Volume 3 — HERBERT KNOWLES.
Reading edition
We recently printed in the International an interesting account of the "marvellous boy" Chatterton, who "perished in his pride," and the memoirs of Southey recall to us the almost as unfortunate Herbert Knowles, who died in 1817. Knowles was a poor boy of the humblest origin, without father or mother, yet with abilities sufficient to excite the attention of strangers, who subscribed 20l. a year towards his education, upon condition that his friends should furnish 30l. more. The boy was sent to Richmond School, Yorkshire, preparatory to his proceeding as a sizer to St. John's, but when he quitted school the friends were unable to advance another sixpence on his account. To help himself, Herbert Knowles wrote a poem, sent it to Southey with a history of his case, and asked permission to dedicate it to the Laureate. Southey, finding the poem "brimful of power and of promise," made inquiries of the schoolmaster, and received the highest character of the youth. He then answered the application of Knowles, entreated him to avoid present publication, and promised to do something better than receive his dedication. He subscribed at once 10l. per annum towards the failing 30l., and procured similar subscriptions from Mr. Rogers and the late Lord Spencer. Herbert Knowles, receiving the news of his good fortune, wrote to his protector a letter remarkable for much more than the gratitude which pervaded every line. He remembered that Kirke White had gone to the university countenanced and supported by patrons, and that to pay back the debt he owed them he wrought day and night until his delicate frame gave way, and his life became the penalty of his devotion. Herbert Knowles felt that he could not make the same desperate efforts, and deemed it his first duty to say so. "I will not deceive," he writes in his touching anxiety.
"Far be it from me to foster expectations which I feel I cannot gratify. Two years ago I came to Richmond totally ignorant of classical and mathematical literature. Out of that time, during three months and two long vacations I have made but a retrograde course. If I enter into competition for university honors I shall kill myself. Could I twine, to gratify my friends, a laurel with the cypress I would not repine; but to sacrifice the little inward peace which the wreck of passion has left behind, and relinquish every hope of future excellence and future usefulness in one wild and unavailing pursuit, were indeed a madman's act, and worthy of a madman's fate."
The poor fellow promised to do what he could, assured his friends that he would not be idle, and that if he could not reflect upon them any extraordinary credit, he would certainly do them no disgrace. Herbert Knowles had taken an accurate measure of his strength and capabilities, and soon gave proof that he spoke at the bidding of no uncertain monitor within him. Two months after his letter to Southey he was laid in his grave. The fire consumed the lamp even faster than the trembling lad suspected.
A poem by him, The Three Tabernacles, though perhaps familiar to most of our readers, is so beautiful that we reprint it here:
THE THREE TABERNACLES.
Methinks it is good to be here, If thou wilt let us build,—but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no: Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see, they would pin him below To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgets The charms that she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain: Who hid, in their turns have been hid; The treasures are squandered again; And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board, But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah! no: they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve: Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear; Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah! no: for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow; Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.
There are in his works several other pieces not less remarkable for the best qualities of poetry; and they all appear to be the echoes of genuine feeling.