Anecdotes about Authors, and Artists - John Timbs

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the first circles. He was the “sun of the table” at Carlton House, as well as at Norfolk House; and attaching himself politically, as well as convivially, to his dinner companions, he composed the celebrated ballads of “Billy’s too young to drive us,” and “Billy Pitt and the Farmer,” which continued long in fashion, as brilliant satires upon the ascendant politics of their day. His humorous ridicule of the Tories was, however, but ill repaid by the Whigs upon their accession to office; at least, if we may trust the beautiful ode of “The Old Whig Poet to his Old Buff Waistcoat.” We are not aware of this piece being included in any edition of the “Songs.” It bears date “G. R., August 1, 1815;” six years subsequent to which we saw it among the papers of the late Alexander Stephens.

      Captain Morris’s “Songs” were very popular. In 1830, we possessed a copy of the 24th edition; we remember one of the ditties to have been “sung by the Prince of Wales to a certain lady,” to the air of “There’s a difference between a beggar and a queen.” Morris’s finest Anacreontic, is the song Ad Poculum, for which he received the gold cup of the Harmonic Society:

      “Come thou soul-reviving cup!

       Try thy healing art;

       Stir the fancy’s visions up,

       And warm my wasted heart.

       Touch with freshening tints of bliss

       Memory’s fading dream;

       Give me, while thy lip I kiss,

       The heaven that’s in thy stream.”

      Of the famous Beefsteak Club, (at first limited to twenty-four members, but increased to twenty-five, to admit the Prince of Wales,) Captain Morris was the laureat; of this “Jovial System” he was the intellectual centre. In the year 1831, he bade adieu to the club, in some spirited stanzas, though penned at “an age far beyond mortal lot.” In 1835, he was permitted to revisit the club, when they presented him with a large silver bowl, appropriately inscribed.

      It would not be difficult to string together gems from the Captain’s Lyrics. In “The Toper’s Apology”, one of his most sparkling songs, occurs this brilliant version of Addison’s comparison of wits with flying fish:—

      “My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,

       No frolic flight will take;

       But round a bowl she’ll dip and fly,

       Like swallows round a lake.

       Then, if the nymph will have her share

       Before she’ll bless her swain,

       Why that I think’s a reason fair

       To fill my glass again.”

      Many years since, Captain Morris retired to a villa at Brockham, near the foot of Box Hill, in Surrey. This property, it is said, was presented to him by his old friend, the Duke of Norfolk. Here the Captain “drank the pure pleasures of the rural life” long after many a bright light of his own time had flickered out, and become almost forgotten; even “the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall” had almost disappeared, and with it the princely house whereat he was wont to shine. He died July 11, 1835, in his ninety-third year, of internal inflammation of only four days.

      Morris presented a rare combination of mirth and prudence, such as human conduct seldom offers for our imitation. He retained his gaieté de cœur to the last; so that, with equal truth and spirit, he remonstrated:

      “When life charms my heart, must I kindly be told,

       I’m too gay and too happy for one that’s so old.”

      Captain Morris left his autobiography to his family; but it has not been published.

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      Incredible as it may appear, it is sometimes stated very confidently, that English authors and actors who give dinners, are treated with greater indulgence by certain critics than those who do not. But, it has never been said that any critical journal in England, with the slightest pretensions to respectability, was in the habit of levying black mail in this Rob Roy fashion, upon writers or articles of any kind. Yet it is alleged, on high authority, that many of the French critical journals are or were principally supported from such a source. For example, there is a current anecdote to the effect that when the celebrated singer Nourrit died, the editor of one of the musical reviews waited on his successor, Duprez, and, with a profusion of compliments and apologies, intimated to him that Nourrit had invariably allowed 2000 francs a year to the review. Duprez, taken rather aback, expressed his readiness to allow half that sum. “Bien, monsieur,” said the editor, with a shrug, “mais, parole d’honneur, j’y perds mille francs.”

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      Mr. Davy, who accompanied Colonel Cheney up the Euphrates, was for a time in the service of Mehemet Ali Pacha. “Pickwick” happening to reach Davy while he was at Damascus, he read a part of it to the Pacha, who was so delighted with it, that Davy was, on one occasion, called up in the middle of the night to finish the reading of the chapter in which he and the Pacha had been interrupted. Mr. Davy read, in Egypt, upon another occasion, some passages from these unrivalled “Papers” to a blind Englishman, who was in such ecstasy with what he heard, that he exclaimed he was almost thankful he could not see he was in a foreign country; for that while he listened, he felt completely as though he were again in England.—Lady Chatterton.

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      “I remember when I was a little boy, (writes Swift in a letter to Bolingbroke,) I felt a great fish at the end of my line, which I drew up almost on the ground, but it dropt in, and the disappointment vexes me to this day; and I believe it was the type of all my future disappointments.”

      “This little incident,” writes Percival, “perhaps gave the first wrong bias to a mind predisposed to such impressions; and by operating with so much strength and permanency, it might possibly lay the foundation of the Dean’s subsequent peevishness, passion, misanthropy, and final insanity.”

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      The following characteristic story of these two “intellectual gladiators” is related in “A New Spirit of the Age.”

      Leigh Hunt and Carlyle were once present among a small party of equally well known men. It chanced that the conversation rested with these two, both first-rate talkers, and the others sat well pleased to listen. Leigh Hunt had said something about the islands of the Blest, or El Dorado, or the Millennium, and was flowing on in his bright and hopeful way, when Carlyle dropt some heavy tree-trunk across Hunt’s pleasant stream, and banked it up with philosophical doubts and objections at every interval of the speaker’s joyous progress. But the unmitigated Hunt never ceased his overflowing anticipations, nor the saturnine Carlyle his infinite demurs to those finite flourishings. The listeners laughed and applauded by turns; and had now fairly pitted them against each other, as the philosopher of Hopefulness and of the Unhopeful. The contest continued with all that ready wit and philosophy, that mixture of pleasantry and profundity, that extensive knowledge of books and character, with their ready application in argument or illustration, and that perfect ease and good-nature, which distinguish each of these men. The opponents were so well matched, that it was quite clear the contest would never come to an end. But the night

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