CHAPTER VII
THE POET
You have heard the opinions of the "Society" as to Sam Semple. Youhave also witnessed the humiliation and the basting of that young man.Let me tell you more about him before we go on to relate the progressof the conspiracy of which he was the inventor and the spring.
He was the son of one John Semple who was employed at the customhouse.The boy could look forward, like most of us, to a life of service. Hemight go to sea, and so become in due course, prentice, mate, andskipper; or he might be sent on board as supercargo; or he might enterthe countinghouse of a merchant and keep the books; or he might followhis father and become a servant of the customhouse.
He was two years older than myself and therefore, so much above me atschool. Of all the boys (which alone indicates something contemptiblein his nature) he was the most disliked, not by one or two, but by thewhole school; not only by the industrious and the well-behaved, butalso by the lazy and the vicious.
There is always in every school, one boy at least, who is the generalobject of dislike: he makes no friends: his society is shunned: he maybe feared, but he is hated. There are, I dare say, many causes forunpopularity: one boy is perhaps a bully who delights to ill-treat theyounger and the weaker; one is a braggart: one plays games unfairly:one is apt to offend that nice sense of honour and loyalty which iscultivated by schoolboys: another is treacherous to his comrades; hetells tales, backbites and makes mischief: perhaps he belongs to aninferior station and has bad manners: perhaps he takes meanadvantages: perhaps he is a coward who will not fight: perhaps hecannot do the things which boys respect.
Sam Semple was disliked for many of these reasons. He was known to bea telltale; he was commonly reported to convey things overheard to theusher, by means of which that officer was enabled to discover manylittle plots and plans and so bring their authors to pain andconfusion. He was certainly a coward who would never fight it out, butafter a grand pretence and flourish would run away at the first blow.But if he would not fight he would bear malice and would take meanrevenges; he was a most notorious liar, insomuch that no one wouldbelieve any statement made by him, if it could be proved to beconnected with his own advantage; he could not play any games andaffected to despise the good old sports of cocking, baiting the bear,drawing the badger, playing at cricket, hockey, wrestling, racing, andthe other things that make boys skilful, courageous and hardy. He was,in a word, a poor soft, cowardly creature, more like a girl--and aninferior kind of girl--than an honest lad.
He was much addicted to reading: he would, by choice, sit in a cornerreading any book that he could get more willingly than run, jump, row,or race. When we had holidays he would go away by himself, sometimeson the walls, if it were summer, or in some sheltered nook, if it werewinter, contented to be left alone with his printed page. He borrowedbooks from my father who encouraged him in reading, while headmonished him on account of his faults, and from the vicar, who lenthim books, while he warned him against the reports of his characterwhich were noised abroad. Now--I know not how--the boy became secretlyinflamed with the ambition of becoming a poet. How he fell into thispitfall, which ended in his ruin, I know not. Certainly it was notfrom any boys in the school, or from any friend in the town, becausethere are no books of poetry in Lynn, save those which belong to theparson and the schoolmaster. However, he did conceive the ambition ofbecoming a poet--secretly, at first, because he was naturally ashamedof being such a fool, but it came out. He read poetry from choice, andrather than anything else. Once, I remember, he was flogged for takinga volume of miscellany poems into church instead of the Book of CommonPrayer. The boys were astonished at the crime, because certainly onewould much rather read the Book of Common Prayer, in which one knowswhat to expect, than a book of foolish rhymes.
I myself was the first to find out his ambition. It was in this way.Coming out of school one day I picked up a paper which was blown aboutthe square. It was covered with writing. I read some of it, wonderingwhat it might mean. There was a good deal and not a word of sense frombeginning to end: the writing was all scored out and corrected overand over again. Thus, not to waste your time over this nonsense, itran something like this:
When the refulgent rays of Sol =began= prevail early =Day= Morn To =A=waken=ed= all the maidens of the dale Lawn Drove Morpheus =shrieking from the beds= away --from the maids and swains.
and so on. One is ashamed to repeat such rubbish. While I was readingit however, Sam Semple came running back.
"That paper is mine," he cried, with a very red face, snatching it outof my hands.
"Well--if it is yours, take it. What does it mean?"
"It's poetry, you fool."
"If you call me a fool, Sam, you'll get a black eye." He was threeinches taller than myself as well as two years older--but this was theway all the boys spoke to him.
"You can't understand," he said, "none of you can understand. It'spoetry, I tell you."
I told my father, who sent for him and in my presence admonished himkindly, first ordering him to submit his verses for correction, as ifthey were in Latin. It was after school hours: the room was empty savefor the three of us--my father sat at his desk where he assumedauthority. Outside the schoolroom he was but a gentle creature.
"Boy," he said, "as for these verses--I say nothing. They are butimmature imitations. You would be a poet. Learn, however, that the lotof him who desires that calling is the hardest and the worst that fatecan have in store for an honest man. There are many who can writerhymes: for one who has read Ovid and Virgil, the making of verse iseasy. But only one or two here and there, out of millions, are therewhose lips are touched with the celestial fire: only one or two whoseverses can reach the heart and fire the brain of those who read them."
"Sir, may not I, too, form one of that small company?" His cheekflamed and his eyes brightened. For once Sam was handsome.
"It may be so. I say nothing to the contrary. Learn, however, that evenif genius has been granted, much more will be required. He who would bea great poet must attain, if he can, by meditation and self-restraint,to the great mind. He must be sincere--truthful--courageous--think ofthat, boy; he must meditate. Milton's thoughts were ever on religiousand civil freedom; therefore he was enabled to speak as a prophet."
He gazed upon the face of his scholar: the cheek was sallow again; theeyes dull; upon that mean countenance no sign of noble or of loftythought. My father sighed and went on.
"It seems, to a young man, a great thing to be a poet. He willescape--will he?--the humiliations of life. He thinks that he will beno man's servant; he will be independent; he will work as his geniusinclines him. Alas! he little knows the humiliations of the starvelingpoet. No man's servant? There is none--believe me--not even theAfrican slave, who has to feel more of the contempts, the scorns, theservitude of the world. Such an one have I known. He had to bend theknee to the patron, who treated him with open scorn; and to thebookseller, who treated him with contempt undisguised. One may be apoet who is endowed with the means of a livelihood. Such is theingenious Mr. Pope; or one who has an office to maintain him: such wasthe immortal John Milton; but, for you and such as you, boy, born in ahumble condition, and ordained by Providence for that condition, thereis no worse servitude than that of a bookseller's hack. Go, boy--thinkof these things. Continue to write verses, if by their aid you may inany way become a better man and more easily attain to the Christianlife. But accept meanwhile, the ruling of Providence and do thy dutyin that station of life to which thou hast been called."
So saying he dismissed the boy, who went away downcast and withhanging head.
Then my father turned to me. "Son," he said, "let no vain repiningsfill thy soul. Service is thy lot. It is also mine. It is the lot ofevery man except those who are born to wealth and rank. I do not envythese, because much is expected of them--a thing which mostly they donot understand. And too many of these are, trut
h to say, in theservice of Beelzebub. We are all servants of each other; let usperform our service with cheerfulness and even with joy. The Lord, whoknows what is best for men, hath so ordained that we shall bedependent upon each other in all things. Servants, I say, are we allof each other. We may not escape the common lot--the commonservitude."
Let me return to Sam. At the age of fourteen he was taken from schooland placed in a countinghouse where his duty was to clean out, sweep,and dust the place every morning; to be at the beck and call of hismaster; to copy letters and to add up figures. I asked him how heliked this employment.
"It is well enough," he said, "until I can go whither I am called. Butto serve at adding up the price of barrels of tarpaulin all my life!No, Jack, no. I am made of stuff too good."
He continued for three years in this employment. We then heard that hehad been dismissed for negligence, his master having made certaindiscoveries that greatly enraged him. He then went on board ship inthe capacity of clerk or assistant to the supercargo, but at the endof his first voyage he was sent about his business.
"It is true," he told me, "that there were omissions in the books. Whocan keep books below, by the light of a stinking tallow candle, whenone can lie on the deck in the sun and watch the waves? But thesepeople--these people--among them all, Jack, there is not one whounderstands the poet, except your father, and he will have it that thepoet must starve. Well, there is another way." But he would tell me nomore.
That way was this. You know, because it led to the basting. The dayafter the adventure in the captain's garden, Sam put together all hehad, borrowed what money his mother would give him and went off toLondon by the waggon.
After a while a letter came from him. It was addressed to his mother,who brought it to the school because she could not understand what wasmeant. Sam (I believe he was lying) said that he had been receivedinto the Company of the Wits; his verse, he said, was regarded withrespect at the coffee house; he was already known to many poets andbooksellers; he asked for a small advance of money and he entreatedhis mother to let it be known in the town that he was publishing avolume of verse by subscription. His former patrons, he said, woulddoubtless assist him by giving their names and guineas. The book, headded, would certainly place him among the acknowledged poets of theday--even with Pope and Gay.
There was much difference of opinion as to sending the guineas: but afew of the better sort consented, and in due course received theircopies. It was a thin quarto with a large margin. The title page wasas follows:
"MISCELLANY POEMS _by SAM SEMPLE, Gentleman_."
"Gentleman!" said the vicar. "How long has Sam been a gentleman? Hewill next, no doubt, describe himself as esquire. As for theverses--trash--two-penny trash! Alas! And they cost me a guinea!"