Chapter 11

THE PURSUIT OF POETRY UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

The feeling of insecurity concerning one's possessions in the
Neversink, which the things just narrated begat in the minds of
honest men, was curiously exemplified in the case of my poor
friend Lemsford, a gentlemanly young member of the After-Guard. I
had very early made the acquaintance of Lemsford. It is curious,
how unerringly a man pitches upon a spirit, any way akin to his
own, even in the most miscellaneous mob.

Lemsford was a poet; so thoroughly inspired with the divine
afflatus, that not even all the tar and tumult of a man-of-war
could drive it out of him.

As may readily be imagined, the business of writing verse is a
very different thing on the gun-deck of a frigate, from what the
gentle and sequestered Wordsworth found it at placid Rydal Mount
in Westmoreland. In a frigate, you cannot sit down and meander
off your sonnets, when the full heart prompts; but only, when
more important duties permit: such as bracing round the yards, or
reefing top-sails fore and aft. Nevertheless, every fragment of
time at his command was religiously devoted by Lemsford to the
Nine. At the most unseasonable hours, you would behold him,
seated apart, in some corner among the guns--a shot-box before
him, pen in hand, and eyes "_in a fine frenzy rolling_."

"What's that 'ere born nat'ral about?"--"He's got a fit, hain't
he?" were exclamations often made by the less learned of his
shipmates. Some deemed him a conjurer; others a lunatic; and the
knowing ones said, that he must be a crazy Methodist. But well
knowing by experience the truth of the saying, that _poetry is
its own exceeding great reward_, Lemsford wrote on; dashing off
whole epics, sonnets, ballads, and acrostics, with a facility
which, under the circumstances, amazed me. Often he read over his
effusions to me; and well worth the hearing they were. He had
wit, imagination, feeling, and humour in abundance; and out of
the very ridicule with which some persons regarded him, he made
rare metrical sport, which we two together enjoyed by ourselves;
or shared with certain select friends.

Still, the taunts and jeers so often levelled at my friend the
poet, would now and then rouse him into rage; and at such times
the haughty scorn he would hurl on his foes, was proof positive
of his possession of that one attribute, irritability, almost
universally ascribed to the votaries of Parnassus and the Nine.

My noble captain, Jack Chase, rather patronised Lemsford, and he
would stoutly take his part against scores of adversaries.
Frequently, inviting him up aloft into his top, he would beg him
to recite some of his verses; to which he would pay the most