fects of chance. Deer-stealing drove the inspired thoughts of his mind,Fortune cried, "march!" And the inspired thoughts were strangled in their birth. I speak of poor Perrinson with all the feelings of youth, for he was young when I knew him, and I was young too;—and now, though seasons have gone over my head, and winter only has set its mark upon it, I still, in thinking of him, regard myself as a youth, and feel still young in life's foolish chase. It will have already been seen that one or two of our greatest poets were known to the world as the greatest poets, by some extraordinary event, which, at the time, must have appeared as an evil or a trouble to the person whom it was destined to elevate. Goldsmith, whose poems seem to be Nature's own records, narrowly escaped poor Perrinson's fate, for it was intended at one time that he should visit Leyden to finish his studies there, "If Leyden, however," says his biographer, was the object, he, with the usual eccentricity of his motions, set out to reach it by way of Bourdeaux, and embarked in a ship, which was bound thither from Leith; but which was driven, by stress of weather, into Newcastle-upon-Tyne. His fellow passengers were some Scotchmen, who had been employed in raising men in their own country for the service of the King of France. They were arrested by orders from government at Newcastle; and Goldsmith, who had been committed to prison with them, was not liberated till after a fortnight's confinement. By this accident, however, he was eventually saved from an early death. The vessel sailed during his imprisonment, and was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, where every soul on board perished." Here we see, by the merest chance, (which at the time must have appeared to poor Goldsmith a serious mischance) that a poet was saved to prove himself a poet :-he might have gained his liberty, sailed, and perished at the mouth of the Garonne, and who then would have ever heard of the Deserted Village, or the Traveller? Is it possible to believe that Doctor Primrose's existence depended on a little vessel sailing a fortnight later from Newcastle-upon-Tyne !-If the Poet had been wrecked-how many 2 C more souls would have perishedMiss Hardcastle-Olivia-Sophiadear Mrs. Primrose (with her gooseberry wine, a soul of itself!)-But Goldsmith lived to let others live. He lived to declare his genius, which poor Perrinson did not! I cannot but think that a very slight sketch (as far as I can recollect the incidents) of Perrinson's hapless life cannot fail of proving interesting to the world, particularly the literary world. I shall, therefore, venture upon a short biography of my friend, who will, I trust, be found and acknowledged to have been a great poet, though he has scarcely left a line to assert his title. Edward Perrinson was the son of Edward and Martha Perrinson, two worthy persons, of a humble, yet respectable station in life;-he was born at an obscure village in Devonshire, and was sent to the school of a neighbouring village; schoolmasters being scarce articles in those days of his childhood. He soon betrayed marks of uncommon poetical power in sundry verses on his preceptor's daughter (a pretty little girl, extremely rosy, and of a conciliatory manner towards the senior boys).These verses he never read to any one, and he regularly destroyed them on a Saturday night, that he might begin the week afresh. The girl, however, (who has since obtained woman's estate, and the hand of Mr. of the Granby Head, a worthy man, well to do, and an overseer of St. David's) declares that the lines were miraculous, and far superior to any thing in King or Hopkins, which she had seen or heard of (it does not matter which) in Cooke's edition. Edward's verses were so well received by the young lady (for he read them to her in the back orchard on half-holidays) that he was removed from the school at the master's desire. He always spoke of Deborah (the young lady was named) as a charming young creature at that time, and she was remembered, like Sir Roger de Coverley's Widow, "for having the finest hand of any woman in the world." It must not be forgot that she (Deborah, and not the widow) generally cut the bread for the boys' supper, and Edward's allowance did not become warped or diminished by his verses. SO He was now apprenticed to a grocer of Exeter, and here, after raisinhours, he buried himself in the clas sic poets, and lived in a world of imagination. It was delightful to behold him, as Mrs. said, lifting his soul above Spanish liquorice, and "rising," to use the same lady's figurative language, "after the business of the day was over, like a Phoenix from the teas and peppers!” He read Ovid of an evening, and Lucretius of a morning, by which sensible course his philosophy and his passions went hand in hand. At this time, he planned a poem on the Fall of Man, and had in his mind composed a considerable portion of the work,-but the death of his master interfered with the periodical labour and inspiration of his mind, and caused a forgetfulness which the world can never fail to deplore. One of Edward's brother shopmen, a sensible young man, has declared to me since, that many passages which he heard recited, equalled, if not surpassed, Milton's poetry on the same subject;-this opinion relishes a little, I fear, of friendship, but I cannot refrain from lamenting, that Perrinson's epic was not completed and preserved, since the comparison would have been both curious and instructive. It was one of Edward's customs at this time of his life to rise early on the Sunday morning, and attend the first service at the cathedral of Exeter, and he was led into this laudable conduct, partly, I believe, by the natural piety of his heart, partly by the beautiful voices of the choristers, and partly by the similar custom in a young lady of the City, who came to early prayers constantly and modestly. She was, as I have reason to be lieve, a beautiful girl, and the impression which her presence in those silent aisles made upon Edward's heart, was never afterwards effaced. She walked up to her seat so simply, and at so clear an hour,-the sun glancing from pillar to pillar, and the choral voices rising like the morning, that he became deeply and awfully enamoured. His mind thus enriched, Perrinson found it impossible to apply himself to the drudgery (as he termed it) of his business,-and Mr.'s widow kindly gave him up his indentures, and allowed him to retire from an employment, to which he could not steadily attach himself. He took lodgings at a house in the High-street (it may be just where Mr. Cullen lives now!) and determined on devoting himself to love and literature, -two very profitless and harassing pursuits, and of a kind that promised very little towards the expences of his lodging. Howbeit, a young man of such genius and passion, sees all things in a glass, brightly;-and it is not till the hand of truth shivers the glass, that the utter nothingness of those hopes is proved. Perrinson, being thus freed from the constraint of business, gathered his books together, and commenced a careful arrangement of his mind towards the production of an epic on the subject of Alfred's life,-that Edystone, on which Mr. Cottle, "Amos or Joseph, I dont know which," has erected a flaming beacon to warn others from wreck. Edward read all the books he could procure on the subject; and there is every reason to believe he would have made immortal stuff of his subject, -if fortune had not stepped in to prevent him!-It should be observed that at this time he did not forget his cathedral love;-he wrote nine and thirty odes to her beauty, which his cousin (who was the only gentleman to whom he recited them) avouches to have been equal to any in Milton or Dryden. All of these are forgotten or destroyed. One piece only can be at all recollected, and this the gentleman can only recall most imperfectly, so that Perrinson's fame must not be meted to him by its merit.As however, the most uncertain relic of such a genius must be interesting, this little piece (made out as correctly as possible) shall be given. The circumstance to which I alluded, as the cause of Perrinson's abandoning his poem of Alfred, was this; -he had become embarrassed a little in his circumstances, and the Editor of the having, at the instance of a mutual friend, written to offer two guineas per sheet for what he might write (a splendid remuneration in those days!) and the religious young lady having refused the tender of his hand, and of his fortunes (her mother having set her face, from proper and pru dential motives, against so profitless a connexion)-Edward suddenly left Exeter, and resolved to pursue fame in London. Thus the epic was disturbed the passion in his heart broken,-and his thoughts were subdued to the labours of periodical literature. -- On Perrinson's arrival in town, he took reasonable lodgings in the city (to be near the Row) and wrote several papers in the Magazines,-but the signatures by which they were distinguished were never known to me,-and thus all trace of them is lost. At this time he wrote a Tragedy for the stage, which was accepted with ardour, solely on account of its merits;-this great performance, however, was picked out of his pocket near Temple Bar, one evening, by two men out of Ship Yard, and the loss was never restored. His next undertaking,-and this was the one nearest his heart,--was a poem on the Holy Wars,-and I have understood from his relations that he was greatly fitted for such a work. He wrote to me for the loan of some books (which he never returned) to aid the subject. Six Cantos, six invaluable Cantos were written, and neatly copied,-the poem was rushing on like a fire,-the booksellers were panting for the copyright, when lo! one of Edward's distant relations, hearing of his unsettled life, wrote over to say that there was a great opening for a young man of talent at the bar of St. Vincent's, and desired him instantly to quit England, and proceed to him. This offer appeared to Edward too momentous to be disregarded, and he prepared for an instantaneous departure. His cousin fitted him out,-and he sailed in the Delight, Capt. Johns,-taking with him his MS. which he determined to finish on the voyage. The vessel was lost off the Goodwin Sands,and poor Perrinson and his poem perished together. These are all the particulars I can give of the life and works of this great but unfortunate young poet. His fame, I trust, will be dearly cherished by the world, out of tenderness to his many disappointments. He was of an amiable disposition, and possessed of a most brilliant and original genius. When it is remembered, that Fate realized with him, what it only threatened to Burns and Goldsmith,-and that, perhaps, some of the noblest poems in the language are, with him, irreceverably gone,-it is impossible not to be struck with the national loss which Perrinson's death must ever be considered to be. It only remains for me to give LINES TO the verses which I promised (for I cannot bear to dwell or moralize upon the subject), and to entreat that the public will remember that they were written down from the imperfect memory of the gentleman to whom they were addressed, and have been pieced out by him and myself, where the lines were erringly remembered, or wholly forgotten. Would you know what girl must be Her lips, dear coz!-I must commence With those sweet flowers of soul and sense!- Caught in the air, ere fallen below ;- Perchance, since truth is now my track, I swear I know not how to speak And then her tresses, parted, glance Over her natural countenance, And die in careless curls,—or share With her sweet dress, her shoulders fair, Fair-fair as lilies that for ever Whiten upon a lonely river! -I care not if a pearled hand Cloy the stray curls (when they are fann'd By the fond air, over the brow) To cluster them-and leave them so. Well, what her shape ?—Not short, nor tall ; Deer-like in step,-so that the fall Of her light foot seem chancework all! Smooth as her thoughts, and all as true!— THE DRAMA. No. XIV. The King has visited the theatres of Drury Lane and Covent Garden. This is right. It is fit that the monarch of a great country should sometimes come abroad and look upon his subjects, and that the people should be made acquainted with their prince. The distinctions in society are already sufficiently great; and we do not like to hear of a king who, like the Grand Lama of Thibet, is a mystery and nothing more, a mere abstract political idea, an imperishable production of the state, embalmed and hidden from the public eyes by the fears or interest of his courtiers. The public heart is sound at the core, because the human heart is naturally good; but the public temper, like the temper of individuals, is sometimes fretful and requires soothing. It was well done, therefore, in the King to trust to the one, inasmuch as that very expression of confidence acted as a balm to the other.-His Majesty was received, generally speaking, with demonstrations of regard by the persons assembled in the interior of the theatres. There was some dissatisfaction, it is true, mixed with the plaudits, but it was not of sufficient importance to disturb the joy of the occasion, otherwise than by calling forth more vehement shouts from the staunch friends of royalty. "God save the King" was sung and repeated, and again sung before him; and many a pair of Stentorian lungs attested the loyalty which animated the possessors. The galleries sent forth an occasional hiss, and a portion of the pit, and a great part of the boxes, were quiescent. Still there were enough to split the of us modest critics, who did " ears not venture either to applaud or hiss, of us who have always -Wisely shunn'd the broad way and the green, And with those few are eminently seen, That labour up the hill with heavenly truth: For us, it is our way, if not our pleasure, to look upon the battling of contending parties, in and out of the theatre, with a smile, which we ourselves at least deem philosophical; and we are content to let our hopes glance onward, somewhat far into the future, or "sigh our souls" pleasantly toward the past, instead of mingling in debate and quarrel about the preservation or subversion of existing institutions, good and bad. There is somewhat of indolence, perhaps of selfishness, in this, it will be said: perhaps so; but when we thus leave the wide world free for others to bustle in, we at least give up our chances of distinction at the time when we secure our quiet. Besides, it is not fair that we who criticise the world within the theatre, should also arrogate to ourselves the privilege of finding fault with the world without:-we have no double empery: we are content with Little Britain alone: let the duty and the power of the contiguous realm rest on whomsoever it may: we are no invader of another's country-no remover of our neighbour's landmark: we would not sit on the thrones of Austria and Naples at once, nor of Spain and the Indies: -with One foot on sea and one on shore we should fancy ourselves in peril perhaps, and we should be certainly * I trust that Edward did not indulge in any other than ideal Burgundy. It is better to pay for a first floor and take water, than to drink Nectar with two weeks in arrear. |