BOOKS.

BERNARD BARTON'S LITE AND LETTERS.* THERE is more of melancholy about the disappearance of the lesser than the greater stars of literature. The author whose works are for "all time" is as much alive to posterity as he was to his contemporaries ; the writer whose name is to dwindle away through a slow tradition, and only be preserved for the literary student in literary history, comes more home to the feelings of our common nature—" mentem mortalia tangunt." When accident or satire turns up a name once frequent in the world's mouth, but now forgotten save by those whose trade it is to remember such, a feeling arises akin to that which touches the mind of the wayfarer who lingers over the mementoes of mortality in a country churchyard.

The feeling is deeper, or at least fuller, in the case of a contemporary who continually appeared before the public, whose subjects were gene- rally associated with the common sentiments and common feelings of mankind, and whose treatment if deficient in art and study was always pleasing—not too homely for the refined, not too deep or lofty for the humble. Such was Bernard Barton ; some of whose strains yet linger in the memory, and who was almost tenderly associated in many minds from his long connexion with the Annuals. Indeed, to their better spirit his own was appropriate, and they seem to have perished with if not

before him.

The genius of Bernard Barton was probably capable of achieving

greater excellence than his poems exhibit. Although he cannot exactly be called the founder of a school, we think he was the first in point of time who practised the domestic or household style of poetry, where the common incidents of daily life, the things or circumstances that are familiar to all of us, and the sentiments which are coloured by a high state of civilization if they are not owing to it, are em- bodied in smooth and pleasing rather than strong and striking verse. If this style were carried to the pitch which the style is capable of, the founder might be entitled to the praise of an original poet. As he did not reach, and apparently did not aim at the highest excellence, his merit of priority was lost in a crowd of imitators; while Mrs. Ilemans and (per- haps) Miss Landon, by adding the historical and romantic to their hum- bler themes, have attracted to themselves some of that reputation which rightfully belonged to Bernard Barton. But it must be owned, that if we judge from actual specimens, not from possible excellence, the style was not striking in itself. It was one of those ideas which arise spon- taneously in many minds under certain conditions of society, and is therefore rather to be considered as common to many a moderate than peculiar to one original mind. It is natural but obvious. The biographical information in the present volume lets us into part of the secret of Bernard Barton's acquiescence in a pleasing mediocrity, instead of struggling for excellence. He had little literature and little leisure; his genius was discursive rather than concentrated; and he had the fatal gift of easy fluency. "He wrote in numbers for the numbers came " ; or if they did not, he poured out his thoughts in prose,—always agreeable, it would seem, and with a substratum of reality, but of neces- sity superficial, and dependent for attraction on the subject, or the felicity of the hour. His rapidity of composition, its injurious effects upon his poetical character, with the outline of his literary career, are well and suc- cinctly told by the friend who arranged and added to the autobiographical

papers which Bernard Barton left behind him.

"In 1812, he published his first volume of Poems, called ' Metrical Effusions,' and began a correspondence with Southey, who continued to give him most kind

and wise advice for many years. * *

"In 1818 Bernard Barton published by subscription a thin quarto volume— 'Poems by an Amateur'; and shortly afterward appeared under the auspices of a London publisher in a volume of 'Poems,' which, being favourably reviewed in the 'Edinburgh,' reached a fourth edition by 1825. In 1822 came out his 'Na- poleon,' which he managed to get dedicated and presented to George the Fourth. And now being launched upon the public with a favouring gale, he pushed forward with an eagerness that was little to his ultimate advantage. Between 1822 and 1828 he published five volumes of verse. Each of these contained many pretty poems; but many that were very hasty, and written more as task-work, when the mind was already wearied with the dealt-labours of the day ; not waiting for the occasion to suggest, nor the impulse to improve. Of this he was warned by his friends, and of the danger of making himself too cheap with publishers and the public. But the advice of others had little weight in the hour of success with one so inexperienced and so hopeful as himself. And there was in Bernard Barton a certain boyish impetuosity in pursuit of anything he had at heart, that age itself scarcely could subdue. Thus it was with his correspondence; and thus it was with his poetry. He wrote always with great facility, almost unretarded by that worst labour of correction; for lie was not fastidious himself about exactness of thought or harmony of numbers, and he could scarce comprehend why the pub- lic should be less easily satisfied."

One reason assigned by his biographer for the poet's "mistaken activity" was, that publishing was the sole event which varied the monotony of Bernard Barton's life. His career, indeed, was uneventful enough. He was born in 1784; lost both his parents in early life; was sent to a Quaker school at Ipswich, and on leaving it was apprenticed to a shopkeeper at

Halsted in Essex, where "he stood behind the counter for eight years."

"In 1806 he went to Woodbridge; and a year after married Lucy Jesup, the niece of his former master, and entered into partnership with her brother as coal and corn merchant. But she died a year after marriage, in giving birth to the only child, who now survives them both; and he, perhaps sickened with the scene of his blighted love, and finding, like his father, that he had less taste for the ledger than for literature, almost directly quitted Woodbridge, and engaged himself as private tutor in the family of Mr. Waterhouse, a merchant in Liver- pooL There Bernard Barton had some family connexions; and there also he was kindly received and entertained by the Roscoe family, who were old acquaintances of his father and mother.

"After a year's residence in Liverpool he returned to Woodbridge, and there became clerk in Messrs. Alexander's bank,—a kind of office which secures cer- tain if small remuneration, without any of the anxiety of business; and there he continued for forty years, working till within two days of his death."

• Selections from the Poems and Letters of Bernard Barton. Edited by his Daugh- ter. Published by Hall and Virtue.

This took place suddenly, on the 19th February in the present year, from disease of the heart.

The volume before us contains the memoir from which we have al- ready quoted, a selection from the correspondence of Bernard Barton, and a selection from his poems ; forming altogether a volume of mach interest. The memoir is one of the best things of the kind we have seen, both as regards judgment and execution. The poet and the man are thoroughly appreciated, and, what is rare when thetiographer is a friend, are rated at their true value—the good qualities of each perceived, the failings not overlooked but touched gently. The facts of the life are narrated rapidly; the habits and peculiarities of the subject are presented as only personal knowledge can present them ; and Bernard Barton is allowed to tell his own story when his letters are biographical. The selection from the poet's correspondence is perhaps a little overdone, some of the letters being on personal topics or matters of mere opinion : in general, however, they are full of character; especially those from Charles Lamb, who comes out genially rich, and from Bernard himself, who in his way is almost as rich as Lamb, and not unlike him—such as Charles might have been had fate made him a Quaker. This letter on fame, which explains itself, is a sober " Elia." 9 mo. 1, 1545.

" Many years ago I wrote some verses for a child's annual to accompany a print of Doddridge's mother teaching him Bible history from the Dutch tiles round their fireplace. I had clean forgotten both the print and my verses; but sores one has sent me a child's penny cotton handkerchief, on which I find a transcript of that identical print, and four of my stanzas printed under it. This handker- chief celebrity tickles me somewhat. Talk of fame! is not this a fame which comes home, not only to men's business and bosoms,' but to children's noses into the bargain ! Tom Churchyard (an artist) calls it an indignity, an insult, looks scorny at it, and says he would cuff any urchin whom be caught blowing his nose on one of his sketches. All this arises from his not knowing the complicated nature and texture of all worldly fame. 'Tie like the image the Babylonish king dreamt of, with its golden head, baser metal lower down, and miry clay for the feet. It will not do to be fastidious; you must take the idol as it is—its gold sconce if you can get it—if not, take the clay feet, or one toe of another foot, and be thankful, and make what you can of it. I write verse to be read; it is a mat- ter of comparative indifference to me whether I am read from a fine bound book on a drawingroom-table, or spelt over from a penny rag of a kerchief by the child of a peasant or a weaver. So, honour to the cotton-printer, say I, whoever he be; that bit of rag is my patent as a household poet."

Bernard Barton was a Quaker and a stanch one, but he was of far too genial a nature to care for the fopperies of the Friends, or to circumscribe salvation to a sect. His elder sister, his daughter, and other near con- nexions, formally left "the meeting," and were baptized in the "steeple- house," with his regrets, but no other feeling. He himself did not scruple to attend the Church service; and he graciously bore with the surveil- lance and remonstrances of the straitest of his sect. Besides its other features, his correspondence is curious for occasional glimpses of the arbitrary interference of Quakers with the personal conduct of one another. Here are his pleadings on the waistcoat and the bell.

" 9 me. 12, 1846.

"And now, my dear old friend of above twenty years' standing, I have two points on which I must try to right myself in thy good opinion—the swansdown waistcoat, and the bell with the somewhat unquakerly inscription of Mr. Bar- ton's bell' graven above the handle thereof. I could not well suppress a smile at both counts of the indictment, for both are true to a certain extent, though I do not know that I should feel at all bound to plead guilty to either in a criminal one. It is true that prior to my birthday, now nearly two years ago, my daugh- ter, without consulting me, did work for me in worsted work, as they do now-a- days for slippers, a piece of semptress-ship or needle-craft, forming the forepart of a waistcoat; the pattern of which being rather larger than I should have chosen had choice been allowed me, gave it some semblance of the striped or flowered waistcoats which for aught I know may be designated as swansdown; but the colours, drab and chocolate, were so very sober, that I put it on as I found it, thinking no evil, and wore it first and week days all last winter, and may pro- bably through the coming one, at least on week-days. It is cut in my wonted single-breasted fashion; and es my collarless coat, coming pretty forward, allows no great display of it, I had not heard before a word of scandal or even censure on its unfriendliness. Considering who worked it for me, I am not sure had the Royal arms been worked thereon, if in such sober colours, but I might have worn it, and thought it less fine and less fashionable than the velvet and tole ones which I have seen, ere now, in our galleries, and worn by Friends of high standing and undoubted orthodoxy. But I attach comparatively little im- portance to areas, while there is enough left in the tout ensemble of the costume to give ample evidence that the wearer is a Quaker. So much for the waist- coat; now for the bell: I live in the back part of the Bank premises, and thenp- preach to the yard leading to my habitat is by a gate opening out of the principal street or thoroughfare through our town; the same gate serving for an approach to my cousin's kitchen-door, to a large bar-iron warehouse in the same yard, and I know not what beside. Under these circumstances, some notification was thought needful to mark the bell appertaining to our domicile, though I suppose nearly a hundred yards off; and the bell-hanger, without any consultation with me, and without my knowledge, had put these words over the handle of the bell, in a re- cess or hole in the wall by the gate-side; and they had stood there unnoticed and unobserved by me for weeks, if not mouths, before I ever saw them. When aware of their being there, having had no concern whatever in their being put there, having given no directions for their inscription, and not having to pay for them, I quietly let them stand; and, until thy letter reached me, I have never heard one word of comment on said inscription as an unquakerly one; for I believe it is well known among all our neighbours that the job of making two houses out of one was done by contract with artisans not of us, who executed their commission accord- ing to usual custom, without taking our phraseology into account. Such, my good friend, are the simple facts of the two cases."

We close our extracts from this agreeable volume with a story from the memoir, throwing light upon a Prime Minister as well as the poet.

"In 1845 came out his last volume; which he got permission to dedicate to the Queen. He sent also a copy of it to Sir Robert Peel, then Prime Minister, with whom he had already corresponded slightly on the subject of the Income-tax, which Mr. Barton thought pressed rather unduly on clerks and others whose narrow income was only for life. Sir Robert asked him to dinner at Whitehall.`Twenty years ago,' writes Barton, 'such a summons had elated and exhilarated me—now 1 feel humbled and depressed at it. Why, but that I verge on the period when the lighting down of the grasshopper is a burden, and desire itself begins to fail. He went, however; and tees sincerely pleased with the courtesy and astonished at the social ease of a man who bad so many and no heavy cares on his shoulders. When the Quaker poet was first ushered into the room, there were but three guests assembled, of whom belittle expected to know one. But the mutual ex-

clamations of George Airy ! ' and 'Bernard Barton!' soon satisfied Sir Robert as w his country guest's feeling at home at the great town-dinner.

"On leaving office ,a year after, Sir Robert recommended him to the Queen for an annual pension of 1001.: one of the last acts, as the retiring Minister intimated, of his official career, and one he should always reflect on with pleasure. B. Bar- ton gratefully accepted the boon. And to the very close of life he continued, after his fashion, to send. letters and occasional poems to Sir Robert, and to receive a few kind words in reply."