written by his younger brother, Charles Dibdin. He was a tall, fine-looking fellow, and, as an elderly gentleman who knew both said, not at all like his son. We must pass over much of his parental history, the afflictions of which are described with feeling and respect by the son. It is sufficient to say, that both parents died abroad, and the future Doctor Dibdin landed in England, from Middleburgh, soon after his mother's death; with linen not over clean, his youthful stomach full of good potent schedam (we hope he has still got a keg or two at Exning), whieh had been substituted for beef and mutton; his legs were too weak to carry him, and he had about half-a-dozen hairs on that head which we still hope to see encircled with a mitre. He was soon consigned to the care of a great-aunt of the name of Frognall, who lived at Reading, and sent him to school at Hosierlane, under a Man who taught him writing and arithmetic (though we think that the Doctor has forgotten most of the former, if we may judge from some specimens of his caligraphy; and we don't think he ever took to the latter). But the Man behaved very kindly to him, and put him on a round table, and made him dance Dutch jigs. He then formed, he says, an occasional acquaintance with Corderius and Æsop, "authors (as he observes) not the best calculated to smooth the ruggedness of classical literature, to the understanding of early youth." He also wrote pastorals, like Virgil, ex. grat. For whom do sheep their grateful voices raise, And faithful shepherds tune their sylvan lays? For whom do sing the rustic nut-brown maids, And deep-green bowers, and thickets, from their shades? This is all told in a frank, good-humoured manner, not very full of instruction, perhaps, nor very amusing; but the Dibdins, whether of Deepden, in Hampshire, or of Debden, in Essex, like all other persons' nobili de stemmate, may be excused for dwelling on family history ;-we, however, must hasten on; we must see our author changing Hosier-lane for Stockwell, where he was conscious of a sudden and strong progress in intellectual improvement; but which school, after ten years, he left for Dr Greenlaw's seminary at Brentford; and where he wrote his celebrated poem of Richmond-hill, extracts of which he very properly gives as a part of the Philosophy of the Human Mind." We know little of poetry, as we are only kept by our employers in the prose-line, but the following lines appear worthy of extraction; the author is speaking of Pope : For whom the Naiads left their watery bed, And Thames, spontaneous, rear'd his hoary head. For whom the Muse hath pour'd her genuine fire, Religion's dictates and love's passion tells. While airy sylphs around Belinda fly, And guard the lock that 's destin'd ne'er to die. The critic in thy essay wondering sees Rules so concise, and maxims sure to please, &c. * No more, ye trees, no more his lay shall sound, No more, ye bowers, his swelling note rebound. 66 -but the Doctor ought not to have written (p. 74) doXixóσkios Eyxos, considering that he says "he had mastered the first twelve books of that immortal poem." No slight victory; for we believe the said twelve books have mastered every one but him. By way of relieving himself from these Homeric studies, he sometimes used to read Telemachus in a mulberrytree; "plucking alternately the Parnassian and Thisbian fruit;" and sometimes Fitzosborne's Letters; but at length he goes to college -is admitted among the academic groves of St. John's-where Boswell's Johnson, and D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature, whet his literary appetite anew-where Hume always was his sofa-companion, and Henry his "Hortus Adonidis." Thus pleasantly and profitably his three years glided away. He then passed his examination, taking up Callimachus, Tacitus, and Juvenal, and there he laid the foundation for his future degree of D. D.; and, as we hope, ere long, of the Very Reverend Doctor Dibdin. But we must proceed softly, like the hero of our tale. The Doctor passed into the temple of Divinity through the gate of Law: he entered at Lincoln's Inn, emulous of the fame of Butler and Hargrave, and "Smit with the strong contagion of the gown." It is true, no business came; he heard no attorney's knock; no crowd of morning clients woke him from his sleep; and no wonder, for the Doctor owns he had no taste for the technical part of his profession: so, having been to the temple of Hymen, he packed up his library, and removed Mrs. Dibdin and his Penates to Worcester; or as it may be better described in verse, the Doctor supposed to be speaking: "There is, I cried (and dropt my pen), Which leads to fame and fortune those : We long had deem'd him meat for crows. But Worcester proved as unprofitable as London; so the Doctor speedily disposed of his law-books, "And left John Doe and Richard Roe for ever." He now took to the elder sister-Divinity. Bishop Marsh's Michaelis made him a Christian upon conviction! He delighted in Jortin's and Seed's Sermons, but, proh pudor! was disgusted with South: concerning whom the Doctor has permitted himself to say, "that such characters are little better than actors, hired to play Cardinal Wolsey to-day, and Sir John Falstaff to-morrow."* Doddridge and Horne unveiled to him all the loveliness of the Christian religion; Lardner and Macknight cleared up all harassing doubts;-and as for the New Testament, the Doctor "revelled in choice copies of the first Erasmus and the first Stephens; and he defied any neighbouring clergyman to match him in Elzevirs and Tonsons." The study of Divinity, so auspiciously commenced, must needs lead to good results; but the Doctor had unfortunately left the University without taking his degree: so it was thought advisable that he should consult Dr. Hurd, the Bishop of Worcester. He accordingly called on that venerable Prelate at Hartlebury. He had read Gibbon's acute remarks upon the Letters on Romance and Chivalry, and upon the Art of Poetry by Horace, and he seemed to feel a particular curiosity to see the friend and editor of Warburton, then far advanced in the vale of years. "I shall never," he This passage on South should be erased in the next edition. says, "forget his appearance. It was as if some statue had 'Stepp'd from its pedestal to take the air.' He was habited in a brocaded silk morning-gown, with a full-dressed wig, stooping forward, and leaning upon what appeared to be a gold-headed cane. His complexion had the transparency of marble; and his countenance was full of expression, indicative of the setting of that intellectual sun, which at its meridian height had shone forth with no ordinary lustre. He was theu, I think, in his eightieth year. His reception of me was bland and courteous; but he deemed the taking of a degree an absolutely essential preliminary measure. On asking me what was my then course of studies, and on receiving my reply, he added, 'You cannot do better.'" Upon this, the Doctor turned his back on the pleasant city of Pomona, and settled at Kensington; was ordained by the Bishop of Winchester, who we presume was more indulgent than his brother; and determined on commencing author in right earnest. This was a good resolution, but was well-nigh scared from its propriety by an accidental meeting at dinner with an Editor of one of the Reviews. As the picture of this gentleman may stand as the representative of the whole class of that grim and grisly phalanx, the Editors of Reviews and Magazines, and indeed in one case, as we can answer, for the absolute likeness of these descendants of old John Dennis, we shall give the tremendous portrait in the Author's words : "There sate a gentleman, to me wholly unknown, of a middling time of life, with a saturnine complexion, and searching look, who was placed at the right hand of the master of the feast [just the very place which the Editor whom we have seen occupies], and who dealt out his discourse with a sufficient mixture of positiveness and severity [another palpable hit]. He had dark eyes, and yet darker whiskers; and not only was his voice loud and penetrating, but his dicta seemed to be listened to with something like reverential attention.* My neighbour whispered in my ear that he was an Editor of one of the Reviews. This intelligence riveted me to his person, and my ear to his conversation. At that moment there seemed to be no one in the room but HE. After dinner we discoursed of the influence of Reviews. Sir,' said he, their influence is inconceivable. I am one of that corps diplomatique. I know a young man at this moment, not quite of age, who has a volume of poems in the press. I know it will be sad trash, and I am whetting my critical knife to cut it to pieces, the moment it sees daylight.' Had I been made of yielding materials, I must of necessity have fainted away; but, contrariwise, I stood to the charge, and replied, I could not comprehend how a man could be whetting his knife to cut to pieces that which he had not seen, and which, when seen, might possibly blunt the edge of his weapon.' His rejoinder struck me as terrible. Poh! young man,' said he, I see clearly you know nothing of the world. There are at this moment six unfledged authors begging and praying for a good word from me.' I was petrified, horror-struck. I said little during the rest of the evening, but stole away somewhat earlier than I am wont, and retired to my pillow, rather than to my rest, with the image of this saturnine complexioned and savage-hearted critic before me. How could he know of my having a volume of poems in the press? Had my printer been faithless, and conveyed a copy to him surreptitiously? A greater night of torture was never experienced by any malefactor on the evening preceding his execution. With mingled feelings of surprise, anger, disdain, and contempt, I was impatient till the grey morn had lifted her pale lustre on the paler wretch. My fears as to my printer were entirely groundless: and all other fears were well nigh subdued, when my printer sagaciously remarked, that there were surely other young men with volumes of poems in the press besides myself; and that he could bring a reviewer into the field (oh potent printer!) to say clever things for me, to the full as effective as the unknown critic's cutting things." *This latter part of the portrait has lost much of its resemblance in late days: seeing that authors now are bold enough to turn round and bite their best friend the Reviewer-"forcing both him and the Dolphin to swear fealty." These were dreadful notes of preparation; but, while the opposing warriors thus frowned defiance at each other, the fair cause of all the quarrel was carried off by Minerva in a mist, αὐτὰρ ̓Αθήνη πολλὺν ἥερα χεῦε φίλα, and never seen again; in other words, the volume was still-born, and there was no need of gossips at the christening. As we advance in the account of Dr. Dibdin's literary efforts, we find a series of Tales, written as a remission from severe studies. Onc of these was "La Belle Marianne," which was privately printed, and the only copy brought to the hammer produced the sum of 21. 16s. in russia binding. "Sir John Falkland" was another; and then "Two Pilgrims in Grey;" but "Guiscardo, the Pirate," was the most elaborate; it is still in MS. and the Doctor has favoured us with part of the narrative, which we commend to the attention of all gentlemen and scholars, especially that part which mentions the "nine virgins with necklaces of coral, and stomachers of wrought gold, with five females waiting on each virgin, who moved in the train of Donna Ximena, the bride, and the mother of Count Siffredi." The Doctor, after reposing awhile from these labours, then revised and enlarged a History of Cheltenham, for which he received 301. of Mr. Ruff, the bookseller, and a large-paper copy of which is now in the library of Althorp. Thus, he says, he fairly commenced author, both by trade and good will. But for the rest of the acts of Dr. Dibdin, and how he became acquainted with Dr. Gosset, and how he dedicated his Introduction to the Classics to Lord Spencer; and how his printer was Mr. Gosnell, of Little Queen-street, Holborn; and how he found Mr. Moss poaching upon his manor; and how he furnished him with fresh powder and shot, out of his own bag; and how he translated Fenelon on the Education of Daughters for the Duchess of Bedford; and how he preached at Brompton for 301. a year; and read Casaubon's Epistles upon Camden Hill; and how he delivered Lectures on Poetry at the Royal Institution; and how he published a work called "The Director;" and edited Ames's Typographical Antiquities; and read his Bibliomania † in MS. to Atticus, at his suburban residence at Elliot's Brewery ; and how he made a sad mistake between Mr. Hugh Farmer, who wrote on Miracles, and Dr. Richard Farmer, who wrote on Mysteries; and how, on publishing the Bibliomania, "he felt the earth firm and solid beneath his feet, and the circumambient air clear and buoyant;"-all these matters, with others of larger import, are they not written in the Author's Reminiscences? and should they not be read by every one who is unwilling év áμabía καὶ ἀμουσία καταβιῶναι ? And so we return the Doctor many thanks for the entertainment his volume has afforded us; assuring him that we hope * What does Dr. Dibdin allude to, when, speaking of the London Institution, he says, "Will Mr. Thomson, one of the present librarians, ever give us an account of the depredations and peculations of that Library? Such a furtive history would not only be amusing, but might operate beneficially by way of warning to others who possess the organ of furtivity." We give the key to the ciphers in this book: Leontes, Mr. Bindley; Prospero, Mr. Douce: Archimedes, Mr. Rennie; Hortensius, Sir William Bolland; Aurelius, Mr. G. Chalmers; Lepidus, Dr. Gosset; Bernardo, Mr. Haslewood; Marcellus, Mr. Malone; Orlando, Mr. Wodhull; Sir Tristrem, Sir W. Scott; Menalcus, Rev. H. Drury; Ulpian, Mr. Utterson; Quisquilius, Mr. G. Baker; Mustapha, Mr. Gardiner the bookseller; the Author himself, RosICRUCIUS! GENT. MAG. VOL. V. C next month to meet him again; * and now for the present, in the words of his friend Wyllym Caxton, bidding him farewell: "Wyth these, here Gutenberg and Fust unite In thankes ryghte herty unto the oure frende, DIARY OF A LOVER OF LITERATURE. 1810. Dec. 23. Stewart in his Essays divides the circumstances which please in objects of Taste, into those which do so-1st, from the organical adaptation of the human frame to the external universe-2ndly, from associations formed gradually by experience and the latter into such as please - 1. From associations common to the whole human race; 2. Such as are peculiar to particular times and places. The first member of the latter division he classes with the former, as universal beauties: the second member he regards as arbitrary beauties, and divides them according to the extent of their influence into classical associations, the most generally influential; national or local associations, the next in operative force; personal associations, the narrowest of any; and observes that there are corresponding modifications of taste, denominating that a philosophical taste, by way of eminence, which is founded on the study of universal beauty. The two distinguishing characteristics of a good taste, he considers as being correctness and delicacy; and though he admits it as a self-evident truth, that without sensibility there can be no taste, yet contends that extreme sensibility is unfavourable to both these characteristics of a good one, overpowering, instead of gently stimulating, those habits of observation, comparison, and intellectual experiment, of which the power of taste is the gradual and slow result. Dec 24. Looked over Churchill's Rosciad, Apology, and Night— verses strong in sense, but coarse and rough in texture. is this distich Call'd into being scenes unknown before, And passing Nature's bounds, was something more, In the Rosciad applied to Shakspeare. Was this before or after Johnson's celebrated Prologue?-before, they might be thought fine; after, they must be deemed wretched. Dec. 29. Called and sat with Dr. Pearson. Had a letter from his sister in the morning, in which she mentioned that Sheridan had lately said in conversation, that he detested Pope as a poet, that Homer ought to have been hung, that Virgil was delightful, and that he adored Dryden. He must surely have been drunk! Pope and Virgil, Homer and Dryden, must, one would think, have been linked together; nor can I rationally account for so preposterous a preference. There are some woful misprints in the Doctor's book, which we should not have expected from such a quarter. As, p. 262, Dr. Legden, for Dr. Leyden; p. 271, R. Helsor, for R. Heber, cum multis aliis. But what are we to think of Calamo currentissimo !** |