AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

CHAPTER I.

BIOGRAPHY!

INTRODUCTORY.

For many a lad I knew is dead,
And many a lass grown old;

And when I think upon the past

My weary heart is cold.-CAPTAIN MORRIS.

MEMOIRS OF SELF! The I substituted for the WE, during so many years my familiar and protective critical plural, is a change of more importance than I could have expected.

I have had, it is true, some practice and experience in biographical writing, and was well acquainted with the diffi culties with which it was beset; but, until I took the pen in hand for my autobiography, I had not the faintest conception of the embarrassments and obstacles which stood in the way of a satisfactory performance of the altered task. The consideration and reserve due to others, the candour and veracity due to the public, and the fairness and justice due to myself, formed a combination of elements not easily to be reconciled

VOL. I.

B

in a Whole, which should fulfil the useful purposes of such a work. Above all, the almost uninterrupted style of egoism --and being, indeed, of necessity, the hero of my own history-filled me with such feelings of repugnance, that I again and again abandoned the design; and it is only the force of circumstances which I shall offer as an apology for commencing, with the hope of completing it.

Still I have to plead several other inducements, including the ancient barefaced one,—of the earnest request of friends, who have thought that my varied career, intimately mixed up with every prominent class of society during the period of half a century, must furnish materials for a pleasant and instructive production. I am myself more than half persuaded of the truth of this; and if memory and talent do not fail me, I ambitiously trust to leave a few volumes behind me, which may be a more enduring monument than could be raised from any multitude of my efforts dispersed in periodical literature, which seldom can be analysed and condensed to the credit of even the most gifted contributor, who has not adopted more solid forms for the exercise of his abilities. Were this likely or possible, I should be willing to rest my name, for a short era, and yet as much as I could expect of posthumous remembrance, upon my numerous essays in various esteemed publications, and, especially, upon my labours in the "Literary Gazette" for thirty-four years; but as there is no chance of such a distinct separation of the wheat from the chaff, I am the better inclined to the endeavour to connect my pathway and doings in the world with matters of general interest, and persons respecting whom their country must long desire to learn as much as can be told. When I state that my juvenile associates numbered among others not unknown to fame, such individuals as the late Lord High Chancellor

of England, Lord Truro, and the Lord Chief Baron; that years of my middle life were past in confidential intercourse with the statesmen of the day, such as Lord Farnborough, Huskisson, Arbuthnot, Cooke, and still later, with many of the eminent characters who have held high places in the government of the country; and that, both in the preceding and later periods of my course, I enjoyed the friendship and unreserved intimacy of George Canning, and the regard and familiar acquaintance of almost every person of celebrity in the land-political, scientific, artistic, literary, or otherwise remarkable, it may not be too much to predicate that I have a great deal to communicate worthy of popular and even national acceptation. Without presumption, I can truly assert that my stores are very considerable both in variety and value, and I hope to make a good use of my materials.

With regard to that perplexing subject, MYSELF, I should certainly have avoided it more than I shall do, had I not a great object in view, and, as I feel, a paramount duty to perform, in executing the purpose I have undertaken. My life has been one of much vicissitude, of infinite struggle, and latterly of very grave misfortune. On looking back from the harassed, would it were the calm untroubled goal of three-score and ten years, I can trace with a faithful pencil much that has been owing to mistakes, to errors, to faults, and to improvidence on my own side; and more to misconceptions, injustice, wrongs, and persecutions, unprovoked by any act of mine, on the part of others. I believe that the retrospect may be very serviceable to my fellow-creatures, and most signally so to those who have embarked, or are disposed to embark, in the pursuits of literature as a provision for the wants of life. Of all the multitude I have known who leant upon this crutch as a sole support, I could not specify ten who ever attained

anything like a desirable status either in fortune or society. On the contrary, the entire class may be assured that although felony may be more hazardous, literature is, of the two, by far the most unprofitable profession.

What I have done and undergone may teach a lesson of pointed instruction; and if I rescue even a few from the too certain fate, I shall not regret where I have confessed my transgressions and opened my heart for their guidance. I am conscious that productions of this kind are rarely more than popular for a limited period; and then are to be found in libraries for future references, perhaps, by authors who may be investigating portions of the literary history of past times. In this way they are occasionally and partially revived again and again, and are so far useful; but even within my own experience of noticing autobiographical memoirs in the "Literary Gazette," it is but poor encouragement to confess that I do not remember any example of one of the class creating aught beyond a temporary sensation. In fact very few biographies, and only of important personages, do last long enough to have any effect upon succeeding generations. It seems as if the good and the evil were barely sufficient for their own date; and that whatever grandchildren might attempt to teach their grandmothers, they are quite inapt to receive instruction from their venerable progenitors of either sex.

My small hope to prolong my vitality and memory a little farther, rests on the foundation of my having known and been associated, as I have stated, with many memorable persons, and having been concerned in some remarkable events, such as rarely occur within the sphere of individuals of my station, besides being entrusted with the confidence of others, so as, I think, to enable me to throw some new lights on some very interesting topics. But for these con

siderations, I believe that I should have been deterred from my task by the whimsical canon of my lamented friend Hood, who, in his Death's Ramble, informs me that He (Death)

found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further-
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self murther.

And this quotation leads me to state in this prefatory chapter, that I foresee my narrative must be of a very mixed, and almost incongruous character: for the grave and gay have alternated so rapidly with me, that I never can keep them far asunder. With Gay I would not state (especially on a tombstone) that Life was a jest: but I am free to affirm, that even amidst its most grievous afflictions and deepest tragedies, there always runs a series of accompaniments allied to the jocular and ridiculous, which would almost create laughter under the ribs of Death. For myself I can say that not many men have enjoyed so much of pleasure and endured so much of pain as I have done. I have drained the Circè-cup to the lees, but I still gratefully acknowledge the enchanting draught of its exquisite and transporting sweetness, in spite of the emptiness of its froth, and the bitterness of its dregs.

Yet is there much of sadness in the reflection of bygone years, protracted to the span which mine have now reached. In looking back, it appears to me as if I had gone through eircles of society, and cycles of events. I look around and

ask, Where are they who
me?
Where are they?

began their hopeful career with Oh, how few have threaded the

trying path, and are now among the living!

How many

have perished and are forgotten; or, at most, but momentarily recalled by the converse of old friends, who are so shortly to follow them into a like oblivion! No need have