Relegated to the Cork and Bandon circuit, he had a very trying time of it for about a year. One of his memoranda made at this time gives us a glimpse of his acquirements from his own common-sense point of view, for Bradburn was a thoroughly sensible and humble man, who never yielded to ignorant flattery of his pulpit eloquence, nor gave way, as some self-made men and popular preachers have done, to vanity and conceit. Self-examination was with him a genuine business, conducted in a reverent spirit and an honest and altogether healthy fashion. By this means he came to know himself and act accordingly. Not many men in his position would have written so sensibly as this: “Cork, March 31st(1779).—I have read and written much this month, but sadly feel the want of a friend to direct my studies. All with whom I have any intimacy, know nothing of my meaning when I speak of my ignorance. They praise my sermons, and consider me a prodigy of learning; and yet what do I know? a little Latin, a little philosophy, history, divinity, and a little of many things, all of which serves to convince me of my own ignorance!” At this time, and for many years after, he preached forty sermons a month, and sometimes fifty. Even if they wereallold sermons, which would not often be the case, how could a man so employed find time or energy for close and continuous study? The next four years are spent at Keighley, Bradford, and Leeds in Yorkshire. When at Keighley he “travelled”for a time with Wesley, and had an opportunity of observing the way in which that sainted man wholly devoted his gifts, his time, and his money to the service of God and his fellow-men. Wesley’s stipend from the Society in London was £30 a year, but the sale of books, the generosity of the friends at Bristol, and occasional preaching fees and sundry legacies, brought his yearly income up to £1000 or £1200; yet he rarely spent more for himself than his meagre stipend, and regularly gave awayall the rest. “Thus literally having nothing, he possessed all things; and though poor, he made many rich.”[18]At Leeds, Bradburn was offered the pastorate of an Independent Church with a greatly increased salary, but the loyal Methodist refused the tempting offer. His next appointment was to Bristol, where he had the misfortune to lose his darling Betsey, who died of decline in her twenty-ninth year. His colleague had suffered a similar bereavement, and the stern yet tender-hearted Wesley, then in his eighty-third year, actually set off from London “in the driven snow” to go down to Bristol and comfort the two sorrowing preachers. Bradburn did not long remain a widower. At Gloucester he met Sophia Cooke, “the pious and godly” Methodist to whom Robert Raikes of Sunday-school fame had spoken about the poor children in the streets, and asked her, “What can we do for them?“ Miss Cooke replied, ”Let us teach them, and take them to church!” The hint was acted upon, and Raikes and Miss Cooke “conducted the first company of Sunday scholars to the church, exposed to the comments and laughter of the populace, as they passed along with their ragged procession.” A better wife for the earnest Methodist preacher could not have been found than the woman who thus showed her good sense, her piety, and her courage, in starting the Sunday-school movement. In 1786 Wesley showed his appreciation of Bradburn’s excellent qualities by getting him appointed to the London Circuit in order to have his assistance in superintending the affairs of the Connection. Here he met with Charles Wesley, and, at the time of his death in 1788, Bradburn stood by the dying man’s bed offering up earnest prayer for him, and calling to his mind the truths of that Gospel which he had done so much to spread throughout the world by his unrivalled hymns. John Wesley himself died three years afterward, 2d March, 1791, and Bradburn, then at Manchester, published apamphlet entitled, “A Sketch of Mr. Wesley’s Character,” in which he gave a most interesting epitome of the chief points in the history and labors of his father in the Gospel. Bradburn, now looked upon as one of the foremost men in the Connection, united with eight others in issuing a circular giving an outline of policy for the guidance of the Conference at its next session. The utmost care and wisdom were needed in order to keep the various elements of Methodism together; and few men in those days were more conspicuous and useful than Bradburn in guiding the counsels of the assembled ministers. He was elected to preach before the Conference at its next session in Manchester, and so moved his audience by his impassioned appeal for unity and loyalty to the good cause that had now lost its earthly leader, that all in the chapel rose to their feet in response to his stimulating words. In 1796, when stationed at Bath, he was made secretary of the Conference, and held the office three years in succession. In 1799 his brethren showed their esteem for him by choosing him asPresident, and thus giving him the highest honor which they had it in their power to bestow.
Among Methodists Bradburn is regarded as one of the most eloquent and powerful preachers the denomination has produced. He had all the natural gifts of a great orator, and these, combined with fervent piety and a single and lofty purpose in preaching, invested his discourses with a charm and an influence rarely wielded by public speakers. “Possessed of a commanding figure, dignified carriage, graceful action, mellow voice, ready utterance, correct ear, exuberant imagination, an astonishing memory, and an extensive acquaintance with his mother tongue, he could move an assembly as the summer breeze stirs the standing corn.”[19]This elocutionary power was not gained without much care and diligent labor. He was a hard reader, and a most painstaking sermonizer, for though he never used the manuscript in the pulpit but preached extempore, after the fashion of the times, he nevertheless prepared his discourses with great skill and labor. The following sentences from his biography will sufficiently illustrate this point.[20]“His own bold, easy, and correct English was such as no man acquires without perseverance in a right use of means. His diligence may be inferred from one of his reported sayings on leaving Manchester—that he had twelve hundred outlines ofsermons untouched (not used in preaching in the circuit) at the end of three years’ ministrations. The result of such endowments, improved, with such assiduity, amid all the hindrances and discouragements of a laborious and harassing vocation, was, that to be comprehensive and lucid in arrangement; beautifully clear in statement or exposition; weighty, nervous, and acute in argumentation; copious, various, and interesting in illustration; overwhelming in pathos; to wield at will the ludicrous or the tender, the animating, the sublime, or the terrible—seems to have been habitually in his power.” The Rev. Richard Watson, author of the “Institutes,” “walked twenty miles to hear the far-famed Mr. Bradburn preach; and he never lost the impression which that distinguished orator produced.” Watson thus describes his impressions: “I am not a very excitable subject, but Mr. Bradburn’s preaching affected my whole frame. I felt a thrill to the very extremity of my fingers, and my hair actually seemed to stand on end.” The biographer of the Rev. Jabez Bunting says of Bradburn: “His career was brilliant and useful; and perhaps more men longed, but durst not try, to preach like him than like any other preacher of his time.... Bradburn was without exception the most consummate orator we ever heard.” And the author of Bradburn’s life concludes the citation of a number of testimonies with the following strongly expressed opinion of his merits as a pulpit orator: “Methodism has produced a host of preachers renowned for pulpit eloquence. The names of Benson, Lessey, Watson, Newton, Beaumont, and others, stand out in bold relief on the page of her history, but the highest niche in her temple of fame belongs, most unquestionably, toSamuel Bradburn.”
Like most men of genius he had a strong sense of humor, enjoyed a joke most heartily, was ready and pithy in repartee, and seldom at a loss for spirit and tact in extricating himself from difficulties. Many a good story might be told, did space allow, in illustration of this feature of his character. One or two must suffice. Perhaps the smartest thing he ever did in outwitting the early opponents of Methodism was done in a certain small town, in one of his own circuits, where, in the early days of the movement, the preacher and his friends had often “been driven off the field by a mob, headed by the clergyman.” Bradburn understood the state of affairs thoroughly, and resolved to go down to the parish and preach in the open air. Notice of his coming was duly forwarded,and the clergyman ordered constables and others to be in attendance at the time and place appointed for the service. Meanwhile Bradburn having “provided himself with a new suit of clothes, borrowed a new wig of a Methodist barber,“ and ”went to the place, put his horse up at the inn, attended the morning service at church, placed himself in a conspicuous situation so as to attract the notice of the clergyman, and, when the service was closed, he went up to him on his way out, accosted him as a brother, and thanked him for his sermon. The clergyman, judging from his appearance and address that he was a minister of some note, gave him an invitation to his house. Bradburn respectfully declined, on the ground that he had ordered dinner, and expressed a hope that the clergyman would dine with him at the inn. He did so, and Bradburn having entertained him until dinner was over with his extraordinary powers of conversation, managed to refer to the open-air service which was to be held, and the clergyman stated his intention to arrest the preacher and disperse the congregation, and asked Bradburn to accompany him, which he did. On arriving at the appointed place they found a large company assembled; and as no preacher had made his appearance, the clergyman concluded that fear had kept him away, and was about to order the people to their homes when Bradburn remarked that it would “be highly improper to neglect so favorable an opportunity of doing good, and urged him to preach to them. He excused himself by saying that he had no sermon in his pocket, and asked Bradburn to address them, which, of course, he readily consented to do, and commenced the service by singing part of the hymn beginning—
‘Oh, for a thousand tongues to singMy great Redeemer’s praise,’
‘Oh, for a thousand tongues to singMy great Redeemer’s praise,’
‘Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing
My great Redeemer’s praise,’
and, after praying, delivered an impressive discourse from Acts 5:38, 39, ‘And now I say unto you, Refrain from these men, and let them alone; for if this counsel or this work be of men, it will come to nought: but if it be of God, ye cannot overthrow it, lest haply ye be found even to fight against God.’ This not only deeply affected the people, but so delighted the clergyman, that although he knew, as the service proceeded, that he had been duped, he heartily thanked Bradburn for the deception he had practised on him, and ever afterward, to the day of his death, showed a friendly disposition toward Methodism.”[21]
The same readiness of resource and good humor were shown in the management of the affairs of the society in his capacity as a pastor. On one occasion, when he resided in Manchester, two ladies, district visitors, went to the house of an old woman, a member of the society, who was a laundress, and finding her hard at work accosted her with the remark: “Betty, you are busy.” “Yes, mum,” said Betty, “as busy as the devil in a whirlwind!” Shocked by such an indecorous speech, the visitors threatened to report it to Mr. Bradburn. Afraid of what she had done, and the consequence, if it should come to the preacher’s ears, Betty, as soon as the ladies had gone away, set off by the quickest route to see Mr. Bradburn and relate the whole affair, and thus anticipate the report from the ladies themselves. She found Bradburn “engaged in his vocation as cobbler for his family.” “He listened to Betty’s simple story, and engaged to put the matter right, if she would try to be more guarded in the future. She had scarcely got clear away when the two ladies arrived with their melancholy story of Betty’s irreverence. They were asked into the room, and seeing him at his somewhat unclerical employment, one of them observed quite unthinkingly, ‘Mr. Bradburn, you are busy!’ ‘Yes,’ returned Bradburn, with great gravity, ‘as busy as the devil in a whirlwind!’ This remark from Betty was sufficiently startling, but from Bradburn it was horrifying. Seeing their consternation, he explained how busy the devil was in Job’s days, when he raised the whirlwind which ‘smote the four corners of the house,’ where the patriarch’s children were feasting, and slew them. It is, perhaps, needless to add that the two ladies left without mentioning the object of their visit.”[22]
Hating the false pride which leads a man to forget his humble origin, and the canting way in which some men talk of their sacrifices in entering the ministry, he once severely rebuked two young men who made a parade in company of having “given upallfor the ministry.” “Yes, dear brethren,“ said he, ”some of you have had to sacrifice your all for the itinerancy; but we old men have had our share of these trials. As for myself, I made a double sacrifice, for I gave up for the ministry two of the bestawlsin the kingdom—a great sacrifice, truly, to become an ambassador of God in the church, and a gentleman in society!” His ready wit was sometimes displayed like that of Hugh Latimer, Dean Swift, and Sydney Smith, in the selections of texts for sermons on special occasions. Preaching at the opening of a chapel entirely built with borrowed money, he took as a text the words of the young man to Elisha the prophet:[23]“Alas, master, for it was borrowed.” On a snowy winter’s day, when the congregation was very small, he selected the words which describe the character of the virtuous woman,[24]“She is not afraid of the snow.”
That Samuel Bradburn was not perfect none will need to be told, yet it will surprise and pain every one to read that so great and good a man, honored and beloved of his brethren for many years, and useful beyond computation as a preacher, should have been “overtaken in a fault,” for which the Conference, in the exercise of a rigorous discipline, saw fit to suspend him for a year. After the lapse of this time he came back again to his old position, penitent and humble, like David or Peter, and like them fully restored to the Divine favor. This singular and melancholy event appears to have been due as much tomentalasmoralderangement, and in a short while, such was the sincerity of his sorrow and the blameless character of his after-life, his brethren were thankful to forget it, and to place him once more in positions of high trust and honor in the Connection. The last ten years of his life were spent in the important circuits of Bolton, Bath, Wakefield, Bristol, Liverpool, and East London. He died in London, July 26th, 1816, in the sixty-sixth year of his age. At the time of his decease the Conference was sitting in London. As a token of esteem and affection all its members joined in the funeral service at the New Chapel, City Road. He was buried in Old Methodist graveyard, City Road, by the side of his friend John Wesley, in the last resting-place of many of the fathers and founders of the Wesleyan Connection.
FROM THE SHOEMAKER’S STOOL TO THE EDITOR’S CHAIR.
“Not mine the soul that pants not after fame—Ambitious of a poet’s envied name,I haunt the sacred fount, athirst to proveThe grateful influence of the stream I love.”—The Baviad; William Gifford.
“Not mine the soul that pants not after fame—Ambitious of a poet’s envied name,I haunt the sacred fount, athirst to proveThe grateful influence of the stream I love.”—The Baviad; William Gifford.
“Not mine the soul that pants not after fame—
Ambitious of a poet’s envied name,
I haunt the sacred fount, athirst to prove
The grateful influence of the stream I love.”
—The Baviad; William Gifford.
“It is on all hands conceded, that the success which attended the ‘Quarterly’ from the outset was due, in no small degree, to the ability and tact with which Gifford discharged his editorial duties.”—Encyclopædia Britannica.
“I am not more certain of many conjectures than I am that he never propagated a dishonest opinion, nor did a dishonest act.”—Writer in the Literary Gazette.
The field of literature seems always to have had a special charm for shoemakers. If the reader will glance for a moment at the list of names given at the end of this book, this fact will be at once apparent. Half, or more than half, the names given in that list are in some way or other connected with literature. The connection is but slight in many instances, perhaps, and the reputation it conferred only local and temporary. Few of our shoemakers, even though we have thought well to style them “illustrious,” can be said to have made a great and lasting name in the world of letters; and none of them it must be confessed have attained to first rank as prose or poetical writers. But there are worthies in our list, associated alike with the humble craft of shoemaking and the higher walks of literature, whose names the world will not willingly let die, and we venture to think that the subject of this sketch is one of the number.
William Gifford was the first editor of theLondon Quarterly Review. The high and influential position held by this journal was mainly due in the first instance to Gifford’s talent and excellent management. TheLondon Quarterlywas started in opposition to the famousEdinburgh Quarterly; George Canning, the celebrated statesman, and Sir Walter Scott, the great novelist, being the prime movers and early patrons of the enterprise, for theEdinburgh, under the clever management of Jeffrey, and supported by such writers as Sydney Smith and Brougham, was then too liberal in its tone to suit the taste of the brilliant Foreign Secretary and his Tory friends. It was no slight testimony to the abilities of the man who was chosen as the first editor of the newQuarterlythat his election should have been cordially approved by the first of Scottish novelists, and one of the most influential of English statesmen.
Gifford was the author of two satirical poems, the “Baviad” and “Maeviad,” directed against the tawdry and sentimental rhymesters of a certain school which flourished in his day.[25]His scathing satire succeeded in putting an end to their trash.Gifford published also a translation of the Latin poets, Juvenal and Persius. To the latter he prefixed the story of his own early life as a poor cobbler’s apprentice. From this interesting autobiography the materials for the following sketch have been chiefly selected. William Gifford’s best title to fame was, no doubt, his edition of the “Early English Dramatists”—Ford, Massinger, Shirley, and Ben Jonson. His generous and able vindication of Jonson reflects credit both upon the critic and the poet. It should be added that Gifford’s editorship of theQuarterlyextended over fifteen years, and that during the whole of this period he was the writer of a large number of its most able articles.
Having taken a glimpse of the work accomplished by William Gifford as a critic, a scholar, and an editor in the latter years of his life, let us turn to look at his circumstances in boyhood and youth, when, as a miserable cobbler’s apprentice, he began to yearn after knowledge and to cherish ambitious dreams. The contrast between the first and last scenes in the drama of life could hardly be more wonderful than that which is presented in the history of the man who passed from the cobbler’s stool to the editor’s chair.
William Gifford was born at the small town of Ashburton, in South Devon, in 1757. His father, who was a man of spendthrift and profligate habits, died of the effects of his evil conduct before he had attained the age of forty. In twelve months afterward Gifford’s mother died, leaving William, and a little brother two years old, orphans, and, it would seem, penniless. As no home could be found for the infant, he was sent to the workhouse. William, then thirteen years of age, fell into the hands of a man named Carlisle, who had stood as his godfather, a worthless fellow, who had appropriated the few things left by the mother, on pretence of claiming them for debt. This man put William to school, where he began to show signs of ability; but he was allowed no chance of making progress; for, at the end of three months, grudging the slight cost of his tuition, Carlisle took the boy from his books and playmates, and put him to the plough. It was soon found that he was too weak for such heavy work. His guardian now tried to get the boy out of hand altogether, by sending him off to Newfoundland as an errand-boy in a grocery store. This unkind project, however, being doomed to failure, it was resolved that the troublesome charge should be got rid of by making him a sailor.
We give the account of what happened at this period in his own words: “My godfather had now humbler views for me, and I had no heart to resist anything. He proposed to send me on board one of the Torbay fishing-boats. I ventured, however, to remonstrate against this, and the matter was compromised by my consenting to go on board a coaster. A coaster was speedily found for me at Brixham, and thither I went when little more than thirteen years of age. It will easily be conceived that my life was a life of hardship. I was not only a ship-boy on the high and giddy mast, but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot. Yet if I was restless and discontented it was not so much on account of this as of my being prevented reading, as my master did not possess a single book of any description, excepting a Coasting Pilot.”
Gifford was on board this vessel for about twelve months, a time of untold suffering and degradation. In fact, his position was so deplorable that some women from Ashburton, who went down to Brixham to buy fish, shocked to see the boy running about the beach in ragged clothes, spoke so plainly on their return home about the hardship of his lot, that his godfather was compelled for very shame to send for him home again. He was once more put to school, and now made such rapid strides in arithmetic that on an emergency he was invited to assist the school-master. He goes on in his own narrative to say that these encouragements led him to entertain the idea that he might be able to get his own living by teaching, and as his first master “was now grown old and infirm, it seemed unlikely that he should hold out above three or four years, and I fondly flattered myself,“ he adds, ”that notwithstanding my youth I might possibly be appointed to succeed him.” It is worth while to notice that he was but a boy in his teens when he first began to feel the noble spirit of ambition stir within him, and to cherish the laudable desire to rely upon his own efforts for his maintenance. It was this lofty and self-reliant spirit which carried him past all his difficulties; and, truth to tell, no one has ever done anything remarkable in the world without it. The youth who is altogether destitute of ambition, and is ever on the look-out for the help of friends, lacks the first elements of success in life. But Gifford’s bravery and persistence of mind had to be severely tested before meeting with their due reward.
Proceeding with his pathetic story, he says: “I was aboutfifteen years of age when I built these castles in the air. A storm, however, was collecting, which unexpectedly burst upon me and swept them all away. On mentioning my plan to my guardian, he treated it with the utmost contempt, and told me he had been negotiating with his cousin, a shoemaker of some respectability, who had liberally consented to take me, without fee, as an apprentice. I was so shocked at this intelligence that I did not venture to remonstrate, but went in sullenness and silence to my new master, to whom I was bound till I should attain the age of twenty-one. At this period I had read nothing but a romance called ‘Parismus,’ a few loose magazines—the Bible, indeed, I was well acquainted with; these, with the ‘Imitation of Thomas à Kempis,’ which I used to read to my mother on her death-bed, constituted the whole of my literary acquisitions.”
The account which follows has few things to equal it in the records of struggling genius. It will serve to show how abject and apparently hopeless was his condition as a student at this time of his life, and will show also, what it may be hoped no youth who reads these pages will fail to learn, how marvellous is the power of energy and perseverance to triumph over apparently insuperable obstacles.
“I possessed,” Gifford writes, “at this time but one book in-the world; it was a treatise on algebra given to me by a young woman who had found it in a lodging-house. I considered it a treasure; but it was a treasure locked up, for it supposed the reader to be acquainted with simple equations, and I knew nothing of the matter.” He then speaks of meeting with a book called Fenning’s “Introduction” belonging to his master’s son, who, by the way, was discovered afterward to have been all through this time a secret rival for the head-mastership. This “Introduction” gave Gifford just the information required to carry him forward into the study of algebra. But he was compelled to study it by stealth, lest it should be taken from him, and he goes on to say: “I sat up for the greater part of several nights successively and completely mastered it. I could now enter upon my own, and that carried me pretty far into the science. This was not done without difficulty. I had not a farthing on earth, nor a friend to give me one; pen, ink, and paper, therefore, were for the most part as completely out of my reach as a crown and sceptre. There was, indeed, a resource, but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applying to it. I beat out pieces of leatheras smooth as possible and wrought my problems on them with a blunted awl; for the rest my memory was tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent.”
Strange to say, although he displayed so much ability and zeal in the study of mathematics, he was not destined to achieve distinction in that department of study. A very trifling incident led to the exercise of new gifts, and turned the tide of his evil fortune. A shopmate had made a few verses on the blunder of a painter in the village who was engaged to paint a lion for a sign-board, and had produced a dog instead. Gifford thought he could beat the verses of his shopmate, and accordingly tried his hand at rhyme. His associates all agreed in pronouncing young Gifford’s verses the better of the two. This encouraged him to try again, and in the course of a short time he had composed about a dozen pieces. He says: “They were talked of in my little circle, and I was sometimes invited to repeat them out of it. I never committed a line to paper—first, because I had no paper; and, second, because I was afraid, for my master had already threatened me for inadvertently hitching the name of one of his customers into a rhyme.” The rest of this account of his poetical adventures would be amusing if it were not for the pathos which underlies it, and the fact that it is the prelude to one of the most painful incidents in the sad story of Gifford’s early life. Referring to these recitals of his poetical pieces he says: “These repetitions were always attended by applause, and sometimes by favors more substantial; little collections were now and then made, and I have received sixpence in an evening(!). To one who had long lived in the absolute want of money such a resource seemed a Peruvian mine. I furnished myself by degrees with paper, etc., and, what was of more importance, with books of geometry and of the higher branches of algebra, which I cautiously concealed. Poetry even at this time was no amusement of mine. I only had recourse to it when I wanted money for my mathematical pursuits. But the clouds were gathering fast. My master’s anger was raised to a terrible pitch by my indifference to his concerns, and still more by my presumptuous attempts at versification. I was required to give up my papers, and when I refused, was searched, my little hoard of books discovered and removed, and all future repetitions prohibited in the strictest manner. This was a severe stroke, I felt it most sensibly, and it was followed by another, severer still, a stroke which crushed the hopes I had so long and fondlycherished, and resigned me at once to despair. Mr. Hugh, Smerdon, the master of the school on whose succession I had calculated, died and was succeeded by a person not much older than myself, and certainly not so well qualified for the situation.”
Poor Gifford! hard, indeed, was thy lot; an orphan without friends, helpers, or sympathizers, having no proper leisure or means for study or recreation, and even the little pleasure and profit wrung from a few ciphering books and doggerel verses snatched away by cruel hands; trodden down like a worm in the mire, and every particle of talent and ambition threatened with extinction! For six long years this misery lasted in one form or another, while he strove to hope on against hope, and found himself compelled to labor at a trade which he declares he hated from the first with a perfect hatred, and never, consequently, made any progress in. What could be more miserable and disheartening? But to the industrious and patient, as “to the upright,there ariseth light in the darkness.” No darker hour occurred in all Gifford’s miserable boyhood and youth than that which is described in the sentences just quoted. And now the light is about to appear. A friend comes upon the scene, to whose generous interference the unhappy cobbler owed the educational advantages he afterward enjoyed. His obligations to this benefactor were always most readily and warmly expressed; for whatever faults Gifford might have, he was never charged with the meanness of forgetting his lowly origin, and the generous friend by whom he had been rescued from a wretched condition and introduced to a happier state of life. He speaks of his benefactor as bearing “a name never to be pronounced by him without veneration.” This gentleman, Mr. Cooksley, was a surgeon in the neighborhood. He had accidentally heard of the young cobbler’s poetry, and sought an interview with him. Gifford went down to the surgeon’s house, and, encouraged by the kindness he received, told the story of his attempts at self-culture, and of the hardships he had undergone. Deeply moved by the touching story, and convinced of the young man’s natural abilities and desert of encouragement, Mr. Cooksley resolved, there and then, on liberating the youth from the thraldom of his situation. The first thing was to free him from the bonds of his apprenticeship, and the next to give him the advantages of regular instruction. He was then twenty years of age, and he says, “My handwriting was bad, and my language very incorrect.”Accordingly, a subscription was started to furnish funds for this twofold purpose. It read as follows: “A subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time of William Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in writing and English grammar.” The kindness of Cooksley and a few other friends, whose sympathies were enlisted by his generous zeal for the youth, enabled him to receive two years’ instruction from a clergyman, the Rev. Thomas Smerdon, who resided in the locality. Such was the progress made by Gifford, that at the end of that time his instructor pronounced him quite prepared for the university. Again Mr. Cooksley proved a friend. By his efforts and promises of support Gifford was entered at Exeter College, Oxford. Unfortunately his noble patron died before Gifford could take his degree. But he was not suffered to leave Oxford on account of Mr. Cooksley’s death. He found a second patron in Lord Grosvenor, by whose aid the grateful undergraduate was enabled to finish his term. The culture which he received in the university must have been very thorough and complete, evincing itself in refinement of manner as well as scholarship of no ordinary degree, for in the course of a few years after leaving Ashburton, we learn that the late shoemaker was taken into the family of Lord Grosvenor as private tutor and travelling companion to his son Lord Belgrave. The circumstance which led to Lord Grosvenor’s patronage of Gifford was remarkable, and deserves to be recorded as an illustration of the fact that an accident may lead to the most important events in our history. But we must premise, first of all, as a safeguard against a false inference or false hopes, thatsuchaccidents are sure to come in the way ofindustrious, cleveranddeservingmen. If they occur to men of a different stamp they are of no avail. If William Gifford had not been a hard-working student, such a circumstance as the accidental perusal of one of his letters by a person for whom it was not intended could not have helped his fortunes in the least. It appears that he had been in the habit of corresponding with a friend in London on literary matters. His letters to this friend were sent under covers, and in order to save postage were left at Lord Grosvenor’s. One day the address of the literary friend was omitted, and his lordship, supposing the letter to be for himself, opened and read it. The contents excited his admiration, and awakened his curiosity to know who the author could be. He was sent for, and after an interview, in which, for the second time in his life, he told the story of his early strugglesto willing and sympathizing ears, he was invited by Lord Grosvenor to come and reside with him.
It is deeply gratifying to record instances of disinterested generosity of this kind, and to read the glowing language in which the thankful young student refers to the kindness of his noble patron. Referring to the invitation to live with Lord Grosvenor, and his promise of honorable maintenance, Gifford says, “These were not words of course, they were more than fulfilled in every point. I did go and reside with him, and I experienced a warm and cordial reception, and a kind and affectionate esteem that has known neither diminution nor interruption, from that hour to this, a period of twenty years.”
In 1794, his “Baviad” was published, in imitation of the satires of Persius, and in the following year the “Mæviad,” after the style of Horace. These names were taken from the third Eclogue of Virgil—
“He may with foxes plough and milk he-goats,Who praisesBaviusor onMæviusdotes.”
“He may with foxes plough and milk he-goats,Who praisesBaviusor onMæviusdotes.”
“He may with foxes plough and milk he-goats,
Who praisesBaviusor onMæviusdotes.”
These terribly virulent satires, like those of Boileau and Pope, were aimed at contemporary poets of an inferior order, and like them, too, were most crushing in their effect. TheDella Cruscan School[26]never smiled, or rather smirked, again after the issue of the Baviad and Mæviad. But it is a rare thing to meet with a critic or a satirist who escapes the danger of committing a fault in condemning one. Gifford did not escape this danger. His lines certainly did not answer to the epigram—
“Satire should, like a polished razor keen,Wound with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen.”
“Satire should, like a polished razor keen,Wound with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen.”
“Satire should, like a polished razor keen,
Wound with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen.”
His unhappy victims were hacked and hewed in pieces in a merciless and barbarous manner; while the spectators enjoyed the savage sport, and accorded the cruel executioner a wreath of laurel for the vigor and talent displayed in his unenviable task. These satires first made Gifford’s name in the world of letters. But his fame as a scholar was established chiefly on his translations of Persius and Juvenal, and his excellent editions, with valuable notes, of the early “English Dramatists.” Speaking of Gifford’s edition of Ben Jonson’s dramatic and other works, John Kemble, the most accomplished actor of his day, says,“It is the best edition, by the ablest of modern commentators, through whose learned and generous labors old Ben’s forgotten works and injured character are restored to the merited admiration and esteem of the world.”
The celebrity thus obtained, along with the friendship of the leading Tory politicians of the day, secured for Gifford the position of editor of theLondon Quarterly. It ought to be stated that when Mr. Channing started theAnti-Jacobinin 1797, Gifford was entrusted with the conduct of that journal, and had thus acquired a little experience of journalism. His connection with this paper, which came out weekly, lasted only for a year. But he managed theQuarterly, as we have said, for fifteen years, that is, from 1809, the date of its commencement, to 1824, when ill-health compelled him to lay his pen aside.
The plan of this new journal had originated with John Murray, the famous publisher, and had received the hearty support of Walter Scott, Egbert Southey, Canning, Rose, Disraeli, and Hookham Frere. The first number, containing three articles by Walter Scott, was published on the 1st February, 1809, and was immediately sold out, a second edition being called for. Canning wrote for the second number, and Southey became a constant and most prolific contributor. “For the first hundred and twenty-six numbers he wrote ninety-four articles, many of them of great permanent value.“[27]At John Murray’s ”drawing-rooms,” where the leading literary men of the day were wont to assemble at four o’clock, Gifford met with a brilliant assemblage of poets, novelists, historians, artists, and others. Murray the publisher delighted “to gather together such men as Byron, Scott, Moore, Campbell, Southey, Gifford, Hallam, Lockhart, Washington Irving, and Mrs. Somerville; and, more than this, he invited such artists as Lawrence, Wilkie, Phillips, Newton, and Pickersgill, to meet them and paint them, that they might hang forever on his walls.“[28]It was in reference to one of Murray’s ”publishers’ dinners” Byron wrote the lines in which occurs the following allusion to Gifford:
“A party dines with me to-day,All clever men who make their way;Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and ChantreyAre all partakers of my pantry.My room’s so full—we’ve Gifford here,Reading MS. with Hookham Frere,Pronouncing on the nouns and particlesOf some of our forthcoming articles.”
“A party dines with me to-day,All clever men who make their way;Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and ChantreyAre all partakers of my pantry.
“A party dines with me to-day,
All clever men who make their way;
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey
Are all partakers of my pantry.
My room’s so full—we’ve Gifford here,Reading MS. with Hookham Frere,Pronouncing on the nouns and particlesOf some of our forthcoming articles.”
My room’s so full—we’ve Gifford here,
Reading MS. with Hookham Frere,
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles
Of some of our forthcoming articles.”
A writer in theLiterary Gazette,[29]who had the pleasure of Gifford’s personal acquaintance, has made the following interesting notes upon his private character, and his conduct as an editor. “He never stipulated for any salary as editor; at first he received £200, and at last £900 per annum, but never engaged for a particular sum. He several times returned money to Murray, saying ‘he had been too liberal.’ Perhaps he was the only man on this side the Tweed who thought so! He was perfectly indifferent about wealth, I do not know a better proof of this than the fact that he was richer, by a very considerable sum, at the time of his death than he was at all aware of. In unison with his contempt of money was his disregard of any external distinction; he had a strong natural aversion to anything like pomp or parade. Yet he was by no means insensible to an honorable distinction, and when the University of Oxford, about two years before his death, offered to give him a doctor’s degree, he observed, ‘Twenty years ago it would have been gratifying, but now it would only be written on my coffin.’
“His disregard for external show was the more remarkable, as a contrary feeling is generally observable in persons who have risen from penury to wealth. But Gifford was a gentleman in feeling and in conduct, and you were never led to suspect he was sprung from an obscure origin except when he reminded you of it by an anecdote relative to it. And this recalls one of the stories he used to tell with irresistible drollery, the merit of which entirely depended on his manner. It was simply this: At the cobblers’ board, of which Gifford had been a member, there was but one candle allowed for the whole coterie of operatives; it was, of course, a matter of importance that this candle should give as much light as possible. This was only to be done by repeated snuffings; but snuffers being a piece of fantastic coxcombry they were not pampered with: the members of the board took it in turn to perform the office of the forbidden luxury with their finger and thumb. The candle was handed, therefore, to each in succession, with the word ‘sneaf’ (Anglice, snuff) bellowed in his ears. Gifford used to pronounce this word in the legitimate broad Devonshire dialect, and accompanied his story with expressive gestures. Now on paper this is absolutely nothing, but in Gifford’s mouth it was exquisitely humorous. I should not, however, have mentioned it, were it not that it appears to me one of the best instances I could give of his humility in recurring to his former condition.... He was a man of very deep and warm affections. If I were desired to point out the distinguishing excellence of his private character, I should refer to his fervent sincerity of heart. He was particularly kind to children and fond of their society. My sister, when young, used sometimes to spend a month with him, on which occasions he would hire a pianoforte, and once he actually had a juvenile ball at his house for her amusement.”
Speaking of the spirit he displayed as editor of theQuarterly, the same writer says: “He disliked incurring an obligation which might in any degree shackle the expression of his free opinion. Agreeably to this, he laid down a rule, from which he never departed, that every writer in theQuarterlywould receive at least so much per sheet. On one occasion, a gentleman holding office under Government sent him an article, which, after undergoing some serious mutilations at his hands preparatory to being ushered into the world, was accepted. But the usual sum being sent to the author, he rejected it with disdain, conceiving it a high dishonor to be paid for anything—the independent placeman! Gifford, in answer, informed him of the invariable rule of theReviewadding, that he could send the money to any charitable institution, or dispose of it in any manner he should direct, but that the money must be paid. The doughty official, convinced that the virtue of his article would force it into theReviewat all events, stood firm in his refusal; greatly to his dismay the article was returned. He revenged himself by never sending another.”
Speaking of his relation to the Tory Government of the day, the writer says: “It is true his independence of opinion might seem to be interfered with by the situations he held, but they were bestowed on him unsolicited, and from motives of personal regard. I am sure every one acquainted with him will admit that he would have rejected with scorn any kindness which could be considered as fettering the freedom of his conduct in the smallest degree. I am not more certain of many conjectures than I am that he never propagated a dishonest opinion nor did a dishonest act.... If the united influence of theAnti-Jacobinand theQuarterlybe considered, we mayprobably be justified in assigning to Gifford’s literary support of Government a rank second only to Burke.”
William Gifford died worth a considerable fortune, which he left, as a token of undying gratitude, to Mr. William Cooksley, the son of his first generous patron and benefactor.
We append a few selections from Gifford’s poetical works, as samples of his style and quality as a writer. The first is from the “Baviad,” and represents him in the character of a satirist exposing the vanities of the “Delia Cruscan” school of poets; and the second, taken from the “Mæviad,” exhibits him in the more genial light of a faithful friend, commemorating his early intercourse with his companion and fellow-student, Dr. Ireland, Dean of Westminster: