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Britannia,
Aug. 30, 1845.
"THOMAS COOPER is one of
those great poets stamped by Nature's own hand ― not fashioned by
schools, not taught by labour to string rhymes together, but pouring
forth from the fulness of his own mind and heart a torrent of
burning and impetuous eloquence. We may greatly disapprove of
his conceptions, but we are compelled by the law of our being that
constrains admiration to do homage to the richness and fertility of
his imagination, and to that amazing command of language and supreme
faculty of expression that makes his verse, while full, various, and
eminently poetic, the perfect expositor of his thought. The
impression forced on the mind by his verse is, that it is the work
of inspiration rather than of labour. It never stops or
falters in its magnificent flight. It has no feeble passages,
no week rhymes, no compromise of strength to rhythm. It is a
genuine and ardent outpouring of a great spirit, irritated by envy
or fancied wrong, depressed and pained by calamity, dark with
imperfect knowledge, distorted by feelings of hate, fired by
illusory ideas of man's equality, but still retaining, even in its
greatest faults, unquestionable power of intellect of the very
rarest and highest kind. Our judgment may be disputed ― the
world may disregard this mighty and daring effort of an irregular
genius, though we do not think it will, ― yet still we shall hold to
our opinion that this Prison Rhyme
is the most wonderful effort of intellectual power produced within
the last century . . . .
"There is nothing mean, low, vicious, or lascivious in the
verse of this Chartist. He has the finest feeling for the
beauty of the New Testament, for the sublimity of the Old; but the
doubts of neglected youth cling to him, and shake his soul with the
agony of unbelief . . . .
"The poem is written in the Spenserian stanza. Grander
and more nervous than 'Childe Harold,' which in its reflective
passages it somewhat resembles evidencing much deeper reading, much
profounder thought, much greater power of the forcible and the
terrible in expression, though with less beauty of poetic imagery
this Prison Rhyme comes nearer than any other poem in our language
to the grand work of Milton. The spirit of that mighty master,
which hitherto has looked so coldly and contemptuously on all its
worshippers, has found out this imprisoned Chartist, and breathed
upon him in his cell. Wonder of wonders, this self-taught
shoemaker is hardly less versed in curious and mystic lore than the
sightless bard, to whose mental vision all antiquity, and its
fables, its heroes, and its creeds, seemed revealed . . . .
"With wonderful pomp and luxuriance of language does the
author recall the great names of antiquity, and invest the form of
each with peculiar and distinctive characteristics. The
stanza, so difficult of management in an inferior hand, is by him
wrought, even in the most elaborate and difficult descriptions, with
as much ease as a skilled hand weaves osier rods into basket-work.
He is master of his verse, and uses it as a master, not a servant.
He makes it subservient to his thought; with a boldness more to be
admired than condemned, he employs rhymes and words unauthorised by
authority rather than suffer his muse to be fettered by commonplace
rules . . . .
"The second book opens with an address to the Lyre, and the
poet recalls those great names of his fatherland whose verses form
the brightness blazonry of her glory. His address to Milton,
his poetic master, is rich in the passionate language of admiration.
Such a strain has not been sung in England for two hundred years.
Knowing that this verse has been written in a prison cell, that the
author has been self-taught, that he was a poor Chartist shoemaker,
we read in all the wonderment of an inexplicable dream . . . .
"Through the whole ten books are the spirits of renowned
suicides brought together their forms, their attributes, their
instincts, feelings, passions, described in glowing verse and made
to argue and dispute with each other on those great themes of life
which from the beginning until this day have engaged the attention
of the world the life, the government, the destiny, and the
hereafter of man. No extract of detached passages, no general
description of the scope and aim of the poem, can give an adequate
idea of its general character, or of the amazing poetic energy it
exhibits. It concludes with a glorious vision. All
heaven seems as a portal to a world stretched beyond it, where
mankind regenerated dwell in blissful freedom."
――――♦――――
Sentinel,
Oct. 12, 1845.
"The Prison-Rhyme is no mean
gift . . . . It reveals the presence of an active,
well-instructed head ― a resolute will ― an imagination lofty and
daring ― and hopes that brave all things in a good cause; it
discovers also the promise of future and much higher excellence,
greater mastery in art, a more subtile and profound appreciation of
the beautiful, truer knowledge of truth, a higher, wider, more
healthful sympathy with man, including the multifarious and
progressive life of the past, with this our little, evanishing world
of to-day, and that great and sublime future which all the truer and
more fervent spirits of the time delight to herald and to hasten.
But, if we compare Mr. Cooper's poem with the ordinary offspring of
the modern muse, ― the verses, not of millennium-singers and world-betterers,
but of gentlemen rhymesters, writers of love-lorn ditties and
May-fair fancies, ― if, even, we compare it with nine-tenths of the
fancy verse dedicated to Nature, wherein her everlasting hills and
skies, fairy-haunted dells, and love-murmuring brooks make an
eternal jingle, we shall find that we are on higher ground, and
breathe a purer air. We shall find ourselves transported, by
the wand of no mean magician, from the realms of hackneyed sentiment
to the wonder-land of mighty spirits, sages, and heroes, giant
shadows, voices of the past, whose awful tones swell up, through the
roar of congregated ages, melancholy oracles, sublime warnings,
preaching the undying majesty of Truth and Reason, and the
ever-glorious virtues of Justice, Knowledge, and Freedom. Such
a singer as this is at least worth listening to, if it were only to
make us forget for a while that we live in the golden age of
mediocrity and money-worship. Listened to not the less, nor
the more, because the singer is a Chartist, and a working,
self-educated man. Listened to, not simply because, having
been tried for conspiracy, and having suffered imprisonment for it,
the writer comes out from his dungeon with this book in his hand,
saying, 'Thus much, and something more, I have done even in a
prison.' These are not the grounds upon which we recommend a
perusal of this poem; though, undoubtedly, such considerations do
add much interest, of a personal kind, to its publication. We
recommend it, because it embraces a lofty subject, because its
execution evidences considerable knowledge, and great daring and
sustained power of thought; because it seems to us a natural prelude
to something else from the same source, still more elevated in
purpose and conception, and much more complete in artistic
execution. In fact, judging from this as a first effort of his
muse, we are inclined to hail the writer as a new power in the world
of poetry, the ruler of a new domain, as yet but little known; but,
which the public cannot fail to recognise, when its kings of thought
shall put on their singing robes, and, with fresh voice and soul,
speak its praises to the world."
――――♦――――
Anthenĉum,
Sept. 6, 1845.
"The book possesses mind ― mind which makes itself felt and
understood, and which therefore demands respect. . . . The
author's case claims for his poem the recognition of an historical
monument, which, if its merits were but a tithe part of what they
are, we should feel ourselves precluded from dismissing with a brief
notice."
――――♦――――
Illuminated Magazine,
Oct. 1, 1845.
"Noteworthy, independently of all outward circumstances; for the the
poem is well-conceived, wrought out with no ordinary amount of
power, clearly and concisely expressed, and not altogether wanting
in imagination."
――――♦――――
Kentish Independent,
Oct. 11, 1845.
"We have now before us one of the most extraordinary literary
productions of the present day ― we may say of the present age ― a
work which, if we do not greatly err, will gain for its author a
reputation at, lasting, if not as great, as that of Byron, Spenser,
and Milton, a mingling of whose finest characteristics is to be
found in these 963 Spenserian stanzas. In estimating truly the
greatness of this poem, we must consider the circumstances under
which it was written. The author is a self-educated man, one
of the humbler classes, who has had to struggle and toil for his
daily bread, and at times very hardly too, as we have good reason to
know; his own indomitable energy and overmastering genius has alone
sufficed to conquer every obstacle which impeded his progress in
intellectual growth; the serpents which twined and wreathed their
voluminous folds around his truly herculean mind, he has destroyed,
and now stands forth in this, the manifestation of his inner man,
like the Sampson of his wondrous dreams. * * * * *
A form majestic, yet terrible, is that in which the spirit of
this lately imprisoned Chartist now exhibits itself to the public
gaze: truly a star has arisen in the poetical horizon, and if the
light which it now sheds be somewhat baleful, let us consider that
the fogs of neglect and persecution, and the noisome dungeon
vapours, yet hang about it, and obscure its brightness. * * *
* *
We have been by turns delighted and amazed at the vision, or
series of visions, here presented to us; at the richness, the
originality, the grandeur, and, at times, the loveliness of the
conceptions, expressed in language the most nervous and energetic,
flowing on and on in such a full tide of majestic rhythm; the
extensive acquaintance with ancient and modern history, with the
laws which regulate mind and matter, with the facts and terms and
hypotheses of science; in short, the knowledge so universal as to
seem intuitive and not acquired, reminding us most strongly of Dante
and Milton, the former of whom we are assured our author has never
read, although a recent reviewer of this poem founded his
observations throughout on the supposition that it is a direct
imitation of the Inferno, and the latter of whom is Cooper's
acknowledged master of the lyre. How the sightless bard would
rejoice in a pupil who could apostrophise him thus: * * * * *
We will venture to say that more noble stanzas than these
were never addressed to one enthroned amid the deathless sons of
song by a human worshipper. More passionate thoughts, and
enthusiastic aspirations after liberty, were never breathed."
――――♦――――
Nottingham Review,
Oct. 17, 1845.
"This is a poem of no ordinary character; the production of a man
terribly in earnest, who speaks out his thoughts without reserve or
fear, and who appears to possess one of those vigorous, untameable
spirits, whose influence, for evil or for good, is in every age so
commanding.
*
*
*
*
The natural poetry which lived in this man's soul appears to
have made him a democrat in principle: indeed, in the true sense of
the term, the poet is ever a democrat, for he deals with the
universal, the eternal, and not with the conventional, local, or
transient: you could not, try ever so hard, or long, make the true
poet a decent and devout conformist to the things which are; the
poet and the prophet are, in most instances, very nearly related to
each other, and hence the man who sings the praises of the lovely
and the true, is well-nigh certain to wage war with the repulsive
and the false. * * * * *
He tells us in the preface to his poem, that he bent over the
last, and wielded the awl, till three-and-twenty, that amid want and
bodily weakness he searched for truth, and that his education has
been the work of himself during hours of leisure. Well, all
this proves the vigour of his aspiration after intellectual culture,
and the native power of the faculties which he sought to cultivate,
whilst it serves to account for the force and beauty which mark to
so large an extent the poem before us. It is not necessary to
read many stanzas to discover that the spirit, with whose thoughts
and feelings you are becoming familiar, is of no commonplace stamp,
and is destined to fulfil a mission such as is not allotted to men
in general. He is no mental pigmy who studies languages whilst
pining for food, or tortured by disease, and who produces, during
his two years and eleven weeks' imprisonment, a poem in ten books ―
part of an historical romance ― a series of tales, and an Hebrew
guide. In all this a mental power speaks out, which demands
notice and appreciation; and however little many persons may
sympathise with the man's aims and opinions, yet surely all must
commend his diligence, admire his vigour, and confess that though
wrong on some points, he is still a genius, whom to pass by with
contempt is impossible, for he wields a power which must be felt,
and will be responded to by masses, to whom this same Thomas Cooper
will appear as a kind of prophet, calling them to thought, to
energy, and hope. * * * * *
It must not he imagined, however, that the spirit of mere
antagonism is the only spirit which pervades this poem ― the true
poet's love of nature and of man is visible ― touches of a
tenderness most exquisite are scattered through the whole: this
stern, hard man, who dares to call things by their right names ― who
looks tyranny in the face, and denounces it as a curse, be the
consequences what they may, yes, this man of fire, is loving as a
little child, when he treads the sacred grounds of domestic feelings
and relationships. If his invective be bitter, his blessings
are deep ―
"The hate of hate ― the scorn of scorn ― the love of love,"
may be truly stated as his dower: his every feeling is in an
extreme, ― intensity, passion, is his great characteristic; and this
will constitute the main source of his influence, and, unless we are
much mistaken, will render "The Purgatory of Suicides" as popular in
the political, as "Pollok's Course of Time" in the religious world.
We regard this poem as a pledge of higher and more matured efforts
in the future. Cooper's entire man is not developed yet ― his
mind is but half expanded: many a crude idea will yet grow into
definiteness and proportion, many a one-sided estimate will be
adjusted by advanced wisdom, and the poet himself rise to a yet more
commanding elevation. There are defects in the construction of
this poem ― as to language, versification, and imagery ― which, as
critics, we should point out, were our space less limited: there are
also passages of power and beauty, which we would fain quote, but we
recommend our readers to procure it, and give it a calm and candid
perusal. In the most friendly spirit do we throw out these
thoughts. We have no desire to be captious and hypercritical.
We hail the publication of this poem as another proof of the
intellectual improvement of the working classes. We join with
the author in longing for the day when enlightment, virtue, peace,
joy and freedom shall reign supreme; and, meantime, we wish him 'God
speed.'
――――♦――――
Sheffield Iris,
Nov. 6, 1845.
"We had thought that the spirit of high poetry was dead. We
were in error ― we rejoice that we were in error. The poem
lying before us, is one of the noblest creations of modern times,
deeply impregnated with power and beauty, and glowing in every page
with the illuminings of searching and passionate thought. The
exordium reminds us somewhat of the opening of the second book of
Paradise Lost; and, extravagant though the assertion may be deemed,
it is scarcely inferior to that fine portion of Milton's deathless
epic. The conception of the groundwork is original and vast;
and its machinery, though in some points heterogeneous, is
indicative of a profound and daringly original mind. Where has
the author been hidden until now? He wields an intellect of
mighty power, and an imagination of massive and beautiful
proportions, combining in the range of both much of the sublimity of
Milton, the spiritual metaphysics and golden imagery of Shelley, the
wayward magnificence of Byron, with the solemn and deeply-toned
power of our own Elliot. We shall halt not at asserting that
in the catalogue of England's greatest bards must hereafter be
inscribed the name of THOMAS COOPER."
――――♦――――
Leicestershire Mercury,
Dec 13, 1845.
"One of those rare works which appear at but distant intervals of
time. It proclaims the author to be gifted with the spirit of
poetry in the highest degree. Whatever may be thought of, or
however much we may be called upon to condemn some of his
sentiments, it must be conceded that grandeur of imagination, depth
of feeling, and majesty of expression are his predominant
characteristics. Though confined in a dungeon, so well was the
poet's head stored with intellectual treasure, that his mental
resources appear boundless. The lore of ancient and modern
(sacred and profane) history, the subtleties of the casuist, the
polemics of the theologian, the deductions of the philosopher, and
the dogmas of the politician, are all summoned at will by the
author, and made the obedient ministers to his purpose. This
remarkable concentration of knowledge, combined with the greatest
daring of thought, and the most copious powers of language, are no
less calculated to astonish, than the beauty and feeling of the
verses are to enwrap and charm every reader who is capable of
appreciating genuine poetry. It is impossible to read a work
like this and fail to observe that the author has one of those
gifted giant minds, capable of exercising much good or evil to his
fellow-men, according to the direction it takes."
――――♦――――
Athenĉum,
Nov. 15, 1845.
"Mr. Thomas Cooper needs now no further introduction to the reader:
his 'Purgatory of Suicides' has already told his history and
exemplified his merits. He has in him the soul of a poet and
the heart of a man: though, doubtless, his capacity has been warped
and narrowed by its partisan employment and political exclusiveness.
His has not been the calm serene mind which has rejoiced in the
quiet of the summer sky ― it has rather loved the winter storm, and
triumphed in the tumult. A mist ― a haze ― a tempestuous
shadow accordingly dimmed its vision in its great epic endeavour,
and induced an unsatisfactory hesitation as to the scope and
treatment of the poem. The work before us [Wise Saws and
Modern Instances] is of humbler pretension, consisting of a
series of Crabbelike sketches, not however in verse, but in prose.
"The scene of most of these stories is laid in Lincolnshire,
and some of them relate to local events and characters. The
Barber of Caistor, who, though a disciple of equality, felt his
prejudices shocked because a gentleman was talking to a gipsy, ― the
Poacher of Lindsey, who at length learns that, however
iniquitous the game-laws may be, it is folly to poach 'in a country
where the rich all hang together on their own side of the wheatsack,'
― the Tailor of Horncastle, who falls into difficulties
because suspected of sedition, ― the reforming Carrier of
Ludforth, who 'brings his ninepence to nought,' through unseemly
haste in improving his social condition, ― the blind Fiddler of
Torksey, the crony and Mentor of an old fisherman of the Trent,
one sadly given to extravagant anticipations when a little excited
with rum, and whom his bosom friend constantly reproves with the
warning, 'Don't say so till you're sure!' . . . . . .
"They are manifest portraits, and admonish us of the author's
skill in taking the literal likeness, which in his poem had no
place. There, all was indistinct as the Hades it depicted,
more so than the Ossianic misty land of ghosts; but here, in these
tales and sketches, there are a simplicity and decision of handling
which make all plain and clear and lifelike. We are glad thus
to meet the author in daylight, and to be able to state that he will
bear looking at, needs no interpreter, and speaks genuine English.
Mr. Cooper is not without humour in his delineations, and we would
refer in proof to the tale of 'Master Zerubbabel, the Antiquary;'
nor without pathos: witness his 'Beggared Gentleman's Address to his
Crooked Stick,' and his 'History of Cockle Tom,' the hero-sailor,
both good in their way.
"It is a mark-worthy fact, and one which has frequently
struck us from the earliest breaking out of Chartism, namely, the
respectability of its literature; and let the more sober-minded
among the Chartists learn, that such social reforms as are desirable
will be better served by such works as this before us, than by
democratic harangues and insurrectionary outbreaks. The poetic
genius which has been consecrated to this cause is of singular
power; it is curious also that it should have been of the epic, not
the lyrical kind."
――――♦――――
Atlas,
Nov. 22, 1845.
"The contents of the book consist of a series of homely scenes and
sketches of life,
'The short and simple annals of the poor,'
with but few exceptions; and they are certainly not altogether
devoid of either entertainment or instruction. The author openly
avows himself a Chartist; but, whatever his chartism may be as a
political panacea, here, as a prevailing purpose in his 'Instances,'
it has a merit that must recommend it to both the philanthropist and
the patriot. There is nothing of the dogmatist in their
author, whatever there may be of the democrat, as he here presents
himself; but he is as diffident of his powers as he is devoted in
his principles . . . . . .
"They were written, we further learn, with one or two
exceptions, during the author's confinement for 'conspiracy' in
Stafford gaol, merely as a relief from the intense thought exercised
in the composition of his 'Prison Rhyme.' But, notwithstanding
their origin, they have no taint of the atmosphere of a gaol about
them, but rather savour of sentiment and feeling, which we certainly
should look for anywhere but within the walls of a prison.
"We have read some of these stories with deep interest, and
few, we are persuaded, will rise from their perusal but with
feelings all the warmer for what they have read; for, certainly,
many of their details are eminently calculated
|
'The conscious heart of charity to warm,
And its wide wish, benevolence, dilate.' |
"They can scarcely fail to be popular with 'the masses;' and,
upon the whole, we think they deserve to be so."
――――♦――――
Britannia,
Nov. 8, 1845.
"We are glad to meet with this writer again so soon. He is one
of those men of strong mind and earnest heart, who are always worth
listening to. It is easy to see that he is always sincere ―
that he belongs, body and soul, to the horn-handed sons of labour ―
that he despises theories which bear no practical fruit ― and that
(it is this which make us think so well of him) he is ardently
desirous of softening and ameliorating the condition of the
hard-working operatives of England. Right or wrong, this man
has the quick feelings and sympathies of that susceptible
temperament which belongs alone to the higher order of natures.
His warmth sometimes hurries him into passion, and makes him connect
oppression with every case of suffering. But his errors are
those of an enthusiast, the result of mistaken zeal, not of vicious
disposition. He has nothing of the cold and sneering mood of
the sceptic. On the contrary, he is a believer in whatever is
most pure, disinterested, and virtuous in humanity.
"Some surprise has been expressed that we should have given
such prominent notice of his poem, the 'Purgatory of Suicides.'
It is a mistake to suppose that we spoke of it in terms of
unreserved commendation, either as regarded its moral sentiment or
poetic ability. We regarded it as a great, but imperfect and
unequal work, ― as a mighty fragment, roughly hewn from the quarry,
and squared and shaped by the rugged hand of an energetic but
unpractised master, bearing in its colossal proportions and decided
traits, unquestionable marks of power, though wanting in those
graceful and finished touches which throw round the creations of
genius a sense of beauty and delight. Our remarks did not
stand alone. They were accompanied by extracts to justify or
refute them. Surely the quotations we gave might afford a
better guide to the judgment of the candid reader, than the slight
opinions of other journals. If the reading world has, from
long disuse, lost its perception of what is striking and grand in
composition, that is nothing to us. There are people who
prefer Donizetti to Handel. They have a right to indulge their
taste, but let them not insist on bringing all music to the
Donizetti standard. We never thought of recommending the work
indiscriminately. We were more anxious, indeed, to determine
its true character, than to recommend it at all. We saw much
to deplore in it; evidence of a state of mind that, notwithstanding
grand bursts of talent, justifies the epithet of 'heathen' when
applied to the religious belief, or, rather, non-belief of our
manufacturing districts. But it is only weak people who close
their eyes to shut out darkness. The poem, both in its merits
and demerits, was far too remarkable a work ― too significant of the
times in which we live ― to be passed by in silence, or with a brief
notice. Opinions might differ as to the ability it displayed,
though we cannot imagine that any head, with the slightest garniture
of brain, could fail to recognise it splendid outbursts of poetic
power, as worthy of the land that has produced Spenser and Milton;
but there should have been no more than one opinion that the state
of mind it revealed among the labouring classes of the community
required the earnest consideration of a Christian people. The
work we expressly indicated was a dangerous one, but dangerous more
from the temper it indicated than any result it was likely to
produce. Persons do not learn radicalism and infidelity from
epics. They present nothing attractive to an idle or dissolute
nature, and have nothing in common with the brutal and scurrilous
organs of sedition. It is the attribute of poetry to exalt
whatever it touches. We trace its heavenly origin in the hues
with which it brightens mortal things. The frenzy of a
revolutionist, under its inspiration, swells into the heroic rapture
of a Corneille, and the doubts of a sceptic into lofty speculations
on high and solemn themes.
"These 'Wise Saws and Modern Instances,' though clever, are
not exactly the kind of papers we should have looked for from the
author. They are remarkable chiefly for the plain sense of
their matter and the homeliness of their style. They resemble,
in these respects, the tracts of Cobbett or the 'Village Dialogues'
of Rowland Hill. They are mostly illustrations of humble life,
intended to convey a useful moral, or correct a dangerous error, or
exhibit an amusing peculiarity of character or manners. They
evince a great deal of shrewd observation, and are touched with that
broad humour which we seldom find apart from original talent in
England, in whatever department of literature it is exercised.
In these sketches there is the freedom and vigour, and something too
of the coarseness, of one of the people thinking and speaking
boldly. They are destitute of all the common ornaments of
composition. But occasionally the feeling of the writer,
working its way into his narrative, gives it life and animation,
and, in spite of its extreme plainness of style, raises it almost
into poetry, such poetry as we find in those tales of Crabbe that
illustrate
'The short and simple annals of the poor.'
*
*
*
*
*
"It will readily be gathered, that, whatever may be the
author's Chartist opinions, there is nothing in the slightest degree
objectionable in the papers we have named. But there are
others of another class, in which are exhibited to us literal
transcripts of the mind of the operative population in the
manufacturing districts. Of this kind is the paper of 'Merrie
England,' where a recruiting serjeant walks through the streets of a
starving town, and a lad is rescued from him by the wretched
population, who, reduced as they are, view his service with
detestation, and are restrained from insurrection only by the
consciousness of their weakness.
*
*
*
*
*
"The author excuses the sternness of his pictures by alleging
their truth. The justification is all-sufficient.
Chartist as these sketches are, they are healthier, in tone and
sentiment, than the tawdry fictions vamped up for the reading public
by some popular writers that profess to exhibit the life of the
labouring classes. Here, at all events, we have reality.
If the scenes are distressing, they are instructive; it cannot be
alleged against them that they are tricked out with all the
embellishments of fancy for the gratification of pharisaical pride
in the writer, for the sake of raising hatred between rich and poor,
or for the purpose, by being more highly spiced, of obtaining
greater favour with those readers who relish literature as a
gourmand does game, in proportion as it is strongly flavoured."
――――♦――――
Kentish Independent,
Dec. 13. 1845.
"But a few weeks have elapsed since we had to speak of Thomas
Cooper, as a poet of a very high order, in fact one of those to whom
the term poet in its deepest and fullest significance is rightly
applied: we have now to view him, and to exhibit him to our readers
in a very different light. If his former work, was
characterised by profundity of thought, richness of imagination, and
a power and majesty of rhythmical expression rarely equalled ― the
one before us is no less so for homeliness of language and
simplicity of style, and the plain common-sense matters which form
the subjects of the several tales comprising these 'Wise Saws and
Modern Instances.' The versatility of true genius is happily
illustrated in the contrast between these two works, and we think
that no unprejudiced reader can deny that they exhibit different
phases of a mind and intellect of extraordinary energy and power.
There is a freedom and vigour in all the utterances of Thomas
Cooper, which is quite refreshing to one wearied of the trivialities
of artificial life; even his humour has a breadth which sometimes
borders on coarseness; but we can forgive this for the sake of truth
and honesty, and would have our readers do the like, remembering
that Shakespeare and Burns were both open to this reproach, if
reproach it may be called, and that no man can exhibit faithful
pictures of life, and enter truly into the spirit of what is daily
passing in this work-day world without coming in contact with, and
rudely offending, some of those false notions of delicacy and
refinement, which, if they give a certain polish to the manners of
modern society, do not certainly tend to improve its morals.
Our readers are not to imagine by this that there is anything
disgustingly coarse or offensive to real delicacy in the tales
before us; it is true they are most of them scenes in humble life,
they are in truth 'the short and simple annals of the poor,' written
with that simplicity and fidelity which can alone render them
valuable to him who thinks with Pope that
'The proper study of mankind is man.'
"The portraits here given are real portraits, sketched by a
close and shrewd observer, and the incidents related are such as
might, and no doubt have, occurred within the sphere of the writer's
observation and experience. They are no pictures for a lady's
album no tales for a book of the boudoir; but bold and free
sketches, some of them rude and unlovely, but for that very reason
the truer to nature, of toiling, struggling, suffering humanity.
Of a truth, this Chartist agitation has thrown to the surface no
more remarkable man than Thomas Cooper, and we much question if
there be any one so fitted to represent the manufacturing masses, to
describe their wants, and expound their wishes as he; gifted with
great natural talent; possessing great acquirements, obtained by
much bodily labour and mental discipline; ardent, energetic, and, we
believe, incorruptible; with a feeling heart, and a will to do and a
spirit to suffer whatsoever may seem best or necessary for the
well-being of his brother men, he appears to us the very beau
ideal of a people's champion."
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Leicester Chronicle,
Dec. 6, 1845.
"These volumes contain a number of sketches of character, and
delineations of scene, drawn chiefly from humble life. They
are well written and interesting. The extreme notions and some
of the unsound views of the writer are occasionally introduced into
them, but seldom, if over, in an offensive manner. The stories
contain some true and painful pictures of the miserable condition of
many of the poorest operatives; while others of them are of a
humorous description. They cannot fail to be popular with the
thinking and reading portion of the working-classes."
――――♦――――
Glasgow Citizen,
Nov. 15,1845.
"These light and pleasing sketches of English provincial life and
manners were composed by Mr. Cooper, as he informs us in the
preface, whilst under confinement in Stafford jail, for political
offences. We cannot but wonder that a person, obviously
possessed of considerable powers, strong common sense, and knowledge
of the world, should have committed himself to the miserable and
injurious follies of physical-force Chartism; but that he is now a
wiser, if a sadder man, we would venture to assert, from a perusal
of these volumes. They are by no means imbued with political
asperity, or seasoned with ultra-political doctrines, but exhibit on
the contrary, a robust and manly, if not a very refined or
cultivated mind, whilst the peculiar principles and opinions of the
writer peep out occasionally, but subdued into a sound common-sense
observation, and at times a laughing sneer at all political excess
of opinion. The object of the writer is to give to some 'wise
saw,' or 'modern instance,' a sort of visible embodiment and lively
illustration in the action of a sketchy and truth-like story of real
life. These are mostly drawn from humble life in the country
towns and villages of England, and apparently not a few of them
relate to 'Old Lincolnshire,' as the author fondly terms it, and
which he seems to regret will soon disappear before 'New
Lincolnshire,' with its 'railway civilization,' and modern aspects
and ways. The stories are, as might be expected, of unequal
merit, but many of them exhibit considerable vigour of pencil,
shrewd sense, and clear-sighted observation, accompanied with a
kindly, genial feeling and toleration, we were not prepared for from
so determined a politician. There is also a strong dash of the
vulgar in them, accompanied with a living truth of character, and
strong dramatic effect, which give to them a reality and force which
indicate them to be the fruits of a close observation and prying
insight into the inward as well as the outward shows of motley human
life and character."
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