MINOR CORRESPONDENCE. The Plate which was announced in our last Magazine of the second Tessellated Pavement recently found at Cirencester, has not been completed in time for our present Number, but will appear in the next. H. W. F. is informed that the supposed descent of Oliver Cromwell from the Royal House of Stuart has never been proved, but rests only upon the assumption of certain old heralds inclined to flatter the genealogical pride-not of the Protector, but of some of his maternal ancestors, who upon the accession of King James I. were particularly happy to imagine such a consanguinity to royalty. We beg to refer our Correspondent to an article "On Genealogical Fictions" in our Magazine for Oct. 1846. It is probable that the ancestor who gave name to the Stewards of Norfolk and Cambridgeshire, was Steward either to the Earls of Norfolk, or to one of the great abbeys in the eastern counties. M. C. requests us to mention the authority on which one of our northern counties is written Westmerland. In answer, we beg to say that the county derives the etymology of its name decidedly from its being the "land of the western meres," -not the moors, as the modern mode of writing it seems to have suggested. In no old authority, either written or printed, will the name be found spelled otherwise than Westmerland. Any information relative to Neath, Glamorganshire, (the Nidum of Antoninus,) its Norman castle, or Cistercian abbey, would be thankfully received by Mr. G. G. FRANCIS, Burrows Lodge, Swansea, who is about to bring out a new edition of his "Neath and its Abbey." VIATOR States, in reference to the remarks of PHILURBAN (p. 338) and A. J. S. P., that the arms of Herbert on the monument of Sir Richard Herbert of Ewyas, in the church at Abergavenny, are debruised by a bendlet. A GENEALOGIST will be much obliged to any correspondent who can give him any information about "Richard Greene, apothecary," where he lived and died. He was living 1770, and bore the arms of Greenes of Greens Norton. MR. JABEZ ALLIES, perceiving in our recent numbers that the application of the Saxon word Puttoc is discussed, begs to inform us that there is a place in Lulsley, near Alfrick, in Worcestershire, called Puttock's, otherwise Pothook's, or Pauthook's-end, situated upon the border of the river Ferne, by Broadwas or Bradewas ford. There also is a farm called Poltuck's-end near the Rhyd by Dripshill in Madresfield, in Worcestershire, where there is a ford over the Severn. The word Rid or Rhyd in ancient British and Phoenician, signifying a ford. There also is a place called Puttoc's-end in Flyford Flavel, in Worcestershire, near to a brook. Now, as two of the above-mentioned places adjoin fords on rivers, and the other adjoins a brook, the question is whether these facts may not tend to throw some light upon the application of the word "Puttoc;" and it is curious that to all the names in question the word "end" is attached, as if thereby particularly designating the extreme points of parts called Puttock. In conclusion, Mr. ALLIES observes, that Lulsley and Madresfield, and several parishes adjoining thereto, abound in fairy names, as appears in his little work "On the Ignis fatuus, or Will-o'-theWisp, and the Fairies." A. B. in our Obituary for January last (p. 110), has observed the death in Ireland of "Arabella Jane, daughter of the late Sir Barry Denny, Bart. and relict of Rowland Bateman, esq." &c. It is added that this lady "claimed to be representative or coheir of the last Earl and Viscount Coningsby, who died 1729." Our Correspondent wishes to see, on good authority, the descent of this lady from the last Earl Coningsby, and the grounds on which she claimed to be his representative or coheir; he also asks for any information relative to the family and title of Coningsby. As the former is extinct, he believes, in the male line, he would be glad to be informed what families may claim descent from it through the female line; also whether the titles borne by the last Earl Coningsby are all extinct, or partly dormant only, or in abeyance. Gent. Mag. August, p. 216.-The Rev. William Peckham Woodward was presented to the rectory of West Grinstead by his own family, who sold the advowson to the late Earl of Egremont, whose son and heir, Colonel Wyndham, has recently presented the Rev. Thomas Wall Langshawe to the same. The Rev. Richard Haddy Williams was the younger brother of the late Rev. James Haddy Wilson Williams, Rector of Fornham All Saints, Suffolk. GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. Selections from the Poems and Letters of Bernard Barton. (Edited by his Daughter.) MORE than a quarter of a century has passed since Bernard Barton was in full song and not only did he delight his own county and neighbourhood by the sweetness and simplicity of his poetical strains, but they were heard also with pleasure and approbation in a far wider circle of admirers. The poems were in harmony with the character of the writer; the sentiments, the imagery, the expression were congenial to his religious creed: pleasing and natural associations were formed between them: they appeared the spontaneous flow of a reflecting and enlightened mind, and the religious tint that was thrown over the whole recommended them to many, who would have been but weakly attracted by mere brilliancy of fancy, elegance of sentiment, or melody of song. Thus the simple lays of the Quaker Poet quickly became popular, and those who at first opened the volumes in curiosity, found themselves attracted to them by a stronger tie of interest in the merit of the poetry and the character of the writer. Bernard Barton soon numbered those among his friends whose approbation stamped a value on his productions, and gave at once confidence to the writer and authority to the opinion of the public. Southey and Charles Lamb were among the first to hail the new and unexpected arrival in the realms of Parnassus; and no doubt but that the testimony of their approbation stimulated the poet to fresh exertion; and doubtless acted favourably, though silently, in leading him to a more careful consideration of the art he was so successfully beginning to practise. When we became acquainted with him, about this period, we found him full of literary projects, high in hopes, and justly delighted with the praise and success he had received. He possessed a quick apprehension of the proper points to select in the poetical subjects he undertook; and he had an extraordinary command of language and facility of expression which enabled him to embody his ideas in words at once natural and elegant. If the range he shews in his descriptions of nature, in his delineations of sentiment, and in his sketches of intellectual beauty, is not so extensive or striking as may be found in some others, still we shall find much compensation in the sweetness of his thoughts, the tender creations of his fancy, the delicacy of his reflections, and the unimpaired freshness and truth of that imagery which he brought from natural objects to illustrate and adorn the moral landscape, and to give to the forms of the ideal world the effective force and vividness of the material creation. There is in Barton's poems a higher beauty than the beauty of ingenuity, and something of more worth than the exquisiteness of workmanship. His works are full of passages of natural tenderness, and his religious poems, though animated with a warmth of devotion, are still expressed with that subdued propriety of language, which evince at once a correctness of taste and feeling. Perhaps some of the poems may incur the charge of diffuseness, and sometimes, from the very nature of the subject, the poet can show little except the piety of his mind, the purity of his expressions, and the flow of an easy and agreeable versification; but others can boast of charms and beauties of a higher order, loftier contemplations, and deeper views into the recesses of the poetic land. The lights of inspiration will sometimes burn pale and faint, even in the most gifted mind; but in the present volume we may assert that such passages are but few and exceptional, compared with the animation and spirit that form the general character. But, after all, the attraction of the poet is much mixed up with the gentle and kindly nature of the man. Bernard Barton loves to take us by the hand, and lead us along the soft sequestered paths of poetry, pointing out to us its varied charms, and illustrating what is beautiful in nature and feeling from the kindred associations of his own mind; and if at times, attentive to his guidance, the intellectual eye should take in a wider prospect and more majestic elements of vision, he who contemplates it will find the long horizon melting away into the solemn shadows, yet but faintly seen, of that better and fairer land, where the "dews of the morning are never pale with sorrow, and the eyes of the evening are never red with weeping." We must now, however, break off from what we had more to say, had room been granted, of our personal knowledge of the poet, and of the many interesting and agreeable conversations we had the felicity of enjoying with him, as well as with one or two of his most distinguished friends, who alike admired his talents and respected his character. But what we are not able to do the reader will find effectively executed in the present volume, which is edited with admirable judgment and taste, and with a modesty which has only allowed us to surmise the name of the writer.* To the very elegant memoir of Bernard Barton's life, which to endeavour to abridge would be much to injure, a selection of his correspondence with different friends is attached, and this is followed by some letters from Southey and Lamb, parts of which we shall extract; and the latter half of the volume consists of poems chosen from the various volumes (no less than ten) which were successively published by him. A better plan could not have been devised for giving in a convenient compass a faithful portrait of the author; and, though we have referred our readers to the book itself for the admirable sketch with which it commences, we cannot refrain from making a short extract or two relating to that portion (so interesting to all) which describes the personal habits and manners of the Suffolk poet. After a mention of his politics, which were of the Whig school, duly moderated and seen through a kind of poetic medium, and still further softened down by a naturally quiet disposition, the writer tells us : "He was equally tolerant of men, and free of acquaintance. So long as men were honest (and he was slow to suspect them to be otherwise), and reasonably agreeable (and he was easily pleased), he could find company in them. My temperament,' he writes, is, as far as a man can judge of himself, eminently social. I am wont to live out of myself, and to cling to anything or anybody loveable within my reach.' I have before said, that he was equally welcome and equally at ease, whether at the Hall or at the Farm; himself indifferent to rank, though he gave every one his title, not wondering even at those of his own community, who, unmindful perhaps of the military implication, owned But to the soft impeachment of esquire. Miss Barton's Preface, p. viii.-" She has intrusted the biographical part of the volume to one who knew her father well, and on whom she can rely for an impartial relation of his history," &c.-REV. The lively and pleasant manner in which the following view of the poet, in his favourite room and his "chosen hour," is given, needs no apology for admission here. "He was not learned-in language, science, or philosophy. Nor did he care for the loftiest kinds of poetry- the heroics,' as he called it. His favourite authors were those that dealt most in humour, good sense, domestic feeling, and pastoral description-Goldsmith, Cowper, Wordsworth in his lowlier moods, and Crabbe. One of his favourite prose books was Boswell's Johnson; of which he knew all the good things by heart, an inexhaustible store for a country dinner-table. And many will long remember him as he used to sit at table, his snuff-box in his hand, and a glass of genial wine before him, repeating some favourite passage and glancing his fine brown eyes about him as he recited. But perhaps his favourite prose book was Scott's Novels. These he seemed never tired of reading and hearing read. During the last four or five winters I have gone through several of the best of these with him-generally on one night in each week-Saturday night, that left him free to the prospect of Sunday's relaxation. Then was the volume taken down impatiently from the shelf almost before tea was over; and at last, when the room was clear, candles snuffed, and fire stirred, he would read out, or listen to, those fine stories, anticipating with a glance, or an impatient ejaculation of pleasure, the good things he knew were coming-which he liked all the better for knowing they were coming-relishing them afresh in the fresh enjoyment of his companion, to whom they were less familiar; until the modest supper coming in closed the book, and recalled him to his cheerful hospi tality," &c. Of the poetry the following review is given; nor is it to be overlooked, that of one of Barton's volumes Southey said, "There are many rich passages and frequent felicity of expression: " "The Poems, if not written off as easily as the Letters, were probably as little elaborated as any that ever were published. Without claiming for them the highest attributes of poetry, (which the author never pretended to,) we may surely say they abound in genuine feeling and elegant fancy expressed in easy and often very felicitous verse. These qualities employed in illustrating the religious and domestic affections, and the pastoral scenery with which such affections are perhaps most generally associated, have made Bernard Barton, as he desired to be, a household poet with a large class of readers--a class, who, as they may be supposed to welcome such poetry as being the articulate voice of those good feelings yearning in their own bosoms, one may hope will continue and increase in England. While in many of these poems it is the spirit within that redeems an imperfect form-just as it lights up the irregular features of a face into beauty-there are many which will surely abide the test of severer criticism. Such are several of the Sonnets; which, if they have not (and they do not aim at) the power and grandeur, are also free from the pedantic stiffness, of so many English Sonnets. Surely that one To My Daughter' is very beautiful in all respects. Some of the lighter pieces-'To Joanna,' 'To a young Housewife,' &c.-partake much of Cowper's playful grace. And some on the decline of life, and the religious consolations attending it, are very touching. Charles Lamb said, the verses To the Memory of Bloomfield' were 'sweet with Doric delicacy.' May not one say the same of those 'On Leiston Abbey,'' Cowper's Rural Walks,' on Some Pictures,' and others of the shorter descriptive pieces? Indeed, utterly incongruous as at first may seem the Quaker clerk and the ancient Greek Idyllist, some of these little poems recall to me the inscriptions in the Greek Anthology-not in any particular passages, but in their general air of simplicity, leisurely elegance, and quiet unimpassioned pensiveness," &c. With regard to the Correspondence, it should be read continuously, for it contains much of curiosity and importance as to the opinions and feelings and character of the author; but we are unwilling to pass it by, and must therefore content ourselves with a few broken fragments. The nonpoetic person mentioned in the following extract may stand, we believe, as a representative of a class among Barton's brethren :— "I met with a comical adventure the piqued me. We had a religious visit paid other day, which partly amused, partly to our little meeting here by a minister of our society, an entire stranger, I believe, to every one in the meeting. He gave us some very plain, honest counsel. After meeting, as is usual, several, indeed most, friends stopped to shake hands with our visitor, I among the rest; and on my name being mentioned to him rather officiously, I thought, by one standing by, the good old man said, 'Barton ?-Barton?-that's a name I don't recollect.' I told him it would be rather strange if he did, as we had never seen each other before. Suddenly, when, to my no small gratification, no one was attending to us, he looked rather inquiringly at me, and added, 'What, art thou the versifying man?' On my replying with a gravity, which I really think was heroic, that I was called such, he looked at me again, I thought, more in sorrow than in anger, and observed, 'Ah! that's a thing quite out of my way.'' Barton's rooms were filled with various products of art, both of the pencil and the chisel-in colours and in panel-and his manner of collecting is graphically described in his Life (p. xxxiii); but such things we know were eschewed by his more serious brethren, and by the pious sisterhood; to one of whom, who had remonstrated, he addressed the following words : "Thy objections to hanging up such things (pictures) may be as much a matter of conscience with thee as the use of them is with me the result of considerable thought, which gave me, to my own conscience, to regard such use as an allowable liberty. If I looked on such works of art as mere ornaments hung up to gratify the vanity of the possessor, I should cordially join in thy objection to them; but I regard them in a very different light. My limited leisure and my failing bodily strength do not allow of my being the pedestrian I once was. I often do not walk out of the streets for weeks together; but my love of nature, of earth, and sky, and water; of trees, fields, and lanes; and my still deeper love of the human face divine, is as intense as ever. As a poet, the use of these is as needful to me as my food. I can seldom get out to see the actual and the real; but a vivid transcript of these, combined with some little effort of memory and fancy, makes my little study full of life, peoples its silent walls with nature's cherished charms, and lights up human faces round me-dumb, yet eloquent in their human semblance." All who had the pleasure of knowing Allan Cunningham, and many who like ourselves have often lingered for hours in those fascinating halls of art which are here mentioned, listening to the voice and watching the hand of the great magician at whose command the marble started into life,* will thank us for giving them, in Barton's own words, their own feelings: "This very sudden news of poor Allan Cunningham's death has both shocked and grieved me. I had a letter from him on Friday morning last-I suspect the last he wrote-it was in his old cordial, kindly tone, but evidently written by an invalid. So I sat me down on Saturday night, and wrote him a long epistle, urging him to come down to Lucy and me for a week, as I was quite in hopes a few days' country air and quiet relaxation would do him good. I exerted all my powers of persuasion as eloquently as I could, of course to no purpose, for at the very time I was writing he was dying. And so I have lost my old favourite-him whom Charles Lamb used to call the large-hearted Scot' and a large and warm heart he had of his own. It seems to me now as if I never would give a fig to go to town again. The very last time I was there, Lucy and I spent a morning at Chantrey's, walking with Allan about those great rooms, each of them as big as a little cathedral, and swarming with statues - busts and groups-many as large as life-all still as death. It was worth somewhat to sit at the foot of some grand mass of stone or marble, and hear Allan talk about Sir Walter Scott, and Sir Francis, and Wilkie, and Burns; or when he was still, and we as mute, to look round all those glorious works of art, till we ourselves seemed to grow into stone like them ;-and now and then the din of the great Babel without, faintly heard there, would come upon us like echoes from another world, with which we then had no concern. We shall never go there more. Sir Francis and Allan, both then living, are now dead as the wonders they created ;-the rooms are stripped; and there's an end of that beautiful chapter in one's little life." *We used to have the pleasure of standing by the side of Chantrey when he was modelling and carving the bust of Professor Porson for Trinity college, Cambridge. The bust was made from a print or picture, and from the suggestions of a few friends; but the likeness was successful. "Vivos duxit de marmore vultus."-REV. |