at cards, than in being so uncivil to each other. MRS. TALBOT. Good breeding is not, however, much exerted at the card-table, George; for I have heard quarrels there, which would have been quite alarming, had the disputants been less in habits of affronting each other in the same wasy every night. Nor were my acquaintance, the men of talent, at all civiller to each other. They seemed to consider conversation as a continual trial of the strength of their lungs, rather than of their un-
84 derstandings, for every one appeared determined to enforce attention, by talking as loud as he could. But we have wandered to a great distance from the enquiry I was going to make of you—what provision you had been able to make for me against a stormy day, in a place where I have no books of my own? GEORGE. First then, Mother, here are the first volumes of three novels, which the master of the shop assured me were all excellent, and just new from London. MRS. TALBOT. Alas! George, I see already that I cannot read any of them. The first is a clumsy attempt at Satire, by a good body who uses coarsely, and I should think ineffectually, that weapon against vices and errors, of which, though some resemblance to them do exist in real life, she draws hideous caricatures.—The second is an absurd assemblage of supernatural horrors, and would, from its extravagance and tediousness, be rejected
85 by even the most depraved taste in this kind of reading. And the last, is a wretched and bald translation, performed at so much a sheet, by some person compelled through necessity, to do into English, by the aid of a dictionary, a French novel of no value in the original language. Have you nothing else for me? GEORGE. Yes, Mother—though I know you have one, or more volumes, among your books, of Burns poems, I was not sure you had seen these which are printed with an account of his life, and many of his letters. MRS. TALBOT. I have them at home, George; but the poetry of Burns, though all of it is not exactly desirable for our present poetical studies, is much of it so excellent, and so truly the production of original genius, that I am never weary of reading it. You are already acquainted with several of his most celebrated pieces. You shall now read to me a
86 poem, printed in the third volume, I think, of this edition, which, though not equal to :the Cotter's Saturday Night," and some other of his pieces, is expressive of his feelings and sentiments, and, however unequal to the highest efforts of his extraordinary talents, is infinitely above the generality of those productions which are every day so highly extolled. Burns was really, what so mmany others have very slender pretensions to be; he was born a Poet, and perhaps unfortunately for him, individually, his genius was powerful to attrach notice, and force him at once from the humble obscurity where he would have been among "the mute and inglorious" men of extraordinary talents, who probably are born from time to time, and die unknown and unheard of, in every rank of life. Here are the verses I mean, read them to me. They are entitled, ON 87
88 The Eagle from the cliffy brow, EMILY. Mamma, may I make on remark? MRS. TALBOT. Certainly, Emily, I wish always to hear your remarks. EMILY. 89 EMILY. It is, then, that there are two lines in those verses, very like, indeed, to some which you wrote on the hedgehog. GEORGE. Yes, so there are, Emily; and yet I fancy, Mother, you never thought of them at the time. MRS. TALBOT. I assure you I did not; nor do I recollect having read these verses of Burns, at least these five years. But nothing is more usual, than for the same train of thought to produce in poetry, lines greatly resembling each other, of which I could give you many instances of more importance than my little unintentional plagiarism.—I am very well please, however, to see this instance of observation. It encourages me to continue our poetical attempts. Last night, after our return from seeing Mr. Beechcroft's collectio of specimens in natural history, I was considering what a different figure the Fire-fly, the Fulgora, made in its then state, from that it naturally bore in
90 its own country; illuminating the magnificent woods of Jamaica, or Vera Cruz.—It brought to my mind, the many light and showy characters, that continually arise, are wondered at, and forgotten.—These ideas gave rise to a few stanzas, which I will read to you; but that you may understand them, I must give you a slight drawing of the country in which the insect is produced. The Mahogena, or Swietan, called so after a celebrated Swedish botanist, in honour of his native land; the Guazuma, or great Cedar; the Pimento, and other immense trees, form extensive woods, overshadowing the higher parts of the island of Jamaica.—Among these woods, are rocky eminences from whence flow rapid streams of water; and there are tracts where these waters, swelled by the equinoctial rains, have worn vast tranches in the earth; the side of which, being full of trees and brushwood, these cavities, as well as rock hollows and caves in the mountains, frequently become the
91 hiding places of fugitive negroes; and there several sorts of monkies, the great bat, or vampyre, and other animals, find refuge. Round the houses, the scene is softened, by avenues of coco trees, or Palmetos; and amidst planations of the maize, or Guinea corn, which is an article of food for the black people, and extensive fields of canes, and groups of coffee and cotton trees, the odorous plumeria, the pomegranate, the orange, lime, and citron, are mingled, and perfume the air. The most elegant and splendid Cactus Grandiflora, usually called the night blowing Cercus, a stove plant, in this country, growns naturally there on the rocks; and is said, though incorrectly, to open exactly at midnight; the fact, however is, that it slowly unfolds its large and lovely white petals, and yellow calyx, during the night, but closes before the next day's sun, to open no more. As soon as the sun is below the horizon, it is dark in tropical countries; and then a land
92 wind, and most copious dews, cool the air—but to these it is seldom safe for an European to be much exposed. We are to imagine the ugly insect, for ugly it is in the state we saw it, illuminating with its singular and volant light, scenes like these I have been describing. GEORGE. I remember you told me, some time ago, that these flies in Italy, were called Luciola, and were flying glow-worms. MRS. TALBOT. I did so.—They are, however, as I believe, of a different class; I am not so good an entomologist, as to be able to give you very correct information on these subjects, and I have no books now within my reach. I think, however, that glow-worms are called Lampyris, and these Fire-flies, Fulgora, and that the insect we saw, which is one of the largest kind, and bearing its light in its snout, is called the Fulgora Lanternaria. Now let us see what figure it makes, as a member of our little poetical miscellany. TO 93
94 Or gully deep, where gibbering monkies cling, 95 The glass thy faded form contains, EMILY. 96 EMILY. Mamma, your poem is I think rather melancholy. MRS. TALBOT. I did not intend, Emily that it should be gay. GEORGE. For my part, I like the most melancholy verses the best.—I remember, Mother, that two years ago, I read for the first time, Grey's Elegy, and I was pleased with it, without quite understanding some part of it.—But when you explained to me, what I did not clearly comprehend before, it gave me more pleasure than any thing I ever had met with. MRS. TALBOT. It has been observed, George, that almost all men of genious, have a disposition to indulge melancholy and gloomy ideas; and in reading our most celebrated poets, we have evidence that it was so. But these very men had also the keenest relish for the pleasures and enjoyments of life; the liveliest sense of the absurd and ridiculous, and were most of them severe satyists, as
97 well as entertaining compansions. But there are so many prejudices entertained about those who are called Poets, that a parent, who thought as the greater part of the world think, would never act like the worthy father of Pope, who used to encourage his sone to make verses; correct and recorrect them, and when they satisfied him, would exclaim with great appearance of satisfaction, "these are good thymes." To this encouragement, we are probably indebted, for the most correct and elegant, if not the most original of English Poets. But from the prevalence of a received opinion, that a man of genius must want common sense, and be of course unfortunate, many young men of superior talent have been discouraged from the cultivation of them, and have directed to pursuits much less laudable, the powers that might have raised them to the greatest eminence in literature. The errors and misfortunes of men of genius, are
98 evident, and recorded.—The errors, and consequent misfortunes, of common characters, are so frequent, and the world is accustomed to despise and forget them, while it is also forgotten, that infinitely more mischief is done by folly than by wit, that innumerable men are every day ruining themselves and their families, who are as destitute of common sense, as the most enthusiastic victim of poetical pursuits can be imagined to be. Do not, therefore, my dear George, suffer the pleasure you derive from poetry, or the inclination you may one day feel to attempt it, to be checked by these common place sayings about wit and abilities, such as that— Great wit to madness nearly is allied, And many others of the same sort, confidently repeated by people, who seem to value themselves on the want of that intellect, which is the distinguishing cha-
99 racteristic of man; for, if understanding and reason are the great marks of the superiority of the human race, he who possesses that reason in a more eminent degree, and cultivates it for the benefit of his fellow creatures, approaches the nearest to an higher order of beings.—Another prejudice is, that understanding is not so often accompanied by good and easy temper, as weakness; and, in consequence of this notion, it is not a uncommon thing to hear people say—"Such a one is not very wise, but extremely good-natured." And "a good-natured weak man," is a very usual expression. But I very much doubt whether goodness of heart, and weakness of understanding ever go together; that they are not frequently united, I am convinced. A weak and ignorant man, is almost always conscious of his inferiority—but his self love is alarmed at the involuntary discovery, and he at once hates and fears
100 every one whom he feels to be his superior, and is always apprehensive of imposition or ridicule. Such a man is happy, if, while he is enjoying, and perhaps wasting, the fortune which he never would himself have been able to acquire, he can drag at his chariot wheels, in the degrading situation of a retainer, some unfortunate man of talents, reduced either by circumstances or indiscretion, to the humiliation of dependence. But far less irksome to the man who feels the proud consciousness of abilities, must it be, to submit to the humblest labour that procures him bread, than to accept from one of these good-natured men, the least favour that can give a base mind what he conceives to be a triumph over one whom he knows is his superior. To be the butt of clumsy attempts at wit, or to degrade that which God has given him, by reducing it to the gross and depraved taste of such a patron, must surely be the most humiliating and mortifying situ-
101 ation to which a man of sense and spirit can be reduced. In the vocabulary of half the world, the want of money, implies the want of common sense; and thus, poetry and poverty have become associated in the minds of the vulgar.—Ill fated genius perpetuates and immortalizes at once his failings and his sufferings—while those of the common herd are forgotten with them. I believe it to be far from true, that the powers and feelings which constitute a Poet, unfit a man for success in any other liberal walk of life. On the contracy, I am persuaded, that the talents which have acquired great eminence and affluence in other pursuits, would not enable their possessor to become a Poet; yet, that the talcuts which make a Poet, (I speak not not of the common rhymers of a magazine, or a newspaper,) would enable him, to whom they are given, to excel in any pursuit to whiche he should steadily apply them. Gray, very truly observes, that
102 money is desirable to literary men, because money is independence and freedom. And he is justly remarks, that the great can do little for them, but to leave them to the enjoymnents of that leisure, which independence gives them. I have not the book by me at this moment—but I have dwelled rather long on the subject, brought to my mind by the mention of Burns, because I would lose no occasion to enforce the necessity of your maintaining, in whatever line of life you may hereafter be thrown, that independence, without which, talents are often the disgrace, and acute feelings the misery of their possessor. GEORGE. Pope was not poor, Mother.—I think I have heard, or read, that he took great care of his fortune. MRS. TALBOT. The greater part of which he honourably acquired by the exertion of his poetical abilities. GEORGE. He was of a melancholy disposition, however, I suppore; for I re-
103 member writing out as a task, a letter from him in his youth, which is inserted in the Guardian, I believe, or some book of that kind, which I used to read to my Grandmamma, four or five years ago. MRS. TALBOT. Do you remember it? GEORGE. A part of it I think I can still repeat. "When I reflect what an inconsiderable little atom every single man is, with respect to the whole creation, methinks 'tis a shame to be concerned at the removal of such a trivial animal as I am. The morning after my exit, the sun will shine as bright as ever, the flowers will smell as sweet, the world will proceed at its old course, people will laugh as heartily, and marry as fast as they used to do." MRS. TALBOT. This chearful kind of melancholy, is the truest philosophy. On the ideas of the letter, of which you have repeated some lines, West, the friend of
104 Gray, formed a very interesting poem; mingling that turn of thought, with part of one of the elegies of Tibullus. In the last volume of the Mirror, there is also a poem on the same subject, written by Michael Bruce, a young man of considerable genius, and in indigent circumstances, who in early youth, was conscious that he was lingering in an incurable illness. As another instance of unintended plagiarism, and unconscious imitation, without thinking of, and certainly without having the power to refer to either of these compositions, I recollect that a young man, with whom I was once acquainted, wrote, some years ago, a few stanzas in the same desponding, yet resigned spirit.—A peculiar and disastrous chain of events, seemed to pursue him through life; but after his fortune apparently changed for the better, other circumstances arose, which deprived him of the happiness, independence, and afluence promised him. I remember also,
105 some lines he wrote, when after a long absence he returned to England, and looking at that moment with a more sanguine disposition of mind on the prospect then before him, he compared the revival of his hopes to the renewal in the spring of the beauties of nature, of which he had a lively enjoyment.
106 When blighted by Adversity's chill breath, Some years afterwards, though he had then obtained a fortune more than adequate to all his wishes, the loss of a mother and a sister, to whom he was most affectionately attached, added to a disappointment in the character and conduct of a young woman, who proved to be a very different being from that which his elevated and ardent imagination bad represented her, were circumstances so affecting his mind, that he never could determine to pursue any of those objects, either of ambition or amusement, which usually attract young men of his rank and situation—but relinquishing his establishment, he passed the greatest part of his time in wandering into different countries. It was in travelling through one of
107 those extensive forests in Germany, which had at that period the reputation of being infested with freebooters from dispersed armies, that, feeling too sensibly the little value of life to a being so unconnected as he was, he wrote the lines to which I at first alluded.—They were addressed to a beloved friend, remonstrated with him on his inclination wholly to forsake society, and estrange himself from the world.
108 While in a few short months, to clothe the mould, If, however, a certain degree of melancholy is suppored to be the accompaniment of genius, there is no species of affection more absurd and disgusting, than pretending to be absent, :melancholy and gentlemanlike"—an air which is often assumed by solumn coxcombs, who, while they would fain have it mistaken for a sympton of superior intellect, make it the cloak of supercilious pride, and pompous stupidty. Such persons are splenetic, and fancy themselves affected with pensive poetical dejection; their nervous 109 nervous system, forsooth, is deranged by every trifle; and they pretend to shrink, with extreme sensibility, from the common intercourse of life; when, in fact, they have no sensibility but for themselves, and no study but how to make themselves of importance. But I know not how it has happened that we have fallen into this gloomy vein; I am unwilling to impute it to the weather, for nothing is more weak and unworthy than to yield to such impressions, and to fancy that we cannot do so and so, because the weather affects us.—A rational being should endeavour always to be able to command his faculties, and divest himself of minute attention to outward circumstances which he cannot alter. GEORGE. That is true, Mother; but I am very glad, notwithstanding, to see so much blue sky; the weather is going to clear up, and we shall have a little ramble by the sea this evening.—Will you not go out? MRS. 110 MRS. TALBOT. I shall enjoy it very much. There is something particularly magnificent in the sullen swell of the waves as the storn subsides, and the broad shadows on the still rolling surface of the sea while the clouds are breaking away. I love the monotonous heavy burst of the surges on the shore, and to listen to the echos as they foam under the distant cliffs. The sear birds too, who had withdrawn to their nests in the rocks, while the violence of the tempest raged, then leave their shelter to fish before sun set. We shall have an opportunity, this evening, to make these and other observations. CON- |
