written both gravely and gayly, in an exalted or in a lowly strain, according to the topics of which it treated. The fragment on Paganini was a part of the exordium : "So play'd of late to every passing thought So write!) the pale magician of the bow," &c. I wished to write in the same manner, because Paganini, with his violin, could move both the tears and the laughter of his audience, and (as I have described him doing in the verses) would now give you the notes of birds in trees, and even hens feeding in a farm-yard (which was a corner into which I meant to take my companion), and now melt you into grief and pity, or mystify you with witchcraft, or put you into a state of lofty triumph like a conqueror. phrase of "smiting" the chords, "He smote ;-and clinging to the serious chords With godlike ravishment." &c. That was no classical commonplace; nor, in respect to impression on the mind, was it exaggeration to say, that from a single chord he would fetch out "The voice of quires, and weight Of the built organ." Paganini, the first time I saw and heard him, and the first moment he struck a note, seemed literally to strike it; to give it a blow. The house was so crammed, that, being among the squeezers in "standing room" at the side of the pit, I happened to catch the first sight of his face through the arm a-kimbo of a man who was perched up before me, which made a kind of frame for it; and there, on the stage, in that frame, as through a perspective glass, were the face, bust, and raised hand of the wonderful musician, with his instrument at his chin, just going to commence, and looking exactly as I have described him. "His hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy, PAGANINI. He smote; and clinging to the serious chords The exceeding mystery of the loveliness One that had parted with his soul for pride, 275 To show the depth and identicalness of the impression which he made on every body, foreign or native, an Italian who stood near me, said to himself, after a sigh, "Oh Dio!" and this had not been said long, when another person, in the same manner, uttered the words, "Oh Christ!" Musicians pressed forward from behind the scenes, to get as close to him as possible; and they could not sleep at night for thinking of him. I have mentioned the Monthly Repository. It was originally a magazine in the Unitarian interest, and contained admirable papers by the present member for Oldham, Mr. John Mill, and others; but it appeared, so to speak, in one of the least though most respectable corners of influence, and never obtained the repute it deserved. Nor, if such writers as these failed to counteract the drawback, could it be expected that others would help it better. The author of Orion made the attempt in vain; and so did the last of its editors, the present writer, though Landor assisted him. In this publication, like better things before it, was sunk " Blue Stocking Revels, or the Feast of the Violets"- -a kind of female Feast of the Poets, which nobody took any notice of; though I had the pleasure of hearing, that a venerable living poet said it would have been sufficient "to set up half a dozen young men about town in a reputation for wit and fancy." As Apollo in the Feast of the Poets gave a dinner to those gentlemen, in Blue-Stocking Revels he gives a ball and supper to literary ladies. The guests were so numerous as to call forth a pleasant remark from Lord Holland, who, in a letter in which he acknowledged the receipt of the poem, said, that "the inspector of blue ankles under Phobus" had, he perceived, "no sinecure." I believe the fair guests were not dissatisfied with their entertainment. was thought by somebody, that objection was intended to Mrs. Somerville, because it was said of her, that "Instead of the little Loves, laughing at colleges, Round her, in doctors' caps, flew little Knowledges." It But I did not mean to imply, either that the lady's knowledge was little, or that she was not a very amiable person. It was only a commonplace jest in a new shape. Perhaps it ought to have been followed by a recommendation to look into the faces of the "little Knowledges;" who are apt to have more love in them, than people suspect. A bookseller objected to publishing this poem on a very different account. He thought that Lady Blessington would take offense at the mention of her "shoulders," and at being called a "Venus grown fat." "Lady Blessington!' cried the glad usher aloud, As she swam through the doorway, like moon from a cloud. Perhaps you have known what it is to feel longings To pat buxom shoulders at routs and such throngings; A Grace after dinner!-a Venus grown fat!" It would be strange if any lady, grown stout, would object to being thought a Venus notwithstanding and it would be still stranger, if after having her face lauded for so many fine qualities, she should object to having her shoulders admired. Lady Blessington, at all events, had too much understanding to make such a mistake; and, though I had not the honor of her acquaintance, I had good reason to know that she took the passage in any thing but an offensive light. Let me take this opportunity of saying that her ladyship's account of Lord Byron is by far the best and most sensible I am acquainted with. Her writings indeed, throughout, are remarkable for a judgment as well as kindness for which many would not give credit to an envied beauty. CHAPTER XXV. PLAY WRITING.-CONCLUSION. Difficulty of meeting the literary requirements of times and editors.— Play-writing and present condition of the stage.—Actors out of their place as managers.-Reason why their profession is not more esteemed. -Delusions practiced by them respecting the "Shakspearian," the "legitimate," and the "national" drama.-Only remedy for such abuses. The Legend of Florence, and four other dramas by the Author.—Lord Melbourne and the Author's pension.—Ideas associated in the latter's mind with the Queen.-Amateur acting.Removal to Kensington.-Author's latest productions and daily habits.—Question of the Laureateship.-Political and religious opinions. POEMS of the kind just mentioned were great solaces to care; but the care was great notwithstanding. I felt age coming on me, and difficulties not lessened by failing projects: nor was I able, had I been ever so inclined, to render my faculties profitable "in the market." It is easy to say to a man, Write such and such a thing, and it is sure to sell. Watch the public taste, and act accordingly. Care not for original composition; for inventions or theories of your own; for æsthetics, which the many will be slow to apprehend. Stick to the works of others. Write only in magazines and reviews. Or if you must write things of your own, compile. Tell anecdotes. Reproduce histories and biographies. Do any thing but write to the few, and you may get rich. Sup There is a great deal of truth in all this. But a man can only do what he can, or as others will let him. pose he has a conscience that will not suffer him to reproduce the works of other people, or even to speak what he thinks commonplace enough to have become common property. Suppose this conscience will not allow him to accommodate himself to the opinion of editors and reviewers. Suppose the editors and reviewers themselves will not encourage him to write on the subjects he understands best, perhaps do not understand the subjects themselves; or, at best, play with him, and delay him, and keep him only as a resource when their own circle fails them. Suppose he has had to work his way up through animosities, political and religious, and through such clouds of adversity as, even when they have passed away, leave a chill of misfortune round his repute, and make " 'prosperity" slow to encourage him. Suppose, in addition to all this, he is in bad health, and of fluctuating, as well as peculiar powers; of a temperament easily solaced in mind, and as easily drowsed in body; quick to enjoy every object in creation, every thing in nature and in art, every sight, every sound, every book, picture, and flower, and at the same time really qualified to do nothing, but either to preach the enjoyment of those objects in modes derived from his own particular nature and breeding, or to suffer with mingled cheerfulness and poverty the consequences of advocating some theory on the side of human progress. Great may sometimes be the misery of that man under the necessity of requesting forbearance or undergoing obligation; and terrible will be his doubts, whether some of his friends may not think he had better have had a conscience less nice, or an activity less at the mercy of his physique. He will be forced to seek his consolotion in what can be the only final consolation of any one who needs a charitable construction; namely, that he has given what he would receive. I did not understand markets; I could not command editors and reviewers; I therefore obeyed a propensity which had never forsaken me, and wrote a play. Plays are delightful things to write, and tempting things in the contemplation of their profits. They seem to combine the agreeable and the advantageous beyond any other mode of recruiting an author's finances. "Little knows he of Calista." No man, I believe at least in England, ever delivered himself from difficulties by writing plays. He may live by the stage as actor, or as manager, or as author of all work; that is to say, as one who writes entirely for the actors, and who takes every advantage of times and seasons, and the inventions of other men. But if his heroes are real heroes, and not Jones; or |