WILLIAM SIDNEY WALKER'S LIFE AND POETICAL

REMAINS.* THE works of William Sidney Walker are not very distinctively known, yet they are better known than his name. A scholar, a critic, a poet, and a prose writer, he threw away opportunities of successes and frittered away life in fugitive pursuits ; the victim, as is perhaps generally the case, of some physical deficiency, which with Walker terminated in a sort of monomania. He was born in 1795; and by the efforts of his mother, after his father's death through wounds received in a gallant action in the Weser, was educated at Eton. From school he went to Cambridge, with (his mother says she thinks) two scholarships; and he finally became a Fellow of Trinity. At the age of seventeen he published, by sub- scription, part of an epic on the subject of Gustavus Vasa ; which, precocious but puerile, disappointed the hopes of his friends. He was a Quarterly Reviewer in his teens, a frequent contributor to The Classical Journal and other periodicals ; and he has left be- hind him writings of a critical and poetical character : but the work by which his mere name is known to the world was a single- volume collection of the Latin poets, which he edited for Mr. Charles Knight, under the title of Corpus Poetarum Latinorum.

The remote cause of Walker's want of more distinct and substan- tive success in literature and life was, doubtless, some peculiarity of nervous organization. The immediate causes were more tangible. His personal appearance was very unprepossessing. His stature was diminutive, his gait awkward, his address uncouth; his man- ners were eccentric, conveying to strangers the impression of in- sanity or idiocy; he was perceptibly shortsighted, slovenly in dress, and negligent in his person. These peculiarities exposed him to persecution at Eton; which he resisted with all his precocious power of sarcasm; so that a temper naturally sweet was soured at the outset. Although, according to his friend and biographer Mr. Moultrie, he was so little fitted to gain the love of woman, his " yearnings for the married life were intense and soul-consuming." He had another failing, which still more unfitted him for married life than his personal deficiencies: he was always in debt—though how, or what for, nobody could tell, since the income of his fel- lowship combined with his literary earnings seemed suite sufficient for his simple tastes and the assistance he rendered his family. His certain income, however, was lost soon after he was thirty, by con- scientious scruples. The rules of Trinity only allow a fellowship to be held by a layman for a certain time ; and Walker's religions unbelief, whatever it was, forbade his taking orders. Read with the key of his life, an epistle to Dement Coleridge about this period (1829) is very remarkable, for the depth and variety of wretchedness it exhibits, expressed in a tone so calm that but for this key it would hardly be apprehended. A letter to Praed, when debts, despair, and the delusion of his monomania—the notion that he was ever attended by a &mon, who controlled his thoughts and actions—were pressing heavily upon him, is more curious. The account of Praed's generosity contains besides the pith of Walker's subsequent biography.

"To W. IL Praesl, Esq.

'"Mrs. Perry's, Trumpington Street, Tan, 30, 1830. "'My dear Praed—I had long fluctuated between writing and not writing ; it appearing fit, on the one hand, that I should tell you somewhat of my ad- ventures since our last parting, while, on the other, there was the difficulty, indeed latterly the impracticability, of writing; for I have tried fifty times in vain; but the last few days have brought with them a most compelling motive. I write partly to ask your assistance, and partly to communicate that of which the communication itself may be to me an important relief. "To be brief: on the eapiration of my fellowship I took lodgings, made various endeavours to obtain employment, and, failing, sunk under the burden of ill-health and continued anxiety, and, for the first time in my life, abandoned even the attempt to help myself. If you knew all that I have had to struggle with, I think you would notblame me. This continued till Christmas : my dividend was received and paid away ; and I now find myself three hundred pounds in debt to the Cambridge tradesmen, without any means of paying them. I have put them off from week to week, except one, to whom, as his debt was much older than any of the others, I unwarily gave a bill for forty pounds, which sum I thought I could by some means or other acquire in the interim ; but my expected resources have failed, (s. g. the Classical Journal is stopped,) the bill is due Feb. 5th or 6th at farthest, and I am obliged to ask—if you can afford it—the loan of twenty or twenty- five pounds, if you have it; which, if no other means offer, I will repay you in the coin of verses—that is supposing you can find a purchaser for such com- modities.

" Yon will doubtless be startled by what I have now to communicate. But you must remember that I have been oppressed for years with bodily pain and manifold suffering, and this without those supports by means of which men are wont to support these evils—health, friendly society, religious con- solation; and you will not wonder, though your kindness will be pained, to hear that for the last few days I have experienced a slight disorder of the faculties. I cannot easily describe it, except by saying that I cannot com- mand my thoughts as I could before; that the images which enter my mind seem to take possession of it against my -will; that I feel as if pressed by a weight, under which my reason cannot work quite perfectly. But I will not try to define it. I have had power to mention it to one friend, and through him to a medical man, under whom I now am. I endeavour to keep myself tolerably tranquil- but the thought -will recur at times, and the fear—will this be for life ? It may be that it is removeable, and that by proper care it may be prevented from recurring. God grant that it be so ! Pray write to me soon ; but that I need not ask, if this finds you in town. With regard to other matters, I speak deliberately, and from long experience, when I say that I do not think I can work to any purpose, or employ the faculties which were given me, till my bodily disorders are in some measure cured. That I have a certain propensity to indolence and self-indulgence, is too true to be denied; I fear a strong one : but it is no less certain that my friends have often mistaken the effects of downright pain and suffering for those of wilful negligence ; and this prepossession has caused them to mistake my words, my • The Poetical Remains of William Sidney Walker, formerly Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. Edited, with a Memoir of the Author, by the Reverend J. ' Moultrie, M.A., Rector of Rugby. Published by Parker and Bon, London; Cross- ley and Billington, Rugby. motives, and discouraged me from seeking their advice and assistance. 0 my good friend ! it is the consciousness of this—it is this endless, hopeless ans. understanding—this separation from society—that has made me what I am. Other causes have conspired ; but other causes would not have wrought the effect without this. It is thus that, with as many and as true well-wishers as ever man had, I have lived a life of misery for years, and am now—no matter what. Could I, however, put off the evil day of account for some time, my plan would be to leave Cambridge, and by means of society, change of place and change of habits, try to recover my health, so far as it is recoverable; and having done this, engage once more in such employment as I can obtain. I know not what you will think of all this. Believe me, that I have not sunk to my present state without much and severe struggling. Malden has been, I need scarcely say, a good friend to me, as far as he knew how. Mrs. Malden is confined to her room, and has been so for some months, but her health is improving. " Yours truly, W. S. WALKER.'" " The pressure of Walker's necessities had in this instance instinctively directed him to the surest source of earthly aid. Praed instantly acted as all who knew him would have anticipated that he would act. Not only did he relieve his unhappy friend's immediate wants, but, with all the zealous and indefatigable activity of his noble nature, he set on foot and vigorously prose- cuted a scheme to provide for his future support. It was hoped that by the contributions of his Eton and Cambridge friends, a sufficient sum might be raised, not only to liquidate his debts, but to purchase a comfortable annuity for him during the remainder of his life. The scheme succeeded only in part. The debts were paid ; but when that was done, only about 3001. remained in hand, a sum obviously insufficient to provide by means of annnuity for a man little more than thirty years of age. In this conjuncture Praed's con- duct was worthy of himself. Depositing. with his banker the poor remaining three hundred pounds, he engaged to allow Walker, during life, the sum of 621. a year, securing the same to him by will in case of his own death, and (Praed-like) dissembling the generosity of the gift under the pretence that Walker's life was a precarious one, and that he had therefore probably made a good bargain. With so adroit a dexterity, indeed, did he confer the kind- ness, that his simpleminded friend seems never to have suspected its ex- istence, and until undeceived at a later period by a third party, apparently believed that so far from receiving he had himself conferred an obligation. Eventually he survived his benefactor seven years ; experiencing to the last, at the hands of his widow, a continuance of the systematic kindness which he had received from her lamented husband, and which she still maintains towards his own relations. To the annuity allowed him by Praed was added a grant of 20/. per annum from Trinity College. On this mcome, with occa- sional assistance from other friends, he subsisted till his death ; for though he was almost incessantly occupied in a series of critical and philological re- searches, and from time to time produced a sonnet or fragment of a poem, he never could be induced to turn any of his labours to pecuniary account, or to contribute in any way, directly or indirectly, to his own support."

Walker lived for sixteen years after the arrangement of the an- nuity; dying in 1846. When he felt inclined, he paid welcome visits to Praed, to Arnold, and some other men of mark ; though he must have been a troublesome inmate, or even casual visitant. The rest of his life was passed in obscure lodgings in London, either in morbid idleness or in critical and philological speculations. "It is painful to dwell on the recollection of his later years," says Mr. Moultrie. "During the course of them the author of this memoir had repeated opportunities of visiting him in London, and at each succeeding visit found his oon.dition both in mind and body dete- riorated; his lodgings more squalid, and his person more ne- glected." In 1846 a gleam of hope seemed to break upon his pro- spects. One of the members of the 'great iron-house of Crawshay had known Walker at Cambridge, and was pleased, as Walker himself said, "to consider me as having contributed to the forma- tion of his mind, and conceived a high opinion of me as a man of genius." They lost sight of each other for some years ; but when they again communicated, Mr. Crawshay made a proposal which would have rendered Walker as comfortable as in his state he probably could have been made ; but before the arrangement could be carried out, death released him from all his troubles. Mr. Craw- shay, however, continued the spirit of his engagements: he paid poor Walker's debts; it is probably owing to him that the present volume has appeared; and, says Mr. Moultrie, if Walker's "vo- luminous critical writings shall ever take that place in English literature to which the author himself considered them entitled, this will be owing in no small degree to the pecuniary aid most liberally contributed by the same gentleman." The Poetical Remains attached to the Memoir consist of original pieces, with a few selections that have already been published. Some of them are diffuse, with a scholastic kind of commonplace in treatment; most of them are deficient in theme, wanting large- ness or popular interest of subject ; but they contain convincing evidence of poetical ability. Amid lines of mediocre excellence, and on themes peculiar or hacknied, are found thoughts of that depth and. largeness which separate poetry from prose ; while com- mon topics are handled with an individuality which gives them personal interest, and a breadth that constitutes a type. The poem called "Wandering Thoughts" is in part relating to Walker him- self; but he well digresses to a more tangible, and.' from its na- ture a grief of wider sympathy.

4' 0 Theocrine ! the spring returns again,

The heavenly spring, and joy is over all : The deep thick grass is wet with sunny rain, Whose pattering drops like low soft music fall On the wood-wanderer's ear : the wild-bird's call Thrills the young listener's heart like aery wine : On sloping banks, and under hedgerows tall, The primrose lights her star : one spirit divine Fills heaven, and earth, and sea, gladdening all hearts but mine.

" —Of this no more : a voice, as of the tomb, Is heard,—a long slow knell from yonder tower, Telling of one cut off by sudden doom In womanhood's full morn, and beauty's flower, Even on the verge of the glad nuptial hour ; Leaving no record, save a portraiture By artist memory hung in Friendship's bower, And hauntings of remembrance, deep and pure, In a few faithful hearts, scatter'd o'er earth's obscure. "Thou walkest yet on earth, fair Theocrine, And earth's mysterious influences convey Nurture to thy soft frame, and spirit fine; But she, for whom they grieve, hath cast away Her fleshly robes, the dress of her brief day, And laid her down in an eternal bed : She bath no portion in life's work or play, Its changes or its cares; her doom is said. The lily blooms on earth; the rose is gathered.

"0 Stella! golden star of youth and love ! In thy soft name the voice of other years Seems sounding; each green court and arched grove, Where hand in hand we walked, again appears, Called by the spell : the very clouds and tears O'er which thy dawning lamp its splendour darted Gleam bright : and they are there, my youthful peers, The lofty-minded and the gentle-hearted, The beauty of the earth, the light of days departed : "AU, all return ; and with them conies a throng Of wither'd hopes, and loves made desolate,

And high resolves, cherish'd in silence long,

Yea, struggling stall beneath the incumbent weight Of spirit-quelling time and adverse fate. These only live ; all else have passed away To Memory's spectre-land : and she who sate 'Mid that bright choir so bright, is now as they,— A morning dream of life, dissolving with the day."

A "Hymn to Freedom" is a common subject, and part of Walker's is common too; but these lines have sense and freshness.

"To thee our willing thanks we raise, For sacred hearths, for fearless days ; The cultured field, the crowded mart, Each guardian law, each graceful art.

"But thy chief seat, thy place of rest, Is in man's deep-recessed breast; Thy chosen task, to call to light Its unseen loveliness and might.

"At thy approach, the startled mind Quakes, as before some stirring wind, And with glad pain sets wide her door To the celestial visitor.

"And chased before thy presence pure Fly sinful creeds, and fears obscure ; And flowers of hope before thee bloom, And new-born wisdom spreads its plume."

The following stanzas, from a poem "To a Girl in her Thirteenth Year," have grace and felicity as well as philosophy.

"Thy steps are dancing toward the bound Between the child and woman ; And thoughts and feelings more profound, And other years, are coming; , And thou shalt be more deeply fair, More precious to the heart: But never canst thou be again

That lovely thing thou art!

"And youth shall pass, with all the brood Of fancy-fed affection ; And grief shall come with womanhood, And waken cold reflection; Thou'lt learn to toil and watch, and weep O'er pleasures unreturning, Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep Unto the cares of morning.

"—Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun

Of joyous expectation,

Ordam'd to bless the little one, • The freshling of creation ! Nor doubt that He, who thus doth feed Her early lamp with gladness, Will be her present help in need, Her comforter in sadness.

"Smile on, then, little winsome thing ! All rich in Nature's treasure : Thou haat within thy heart a spring Of self-renewing pleasure. Esaile on, fair child, and take thy fill Of mirth, till time shall end it: 'Tis Nature's wise and gentle will, And who shall reprehend it ? '

In the selection of the poetry Mr. Moultrie has apparently exer- cised a sound discretion, though he has admitted some fragments which are too curt and unfinished for publication. This error of overdoing, so natural to fall into, is also visible in the earlier part of the Memoir, where letters of a trivial character may be found. On the whole, however, the volume is a creditable testimony of his judgment, good feeling, and biographical powers. With a diffi- cult subject to handle, he appears to have exhibited no false deli- cacy; while he has treated the peculiarities and failings of poor Walker with kindness, yet with plainness.