The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Volume V.

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Title: The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Volume V.
Author: Cibber, Theophilus, 1703-1758
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Volume V." ***

THE

LIVES

OF THE

POETS

_Great-Britain_ and _Ireland._

By Mr. CIBBER, and other Hands.

VOL. V.

M DCC LIII

CONTENTS

A Vol.

_Aaron Hill_ V
_Addison_ III
_Amhurst_ V
_Anne_, Countess of _Winchelsea_ III

_Bancks_ III
_Banks_ V
_Barclay_ I
_Barton Booth_ IV
_Beaumont_ I
_Behn, Aphra_ III
_Betterton_ III
_Birkenhead_ II
_Blackmore_ V
_Booth_, Vid. _Barton Boyce_ V
_Boyle_, E. _Orrery_ II
_Brady_ IV
_Brewer_ II
_Brooke_, Sir _Fulk Greville_ I
_Brown, Tom_ III
_Buckingham_, Duke of II
_Budgell_ V
_Butler_ II

_Carew_ I
_Cartwright_ I
_Centlivre_, Mrs. IV
_Chandler_, Mrs. V
_Chapman_ I
_Chaucer_ I
_Chudleigh_, Lady III
_Churchyard_ I
_Cleveland_ II
_Cockaine_ II
_Cockburne_, Mrs. V
_Codrington_ IV
_Concanen_ V
_Congreve_ IV
_Corbet_ I
_Cotton_ III
_Cowley_ II
_Crashaw_ I
_Creech_ III
_Crowne_ III
_Croxal_ V

_Daniel_ I
_Davenant_ II
_Davies_ I
_Dawes_, Arch. of _York_ IV
_Day_ I
_Decker_ I
_De Foe_ IV
_Denham_ IV
_Dennis_ IV
_Donne_ I
_Dorset_, Earl of I
_Dorset_, Earl of III
_Drayton_ I
_Drummond_ I
_Dryden_ III
_D'Urfey_ III

_Eachard_ IV
_Etheredge_ III
_Eusden_ V
_Eustace Budgel_ V

_Fairfax_ I
_Fanshaw_ II
_Farquhar_ I
_Faulkland_ I
_Fenton_ IV
_Ferrars_ I
_Flecknoe_ III
_Fletcher_ I
_Ford_ I
_Frowde_ V

_Garth_ III
_Gay_ IV
_Gildon_ III
_Goff_ I
_Goldsmith_ II
_Gower_ I
_Granville_, Lord _Landsdown_ IV
_Green_ I
_Greville_, Lord _Brooke_ I
_Grierson_ V

_Harrington_ II
_Hall_, Bishop I
_Hammond_ V
_Hammond_, Esq; IV
_Harding_ I
_Harrington_ I
_Hausted_ I
_Head_ II
_Haywood, John_ I
_Haywood, Jasper_ I
_Haywood, Thomas_ I
_Hill_ V
_Hinchliffe_ V
_Hobbs_ II
_Holliday_ II
_Howard, Esq_; III
_Howard_, Sir _Robert_ III
_Howel_ II
_Hughes_ IV

_Johnson, Ben_ I
_Johnson, Charles_ V

_Killegrew, Anne_ II
_Killegrew, Thomas_ III
_Killegrew, William_ III
_King_, Bishop of _Chichester_ II
_King_, Dr. _William_ III

_Lauderdale_, Earl of V
_Langland_ I
_Lansdown_, Lord _Granville_ IV
_Lee_ II
_L'Estrange_ IV
_Lillo_ V
_Lilly_ I
_Lodge_ I
_Lydgate_ III

_Main_ II
_Manley_, Mrs. IV
_Markham_ I
_Marloe_ I
_Marston_ I
_Marvel_ IV
_Massinger_ II
_May_ II
_Maynwaring_ III
_Miller_ V
_Middleton_ I
_Milton_ II
_Mitchel_ IV
_Monk_, the Hon. Mrs. III
_Montague_, Earl of _Hallifax_ III
_More_, Sir _Thomas_ I
_More, Smyth_ IV
_Motteaux_ IV
_Mountford_ III

_Nabbes_ II
_Nash_ I
_Needler_ IV
_Newcastle_, Duchess of II
_Newcastle_, Duke of II

_Ogilby_ II
_Oldham_ II
_Oldmixon_ IV
_Orrery, Boyle_, Earl of II
_Otway_ II
_Overbury_ I
_Ozell_ IV

_Pack_ IV
_Phillips_, Mrs. _Katherine_ II
_Phillips, John_ III
_Phillips, Ambrose_ V
_Pilkington_ V
_Pit_ V
_Pomfret_ III
_Pope_ V
_Prior_ IV

_Raleigh_ I
_Randolph_ I
_Ravenscroft_ III
_Rochester_ II
_Roscommon_, Earl of III
_Rowe, Nicholas_ III
_Rowe_, Mrs. IV
_Rowley_ I

_Sackville_, E. of _Dorset_ I
_Sandys_ I
_Savage_ V
_Sedley_ III
_Settle_ III
_Sewel_ IV
_Shadwell_ III
_Shakespear_ I
_Sheffield_, Duke of Buckingham III
_Sheridan_ V
_Shirley_ II
_Sidney_ I
_Skelton_ I
_Smith, Matthew_ II
_Smith, Edmund_ IV
_Smyth, More_ IV
_Southern_ V
_Spenser_ I
_Sprat_ III
_Stapleton_ II
_Steele_ IV
_Stepney_ IV
_Stirling_, Earl of I
_Suckling_ I
_Surry_, Earl of I
_Swift_ V
_Sylvester_ I

T
_Tate_ III
_Taylor_ II
_Theobald_ V
_Thomas_, Mrs. IV
_Thompson_ V
_Tickell_ V
_Trap_ V

_Vanbrugh_ IV

_Waller_ II
_Walsh_ III
_Ward_ IV
_Welsted_ IV
_Wharton_ II
_Wharton, Philip_ Duke of IV
_Wycherley_ III
_Winchelsea, Anne_, Countess of III
_Wotton_ I
_Wyatt_ I

_Yalden_ IV

THE

LIVES

OF THE

POETS

* * * * *

EUSTACE BUDGELL, Esq;

was the eldest son of Gilbert Budgell, D.D. of St. Thomas near Exeter,
by his first wife Mary, the only daughter of Dr. William Gulston, bishop
of Bristol; whose sister Jane married dean Addison, and was mother to
the famous Mr. Addison the secretary of state. This family of Budgell is
very old, and has been settled, and known in Devonshire above 200
years[1].

Eustace was born about the year 1685, and distinguished himself very
soon at school, from whence he was removed early to Christ's Church
College in Oxford, where he was entered a gentleman commoner. He staid
some years in that university, and afterwards went to London, where, by
his father's directions, he was entered of the Inner-Temple, in order to
be bred to the Bar, for which his father had always intended him: but
instead of the Law, he followed his own inclinations, which carried him
to the study of polite literature, and to the company of the genteelest
people in town. This proved unlucky; for the father, by degrees, grew
uneasy at his son's not getting himself called to the Bar, nor properly
applying to the Law, according to his reiterated directions and request;
and the son complained of the strictness and insufficiency of his
father's allowance, and constantly urged the necessity of his living
like a gentleman, and of his spending a great deal of money. During this
slay, however, at the Temple, Mr. Budgell made a strict intimacy and
friendship with Mr. Addison, who was first cousin to his mother; and
this last gentleman being appointed, in the year 1710, secretary to lord
Wharton, the lord lieutenant of Ireland, he made an offer to his friend
Eustace of going with him as one of the clerks in his office. The
proposal being advantageous, and Mr. Budgell being then on bad terms
with his father, and absolutely unqualified for the practice of the Law,
it was readily accepted. Nevertheless, for fear of his father's
disapprobation of it, he never communicated his design to him 'till the
very night of his setting out for Ireland, when he wrote him a letter
to inform him at once of his resolution and journey. This was in the
beginning of April 1710, when he was about twenty five years of age. He
had by this time read the classics, the most reputed historians, and all
the best French, English, or Italian writers. His apprehension was
quick, his imagination fine, and his memory remarkably strong; though
his greatest commendations were a very genteel address, a ready wit and
an excellent elocution, which shewed him to advantage wherever he went.
There was, notwithstanding, one principal defect in his disposition, and
this was an infinite vanity, which gave him so insufferable a
presumption, as led him to think that nothing was too much for his
capacity, nor any preferment, or favour, beyond his deserts. Mr.
Addison's fondness for him perhaps increased this disposition, as he
naturally introduced him into all the company he kept, which at that
time was the best, and most ingenious in the two kingdoms. In short,
they lived and lodged together, and constantly followed the lord
lieutenant into England at the same time.

It was now that Mr. Budgell commenced author, and was partly concerned
with Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Addison in writing the Tatler. The
Spectators being set on foot in 1710-11, Mr. Budgell had likewise a
share in them, as all the papers marked with an X may easily inform the
reader, and indeed the eighth volume was composed by Mr. Addison and
himself[2], without the assistance of Sir Richard Steele. The
speculations of our author were generally liked, and Mr. Addison was
frequently complimented upon the ingenuity of his kinsman. About the
same time he wrote an epilogue to the Distress'd Mother[3], which had a
greater run than any thing of that kind ever had before, and has had
this peculiar regard shewn to it since, that now, above thirty years
afterwards, it is generally spoke at the representation of that play.
Several little epigrams and songs, which have a good deal of wit in
them, were also written by Mr. Budgell near this period of time, all
which, together with the known affection of Mr. Addison for him, raised
his character so much, as to make him be very generally known and talked
of.

His father's death in 1711 threw into his hands all the estates of the
family, which were about 950 l. a year, although they were left
incumbered with some debts, as his father was a man of pride and spirit,
kept a coach and six, and always lived beyond his income,
notwithstanding his spiritual preferments, and the money he had received
with his wives. Dr. Budgell had been twice married, and by his first
lady left five children living after him, three of whom were sons,
Eustace, our author, Gilbert, a Clergyman, and William, the fellow of
New College in Oxford. By his last wife (who was Mrs. Fortescue, mother
to the late master of the rolls, and who survived him) he had no issue.
Notwithstanding this access of fortune, Mr. Budgell in no wise altered
his manner of living; he was at small expence about his person, stuck
very close to business, and gave general satisfaction in the discharge
of his office.

Upon the laying down of the Spectator, the Guardian was set up, and in
this work our author had a hand along with Mr. Addison and Sir Richard
Steele. In the preface it is said, those papers marked with an asterisk
are by Mr. Budgell.

In the year 1713 he published a very elegant translation of
Theophrastus's Characters, which Mr. Addison in the Lover says, 'is the
best version extant of any ancient author in the English language.' It
was dedicated to the lord Hallifax, who was the greatest patron our
author ever had, and with whom he always lived in the greatest intimacy.

Mr. Budgell having regularly made his progress in the secretary of
State's office in Ireland; upon the arrival of his late Majesty in
England, was appointed under secretary to Mr. Addison, and chief
secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland. He was made likewise deputy
clerk of the council in that kingdom, and soon after chose member of the
Irish parliament, where he became a very good speaker. The post of under
secretary is reckoned worth 1500 l. a year, and that of deputy clerk to
the council 250 l. a year. Mr. Budgell set out for Ireland the 8th of
October, 1714, officiated in his place in the privy council the 14th,
took possession of the secretary's office, and was immediately admitted
secretary to the Lords Justices. In the same year at a public
entertainment at the Inns of Court in Dublin, he, with many people of
distinction, was made an honorary bencher. At his first entering upon
the secretary's place, after the removal of the tories on the accession
of his late Majesty, he lay under very great difficulties; all the
former clerks of his office refusing to serve, all the books with the
form of business being secreted, and every thing thrown into the utmost
confusion; yet he surmounted these difficulties with very uncommon
resolution, assiduity, and ability, to his great honour and applause.

Within a twelvemonth of his entering upon his employments, the rebellion
broke out, and as, for several years (during all the absences of the
lord lieutenant) he had discharged the office of secretary of state, and
as no transport office at that time subsisted, he was extraordinarily
charged with the care of the embarkation, and the providing of shipping
(which is generally the province of a field-officer) for all the troops
to be transported to Scotland. However, he went through this extensive
and unusual complication of business, with great exactness and ability,
and with very singular disinterestedness, for he took no extraordinary
service money on this account, nor any gratuity, or fees for any of the
commissions which passed through his office for the colonels and
officers of militia then raising in Ireland. The Lords Justices pressed
him to draw up a warrant for a very handsome present, on account of his
great zeal, and late extraordinary pains (for he had often sat up whole
nights in his office) but he very genteely and firmly refused it.

Mr. Addison, upon becoming principal secretary of state in England in
1717, procured the place of accomptant and comptroller general of the
revenue in Ireland for Mr. Budgell, which is worth 400 l. a year, and
might have had him for his under secretary, but it was thought more
expedient for his Majesty's service, that Mr. Budgell should continue
where he was. Our author held these several places until the year 1718,
at which time the duke of Bolton was appointed lord lieutenant. His
grace carried one Mr. Edward Webster over with him (who had been an
under clerk in the Treasury) and made him a privy counsellor and his
secretary. This gentleman, 'twas said, insisted upon the quartering a
friend on the under secretary, which produced a misunderstanding between
them; for Mr. Budgell positively declared, he would never submit to any
such condition whilst he executed the office, and affected to treat Mr.
Webster himself, his education, abilities, and family, with the utmost
contempt. He was indiscreet enough, prior to this, to write a lampoon,
in which the lord lieutenant was not spared: he would publish it (so
fond was he of this brat of his brain) in opposition to Mr. Addison's
opinion, who strongly persuaded him to suppress it; as the publication,
Mr. Addison said, could neither serve his interest, or reputation. Hence
many discontents arose between them, 'till at length the lord
lieutenant, in support of his secretary, superseded Mr. Budgell, and
very soon after got him removed from the place of accomptant-general.
However, upon the first of these removals taking place, and upon some
hints being given by his private secretary, captain Guy Dickens (now our
minister at Stockholm) that it would not probably be safe for him to
remain any longer in Ireland, he immediately entrusted his papers and
private concerns to the hands of his brother William, then a clerk in
his office, and set out for England. Soon after his arrival he published
a pamphlet representing his case, intituled, A Letter to the Lord----
from Eustace Budgell, Esq; Accomptant General of Ireland, and late
Secretary to their Excellencies the Lords Justices of that Kingdom;
eleven hundred copies of which were sold off in one day, so great was
the curiosity of the public in that particular. Afterwards too in the
Post-Boy of January 17, 1718-19, he published an Advertisement to
justify his character against a report that had been spread to his
disadvantage: and he did not scruple to declare in all companies that
his life was attempted by his enemies, or otherwise he should have
attended his feat in the Irish Parliament. His behaviour, about this
time, made many of his friends judge he was become delirious; his
passions were certainly exceeding strong, nor were his vanity and
jealousy less. Upon his coming to England he had lost no time in waiting
upon Mr. Addison, who had resigned the seals, and was retired into the
country for the sake of his health; but Mr. Addison found it impossible
to stem the tide of opposition, which was every where running against
his kinsman, through the influence and power of the duke of Bolton. He
therefore disswaded him in the strongest manner from publishing his
case, but to no manner of purpose, which made him tell a friend in great
anxiety, 'Mr. Budgell was wiser than any man he ever knew, and yet he
supposed the world would hardly believe he acted contrary to his
advice.' Our author's great and noble friend the lord Hallifax was dead,
and my lord Orrery, who held him in the highest esteem, had it not in
his power to procure him any redress. However, Mr. Addison had got a
promise from lord Sunderland, that as soon as the present clamour was a
little abated, he would do something for him.

Mr. Budgell had held the considerable places of under secretary to the
Lord Lieutenant, and secretary to the Lords Justices for four years,
during which time he had never been absent four days from his office,
nor ten miles from Dublin. His application was indefatigable, and his
natural spirits capable of carrying him through any difficulty. He had
lived always genteelly, but frugally, and had saved a large sum of
money, which he now engaged in the South-Sea scheme. During his abode in
Ireland, he had collected materials for writing a History of that
kingdom, for which he had great advantages, by having an easy recourse
to all the public offices; but what is become of it, and whether he ever
finished it, we are not certainly informed. It is undoubtedly a
considerable loss, because there is no tolerable history of that nation,
and because we might have expected a satisfactory account from so
pleasing a writer.

He wrote a pamphlet, after he came to England, against the famous
Peerage Bill, which was very well received by the public, but highly
offended the earl of Sunderland. It was exceedingly cried up by the
opposition, and produced some overtures of friendship at the time, from
Mr. Robert Walpole, to our author. Mr. Addison's death, in the year
1719, put an end, however, to all his hopes of succeeding at court,
where he continued, nevertheless, to make several attempts, but was
constantly kept down by the weight of the duke of Bolton. In the
September of that year he went into France, through all the strong
places in Flanders and Brabant, and all the considerable towns in
Holland, and then went to Hanover, from whence he returned with his
Majesty's retinue the November following.

But the fatal year of the South-Sea, 1720, ruined our author entirely,
for he lost above 20,000 l. in it; however he was very active on that
occasion, and made many speeches at the general courts of the South-Sea
Company in Merchant-Taylors Hall, and one in particular, which was
afterwards printed both in French and English, and run to a third
edition. And in 1721 he published a pamphlet with success, called, A
Letter to a Friend in the Country, occasioned by a Report that there is
a Design still forming by the late Directors of the South-Sea Company,
their Agents and Associates, to issue the Receipts of the 3d and 4th
Subscriptions at 1000 l. per Cent. and to extort about 10 Millions more
from the miserable People of Great Britain; with some Observations on
the present State of Affairs both at Home and Abroad. In the same year
he published A Letter to Mr. Law upon his Arrival in Great Britain,
which run through seven editions very soon. Not long afterwards the duke
of Portland, whose fortune had been likewise destroyed by the South-Sea,
was appointed governor of Jamaica, upon which he immediately told Mr.
Budgell he should go with him as his secretary, and should always live
in the same manner with himself, and that he would contrive every method
of making the employment profitable and agreeable to him: but his grace
did not know how obnoxious our author had rendered himself; for within a
few days after this offer's taking air, he was acquainted in form by a
secretary of state, that if he thought of Mr. Budgell, the government
would appoint another governor in his room.

After being deprived of this last resource, he tried to get into the
next parliament at several places, and spent near 5000 l. in
unsuccessful attempts, which compleated his ruin. And from this period
he began to behave and live in a very different manner from what he had
ever done before; wrote libellous pamphlets against Sir Robert Walpole
and the ministry; and did many unjust things with respect to his
relations; being distracted in his own private fortune, as, indeed, he
was judged to be, in his senses; torturing his invention to find out
ways of subsisting and eluding his ill-stars, his pride at the same time
working him up to the highest pitches of resentment and indignation
against all courts and courtiers.

His younger brother, the fellow of New-College, who had more weight with
him than any body, had been a clerk under him in Ireland, and continued
still in the office, and who bad fair for rising in it, died in the year
1723, and after that our author seemed to pay no regard to any person.
Mr. William Budgell was a man of very good sense, extremely steady in
his conduct, and an adept in all calculations and mathematical
questions; and had besides great good-nature and easiness of temper.

Our author as I before observed, perplexed his private affairs from this
time as much as possible, and engaged in numberless law-suits, which
brought him into distresses that attended him to the end of his life.

In 1727 Mr. Budgell had a 1000 l. given him by the late Sarah, duchess
dowager of Marlborough, to whose husband (the famous duke of
Marlborough) he was a relation by his mother's side, with a view to his
getting into parliament. She knew he had a talent for speaking in
public, and that he was acquainted with business, and would probably run
any lengths against the ministry. However this scheme failed, for he
could never get chosen.

In the year 1730 and about that time, he closed in with the writers
against the administration, and wrote many papers in the Craftsman. He
likewise published a pamphlet, intitled, A Letter to the Craftsman,
from E. Budgell, Esq; occasioned by his late presenting an humble
complaint against the right honourable Sir Robert Walpole, with a
Post-script. This ran to a ninth edition. Near the same time too he
wrote a Letter to Cleomenes King of Sparta, from E. Budgell, Esq; being
an Answer Paragraph by Paragraph to his Spartan Majesty's Royal Epistle,
published some time since in the Daily Courant, with some Account of the
Manners and Government of the Antient Greeks and Romans, and Political
Reflections thereon. And not long after there came out A State of one of
the Author's Cases before the House of Lords, which is generally printed
with the Letter to Cleomenes: He likewise published on the same occasion
a pamphlet, which he calls Liberty and Property, by E. Budgell, Esq;
wherein he complains of the seizure and loss of many valuable papers,
and particularly a collection of Letters from Mr. Addison, lord
Hallifax, Sir Richard Steele, and other people, which he designed to
publish; and soon after he printed a sequel or second part, under the
same title.

The same year he also published his Poem upon his Majesty's Journey to
Cambridge and New-market, and dedicated it to the Queen. Another of his
performances is a poetical piece, intitled A Letter to his Excellency
Ulrick D'Ypres, and C----, in Answer to his excellency's two Epistles in
the Daily Courant; with a Word or Two to Mr. Osborn the Hyp Doctor, and
C----. These several performances were very well received by the public.

In the year 1733 he began a weekly pamphlet (in the nature of a
Magazine, though more judiciously composed) called The Bee, which he
continued for about 100 Numbers, that bind into eight Volumes Octavo,
but at last by quarrelling with his booksellers, and filling his
pamphlet with things entirely relating to himself, he was obliged to
drop it. During the progress of this work, Dr. Tindall's death happened,
by whose will Mr. Budgell had 2000 l. left him; and the world being
surprised at such a gift, immediately imputed it to his making the will
himself. This produced a paper-war between him and Mr. Tindall, the
continuator of Rapin, by which Mr. Budgell's character considerably
suffered; and this occasioned his Bee's being turned into a meer
vindication of himself.

It is thought he had some hand in publishing Dr. Tindall's Christianity
as old as the Creation; and he often talked of another additional volume
on the same subject, but never published it. However he used to enquire
very frequently after Dr. Conybear's health (who had been employed by
her late majesty to answer the first, and had been rewarded with the
deanery of Christ-Church for his pains) saying he hoped Mr. Dean would
live a little while longer, that he might have the pleasure of making
him a bishop, for he intended very soon to publish the other volume of
Tindall which would do the business. Mr. Budgell promised likewise a
volume of several curious pieces of Tindall's, that had been committed
to his charge, with the life of the doctor; but never fulfilled his
promise[4].

During the publication of the Bee a smart pamphlet came out, called A
Short History of Prime Ministers, which was generally believed to be
written by our author; and in the same year he published A Letter to the
Merchants and Tradesmen of London and Bristol, upon their late glorious
behaviour against the Excise Law.

After the extinction of the Bee, our author became so involved with
law-suits, and so incapable of living in the manner he wished and
affected to do, that he was reduced to a very unhappy situation. He got
himself call'd to the bar, and attended for some time in the courts of
law; but finding it was too late to begin that profession, and too
difficult for a man not regularly trained to it, to get into business,
he soon quitted it. And at last, after being cast in several of his own
suits, and being distressed to the utmost, he determined to make away
with himself. He had always thought very loosely of revelation, and
latterly became an avowed deist; which, added to his pride, greatly
disposed him to this resolution.

Accordingly within a few days after the loss of his great cause, and his
estates being decreed for the satisfaction of his creditors, in the year
1736 he took boat at Somerset-Stairs (after filling his pockets with
stones upon the beach) ordered the waterman to shoot the bridge, and
whilst the boat was going under it threw himself over-board. Several
days before he had been visibly distracted in his mind, and almost mad,
which makes such an action the less wonderful.

He was never married, but left one natural daughter behind him, who
afterwards took his name, and was lately an actress at Drury-Lane.

It has been said, Mr. Budgell was of opinion, that when life becomes
uneasy to support, and is overwhelmed with clouds, and sorrows, that a
man has a natural right to take it away, as it is better not to live,
than live in pain. The morning before he carried his notion of
self-murder into execution, he endeavoured to persuade his daughter to
accompany him, which she very wisely refused. His argument to induce her
was; life is not worth the holding.--Upon Mr. Budgell's beauroe was
found a slip of paper; in which were written these words.

What Cato did, and Addison approv'd[5],
Cannot be wrong.--

Mr. Budgell had undoubtedly strong natural parts, an excellent
education, and set out in life with every advantage that a man could
wish, being settled in very great and profitable employments, at a very
early age, by Mr. Addison: But by excessive vanity and indiscretion,
proceeding from a false estimation of his own weight and consequence, he
over-stretched himself, and ruined his interest at court, and by the
succeeding loss of his fortune in the South-Sea, was reduced too low to
make any other head against his enemies. The unjustifiable and
dishonourable law-suits he kept alive, in the remaining part of his
life, seem to be intirely owing to the same disposition, which could
never submit to the living beneath what he had once done, and from that
principle he kept a chariot and house in London to the very last.

His end was like that of many other people of spirit, reduced to great
streights; for some of the greatest, as well as some of the most
infamous men have laid violent hands upon themselves. As an author where
he does not speak of himself, and does not give a loose to his vanity,
he is a very agreeable and deserving writer; not argumentative or deep,
but very ingenious and entertaining, and his stile is peculiarly
elegant, so as to deserve being ranked in that respect with Addison's,
and is superior to most of the other English writers. His Memoirs of the
Orrery Family and the Boyle's, is the most indifferent of his
performances; though the translations of Phalaris's Epistles in that
work are done with great spirit and beauty.

As to his brothers, the second, Gilbert, was thought a man of deeper
learning and better judgment when he was young than our author, but was
certainly inferior to him in his appearance in life; and, 'tis thought,
greatly inferior to him in every respect. He was author of a pretty Copy
of Verses in the VIIIth Vol. of the Spectators, Numb, 591, which begins
thus,

Conceal, fond man, conceal the mighty smart,
Nor tell Corinna she has fir'd thy heart.

And it is said that it was a repulse from a lady of great fortune, with
whom he was desperately in love whilst at Oxford, and to whom he had
addressed these lines, that made him disregard himself ever after,
neglect his studies, and fall into a habit of drinking. Whatever was the
occasion of this last vice it ruined him. A lady had commended and
desired to have a copy of his Verses once, and he sent them, with these
lines on the first leaf--

Lucretius hence thy maxim I abjure
Nought comes from nought, nothing can nought procure.

If to these lines your approbation's join'd,
Something I'm sure from nothing has been coin'd.

This gentleman died unmarried, a little after his brother Eustace, at
Exeter; having lived in a very disreputable manner for some time, and
having degenerated into such excessive indolence, that he usually picked
up some boy in the streets, and carried him into the coffee-house to
read the news-papers to him. He had taken deacon's orders some years
before his death, but had always been averse to that kind of life; and
therefore became it very ill, and could never be prevailed upon to be a
priest.

The third brother William, fellow of New-College in Oxford, died (as I
mentioned before) one of the clerks in the Irish secretary of state's
office, very young. He had been deputy accomptant general, both to his
brother and his successor; and likewise deputy to Mr. Addison, as keeper
of the records in Birmingham-Tower. Had he lived, 'tis probable he would
have made a considerable figure, being a man of sound sense and
learning, with great prudence and honour. His cousin Dr. Downes, then
bishop of London-Derry, was his zealous friend, and Dr. Lavington the
present bishop of Exeter, his fellow-collegian, was his intimate
correspondent. Of the two sisters, the eldest married captain Graves of
Thanks, near Saltash in Cornwall, a sea-officer, and died in 1738,
leaving some children behind her; and the other is still alive,
unmarried. The father Dr. Gilbert Budgell, was esteemed a sensible man,
and has published a discourse upon Prayer, and some Sermons[6].

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Budgell's Letter to Cleomenes. Appendix p. 79.

[2] See The Bee, vol. ii. p. 854.

[3] 'Till then it was usual to discontinue an epilogue after the sixth
night. But this was called for by the audience, and continued for
the whole run of this play: Budgell did not scruple to sit in the
it, and call for it himself.

[4] Vide Bee, Vol. II. page 1105.

[5] Alluding to Cato's destroying himself.

[6] There is an Epigram of our author's, which I don't remember to have
seen published any where, written upon the death of a very fine
young lady.

She was, she is,
(What can theremore be said)
On Earth [the] first,
In Heav'n the second Maid.
[Transcriber's note: Print unclear, word in square bracket assumed.]

See a Song of our author's in Steele's Miscellanies, published in
1714. Page 210.

There is an Epigram of his printed in the same book and in many
collections, Upon a Company of bad Dancers to good Music.

How ill the motion with the music suits!
So fiddled Orpheus--and so danc'd the Brutes.

* * * * *

THOMAS TICKELL, Esq.

This Gentleman, well known, to the world by the friendship and intimacy
which subsisted between him and Mr. Addison, was the son of the revd.
Mr. Richard Tickell, who enjoy'd a considerable preferment in the North
of England. Our poet received his education at Queen's-College in
Oxford, of which he was a fellow.

While he was at that university, he wrote a beautiful copy of verses
addressed to Mr. Addison, on his Opera of Rosamond. These verses
contained many elegant compliments to the author, in which he compares
his softness to Corelli, and his strength to Virgil[1].

The Opera first Italian masters taught,
Enrich'd with songs, but innocent of thought;
Britannia's learned theatre disdains
Melodious trifles, and enervate strains;
And blushes on her injur'd stage to see,
Nonsense well tun'd with sweet stupidity.

No charms are wanting to thy artful song
Soft as Corelli, and as Virgil strong.

These complimentary lines, a few of which we have now quoted, so
effectually recommended him to Mr. Addison, that he held him in esteem
ever afterwards; and when he himself was raised to the dignity of
secretary of state, he appointed Mr. Tickell his under-secretary. Mr.
Addison being obliged to resign on account of his ill-state of health,
Mr. Craggs who succeeded him, continued Mr. Tickell in his place, which
he held till that gentleman's death. When Mr. Addison was appointed
secretary, being a diffident man, he consulted with his friends about
disposing such places as were immediately dependent on him. He
communicated to Sir Richard Steele, his design of preferring Mr. Tickell
to be his under-secretary, which Sir Richard, who considered him as a
petulant man, warmly opposed. He observed that Mr. Tickell was of a
temper too enterprising to be governed, and as he had no opinion of his
honour, he did not know what might be the consequence, if by insinuation
and flattery, or by bolder means, he ever had an opportunity of raising
himself. It holds pretty generally true, that diffident people under the
appearance of distrusting their own opinions, are frequently positive,
and though they pursue their resolutions with trembling, they never fail
to pursue them. Mr. Addison had a little of this temper in him. He could
not be persuaded to set aside Mr. Tickell, nor even had secrecy enough
to conceal from him Sir Richard's opinion. This produced a great
animosity between Sir Richard and Mr. Tickell, which subsisted during
their lives.

Mr. Tickell in his life of Addison, prefixed to his own edition of that
great man's works, throws out some unmannerly reflexions against Sir
Richard, who was at that time in Scotland, as one of the commissioners
on the forfeited estates. Upon Sir Richard's return to London, he
dedicates to Mr. Congreve, Addison's Comedy, called the Drummer, in
which he takes occasion very smartly to retort upon Tickell, and clears
himself of the imputation laid to his charge, namely that of valuing
himself upon Mr. Addison's papers in the Spectator.

In June 1724 Mr. Tickell was appointed secretary to the Lords Justices
in Ireland, a place says Mr. Coxeter, which he held till his death,
which happened in the year 1740.

It does not appear that Mr. Tickell was in any respect ungrateful to Mr.
Addison, to whom he owed his promotion; on the other hand we find him
take every opportunity to celebrate him, which he always performs with
so much zeal, and earnestness, that he seems to have retained the most
lasting sense of his patron's favours. His poem to the earl of Warwick
on the death of Mr. Addison, is very pathetic. He begins it thus,

If dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stray'd,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,
Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, O judge, my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires!
Slow comes the verse, that real woe inspires:
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

Mr. Tickell's works are printed in the second volume of the Minor Poets,
and he is by far the most considerable writer amongst them. He has a
very happy talent in versification, which much exceeds Addison's, and is
inferior to few of the English Poets, Mr. Dryden and Pope excepted. The
first poem in this collection is addressed to the supposed author of the
Spectator.

In the year 1713 Mr. Tickell wrote a poem, called The Prospect of Peace,
addressed to his excellency the lord privy-seal; which met with so
favourable a reception from the public, as to go thro' six editions. The
sentiments in this poem are natural, and obvious, but no way
extraordinary. It is an assemblage of pretty notions, poetically
expressed; but conducted with no kind of art, and altogether without a
plan. The following exordium is one of the most shining parts of the
poem.

Far hence be driv'n to Scythia's stormy shore
The drum's harsh music, and the cannon's roar;
Let grim Bellona haunt the lawless plain,
Where Tartar clans, and grizly Cossacks reign;
Let the steel'd Turk be deaf to Matrons cries,
See virgins ravish'd, with relentless eyes,
To death, grey heads, and smiling infants doom.
Nor spare the promise of the pregnant womb:
O'er wafted kingdoms spread his wide command.
The savage lord of an unpeopled land.
Her guiltless glory just Britannia draws
From pure religion, and impartial laws,
To Europe's wounds a mother's aid she brings,
And holds in equal scales the rival kings:
Her gen'rous sons in choicest gifts abound,
Alike in arms, alike in arts renown'd.

The Royal Progress. This poem is mentioned in the Spectator, in
opposition to such performances, as are generally written in a swelling
stile, and in which the bombast is mistaken for the sublime. It is meant
as a compliment to his late majesty, on his arrival in his British
dominions.

An imitation of the Prophesy of Nereus. Horace, Book I. Ode XV.--This
was written about the year 1715, and intended as a ridicule upon the
enterprize of the earl of Marr; which he prophesies will be crushed by
the duke of Argyle.

An Epistle from a Lady in England, to a gentleman at Avignon. Of this
piece five editions were sold; it is written in the manner of a Lady to
a Gentleman, whose principles obliged him to be an exile with the Royal
Wanderer. The great propension of the Jacobites to place confidence in
imaginary means; and to construe all extraordinary appearances, into
ominous signs of the restoration of their king is very well touched.

Was it for this the sun's whole lustre fail'd,
And sudden midnight o'er the Moon prevail'd!
For this did Heav'n display to mortal eyes
Aerial knights, and combats in the skies!
Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red!
And Thames driv'n backwards shew'd his secret bed!

False Auguries! th'insulting victors scorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents constru'd, on our side in vain!
Let never Tory trust eclipse again!
Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies;
And Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise!

An Ode, occasioned by his excellency the earl of Stanhope's Voyage to
France.

A Prologue to the University of Oxford.

Thoughts occasioned by the sight of an original
picture of King Charles the 1st, taken at the time of
his Trial.

A Fragment of a Poem, on Hunting.

A Description of the Phoenix, from Claudian.

To a Lady; with the Description of the Phoenix.

Part of the Fourth Book of Lucan translated.

The First Book of Homer's Iliad.

Kensington-Gardens.

Several Epistles and Odes.

This translation was published much about the same time with Mr. Pope's.
But it will not bear a comparison; and Mr. Tickell cannot receive a
greater injury, than to have his verses placed in contradistinction to
Pope's. Mr. Melmoth, in his Letters, published under the name of Fitz
Osborne, has produced some parallel passages, little to the advantage of
Mr. Tickell, who if he fell greatly short of the elegance and beauty of
Pope, has yet much exceeded Mr. Congreve, in what he has attempted of
Homer.

In the life of Addison, some farther particulars concerning this
translation are related; and Sir Richard Steele, in his dedication of
the Drummer to Mr. Congreve, gives it as his opinion, that Addison was
himself the author.

These translations, published at the same time, were certainly meant as
rivals to one another. We cannot convey a more adequate idea of this,
than in the words of Mr. Pope, in a Letter to James Craggs, Esq.; dated
July the 15th, 1715.

'Sir,

'They tell me, the busy part of the nation are not more busy about Whig
and Tory; than these idle-fellows of the feather, about Mr. Tickell's
and my translation. I (like the Tories) have the town in general, that
is, the mob on my side; but it is usual with the smaller part to make up
in industry, what they want in number; and that is the case with the
little senate of Cato. However, if our principles be well considered, I
must appear a brave Whig, and Mr. Tickell a rank Tory. I translated
Homer, for the public in general, he to gratify the inordinate desires
of one man only. We have, it seems, a great Turk in poetry, who can
never bear a brother on the throne; and has his Mutes too, a set of
Medlers, Winkers, and Whisperers, whose business 'tis to strangle all
other offsprings of wit in their birth. The new translator of Homer, is
the humblest slave he has, that is to say, his first minister; let him
receive the honours he gives me, but receive them with fear and
trembling; let him be proud of the approbation of his absolute lord, I
appeal to the people, as my rightful judges, and masters; and if they
are not inclined to condemn me, I fear no arbitrary high-flying
proceeding, from the Court faction at Button's. But after all I have
said of this great man, there is no rupture between us. We are each of
us so civil, and obliging, that neither thinks he's obliged: And I for
my part, treat with him, as we do with the Grand Monarch; who has too
many great qualities, not to be respected, though we know he watches any
occasion to oppress us.'

Thus we have endeavoured to exhibit an Idea of the writings of Mr.
Tickell, a man of a very elegant genius: As there appears no great
invention in his works, if he cannot be placed in the first rank of
Poets; yet from the beauty of his numbers, and the real poetry which
enriched his imagination, he has, at least, an unexceptionable claim to
the second.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Jacob.

* * * * *

Mr. WILLIAM HINCHLIFFE,

was the son of a reputable tradesman of St. Olave's in Southwark, and
was born there May 12, 1692; was educated at a private grammar school
with his intimate and ingenious friend Mr. Henry Needler. He made a
considerable progress in classical learning, and had a poetical genius.
He served an apprenticeship to Mr. Arthur Bettesworth, Bookseller in
London, and afterwards followed that business himself near thirty years,
under the Royal Exchange, with reputation and credit, having the esteem
and friendship of many eminent merchants and gentlemen. In 1718 he
married Jane, one of the daughters of Mr. William Leigh, an eminent
citizen. Mrs. Hinchliffe was sister of William Leigh, esq; one of his
Majesty's justices of the peace for the county of Surry, and of the
revd. Thomas Leigh, late rector of Heyford in Oxfordshire, by whom he
had two sons and three daughters, of which only one son and one daughter
are now living. He died September 20, 1742, and was buried in the parish
church of St. Margaret's Lothbury, London.

In 1714 he had the honour to present an Ode to King George I. on his
Arrival at Greenwich, which is printed in a Collection of Poems,
Amorous, Moral, and Divine, which he published in octavo, 1718, and
dedicated them to his friend Mr. Needler.

He published a History of the Rebellion of 1715, and dedicated it to the
late Duke of Argyle.

He made himself master of the French tongue by his own application and
study; and in 1734 published a Translation of Boulainvillers's Life of
Mahomet, which is well esteemed, and dedicated it to his intimate and
worthy friend Mr. William Duncombe, Esq;

He was concerned, with others, in the publishing several other ingenious
performances, and has left behind him in manuscript, a Translation of
the nine first Books of Telemachus in blank Verse, which cost him great
labour, but he did not live to finish the remainder.

He is the author of a volume of poems in 8vo, many of which are written
with a true poetical spirit.

The INVITATION[1].

O come Lavinia, lovely maid,
Said Dion, stretch'd at ease,
Beneath the walnut's fragrant shade,
A sweet retreat! by nature made
With elegance to please.

O leave the court's deceitful glare,
Loath'd pageantry and pride,
Come taste our solid pleasures here.
Which angels need not blush to share,
And with bless'd men divide.

What raptures were it in these bow'rs,
Fair virgin, chaste, and wise,
With thee to lose the learned hours,
And note the beauties in these flowers,
Conceal'd from vulgar eyes.

For thee my gaudy garden blooms,
And richly colour'd glows;
Above the pomp of royal rooms,
Or purpled works of Persian looms,
Proud palaces disclose.

Haste, nymph, nor let me sigh in vain,
Each grace attends on thee;
Exalt my bliss, and point my strain,
For love and truth are of thy train,
Content and harmony.

[1] This piece is not in Mr. Hinchliffe's works, but is assuredly his.

* * * * *

MR. MATTHEW CONCANEN.

This gentleman was a native of Ireland, and was bred to the Law. In this
profession he seems not to have made any great figure. By some means or
other he conceived an aversion to Dr. Swift, for his abuse of whom, the
world taxed him with ingratitude. Concanen had once enjoyed some degree
of Swift's favour, who was not always very happy in the choice of his
companions. He had an opportunity of reading some of the Dr's poems in
MS. which it is said he thought fit to appropriate and publish as his
own.

As affairs did not much prosper with him in Ireland, he came over to
London, in company with another gentleman, and both commenced writers.
These two friends entered into an extraordinary agreement. As the
subjects which then attracted the attention of mankind were of a
political cast, they were of opinion that no species of writing could so
soon recommend them to public notice; and in order to make their trade
more profitable, they resolved to espouse different interests; one
should oppose, and the other defend the ministry. They determined the
side of the question each was to espouse, by tossing up a half-penny,
and it fell to the share of Mr. Concanen to defend the ministry, which
task he performed with as much ability, as political writers generally
discover.

He was for some time, concerned in the British, and London Journals, and
a paper called The Speculatist. These periodical pieces are long since
buried in neglect, and perhaps would have even sunk into oblivion, had
not Mr. Pope, by his satyrical writings, given them a kind of
disgraceful immortality. In these Journals he published many
scurrilities against Mr. Pope; and in a pamphlet called, The Supplement
to the Profound, he used him with great virulence, and little candour.
He not only imputed to him Mr. Brome's verses (for which he might indeed
seem in some degree accountable, having corrected what that gentleman
did) but those of the duke of Buckingham and others. To this rare piece
some body humorously perswaded him to take for his motto, De profundis
clamavi. He afterwards wrote a paper called The Daily Courant, wherein
he shewed much spleen against lord Bolingbroke, and some of his friends.
All these provocations excited Mr. Pope to give him a place in his
Dunciad. In his second book, l. 287, when he represents the dunces
diving in the mud of the Thames for the prize, he speaks thus of
Concanen;

True to the bottom see Concanen creep,
A cold, long winded, native of the deep!
If perseverance gain the diver's prize,
Not everlasting Blackmore this denies.

In the year 1725 Mr. Concanen published a volume of poems in 8vo.
consisting chiefly of compositions of his own, and some few of other
gentlemen; they are addressed to the lord Gage, whom he endeavours
artfully to flatter, without offending his modesty. 'I shall begin this
Address, says he, by declaring that the opinion I have of a great part
of the following verses, is the highest indication of the esteem in
which I hold the noble character I present them to. Several of them have
authors, whose names do honour to whatever patronage they receive. As to
my share of them, since it is too late, after what I have already
delivered, to give my opinion of them, I'll say as much as can be said
in their favour. I'll affirm that they have one mark of merit, which is
your lordship's approbation; and that they are indebted to fortune for
two other great advantages, a place in good company, and an honourable
protection.'

The gentlemen, who assisted Concanen in this collection, were Dean
Swift, Mr. Parnel, Dr. Delany, Mr. Brown, Mr. Ward, and Mr. Stirling. In
this collection there is a poem by Mr. Concanen, called A Match at
Football, in three Cantos; written, 'tis said, in imitation of The Rape
of the Lock. This performance is far from being despicable; the
verification is generally smooth; the design is not ill conceived, and
the characters not unnatural. It perhaps would be read with more
applause, if The Rape of the Lock did not occur to the mind, and, by
forcing a comparison, destroy all the satisfaction in perusing it; as
the disproportion is so very considerable. We shall quote a few lines
from the beginning of the third canto, by which it will appear that
Concanen was not a bad rhimer.

In days of yore a lovely country maid
Rang'd o'er these lands, and thro' these forests stray'd;
Modest her pleasures, matchless was her frame,
Peerless her face, and Sally was her name.
By no frail vows her young desires were bound,
No shepherd yet the way to please her found.
Thoughtless of love the beauteous nymph appear'd,
Nor hop'd its transports, nor its torments fear'd.
But careful fed her flocks, and grac'd the plain,
She lack'd no pleasure, and she felt no pain.
She view'd our motions when we toss'd the ball,
And smil'd to see us take, or ward, a fall;
'Till once our leader chanc'd the nymph to spy,
And drank in poison from her lovely eye.
Now pensive grown, he shunn'd the long-lov'd plains,
His darling pleasures, and his favour'd swains,
Sigh'd in her absence, sigh'd when she was near,
Now big with hope, and now dismay'd with fear;
At length with falt'ring tongue he press'd the dame,
For some returns to his unpity'd flame;
But she disdain'd his suit, despis'd his care,
His form unhandsome, and his bristled hair;
Forward she sprung, and with an eager pace
The god pursu'd, nor fainted in the race;
Swift as the frighted hind the virgin flies,
When the woods ecchoe to the hunters cries:
Swift as the fleetest hound her flight she trac'd,
When o'er the lawns the frighted hind is chac'd;
The winds which sported with her flowing vest
Display'd new charms, and heightened all the rest:
Those charms display'd, increas'd the gods desire,
What cool'd her bosom, set his breast on fire:
With equal speed, for diff'rent ends they move,
Fear lent the virgin wings, the shepherd love:
Panting at length, thus in her fright she pray'd,
Be quick ye pow'rs, and save a wretched maid.
[Protect] my honour, shelter me from shame,
[Beauty] and life with pleasure I disclaim.

[Transcriber's note: print unclear for words in square brackets,
therefore words are assumed.]

Mr. Concanen was also concerned with the late Mr. Roome [Transcriber's
note: print unclear, "m" assumed], and a certain eminent senator, in
making The Jovial Crew, an old Comedy, into a Ballad Opera; which was
performed about the year 1730; and the profits were given entirely to
Mr. Concanen. Soon after he was preferred to be attorney-general in
Jamaica, a post of considerable eminence, and attended with a very large
income. In this island he spent the remaining part of his days, and, we
are informed made a tolerable accession of fortune, by marrying a
planter's daughter, who surviving him was left in the possession of
several hundred pounds a year. She came over to England after his death,
and married the honourable Mr. Hamilton.

* * * * *

RICHARD SAVAGE, Esq;

This unhappy gentleman, who led a course of life imbittered with the
most severe calamities, was not yet destitute of a friend to close his
eyes. It has been remarked of Cowley, who likewise experienced many of
the vicissitudes of fortune, that he was happy in the acquaintance of
the bishop of Rochester, who performed the last offices which can be
paid to a poet, in the elegant Memorial he made of his Life. Though Mr.
Savage was as much inferior to Cowley in genius, as in the rectitude of
his life, yet, in some respect, he bears a resemblance to that great
man. None of the poets have been more honoured in the commemoration of
their history, than this gentleman. The life of Mr. Savage was written
some years after his death by a gentleman, who knew him intimately,
capable to distinguish between his follies, and those good qualities
which were often concealed from the bulk of mankind by the abjectness of
his condition. From this account[1] we have compiled that which we now
present to the reader.

In the year 1697 Anne countess of Macclesfield, having lived for some
time on very uneasy terms with her husband, thought a public confession
of adultery the most expeditious method of obtaining her liberty, and
therefore declared the child with which she then was big was begotten by
the earl of Rivers. This circumstance soon produced a separation, which,
while the earl of Macclesfield was prosecuting, the countess, on the
10th of January 1697-8, was delivered of our author; and the earl of
Rivers, by appearing to consider him as his own, left no room to doubt
of her declaration. However strange it may appear, the countess looked
upon her son, from his birth, with a kind of resentment and abhorrence.
No sooner was her son born, than she discovered a resolution of
disowning him, in a short time removed him from her sight, and committed
him to the care of a poor woman, whom she directed to educate him as her
own, and enjoined her never to inform him of his true parents. Instead
of defending his tender years, she took delight to see him struggling
with misery, and continued her persecution, from the first hour of his
life to the last, with an implacable and restless cruelty. His mother,
indeed, could not affect others with the same barbarity, and though she,
whose tender sollicitudes should have supported him, had launched him
into the ocean of life, yet was he not wholly abandoned. The lady Mason,
mother to the countess, undertook to transact with the nurse, and
superintend the education of the child. She placed him at a grammar
school near St. Albans, where he was called by the name of his nurse,
without the least intimation that he had a claim to any other. While he
was at this school, his father, the earl of Rivers, was seized with a
distemper which in a short time put an end to his life. While the earl
lay on his death-bed, he thought it his duty to provide for him, amongst
his other natural children, and therefore demanded a positive account of
him. His mother, who could no longer refuse an answer, determined, at
least, to give such, as should deprive him for ever of that happiness
which competency affords, and declared him dead; which is, perhaps, the
first instance of a falshood invented by a mother, to deprive her son of
a provision which was designed him by another. The earl did not imagine
that there could exist in nature, a mother that would ruin her son,
without enriching herself, and therefore bestowed upon another son six
thousand pounds, which he had before in his will bequeathed to Savage.
The same cruelty which incited her to intercept this provision intended
him, suggested another project, worthy of such a disposition. She
endeavoured to rid herself from the danger of being at any time made
known to him, by sending him secretly to the American Plantations; but
in this contrivance her malice was defeated.

Being still restless in the persecution of her son, she formed another
scheme of burying him in poverty and obscurity; and that the state of
his life, if not the place of his residence, might keep him for ever at
a distance from her, she ordered him to be placed with a Shoemaker in
Holbourn, that after the usual time of trial he might become his
apprentice. It is generally reported, that this project was, for some
time, successful, and that Savage was employed at the awl longer than he
was willing to confess; but an unexpected discovery determined him to
quit his occupation.

About this time his nurse, who had always treated him as her own son,
died; and it was natural for him to take care of those effects, which by
her death were, as he imagined, become his own. He therefore went to her
house, opened her boxes, examined her papers, and found some letters
written to her by the lady Mason, which informed him of his birth, and
the reasons for which it was concealed.

He was now no longer satisfied with the employment which had been
allotted him, but thought he had a right to share the affluence of his
mother, and therefore, without scruple, applied to her as her son, and
made use of every art to awake her tenderness, and attract her regard.
It was to no purpose that he frequently sollicited her to admit him to
see her, she avoided him with the utmost precaution, and ordered him to
be excluded from her house, by whomsoever he might be introduced, and
what reason soever he might give for entering it.

Savage was at this time so touched with the discovery of his real
mother, that it was his frequent practice to walk in the dark evenings
for several hours before her door, in hopes of seeing her by accident.

But all his assiduity was without effect, for he could neither soften
her heart, nor open her hand, and while he was endeavouring to rouse the
affections of a mother, he was reduced to the miseries of want. In this
situation he was obliged to find other means of support, and became by
necessity an author.

His first attempt in that province was, a poem against the bishop of
Bangor, whose controversy, at that time, engaged the attention of the
nation, and furnished the curious with a topic of dispute. Of this
performance Mr. Savage was afterwards ashamed, as it was the crude
effort of a yet uncultivated genius. He then attempted another kind of
writing, and, while but yet eighteen, offered a comedy to the stage,
built upon a Spanish plot; which was refused by the players. Upon this
he gave it to Mr. Bullock, who, at that time rented the Theatre in
Lincoln's-Inn-Fields of Mr. Rich, and with messieurs Keene, Pack, and
others undertook the direction thereof. Mr. Bullock made some slight
alterations, and brought it upon the stage, under the title of Woman's a
Riddle, but allowed the real author no part of the profit. This
occasioned a quarrel between Savage and Bullock; but it ended without
bloodshed, though not without high words: Bullock insisted he had a
translation of the Spanish play, from whence the plot was taken, given
him by the same lady who had bestowed it on Savage.--Which was not
improbable, as that whimsical lady had given a copy to several others.

Not discouraged, however, at this repulse, he wrote, two years after,
Love in a Veil, another Comedy borrowed likewise from the Spanish, but
with little better success than before; for though it was received and
acted, yet it appeared so late in the year, that Savage obtained no
other advantage from it, than the acquaintance of Sir Richard Steele,
and Mr. Wilks, by whom, says the author of his Life, he was pitied,
caressed, and relieved. Sir Richard Steele declared in his favour, with
that genuine benevolence which constituted his character, promoted his
interest with the utmost zeal, and taking all opportunities of
recommending him; he asserted, 'that the inhumanity of his mother had
given him a right to find every good man his father.' Nor was Mr. Savage
admitted into his acquaintance only, but to his confidence and esteem.
Sir Richard intended to have established him in some settled scheme of
life, and to have contracted a kind of alliance with him, by marrying
him to a natural daughter, on whom he intended to bestow a thousand
pounds. But Sir Richard conducted his affairs with so little oeconomy,
that he was seldom able to raise the sum, which he had offered, and the
marriage was consequently delayed. In the mean time he was officiously
informed that Mr. Savage had ridiculed him; by which he was so much
exasperated that he withdrew the allowance he had paid him, and never
afterwards admitted him to his house.

He was now again abandoned to fortune, without any other friend but Mr.
Wilks, a man to whom calamity seldom complained without relief. He
naturally took an unfortunate wit into his protection, and not only
assisted him in any casual distresses, but continued an equal and steady
kindness to the time of his death. By Mr. Wilks's interposition Mr.
Savage once obtained of his mother fifty pounds, and a promise of one
hundred and fifty more, but it was the fate of this unhappy man, that
few promises of any advantage to him were ever performed.

Being thus obliged to depend [Transcriber's note: 'depended' in
original] upon Mr. Wilks, he was an assiduous frequenter of the
theatres, and, in a short time, the amusements of the stage took such a
possession of his mind, that he was never absent from a play in several
years.

In the year 1723 Mr. Savage brought another piece on the stage. He made
choice of the subject of Sir Thomas Overbury: If the circumstances in
which he wrote it be considered, it will afford at once an uncommon
proof of strength of genius, and an evenness of mind not to be ruffled.
During a considerable part of the time in which he was employed upon
this performance, he was without lodging, and often without food; nor
had he any other conveniencies for study than the fields, or the street;
in which he used to walk, and form his speeches, and afterwards step
into a shop, beg for a few moments the use of pen and ink, and write
down what he had composed, upon paper which he had picked up by
accident.

Mr. Savage had been for some time distinguished by Aaron Hill, Esq; with
very particular kindness; and on this occasion it was natural to apply
to him, as an author of established reputation. He therefore sent this
Tragedy to him, with a few verses, in which he desired his correction.
Mr. Hill who was a man of unbounded humanity, and most accomplished
politeness, readily complied with his request; and wrote the prologue
and epilogue, in which he touches the circumstances [Transcriber's note:
'cirumstances' in original] of the author with great tenderness.

Mr. Savage at last brought his play upon the stage, but not till the
chief actors had quitted it, and it was represented by what was then
called the summer-company. In this Tragedy Mr. Savage himself performed
the part of Sir Thomas Overbury, with so little success, that he always
blotted out his name from the list of players, when a copy of his
Tragedy was to be shewn to any of his friends. This play however
procured him the notice and esteem of many persons of distinction, for
some rays of genius glimmered thro' all the mists which poverty and
oppression had spread over it. The whole profits of this performance,
acted, printed, and dedicated, amounted to about 200 l. But the
generosity of Mr. Hill did not end here; he promoted the subscription to
his Miscellanies, by a very pathetic representation of the author's
sufferings, printed in the Plain-Dealer, a periodical paper written by
Mr. Hill. This generous effort in his favour soon produced him
seventy-guineas, which were left for him at Button's, by some who
commiserated his misfortunes.

Mr. Hill not only promoted the subscription to the Miscellany, but
furnished likewise the greatest part of the poems of which it is
composed, and particularly the Happy Man, which he published as a
specimen. To this Miscellany he wrote a preface, in which he gives an
account of his mother's cruelty, in a very uncommon strain of humour,
which the success of his subscriptions probably inspired.

Savage was now advancing in reputation, and though frequently involved
in very perplexing necessities, appeared however to be gaining on
mankind; when both his fame and his life were endangered, by an event of
which it is not yet determined, whether it ought to be mentioned as a
crime or a calamity. As this is by far the most interesting circumstance
in the life of this unfortunate man, we shall relate the particulars
minutely.

On the 20th of November 1727 Mr. Savage came from Richmond, where he had
retired, that he might pursue his studies with less interruption, with
an intent to discharge a lodging which he had in Westminster; and
accidentally meeting two gentlemen of his acquaintance, whose names were
Marchant and Gregory, he went in with them to a neighbouring
Coffee-House, and sat drinking till it was late. He would willingly have
gone to bed in the same house, but there was not room for the whole
company, and therefore they agreed to ramble about the streets, and
divert themselves with such amusements as should occur till morning. In
their walk they happened unluckily to discover light in Robinson's
Coffee-House, near Charing-Cross, and went in. Marchant with some
rudeness demanded a room, and was told that there was a good fire in the
next parlour, which the company were about to leave, being then paying
their reckoning. Marchant not satisfied with this answer, rushed into
the room, and was followed by his companions. He then petulantly placed
himself between the company and the fire; and soon afterwards kicked
down the table. This produced a quarrel, swords were drawn on both
sides; and one Mr. James Sinclair was killed. Savage having wounded
likewise a maid that held him, forced his way with Gregory out of the
house; but being intimidated, and confus'd, without resolution, whether
to fly, or stay, they were taken in a back court by one of the company,
and some soldiers, whom he had called to his assistance.

When the day of the trial came on, the court was crowded in a very
unusual manner, and the public appeared to interest itself as in a cause
of general concern. The witnesses against Mr. Savage and his friends,
were the woman who kept the house, which was a house of ill-fame, and
her maid, the men who were in the room with Mr. Sinclair, and a woman of
the town, who had been drinking with them, and with whom one of them had
been seen in bed.

They swore in general, that Marchant gave the provocation, which Savage
and Gregory drew their swords to justify; that Savage drew first, that
he stabb'd Sinclair, when he was not in a posture of defence, or while
Gregory commanded his sword; that after he had given the thrust he
turned pale, and would have retired, but that the maid clung round him,
and one of the company endeavoured to detain him, from whom he broke, by
cutting the maid on the head.

Sinclair had declared several times before his death, for he survived
that night, that he received his wound from Savage; nor did Savage at
his trial deny the fact, but endeavoured partly to extenuate it, by
urging the suddenness of the whole action, and the impossibility of any
ill design, or premeditated malice, and partly to justify it by the
necessity of self-defence, and the hazard of his own life, if he had
lost that opportunity of giving the thrust. He observed that neither
reason nor law obliged a man to wait for the blow which was threatened,
and which if he should suffer, he might never be able to return; that it
was always allowable to prevent an assault, and to preserve life, by
taking away that of the adversary, by whom it was endangered.

With regard to the violence with which he endeavoured his escape, he
declared it was not his design to fly from justice, or decline a trial,
but to avoid the expences and severities of a prison, and that he
intended to appear at the bar, without compulsion. This defence which
took up more than an hour, was heard by the multitude that thronged the
court, with the most attentive and respectful silence. Those who thought
he ought not to be acquitted, owned that applause could not be refused
him; and those who before pitied his misfortunes, now reverenced his
abilities.

The witnesses who appeared against him were proved to be persons of such
characters as did not entitle them to much credit; a common strumpet, a
woman by whom such wretches were entertained, and a man by whom they
were supported. The character of Savage was by several persons of
distinction asserted to be that of a modest inoffensive man, not
inclined to broils, or to insolence, and who had to that time been only
known by his misfortunes and his wit.

Had his audience been his judges, he had undoubtedly been acquitted; but
Mr. Page, who was then upon the bench, treated him with the most brutal
severity, and in summing up the evidence endeavoured to exasperate the
jury against him, and misrepresent his defence. This was a provocation,
and an insult, which the prisoner could not bear, and therefore Mr.
Savage resolutely asserted, that his cause was not candidly explained,
and began to recapitulate what he had before said; but the judge having
ordered him to be silent, which Savage treated with contempt, he
commanded that he should be taken by force from the bar. The jury then
heard the opinion of the judge, that good characters were of no weight
against positive evidence, though they might turn the scale, where it
was doubtful; and that though two men attack each other, the death of
either is only manslaughter; but where one is the aggressor, as in the
case before them, and in pursuance of his first attack kills the other,
the law supposes the action, however sudden, to be malicious. The jury
determined, that Mr. Savage and Mr. Gregory were guilty of murder, and
Mr. Marchant who had no sword, only manslaughter.

Mr. Savage and Mr. Gregory were conducted back to prison, where they
were more closely confined, and loaded with irons of fifty pound weight.
Savage had now no hopes of life but from the king's mercy, and can it be
believed, that mercy his own mother endeavoured to intercept.

When Savage (as we have already observed) was first made acquainted with
the story of his birth, he was so touched with tenderness for his
mother, that he earnestly sought an opportunity to see her.

To prejudice the queen against him, she made use of an incident, which
was omitted in the order of time, that it might be mentioned together
with the purpose it was made to serve.

One evening while he was walking, as was his custom, in the street she
inhabited, he saw the door of her house by accident open; he entered it,
and finding no persons in the passage to prevent him, went up stairs to
salute her. She discovered him before he could enter her chamber,
alarmed the family with the most distressful out-cries, and when she had
by her screams gathered them about her, ordered them to drive out of the
house that villain, who had forced himself in upon her, and endeavoured
to murder her.

This abominable falsehood his mother represented to the queen, or
communicated it to some who were base enough to relate it, and so
strongly prepossessed her majesty against this unhappy man, that for a
long while she rejected all petitions that were offered in his favour.

Thus had Savage perished by the evidence of a bawd, of a strumpet, and
of his mother; had not justice and compassion procured him an advocate,
of a rank too great to be rejected unheard, and of virtue too eminent to
be heard without being believed. The story of his sufferings reached the
ear of the countess of Hertford, who engaged in his support with the
tenderness and humanity peculiar to that amiable lady. She demanded an
audience of the queen, and laid before her the whole series of his
mother's cruelty, exposed the improbability of her accusation of murder,
and pointed out all the circumstances of her unequall'd barbarity.

The interposition of this lady was so successful, that he was soon after
admitted to bail, and on the 9th of March 1728, pleaded the king's
pardon.[2]

Mr. Savage during his imprisonment, his trial, and the time in which he
lay under sentence of death, behaved with great fortitude, and confirmed
by his unshaken equality of mind, the esteem of those who before admired
him for his abilities. Upon weighing all the circumstances relating to
this unfortunate event, it plainly appears that the greatest guilt could
not be imputed to Savage. His killing Sinclair, was rather rash than
totally dishonourable, for though Marchant had been the aggressor, who
would not procure his friend from being over-powered by numbers?

Some time after he had obtained his liberty, he met in the street the
woman of the town that had swore against him: She informed him that she
was in distress, and with unparalleled assurance desired him to relieve
her. He, instead of insulting her misery, and taking pleasure in the
calamity of one who had brought his life into danger, reproved her
gently for her perjury, and changing the only guinea he had, divided it
equally between her and himself.

Compassion seems indeed to have been among the few good qualities
possessed by Savage; he never appeared inclined to take the advantage of
weakness, to attack the defenceless, or to press upon the falling:
Whoever was distressed was certain at last of his good wishes. But when
his heart was not softened by the sight of misery, he was obstinate in
his resentment, and did not quickly lose the remembrance of an injury.
He always harboured the sharpest resentment against judge Page; and a
short time before his death, he gratified it in a satire upon that
severe magistrate.

When in conversation this unhappy subject was mentioned, Savage appeared
neither to consider himself as a murderer, nor as a man wholly free from
blood. How much, and how long he regretted it, appeared in a poem
published many years afterwards, which the following lines will set in a
very striking light.

Is chance a guilt, that my disast'rous heart,
For mischief never meant, must ever smart?
Can self-defence be sin?--Ah! plead no more!
What tho' no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er;
Had Heav'n befriended thy unhappy side,
Thou had'st not been provok'd, or thou had'st died.

Far be the guilt of home-shed blood from all,
On whom, unfought, imbroiling dangers fall.
Still the pale dead revives and lives to me,
To me through pity's eye condemn'd to see.
Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate,
Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late,

Young and unthoughtful then, who knows one day,
What rip'ning virtues might have made their way?
He might, perhaps, his country's friend have prov'd,
Been gen'rous, happy, candid and belov'd;
He might have sav'd some worth now doom'd to fall,
And I, perchance, in him have murder'd all.

Savage had now obtained his liberty, but was without any settled means
of support, and as he had lost all tenderness for his mother, who had
thirsted for his blood, he resolved to lampoon her, to extort that
pension by satire, which he knew she would never grant upon any
principles of honour, or humanity. This expedient proved successful;
whether shame still survived, though compassion was extinct, or whether
her relations had more delicacy than herself, and imagined that some of
the darts which satire might point at her, would glance upon them: Lord
Tyrconnel, whatever were his motives, upon his promise to lay aside the
design of exposing his mother, received him into his family, treated him
as his equal, and engaged to allow him a pension of 200 l. a year.

This was the golden part of Mr. Savage's life; for some time he had no
reason to complain of fortune; his appearance was splendid, his expences
large, and his acquaintance extensive. 'He was courted, says the author
of his life, by all who endeavoured to be thought men of genius, and
caressed by all that valued themselves upon a fine taste. To admire Mr.
Savage was a proof of discernment, and to be acquainted with him was a
title to poetical reputation. His presence was sufficient to make any
place of entertainment popular; and his approbation and example
constituted the fashion. So powerful is genius, when it is invested with
the glitter of affluence. Men willingly pay to fortune that regard which
they owe to merit, and are pleased when they have at once an opportunity
of exercising their vanity, and practising their duty. This interval of
prosperity furnished him with opportunities of enlarging his knowledge
of human nature, by contemplating life from its highest gradation to its
lowest.'

In this gay period of life, when he was surrounded by the affluence of
pleasure, 1729, he published the Wanderer, a Moral Poem, of which the
design is comprised in these lines.

I fly all public care, all venal strife,
To try the _Still_, compared with _Active Life_.
To prove by these the sons of men may owe,
The fruits of bliss to bursting clouds of woe,
That ev'n calamity by thought refin'd
Inspirits, and adorns the thinking mind.

And more distinctly in the following passage:

By woe the soul to daring actions swells,
By woe in plaintless patience it excells;
From patience prudent, clear experience springs,
And traces knowledge through the course of things.
Thence hope is form'd, thence fortitude, success,
Renown--Whate'er men covet or caress.

This performance was always considered by Mr. Savage as his
master-piece; but Mr. Pope, when he asked his opinion of it, told him,
that he read it once over, and was not displeased with it, that it gave
him more pleasure at the second perusal, and delighted him still more at
the third. From a poem so successfully written, it might be reasonably
expected that he should have gained considerable advantages; but the
case was otherwise; he sold the copy only for ten guineas. That he got
so small a price for so finished a poem, was not to be imputed either to
the necessity of the writer, or to the avarice of the bookseller. He was
a slave to his passions, and being then in the pursuit of some trifling
gratification, for which he wanted a supply of money, he sold his poem
to the first bidder, and perhaps for the first price which was proposed,
and probably would have been content with less, if less had been
offered. It was addressed to the earl of Tyrconnel, not only in the
first lines, but in a formal dedication, filled with the highest strains
of panegyric. These praises in a short time he found himself inclined to
retract, being discarded by the man on whom he had bestowed them, and
whom he said, he then discovered, had not deserved them.

Of this quarrel, lord Tyrconnel and Mr. Savage assigned very different
reasons. Lord Tyrconnel charged Savage with the most licentious
behaviour, introducing company into his house, and practising with them
the most irregular frolics, and committing all the outrages of
drunkenness. Lord Tyrconnel farther alledged against Savage, that the
books of which he himself had made him a present, were sold or pawned by
him, so that he had often the mortification to see them exposed to sale
upon stalls.

Savage, it seems, was so accustomed to live by expedients, that
affluence could not raise him above them. He often went to the tavern
and trusted the payment of his reckoning to the liberality of his
company; and frequently of company to whom he was very little known.
This conduct indeed, seldom drew him into much inconvenience, or his
conversation and address were so pleasing, that few thought the pleasure
which they received from him, dearly purchased by paying for his wine.
It was his peculiar happiness that he scarcely ever found a stranger,
whom he did not leave a friend; but it must likewise be added, that he
had not often a friend long, without obliging him to become an enemy.

Mr. Savage on the other hand declared, that lord Tyrconnel quarrelled
with him because he would not subtract from his own luxury and
extravagance what he had promised to allow him; and that his resentment
was only a plea for the violation of his promise: He asserted that he
had done nothing which ought to exclude him from that subsistence which
he thought not so much a favour as a debt, since it was offered him upon
conditions, which he had never broken; and that his only fault was, that
he could not be supported upon nothing.

Savage's passions were strong, among which his resentment was not the
weakest; and as gratitude was not his constant virtue, we ought not too
hastily to give credit to all his prejudice asserts against (his once
praised patron) lord Tyrconnel.

During his continuance with the lord Tyrconnel, he wrote the Triumph of
Health and Mirth, on the recovery of the lady Tyrconnel, from a
languishing illness. This poem is built upon a beautiful fiction. Mirth
overwhelmed with sickness for the death of a favourite, takes a flight
in quest of her sister Health, whom she finds reclined upon the brow of
a lofty mountain, amidst the fragrance of a perpetual spring, and the
breezes of the morning sporting about her. Being solicited by her sister
Mirth, she readily promises her assistance, flies away in a cloud, and
impregnates the waters of Bath with new virtues, by which the sickness
of Belinda is relieved.

While Mr. Savage continued in high life, he did not let slip any
opportunity to examine whether the merit of the great is magnified or
diminished by the medium through which it is contemplated, and whether
great men were selected for high stations, or high stations made great
men. The result of his observations is not much to the advantage of
those in power.

But the golden æra of Savage's life was now at an end, he was banished
the table of lord Tyrconnel, and turned again a-drift upon the world.
While he was in prosperity, he did not behave with a moderation likely
to procure friends amongst his inferiors. He took an opportunity in the
sun-shine of his fortune, to revenge himself of those creatures, who, as
they are the worshippers of power, made court to him, whom they had
before contemptuously treated. This assuming behaviour of Savage was not
altogether unnatural. He had been avoided and despised by those
despicable sycophants, who were proud of his acquaintance when railed to
eminence. In this case, who would not spurn such mean Beings? His
degradation therefore from the condition which he had enjoyed with so
much superiority, was considered by many as an occasion of triumph.
Those who had courted him without success, had an opportunity to return
the contempt they had suffered.

Mean time, Savage was very diligent in exposing the faults of lord
Tyrconnel, over whom he obtained at least this advantage, that he drove
him first to the practice of outrage and violence; for he was so much
provoked by his wit and virulence, that he came with a number of
attendants, to beat him at a coffee-house; but it happened that he had
left the place a few minutes before: Mr. Savage went next day to repay
his visit at his own house, but was prevailed upon by his domestics to
retire without insisting upon seeing him.

He now thought himself again at full liberty to expose the cruelty of
his mother, and therefore about this time published THE BASTARD, a Poem
remarkable for the vivacity in the beginning, where he makes a pompous
enumeration of the imaginary advantages of base birth, and the pathetic
sentiments at the close; where he recounts the real calamities which he
suffered by the crime of his parents.

The verses which have an immediate relation to those two circumstances,
we shall here insert.

In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran,
The Muse exulting thus her lay began.

Bless'd be the Bastard's birth! thro' wond'rous ways,
He shines excentric like a comet's blaze.
No sickly fruit of faint compliance he;
He! stamp'd in nature's mint with extasy!
He lives to build, not boast a gen'rous race,
No tenth transmitter of a foolish face.
His daring hope, no fire's example bounds;
His first-born nights no prejudice confounds.
He, kindling from within requires no flame,
He glories in a bastard's glowing name.
--Nature's unbounded son he stands alone,
His heart unbiass'd, and his mind his own.
--O mother! yet no mother!--'Tis to you
My thanks for such distinguish'd claims are due.
--What had I lost if conjugally kind,
By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd,
You had faint drawn me with a form alone,
A lawful lump of life, by force your own!
--I had been born your dull domestic heir,
Load of your life and motive of your care;
Perhaps been poorly rich and meanly great;
The slave of pomp, a cypher in the state:
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And slumb'ring in a feat by chance my own,

After mentioning the death of Sinclair, he goes on thus:

--Where shall my hope find rest?--No mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer;
No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, and from vice refrain'd.

This poem had extraordinary success, great numbers were immediately
dispersed, and editions were multiplied with unusual rapidity.

One circumstance attended the publication, which Savage used to relate
with great satisfaction. His mother, to whom the poem with due reverence
was inscribed, happened then to be at Bath, where she could not
conveniently retire from censure, or conceal herself from observation;
and no sooner did the reputation of the poem begin to spread, than she
heard it repeated in all places of concourse; nor could she enter the
assembly rooms, or cross the walks, without being saluted with some
lines from the Bastard. She therefore left Bath with the utmost haste,
to shelter herself in the crowds of London. Thus Savage had the
satisfaction of finding, that tho' he could not reform, he could yet
punish his mother.

Some time after Mr. Savage took a resolution of applying to the queen,
that having once given him life, she would enable him to support it, and
therefore published a short poem on her birth day, to which he gave the
odd title of Volunteer-Laureat. He had not at that time one friend to
present his poem at court, yet the Queen, notwithstanding this act of
ceremony was wanting, in a few days after publication, sent him a bank
note of fifty-pounds, by lord North and Guildford; and her permission to
write annually on the same subject, and that he should yearly receive
the like present, till something better should be done for him. After
this he was permitted to present one of his annual poems to her majesty,
and had the honour of kissing her hand.

When the dispute between the bishop of London, and the chancellor,
furnished for some time the chief topic of conversation, Mr. Savage who
was an enemy to all claims of ecclesiastical power, engaged with his
usual zeal against the bishop. In consequence of his aversion to the
dominion of superstitious churchmen, he wrote a poem called The Progress
of a Divine, in which he conducts a profligate priest thro' all the
gradations of wickedness, from a poor curacy in the country, to the
highest preferment in the church; and after describing his behaviour in
every station, enumerates that this priest thus accomplished, found at
last a patron in the bishop of London.

The clergy were universally provoked with this satire, and Savage was
censured in the weekly Miscellany, with a severity he did not seem
inclined to forget: But a return of invective was not thought a
sufficient punishment. The court of King's-Bench was moved against him,
and he was obliged to return an answer to a charge of obscenity. It was
urged in his defence, that obscenity was only criminal, when it was
intended to promote the practice of vice; but that Mr. Savage had only
introduced obscene ideas, with a view of exposing them to detestation,
and of amending the age, by shewing the deformity of wickedness. This
plea was admitted, and Sir Philip York, now lord Chancellor, who then
presided in that court, dismissed the information, with encomiums upon
the purity and excellence of Mr. Savage's writings.

He was still in his usual exigencies, having no certain support, but the
pension allowed him from the Queen, which was not sufficient to last him
the fourth part of the year. His conduct, with regard to his pension,
was very particular. No sooner had he changed the bill, than he vanished
from the sight of all his acquaintances, and lay, for some time, out of
the reach of his most intimate friends. At length he appeared again
pennyless as before, but never informed any person where he had been,
nor was his retreat ever discovered. This was his constant practice
during the whole time he received his pension. He regularly disappeared,
and returned. He indeed affirmed that he retired to study, and that the
money supported him in solitude for many months, but his friends
declared, that the short time in which it was spent, sufficiently
confuted his own account of his conduct.

His perpetual indigence, politeness, and wit, still raised him friends,
who were desirous to set him above want, and therefore sollicited Sir
Robert Walpole in his favour, but though promises were given, and Mr.
Savage trusted, and was trusted, yet these added but one mortification
more to the many he had suffered. His hopes of preferment from that
statesman; issued in a disappointment; upon which he published a poem in
the Gentleman's Magazine, entitled, The Poet's Dependance on a
Statesman; in which he complains of the severe usage he met with. But to
despair was no part of the character of Savage; when one patronage
failed, he had recourse to another. The Prince was now extremely
popular, and had very liberally rewarded the merit of some writers, whom
Mr. Savage did not think superior to himself; and therefore he resolved
to address a poem to him.

For this purpose he made choice of a subject, which could regard only
persons of the highest rank, and greatest affluence, and which was
therefore proper for a poem intended to procure the patronage of a
prince; namely, public spirit, with regard to public works. But having
no friend upon whom he could prevail to present it to the Prince, he had
no other method of attracting his observation, than by publishing
frequent advertisements, and therefore received no reward from his
patron, however generous upon other occasions. His poverty still
pressing, he lodged as much by accident, as he dined; for he generally
lived by chance, eating only when he was invited to the tables of his
acquaintance, from which, the meanness of his dress often excluded him,
when the politeness, and variety of his conversation, would have been
thought a sufficient recompence for his entertainment. Having no
lodging, he passed the night often in mean houses, which are set open
for any casual wanderers; sometimes in cellars, amongst the riot and
filth of the meanest and most profligate of the rabble; and sometimes
when he was totally without money, walked about the streets till he was
weary, and lay down in the summer upon a bulk, and in the winter, with
his associates in poverty, among the ashes of a glass-house.

In this manner were passed those days and nights, which nature had
enabled him to have employed in elevated speculations. On a bulk, in a
cellar, or in a glass-house, among thieves and beggars, was to be found
the author of The Wanderer, the man, whose remarks in life might have
assisted the statesman, whose ideas of virtue might have enlightened the
moralist, whose eloquence might have influenced senates, and whose
delicacy might have polished courts. His distresses, however afflictive,
never dejected him. In his lowest sphere he wanted not spirit to assert
the natural dignity of wit, and was always ready to repress that
insolence, which superiority of fortune incited, and to trample that
reputation which rose upon any other basis, than that of merit. He never
admitted any gross familiarity, or submitted to be treated otherwise
than as an equal.

Once, when he was without lodging, meat, or cloaths, one of his friends,
a man indeed not remarkable for moderation in prosperity, left a
message, that he desired to see him about nine in the morning. Savage
knew that his intention was to assist him, but was very much disgusted,
that he should presume to prescribe the hour of his attendance; and
therefore rejected his kindness.

The greatest hardships of poverty were to Savage, not the want of
lodging, or of food, but the neglect and contempt it drew upon him. He
complained that as his affairs grew desperate, he found his reputation
for capacity visibly decline; that his opinion in questions of criticism
was no longer regarded, when his coat was out of fashion; and that
those, who in the interval of his prosperity, were always encouraging
him to great undertakings, by encomiums on his genius, and assurances of
success, now received any mention of his designs with coldness, and, in
short, allowed him to be qualified for no other performance than
volunteer-laureat. Yet even this kind of contempt never depressed him,
for he always preserved a steady confidence in his own capacity, and
believed nothing above his reach, which he should at any time earnestly
endeavour to attain.

This life, unhappy as it may be already imagined, was yet embittered in
1738 with new distresses. The death of the Queen deprived him of all the
prospects of preferment, with which he had so long entertained his
imagination. But even against this calamity there was an expedient at
hand. He had taken a resolution of writing a second tragedy upon the
story of Sir Thomas Overbury, in which he made a total alteration of the
plan, added new incidents, and introduced new characters, so that it was
a new tragedy, not a revival of the former. With the profits of this
scheme, when finished, he fed his imagination, but proceeded slowly in
it, and, probably, only employed himself upon it, when he could find no
other amusement. Upon the Queen's death it was expected of him, that he
should honour her memory with a funeral panegyric: He was thought
culpable for omitting it; but on her birth-day, next year, he gave a
proof of the power of genius and judgment. He knew that the track of
elegy had been so long beaten, that it was impossible to travel in it,
without treading the footsteps of those who had gone before him, and
therefore it was necessary that he might distinguish himself from the
herd of encomists, to find out some new walk of funeral panegyric.

This difficult task he performed in such a manner, that this poem may be
justly ranked the best of his own, and amongst the best pieces that the
death of Princes has produced. By transferring the mention of her death,
to her birth-day, he has formed a happy combination of topics, which any
other man would have thought it difficult to connect in one view; but
the relation between them appears natural; and it may be justly said,
that what no other man could have thought on, now seems scarcely
possible for any man to miss. In this poem, when he takes occasion to
mention the King, he modestly gives him a hint to continue his pension,
which, however, he did not receive at the usual time, and there was some
reason to think that it would be discontinued. He did not take those
methods of retrieving his interest, which were most likely to succeed,
for he went one day to Sir Robert Walpole's levee, and demanded the
reason of the distinction that was made between him and the other
pensioners of the Queen, with a degree of roughness which, perhaps,
determined him to withdraw, what had only been delayed. This last
misfortune he bore not only with decency, but cheerfulness, nor was his
gaiety clouded, even by this disappointment, though he was, in a short
time, reduced to the lowest degree of distress, and often wanted both
lodging and food. At this time he gave another instance of the
insurmountable obstinacy of his spirit. His cloaths were worn out, and
he received notice, that at a coffee-house some cloaths and linen were
left for him. The person who sent them did not, we believe, inform him
to whom he was to be obliged, that he might spare the perplexity of
acknowledging the benefit; but though the offer was so far generous, it
was made with some neglect of ceremonies, which Mr. Savage so much
resented, that he refused the present, and declined to enter the house
'till the cloaths, which were designed for him, were taken away.

His distress was now publicly known, and his friends therefore thought
it proper to concert some measures for his relief. The scheme proposed
was, that he should retire into Wales, and receive an allowance of fifty
pounds a year, to be raised by subscription, on which he was to live
privately in a cheap place, without aspiring any more to affluence, or
having any farther sollicitude for fame.

This offer Mr. Savage gladly accepted, though with intentions very
different from those of his friends; for they proposed that he should
continue an exile from London for ever, and spend all the remaining part
of his life at Swansea; but he designed only to take the opportunity
which their scheme offered him, of retreating for a short time, that he
might prepare his play for the stage, and his other works for the press,
and then to return to London to exhibit his tragedy, and live upon the
profits of his own labour.

After many sollicitations and delays, a subscription was at last raised,
which did not amount to fifty pounds a year, though twenty were paid by
one gentleman. He was, however, satisfied, and willing to retire, and
was convinced that the allowance, though scanty, would be more than
sufficient for him, being now determined to commence a rigid oeconomist.

Full of these salutary resolutions, he quitted London in 1739. He was
furnished with fifteen guineas, and was told, that they would be
sufficient, not only for the expence of his journey, but for his support
in Wales for some time; and that there remained but little more of the
first collection. He promised a strict adherence to his maxims of
parsimony, and went away in the stage coach; nor did his friends expect
to hear from him, 'till he informed them of his arrival at Swansea. But,
when they least expected, arrived a letter dated the 14th day after his
departure, in which he sent them word, that he was yet upon the road,
and without money, and that he therefore could not proceed without a
remittance. They then sent him the money that was in their hands, with
which he was enabled to reach Bristol, from whence he was to go to
Swansea by water. At Bristol he found an embargo laid upon the shipping,
so that he could not immediately obtain a passage, and being therefore
obliged to stay there some time, he, with his usual felicity,
ingratiated himself with many of the principal inhabitants, was invited
to their houses, distinguished at their public feasts, and treated with
a regard that gratified his vanity, and therefore easily engaged his
affection.

After some stay at Bristol, he retired to Swansea, the place originally
proposed for his residence, where he lived about a year very much
disatisfied with the diminution of his salary, for the greatest part of
the contributors, irritated by Mr. Savage's letters, which they imagined
treated them contemptuously, withdrew their subscriptions. At this
place, as in every other, he contracted an acquaintance with those who
were most distinguished in that country, among whom, he has celebrated
Mr. Powel, and Mrs. Jones, by some verses inserted in the Gentleman's
Magazine. Here he compleated his tragedy, of which two acts were wanting
when he left London, and was desirous of coming to town to bring it on
the stage. This design was very warmly opposed, and he was advised by
his chief benefactor, who was no other than Mr. Pope, to put it in the
hands of Mr. Thomson and Mr. Mallet, that it might be fitted for the
stage, and to allow his friends to receive the profits, out of which an
annual pension should be paid him. This proposal he rejected with the
utmost contempt. He was by no means convinced that the judgment of those
to whom he was required to submit, was superior to his own. He was now
determined, as he expressed, to be no longer kept in leading-strings,
and had no elevated idea of his bounty, who proposed to pension him out
of the profits of his own labours. He soon after this quitted Swansea,
and, with an intent to return to London, went to Bristol, where a
repetition of the kindness which he had formerly found, invited
him to stay. He was not only caressed, and treated, but had a collection
made for him of about thirty pounds, with which it had been happy if
he had immediately departed for London; but he never considered that
such proofs of kindness were not often to be expected, and that this
ardour of benevolence was, in a great degree, the effect of novelty.

Another part of his misconduct was, the practice of prolonging his
visits to unseasonable hours, and disconcerting all the families into
which he was admitted. This was an error in a place of commerce, which
all the charms of conversion could not compensate; for what trader would
purchase such airy satisfaction, with the loss of solid gain, which must
be the consequence of midnight merriment, as those hours which were
gained at night were generally lost in the morning? Distress at last
stole upon him by imperceptible degrees; his conduct had already wearied
some of those who were at first enamoured of his conversation; but he
still might have devolved to others, whom he might have entertained with
equal success, had not the decay of his cloaths made it no longer
consistent with decency to admit him to their tables, or to associate
with him in public places. He now began to find every man from home, at
whose house he called; and was therefore no longer able to procure the
necessaries of life, but wandered about the town, slighted and
neglected, in quest of a dinner, which, he did not always obtain. To
compleat his misery, he was obliged to withdraw from the small number of
friends from whom he had still reason to hope for favours. His custom
was to lie in bed the greatest part of the day, and to go out in the
dark with the utmost privacy, and after having paid his visit, return
again before morning to his lodging, which was in the garret of an
obscure inn.

Being thus excluded on one hand, and confined on the other, he suffered
the utmost extremities of poverty, and often waited so long, that he was
seized with faintness, and had lost his appetite, not being able to bear
the smell of meat, 'till the action of his stomach was restored by a
cordial.

He continued to bear these severe pressures, 'till the landlady of a
coffee-house, to whom he owed about eight pounds, compleated his
wretchedness. He was arrested by order of this woman, and conducted to
the house of a Sheriff's Officer, where he remained some time at a great
expence, in hopes of finding bail. This expence he was enabled to
support by a present from Mr. Nash of Bath, who, upon hearing of his
late mis-fortune, sent him five guineas. No friends would contribute to
release him from prison at the expence of eight pounds, and therefore he
was removed to Newgate. He bore this misfortune with an unshaken
fortitude, and indeed the treatment he met with from Mr. Dagg, the
keeper of the prison, greatly softened the rigours of his confinement.
He was supported by him at his own table, without any certainty of
recompence; had a room to himself, to which he could at any time retire
from all disturbance; was allowed to stand at the door of the prison,
and sometimes taken out into the fields; so that he suffered fewer
hardships in the prison, than he had been accustomed to undergo the
greatest part of his life. Virtue is undoubtedly most laudable in that
state which makes it most difficult; and therefore the humanity of the
gaoler certainly deserves this public attestation.

While Mr. Savage was in prison, he began, and almost finished a satire,
which he entitled London and Bristol Delineated; in order to be revenged
of those who had had no more generosity for a man, to whom they
professed friendship, than to suffer him to languish in a gaol for eight
pounds. He had now ceased from corresponding with any of his
subscribers, except Mr. Pope, who yet continued to remit him twenty
pounds a year, which he had promised, and by whom he expected to be in a
very short time enlarged; because he had directed the keeper to enquire
after the state of his debts.

However he took care to enter his name according to the forms of the
court, that the creditors might be obliged to make him some allowance,
if he was continued a prisoner; and when on that occasion he appeared in
the Hall, was treated with very unusual respect.

But the resentment of the City was afterwards raised, by some accounts
that had been spread of the satire, and he was informed, that some of
the Merchants intended to pay the allowance which the law required, and
to detain him a prisoner at their own expence. This he treated as an
empty menace, and had he not been prevented by death, he would have
hastened the publication of the satire, only to shew how much he was
superior to their insults.

When he had been six months in prison, he received from Mr. Pope, in
whose kindness he had the greatest confidence, and on whose assistance
he chiefly depended, a letter that contained a charge of very atrocious
ingratitude, drawn up in such terms as sudden resentment dictated. Mr.
Savage returned a very solemn protestation of his innocence, but however
appeared much disturbed at the accusation. Some days afterwards he was
seized with a pain in his back and side, which, as it was not violent,
was not suspected to be dangerous; but growing daily more languid and
dejected, on the 25th of July he confined himself to his room, and a
fever seized his spirits. The symptoms grew every day more formidable,
but his condition did not enable him to procure any assistance. The last
time the keeper saw him was on July 31, when Savage, seeing him at his
bed-side, said, with uncommon earnestness, I have something to say to
you, sir, but, after a pause, moved his hand in a melancholy manner, and
finding himself unable to recollect what he was going to communicate,
said, 'tis gone. The keeper soon after left him, and the next morning he
died. He was buried in the church-yard of St. Peter, at the expence of
the keeper.

Such were the life and death of this unfortunate poet; a man equally
distinguished by his virtues and vices, and, at once, remarkable for his
weaknesses and abilities. He was of a middle stature, of a thin habit of
body, a long visage, coarse features, and a melancholy aspect; of a
grave and manly deportment, a solemn dignity of mien, but which, upon a
nearer acquaintance, softened into an engaging easiness of manners. His
walk was slow, and his voice tremulous and mournful. He was easily
excited to smiles, but very seldom provoked to laughter. His judgment
was eminently exact, both with regard to writings and to men. The
knowledge of life was his chief attainment. He was born rather to bear
misfortunes greatly, than to enjoy prosperity with moderation. He
discovered an amazing firmness of spirit, in spurning those who presumed
to dictate to him in the lowest circumstances of misery; but we never
can reconcile the idea of true greatness of mind, with the perpetual
inclination Savage discovered to live upon the bounty of his friends. To
struggle for independence appears much more laudable, as well as a
higher instance of spirit, than to be the pensioner of another.

As Savage had seen so much of the world, and was capable of so deep a
penetration into nature, it was strange he could not form some scheme of
a livelihood, more honourable than that of a poetical mendicant: his
prosecuting any plan of life with diligence, would have thrown more
lustre on his character, than, all his works, and have raised our ideas
of the greatness of his spirit, much, beyond the conduct we have already
seen. If poverty is so great an evil as to expose a man to commit
actions, at which he afterwards blushes, to avoid this poverty should be
the continual care of every man; and he, who lets slip every opportunity
of doing so, is more entitled to admiration than pity, should he bear
his sufferings nobly.

Mr. Savage's temper, in consequence of the dominion of his passions, was
uncertain and capricious. He was easily engaged, and easily disgusted;
but he is accused of retaining his hatred more tenaciously than his
benevolence. He was compassionate both by nature and principle, and
always ready to perform offices of humanity; but when he was provoked,
and very small offences were sufficient to provoke him, he would
prosecute his revenge with the utmost acrimony, 'till his passion had
subsided. His friendship was therefore of little value, for he was
zealous in the support, or vindication of those whom he loved, yet it
was always dangerous to trust him, because he considered himself as
discharged by the first quarrel, from all ties of honour and gratitude.
He would even betray those secrets, which, in the warmth of confidence,
had been imparted to him. His veracity was often questioned, and not
without reason. When he loved any man, he suppressed all his faults, and
when he had been offended by him, concealed all his virtues. But his
characters were generally true, so far as he proceeded, though it cannot
be denied, but his partiality might have sometimes the effect of
falshood.

In the words of the celebrated writer of his life, from whom, as we
observed in the beginning, we have extracted the account here given, we
shall conclude this unfortunate person's Memoirs, which were so various
as to afford large scope for an able biographer, and which, by this
gentleman, have been represented with so great a mastery, and force of
penetration, that the Life of Savage, as written by him, is an excellent
model for this species of writing.

'This relation (says he) will not be wholly without its use, if those,
who languish under any part of his sufferings, should be enabled to
fortify their patience, by reflecting that they feel only those
afflictions from which the abilities of Savage did not exempt him; or
those, who in confidence of superior capacities, or attainments,
disregard the common maxims of life, shall be reminded that nothing can
supply the want of prudence, and that negligence and irregularity long
continued, will make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius
contemptible.'

FOOTNOTES:
[1] However slightly the author of Savage's life passes over the less
amiable characteristics of that unhappy man; yet we cannot but
discover therein, that vanity and ingratitude were the principal
ingredients in poor Savage's composition; nor was his veracity
greatly to be depended on. No wonder therefore, if the good-natur'd
writer suffer'd his better understanding to be misled, in some
accounts relative to the poet we are now speaking of.--Among many,
we shall at present only take notice of the following, which makes
too conspicuous a figure to pass by entirely unnoticed.

In this life of Savage 'tis related, that Mrs. Oldfield was very
fond of Mr. Savage's conversation, and allowed him an annuity,
during her life, of 50 l.--These facts are equally ill-grounded:--
There was no foundation for them. That Savage's misfortunes pleaded
for pity, and had the desired effect on Mrs. Oldfield's compassion,
is certain:--But she so much disliked the man, and disapproved his
conduct, that she never admitted him to her conversation, nor
suffer'd him to enter her house. She, indeed, often relieved him
with such donations, as spoke her generous disposicion.--But this
was on the sollicitation of friends, who frequently set his
calamities before her in the most piteous light; and from a
principle of humanity, she became not a little instrumental in
saving his life.

[2] Lord Tyrconnel delivered a petition to his majesty in Savage's
behalf: And Mrs. Oldfield sollicited Sir Robert Walpole on his
account. This joint-interest procured him his pardon.

* * * * *

Dr. THOMAS SHERIDAN.

was born in the county of Cavan, where his father kept a public house. A
gentleman, who had a regard for his father, and who observed the son
gave early indications of genius above the common standard, sent him to
the college of Dublin, and contributed towards the finishing his
education there. Our poet received very great encouragement upon his
setting out in life, and was esteemed a fortunate man. The agreeable
humour, and the unreserved pleasantry of his temper, introduced him to
the acquaintance, and established him in the esteem, of the wits of that
age. He set up a school in Dublin, which, at one time, was so
considerable as to produce an income of a thousand pounds a year, and
possessed besides some good livings, and bishops leases, which are
extremely lucrative.

Mr. Sheridan married the daughter of Mr. Macpherson, a Scots gentleman,
who served in the wars under King William, and, during the troubles of
Ireland, became possessed of a small estate of about 40 l. per annum,
called Quilca. This little fortune devolved on Mrs. Sheridan, which
enabled her husband to set up a school. Dr. Sheridan, amongst his
virtues, could not number oeconomy; on the contrary, he was remarkable
for profusion and extravagance, which exposed him to such
inconveniences, that he was obliged to mortgage all he had. His school
daily declined, and by an act of indiscretion, he was stript of the best
living he then enjoyed. On the birth-day of his late Majesty, the Dr.
having occasion to preach, chose for his text the following words,

Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

This procured him the name of a Jacobite, or a disaffected person, a
circumstance sufficient to ruin him in his ecclesiastical capacity. His
friends, who were disposed to think favourably of him, were for softning
the epithet of Jacobite into Tory, imputing his choice of that text,
rather to whim and humour, than any settled prejudice against his
Majesty, or the government; but this unseasonable pleasantry was not so
easily passed over, and the Dr. had frequent occasion to repent the
choice of his text.

Unhappy Sheridan! he lived to want both money and friends. He spent his
money and time merrily among the gay and the great, and was an example,
that there are too many who can relish a man's humour, who have not so
quick a sense of his misfortunes. The following story should not have
been told, were it not true.

In the midst of his misfortunes, when the demands of his creditors
obliged him to retirement, he went to dean Swift, and sollicited a
lodging for a few days, 'till by a proper composition he might be
restored to his freedom. The dean retired early to rest. The Dr.
fatigued, but not inclinable to go so soon to bed, sent the servant to
the dean, desiring the key of the cellar, that he might have a bottle of
wine. The dean, in one of his odd humours, returned for answer, he
promised to find him a lodging, but not in wine; and refused to send the
key. The Dr. being thunderstruck at this unexpected incivility, the
tears burst from his eyes; he quitted the house, and we believe never
after repeated the visit.

Dr. Sheridan died in the year 1738, in the 55th year of his age. The
following epitaph for him was handed about.

Beneath this marble stone here lies
Poor Tom, more merry much than wise;
Who only liv'd for two great ends,
To spend his cash, and lose his friends:
His darling wife of him bereft,
Is only griev'd--there's nothing left.

When the account of his death was inserted in the papers, it was done in
the following particular terms;

'September 10, died the revd. Dr. Thomas Sheridan of Dublin. He was a
great linguist, a most sincere friend, a delightful companion, and the
best Schoolmaster in Europe: He took the greatest care of the morals
of the young gentlemen, who had the happiness of being bred up under
him; and it was remarked, that none of his scholars ever was an
Atheist, or a Free-Thinker.'

We cannot more successfully convey to the reader a true idea of Dr.
Sheridan, than by the two following quotations from Lord Orrery in his
life of Swift, in which he occasionally mentions Swift's friend.

'Swift was naturally fond of seeing his works in print, and he was
encouraged in this fondness by his friend Dr. Sheridan, who had the
Cacoethea Scribendi, to the greatest degree, and was continually
letting off squibs, rockets, and all sorts of little fire-works from
the press; by which means he offended many particular persons, who,
although they stood in awe of Swift, held Sheridan at defiance. The
truth is, the poor doctor by nature the most peacable, inoffensive man
alive, was in a continual state of warfare with the Minor Poets, and
they revenged themselves; or, in the style of Mr. Bays, often gave him
flash for flash, and singed his feathers. The affection between
Theseus and Perithous was not greater than the affection between Swift
and Sheridan: But the friendship that cemented the two ancient heroes
probably commenced upon motives very different from those which united
the two modern divines.'

'Dr. Sheridan was a school-master, and in many instances, perfectly
well adapted for that station. He was deeply vers'd in the Greek and
Roman languages; and in their customs and antiquities. He had that
kind of good nature, which absence of mind, indolence of body, and
carelessness of fortune produce: And although not over-strict in his
own conduct, yet he took care of the morality of his scholars, whom he
sent to the university, remarkably well founded in all kind of
classical learning, and not ill instructed in the social duties of
life. He was slovenly, indigent, and chearful. He knew books much
better than men; And he knew the value of money least of all. In this
situation, and with this disposition, Swift fattened upon him as upon
a prey, with which he intended to regale himself, whenever his
appetite should prompt him. Sheridan was therefore certainly within
his reach; and the only time he was permitted to go beyond the limits
of his chain, was to take possession of a living in the county of
Corke, which had been bestowed upon him, by the then lord lieutenant
of Ireland, the present earl of Granville. Sheridan, in one fatal
moment, or by one fatal text, effected his own ruin. You will find the
story told by Swift himself, in the fourth volume of his works [page
289. in a pamphlet intitled a Vindication of his Excellency John Lord
Carteret, from the charge of favouring none but Tories,
High-Churchmen, and Jacobites.] So that here I need only tell you,
that this ill-starred, good-natur'd, improvident man returned to
Dublin, unhinged from all favour at court, and even banished from the
Castle: But still he remained a punster, a quibbler, a fiddler, and a
wit. Not a day passed without a rebus, an anagram, or a madrigal. His
pen and his fiddle-stick were in continual motion; and yet to little
or no purpose, if we may give credit to the following verses, which
shall serve as the conclusion of his poetical character.'

With music and poetry equally bless'd[1],
A bard thus Apollo most humbly address'd,
Great author of poetry, music, and light,
Instructed by thee, I both fiddle and write:

Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day,
My tunes are neglected, my verse flung away.
Thy substantive here, Vice Apollo [2] disdains,
To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains.
Thy manual sign he refuses to put
To the airs I produce from the pen, or the gut:
Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus, and grant
Belief, or reward to my merit, or want,
Tho' the Dean and Delany [3] transcendently shine,
O! brighten one solo, or sonnet of mine,
Make one work immortal, 'tis all I request;
Apollo look'd pleas'd, and resolving to jest,
Replied--Honest friend, I've consider'd your case.
Nor dislike your unmeaning and innocent face.
Your petition I grant, the boon is not great,
Your works shall continue, and here's the receipt;
On Roundo's[4] hereafter, your fiddle-strings spend.
Write verses in circles, they never shall end.

Dr. Sheridan gained some reputation by his Prose-translation of Persius;
to which he added a Collection of the best Notes of the Editors of this
intricate Satyrist, who are in the best esteem; together with many
judicious Notes of his own. This work was printed in 12mo. for A.
Millar, 1739.

One of the volumes of Swift's Miscellanies consists almost entirely of
Letters between the Dean and the Dr.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Not a first rate genius, or extraordinary proficient, in either.

[2] Dr. Swift.

[3] Now Dean of Downe.

[4] A Song, or peculiar kind of Poetry, which returns to the beginning
of the first verse, and continues in a perpetual rotation.

* * * * *

The Revd. Dr. JONATHAN SWIFT.

When the life of a person, whose wit and genius raised him to an
eminence among writers of the first class, is written by one of uncommon
abilities:--One possess'd of the power (as Shakespear says) _of looking
quite thro' the deeds of men_; we are furnished with one of the highest
entertainments a man can enjoy:--Such an author also presents us with a
true picture of human nature, which affords us the most ample
instruction:--He discerns the passions which play about the heart; and
while he is astonished with the high efforts of genius, is at the same
time enabled to observe nature as it really is, and how distant from
perfection mankind are in this world, even in the most refined state of
humanity. Such an intellectual feast they enjoy, who peruse the life of
this great author, drawn by the masterly and impartial hand of lord
Orrery. We there discern the greatness and weakness of Dean Swift; we
discover the patriot, the genius, and the humourist; the peevish master,
the ambitious statesman, the implacable enemy, and the warm friend. His
mixed qualities and imperfections are there candidly marked: His errors
and virtues are so strongly represented, that while we reflect upon his
virtues, we forget he had so many failings; and when we consider his
errors, we are disposed to think he had fewer virtues. With such candour
and impartiality has lord Orrery drawn the portrait of Swift; and, as
every biographer ought to do, has shewn us the man as he really was.

Upon this account given by his lordship, is the following chiefly built.
It shall be our business to take notice of the most remarkable passages
of the life of Swift; to omit no incidents that can be found concerning
him, and as our propos'd bounds will not suffer us to enlarge, we shall
endeavour to display, with as much conciseness as possible, those
particulars which may be most entertaining to the reader.

He was born in Dublin, November the 30th, 1667, and was carried into
England soon after his birth, by his nurse, who being obliged to cross
the sea, and having a nurse's fondness for the child at her breast,
convey'd him ship-board without the knowledge of his mother or
relations, and kept him with her at Whitehaven in Cumberland, during her
residence about three-years in that place. This extraordinary event made
his return seem as if he had been transplanted to Ireland, rather than
that he owed his original existence to that soil. But perhaps he tacitly
hoped to inspire different nations with a contention for his birth; at
least in his angry moods, when he was peevish and provoked at the
ingratitude of Ireland, he was frequently heard to say, 'I am not of
this vile country, I am an Englishman.' Such an assertion tho' meant
figuratively, was often received literally; and the report was still
farther propagated by Mr. Pope, who in one of his letters has this
expression. 'Tho' one, or two of our friends are gone, since you saw
your native country, there remain a few.' But doctor Swift, in his
cooler hours, never denied his country: On the contrary he frequently
mentioned, and pointed out, the house where he was born.

The other suggestion concerning the illegitimacy of his birth, is
equally false. Sir William Temple was employed as a minister abroad,
from the year 1665, to the year 1670; first at Brussels, and afterwards
at the Hague, as appears by his correspondence with the earl of
Arlington, and other ministers of state. So that Dr. Swift's mother, who
never crossed the sea, except from England to Ireland, was out of all
possibility of a personal correspondence with Sir William Temple, till
some years after her son's birth. Dr. Swift's ancestors were persons of
decent and reputable characters. His grand-father was the Revd. Mr.
Thomas Swift, vicar of Goodridge, near Ross in Herefordshire. He enjoyed
a paternal estate in that county, which is still in possession of his
great-grandson, Dean Swift, Esq; He died in the year 1658, leaving five
sons, Godwin, Thomas, Dryden, Jonathan, and Adam.

Two of them only, Godwin and Jonathan, left sons. Jonathan married Mrs.
Abigail Erick of Leicestershire, by whom he had one daughter and a son.
The daughter was born in the first year of Mr. Swift's marriage; but he
lived not to see the birth of his son, who was born two months after his
death, and became afterwards the famous Dean of St. Patrick's.

The greatest part of Mr. Jonathan Swift's income had depended upon
agencies, and other employments of that kind; so that most of his
fortune perished with him[1], and the remainder being the only support
that his widow could enjoy, the care, tuition, and expence of her two
children devolved upon her husband's elder brother, Mr. Godwin Swift,
who voluntarily became their guardian, and supplied the loss which they
had sustained in a father.

The faculties of the mind appear and shine forth at different ages in
different men. The infancy of Dr. Swift pass'd on without any marks of
distinction. At six years old he was sent to school at Kilkenny, and
about eight years afterwards he was entered a student of Trinity College
in Dublin. He lived there in perfect regularity, and under an entire
obedience to the statutes; but the moroseness of his temper rendered him
very unacceptable to his companions, so that he was little regarded, and
less beloved, nor were the academical exercises agreeable to his genius.
He held logic and metaphysics in the utmost contempt; and he scarce
considered mathematics, and natural philosophy, unless to turn them into
ridicule. The studies which he followed were history and poetry. In
these he made a great progress, but to all other branches of science, he
had given so very little application, that when he appeared as a
candidate for the degree of batchelor of arts, he was set aside on
account of insufficiency.

'This, says lord Orrery, is a surprising incident in his life, but it is
undoubtedly true; and even at last he obtained his admission Speciali
Gratiâ. A phrase which in that university carries with it the utmost
marks of reproach. It is a kind of dishonourable degree, and the record
of it (notwithstanding Swift's present established character throughout
the learned world) must for ever remain against him in the academical
register at Dublin.'

The more early disappointments happen in life, the deeper impression
they make upon the heart. Swift was full of indignation at the treatment
he received in Dublin; and therefore resolved to pursue his studies at
Oxford. However, that he might be admitted Ad Eundem, he was obliged to
carry with him the testimonium of his degree. The expression Speciali
Gratiâ is so peculiar to the university of Dublin, that when Mr. Swift
exhibited his testimonium at Oxford, the members of the English
university concluded, that the words Speciali Gratâ must signify a
degree conferred in reward of extraordinary diligence and learning. It
is natural to imagine that he did not try to undeceive them; he was
entered in Hart-Hall, now Hartford-College, where he resided till he
took his degree of master of arts in the year 1691.

Dr. Swift's uncle, on whom he had placed his chief dependance, dying in
the Revolution year, he was supported chiefly by the bounty of Sir
William Temple, to whose lady he was a distant relation. Acts of
generosity seldom meet with their just applause. Sir William Temple's
friendship was immediately construed to proceed from a consciousness
that he was the real father of Mr. Swift, otherwise it was thought
impossible he could be so uncommonly munificent to a young man, so
distantly related to his wife.

'I am not quite certain, (says his noble Biographer) that Swift himself
did not acquiesce in the calumny; perhaps like Alexander, he thought the
natural son of Jupiter would appear greater than the legitimate son of
Philip.'

As soon as Swift quitted the university, he lived with Sir William
Temple as his friend, and domestic companion. When he had been about two
years in the family of his patron, he contracted a very long, and
dangerous illness, by eating an immoderate quantity of fruit. To this
surfeit he used to ascribe the giddiness in his head, which, with
intermissions sometimes of a longer, and sometimes of a shorter
continuance, pursued him till it seemed to compleat its conquest, by
rendering him the exact image of one of his own STRULDBRUGGS; a
miserable spectacle, devoid of every appearance of human nature, except
the outward form.

After Swift had sufficiently recovered to travel, he went into Ireland
to try the effects of his native air; and he found so much benefit by
the journey, that pursuant to his own inclinations he soon returned into
England, and was again most affectionately received by Sir William
Temple, whose house was now at Sheen, where he was often visited by King
William. Here Swift had frequent opportunities of conversing with that
prince; in some of which conversations the king offered to make him a
captain of horse: An offer, which in his splenetic dispositions, he
always seemed sorry to have refused; but at that time he had resolved
within his own mind to take orders, and during his whole life his
resolutions, like the decrees of fate, were immoveable. Thus determined,
he again went over to Ireland, and immediately inlisted himself under
the banner of the church. He was recommended to lord Capel, then
Lord-Deputy, who gave him, the first vacancy, a prebend, of which the
income was about a hundred pounds a year.

Swift soon grew weary of a preferment, which to a man of his ambition
was far from being sufficiently considerable. He resigned his prebend in
favour of a friend, and being sick of solitude he returned to Sheen,
were he lived domestically as usual, till the death of Sir William
Temple; who besides a legacy in money, left to him the care and trust of
publishing his posthumous works.

During Swift's residence with Sir William Temple he became intimately
acquainted with a lady, whom he has distinguished, and often celebrated,
under the name of Stella. The real name of this lady was Johnson. She
was the daughter of Sir William Temple's steward; and the concealed but
undoubted wife of doctor Swift. Sir William Temple bequeathed her in his
will 1000 l. as an acknowledgment of her father's faithful services. In
the year 1716 she was married to doctor Swift, by doctor Ashe, then
bishop of Clogher.

The reader must observe, there was a long interval between the
commencement of his acquaintance with Stella, and the time of making her
his wife, for which (as it appears he was fond of her from the beginning
of their intimacy) no other cause can be assigned, but that the same
unaccountable humour, which had so long detained him from marrying,
prevented him from acknowledging her after she was his wife.

'Stella (says lord Orrery) was a most amiable woman both in mind and
person: She had an elevated understanding, with all the delicacy, and
softness of her own sex. Her voice, however sweet in itself, was still
rendered more harmonious by what she said. Her wit was poignant without
severity: Her manners were humane, polite, easy and unreserved.--
Wherever she came, she attracted attention and esteem. As virtue was her
guide in morality, sincerity was her guide in religion. She was
constant, but not ostentatious in her devotions: She was remarkably
prudent in her conversation: She had great skill in music; and was
perfectly well versed in all the lesser arts that employ a lady's
leisure. Her wit allowed her a fund of perpetual cheerfulness within
proper limits. She exactly answered the description of Penelope in
Homer.

A woman, loveliest of the lovely kind,
In body perfect, and compleat in mind.'

Such was this amiable lady, yet, with all these advantages, she could
never prevail on Dr. Swift to acknowledge her openly as his wife. A
great genius must tread in unbeaten paths, and deviate from the common
road of life; otherwise a diamond of so much lustre might have been
publickly produced, although it had been fixed within the collet of
matrimony: But that which diminished the value of this inestimable jewel
in Swift's eye was the servile state of her father.

Ambition and pride, the predominant principles which directed all the
actions of Swift, conquered reason and justice; and the vanity of
boasting such a wife was suppressed by the greater vanity of keeping
free from a low alliance. Dr. Swift and Mrs. Johnson continued the same
oeconomy of life after marriage, which they had pursued before it. They
lived in separate houses; nothing appeared in their behaviour
inconsistent in their decorum, and beyond the limits of platonic love.
However unaccountable this renunciation of marriage rites might appear
to the world, it certainly arose, not from any consciousness of a too
near consanguinity between him and Mrs. Johnson, although the general
voice of some was willing to make them both the natural children of Sir
William Temple. Dr. Swift, (says lord Orrery) was not of that opinion,
for the same false pride which induced him to deny the legitimate
daughter of an obscure servant, might have prompted him to own the
natural daughter of Sir William Temple.[2]

It is natural to imagine, that a woman of Stella's delicacy must repine
at such an extraordinary situation. The outward honours she received are
as frequently bestowed upon a mistress as a wife; she was absolutely
virtuous, and was yet obliged to submit to all the appearances of vice.
Inward anxiety affected by degrees the calmness of her mind, and the
strength of her body. She died towards the end of January 1727,
absolutely destroy'd by the peculiarity of her fate; a fate which
perhaps she could not have incurred by an alliance with any other person
in the world.

Upon the death of Sir William Temple, Swift came to London, and took the
earliest opportunity of delivering a petition to King William, under the
claim of a promise made by his majesty to Sir William Temple, that Mr.
Swift should have the first vacancy which might happen among the
prebends of Westminster or Canterbury. But this promise was either
totally forgotten, or the petition which Mr. Swift presented was drowned
amidst the clamour of more urgent addresses. From this first
disappointment may be dated that bitterness towards kings and courtiers,
which is to be found so universally dispersed throughout his works.

After a long and fruitless attendance at Whitehall, Swift reluctantly
gave up all thoughts of a settlement in England: Pride prevented him
from remaining longer in a state of servility and contempt. He complied
therefore with an invitation from the earl of Berkley (appointed one of
the Lords Justices in Ireland) to attend him as his chaplain, and
private secretary.--Lord Berkley landed near Waterford, and Mr. Swift
acted as secretary during the whole journey to Dublin. But another of
lord Berkley's attendants, whose name was Bush, had by this time
insinuated himself into the earl's favour, and had whispered to his
lordship, that the post of secretary was not proper for a clergyman, to
whom only church preferments could be suitable or advantageous. Lord
Berkley listened perhaps too attentively to these insinuations, and
making some slight apology to Mr. Swift, divested him of that office,
and bestowed it upon Mr. Bush.

Here again was another disappointment, and a fresh object of
indignation. The treatment was thought injurious, and Swift expressed
his sensibility of it in a short but satyrical copy of verses, intitled
the Discovery. However, during the government of the Earls of Berkley
and Galway, who were jointly Lords Justices of Ireland, two livings,
Laracor and Rathbeggan, were given to Mr. Swift. The first of these
rectories was worth about 200, and the latter about 60 l. a year; and
they were the only church preferments which he enjoyed till he was
appointed Dean of St. Patrick's, in the year 1713.

Lord Orrery gives the following instances of his humour and of his
pride.

As soon as he had taken possession of his two livings, he went to reside
at Laracor, and gave public notice to his parishioners, that he would
read prayers on every Wednesday and Friday. Upon the subsequent
Wednesday the bell was rung, and the rector attended in his desk, when
after having sat some time, and finding the congregation to consist only
of himself and his clerk Roger, he began with great composure and
gravity; but with a turn peculiar to himself. "_Dearly beloved_ Roger,
_the scripture moveth you and me in sundry places, &c_." And then
proceeded regularly thro' the whole service. This trifling circumstance
serves to shew; that he could not resist a vein of humour, whenever he
had an opportunity of exerting it.

The following is the instance of his pride. While Swift was chaplain to
lord Berkley, his only sister, by the consent and approbation of her
uncle and relations, was married to a man in trade, whose fortune,
character, and situation were esteemed by all her friends, and suitable
to her in every respect.

But the marriage was intirely disagreeable to her brother. It seemed to
interrupt those ambitious views he had long since formed: He grew
outragious at the thoughts of being brother-in law to a trademan. He
utterly refused all reconciliation with his father; nor would he even
listen to the entreaties of his mother, who came over to Ireland under
the strongest hopes of pacifying his anger; having in every other
instance found him a dutiful and obedient son: But his pride was not to
be conquered, and Mrs. Swift finding her son inflexible, hastened back
to Leicester, where she continued till her death.

During his mother's life time, he scarce ever failed to pay her an
annual visit. But his manner of travelling was as singular as any other
of his actions. He often went in a waggon, but more frequently walked
from Holyhead to Leicester, London, or any other part of England. He
generally chose to dine with waggoners, ostlers, and persons of that
rank; and he used to lye at night in houses where he found written over
the door, Lodgings for a Penny. He delighted in scenes of low life. The
vulgar dialect was not only a fund of humour for him; but seems to have
been acceptable to his nature, as appears from the many filthy ideas,
and indecent expressions found throughout his works.

A strict residence in a country place was not in the least suitable to
the restless temper of Swift. He was perpetually making excursions not
only to Dublin, and other places in Ireland, but likewise to London; so
rambling a disposition occasioned to him a considerable loss. The rich
deanery of Derry became vacant at this time, and was intended for him by
lord Berkley, if Dr. King, then bishop of Derry, and afterwards
archbishop of Dublin, had not interposed; entreating with great
earnestness, that the deanery might be given to some grave and elderly
divine, rather than to so young a man 'because (added the bishop) the
situation of Derry is in the midst of Presbyterians, and I should be
glad of a clergyman, who might be of assistance to me. I have no
objection to Mr. Swift. I know him to be a sprightly ingenious young
man; but instead of residing, I dare say he will be eternally flying
backwards and forwards to London; and therefore I entreat that he may be
provided for in some other place.'

Swift was accordingly set aside on account of youth, and from the year
1702, to the change of the ministry in the year 1710, few circumstances
of his life can be found sufficiently material to be inserted here. From
this last period, 'till the death of Queen Anne, we find him fighting on
the side of the Tories, and maintaining their cause in pamphlets, poems,
and weekly papers. In one of his letters to Mr. Pope he has this
expression, 'I have conversed, in some freedom, with more ministers of
state, of all parties, than usually happens to men of my level; and, I
confess, in their capacity as ministers I look upon them as a race of
people, whose acquaintance no man would court otherwise, than on the
score of vanity and ambition.' A man always appears of more consequence
to himself, than he is in reality to any other person. Such, perhaps,
was the case of Dr. Swift. He knew how useful he was to the
administration in general; and in one of his letters he mentions, that
the place of historiographer was intended for him; but in this
particular he flattered himself; at least, he remained without any
preferment 'till the year 1713, when he was made dean of St. Patrick's.
In point of power and revenue, such a deanery might be esteemed no
inconsiderable promotion; but to an ambitious mind, whose perpetual view
was a settlement in England, a dignity in any other country must appear
only a profitable and an honourable kind of banishment. It is very
probable, that the temper of Swift might occasion his English friends to
wish him promoted at a distance. His spirit was ever untractable. The
motions of his genius were often irregular. He assumed more of the air
of a patron, than of a friend. He affected rather to dictate than
advise. He was elated with the appearance of enjoying ministerial
confidence. He enjoyed the shadow indeed, but the substance was detained
from him. He was employed, not entrusted; and at the same time he
imagined himself a subtle diver, who dextrously shot down into the
profoundest regions of politics, he was suffered only to sound the
shallows nearest the shore, and was scarce admitted to descend below the
froth at the top. Swift was one of those strange kind of Tories, who
lord Bolingbroke, in his letter to Sir William Wyndham, calls the
Whimsicals, that is, they were Tories attach'd to the Hanoverian
succession. This kind of Tory is so incongruous a creature, that it is a
wonder ever such a one existed. Mrs. Pilkington informs us, that Swift
had written A Defence of the last Ministers of Queen Anne, from an
intention of restoring the Pretender, which Mr. Pope advised him to
destroy, as not one word of it was true. Bolingbroke, by far the most
accomplished man in that ministry (for Oxford was, in comparison of him,
a statesman of no compass) certainly aimed at the restoration of the
exiled family, however he might disguise to some people his real
intentions, under the masque of being a Hanoverian Tory. This serves to
corroberate the observation which lord Orrery makes of Swift: 'that he
was employed, not trusted, &c.'

By reflexions of this sort, says lord Orrery, we may account for his
disappointment of an English bishopric. A disappointment, which, he
imagined, he owed to a joint application, made against him to the Queen,
by Dr. Sharp, archbishop of York, and by a lady of the highest rank and
character. Archbishop Sharpe, according to Swift's account, had
represented him to the Queen as a person, who was no Christian; the
great lady had supported the assertion, and the Queen, upon such
assurances, had given away the bishopric, contrary to her Majesty's
intentions. Swift kept himself, indeed, within some tolerable bounds
when he spoke of the Queen; but his indignation knew no limits when he
mentioned the archbishop, or the lady.

Most people are fond of a settlement in their native country, but Swift
had not much reason to rejoice in the land where his lot had fallen; for
upon his arrival in Ireland to take possesion of the deanery, he found
the violence of party raging in that kingdom to the highest degree. The
common people were taught to consider him as a Jacobite, and they
proceeded so far in their detestation, as to throw stones and dirt at
him as he passed thro' the streets. The chapter of St. Patrick's, like
the rest of the kingdom, received him with great reluctance. They
opposed him in every point he proposed. They avoided him as a
pestilence, and resisted him as an invader and an enemy to his country.
Such was his first reception, as dean of St. Patrick's. Fewer talents,
and less firmness must have yielded to so outrageous an opposition. He
had seen enough of human nature to be convinced that the passions of
low, self-interested minds ebb and flow continually. They love they know
not whom, they hate they know not why. They are captivated by words,
guided by names, and governed by accidents. But to few the strange
revolutions in this world, Dr. Swift, who was now the detestion of the
Irish rabble, lived to be afterwards the most absolute monarch over
them, that ever governed men. His first step was to reduce to reason and
obedience his revd. brethren the the chapter of St. Patrick's; in which
he succeeded so perfectly, and so speedily, that, in a short time after
his arrival, not one member in that body offered to contradict him, even
in trifles: on the contrary, they held him in the highest respect and
veneration, so that he sat in the Chapter-House, like Jupiter in the
Synod of the Gods.

In the beginning of the year 1714 Swift returned to England. He found
his great friends, who sat in the seat of power, much disunited among
themselves. He saw the Queen declining in her health, and distressed in
her situation; while faction was exerting itself, and gathering new
strength every day. He exerted the utmost of his skill to unite the
ministers, and to cement the apertures of the state: but he found his
pains fruitless, his arguments unavailing, and his endeavours, like the
stone of Sisyphus, rolling back upon himself. He retired to a friend's
house in Berkshire, where he remained 'till the Queen died. So fatal an
event terminated all his views in England, and made him return as fast
as possible to his deanery in Ireland, oppressed with grief and
discontent. His hopes in England were now crushed for ever. As Swift was
well known to have been attached to the Queen's last ministry, he met
with several indignities from the populace, and, indeed, was equally
abused by persons of all ranks and denominations. Such a treatment
soured his temper, confined his acquaintance, and added bitterness to
his stile.

From the year 1714, 'till he appeared in the year 1720 a champion for
Ireland, against Wood's halfpence, his spirit of politics and patriotism
was kept almost closely confined within his own breast. Idleness and
trifles engrossed too many of his leisure hours; fools and sycophants
too much of his conversation. His attendance upon the public service of
the church was regular and uninterrupted; and indeed regularity was
peculiar to all his actions, even in the meerest trifles. His hours of
walking and reading never varied. His motions were guided by his watch,
which was so constantly held in his hand, or placed before him on the
table, that he seldom deviated many minutes in the revolution of his
exercises and employments. In the year 1720 he began to re-assume, in
some degree, the character of a political writer. A small pamphlet in
defence of the Irish Manufactures was his first essay in Ireland in that
kind of writing, and to that pamphlet he owed the turn of the popular
tide in his favour. It was entitled, A Proposal for the Universal Use of
Irish Manufacture in Clothes and Furniture of Houses, &c. utterly
rejecting and renouncing every thing wearable that comes from England.
This proposal immediately raised a very violent flame. The Printer was
prosecuted, and the prosecution had the same effect, which generally
attends those kind of measures. It added fuel to flame. But his greatest
enemies must confess, that the pamphlet is written in the stile of a man
who had the good of his country nearest his heart, who saw her errors,
and wished to correct them; who felt her oppressions, and wished to
relieve them; and who had a desire to rouze and awaken an indolent
nation from a lethargic disposition, that might prove fatal to her
constitution. This temporary opposition but increased the stream of his
popularity. He was now looked upon in a new light, and was distinguished
by the title of THE DEAN, and so high a degree of popularity did he
attain, as to become an arbitrator, in disputes of property, amongst his
neighbours; nor did any man dare to appeal from his opinion, or murmur
at his decrees.

But the popular affection, which the dean had hitherto acquired, may be
said not to have been universal, 'till the publication of the Drapier's
Letters, which made all ranks, and all professions unanimous in his
applause. The occasion of those letters was, a scarcity of copper coin
in Ireland, to so great a degree, that, for some time past, the chief
manufacturers throughout the kingdom were obliged to pay their workmen
in pieces of tin, or in other tokens of suppositious value. Such a
method was very disadvantageous to the lower parts of traffic, and was
in general an impediment to the commerce of the state. To remedy this
evil, the late King granted a patent to one Wood, to coin, during the
term of fourteen years, farthings and halfpence in England, for the use
of Ireland, to the value of a certain Aim specified. These halfpence and
farthings were to be received by those persons, who would voluntarily
accept them. But the patent was thought to be of such dangerous
consequence to the public, and of such exorbitant advantage to the
patentee, that the dean, under the character of M. B. Drapier, wrote a
Letter to the People, warning them not to accept Wood's halfpence and
farthings, as current coin. This first letter was succeeded by several
others to the same purpose, all which are inserted in his works.

At the sound of the Drapier's trumpet, a spirit arose among the people.
Persons of all ranks, parties and denominations, were convinced that the
admission of Wood's copper must prove fatal to the commonwealth. The
Papist, the Fanatic, the Tory, the Whig, all listed themselves
volunteers, under the banner of the Drapier, and were all equally
zealous to serve the common cause. Much heat, and many fiery speeches
against the administration were the consequence of this union; nor had
the flames been allayed, notwithstanding threats and proclamations, had
not the coin been totally suppressed, and Wood withdrawn his patent. The
name of Augustus was not bestowed upon Octavius Cæsar with more
universal approbation, than the name of the Drapier was bestowed upon
the dean. He had no sooner assumed his new cognomen, than he became the
idol of the people of Ireland, to a degree of devotion, that in the most
superstitious country, scarce any idol ever obtained. Libations to his
health were poured out as frequent as to the immortal memory of King
William. His effigies was painted in every street in Dublin.
Acclamations and vows for his prosperity attended his footsteps wherever
he passed. He was consulted in all points relating to domestic policy in
general, and to the trade of Ireland in particular; but he was more
immediately looked upon as the legislator of the Weavers, who frequently
came in a body, consisting of 40 or 50 chiefs of their trade, to receive
his advice in settling the rates of their manufactures, and the wages of
their journeymen. He received their address with less majesty than
sternness, and ranging his subjects in a circle round his parlour, spoke
as copiously, and with as little difficulty and hesitation, to the
several points in which they supplicated his assistance, as if trade had
been the only study and employment of his life. When elections were
depending for the city of Dublin, many Corporations refused to declare
themselves, 'till they had consulted his sentiments and inclinations,
which were punctually followed with equal chearfulness and submission.

In this state of power, and popular admiration, he remained 'till he
lost his senses; a loss which he seemed to foresee, and prophetically
lamented to many of his friends. The total deprivation of his senses
came upon him by degrees. In the year 1736 he was seized with a violent
fit of giddiness; he was at that time writing a satirical poem, called
The Legion Club; but he found the effects of his giddiness so dreadful,
that he left the poem unfinished, and never afterwards attempted a
composition, either in verse or prose. However, his conversation still
remained the same, lively and severe, but his memory gradually grew
worse and worse, and as that decreased, he grew every day more fretful
and impatient. In the year 1741, his friends found his passions so
violent and ungovernable, his memory so decayed, and his reason so
depraved, that they took the utmost precautions to keep all strangers
from approaching him; for, 'till then, he had not appeared totally
incapable of conversation. But early in the year 1742, the small remains
of his understanding became entirely confused, and the violence of his
rage increased absolutely to a degree of madness. In this miserable
state he seemed to be appointed the first inhabitant of his own
Hospital; especially as from an outrageous lunatic, he sunk afterwards
to a quiet speechless ideot; and dragged out the remainder of his life
in that helpless situation. He died towards the latter end of October
1745. The manner of his death was easy, without the least pang, or
convulsion; even the rattling of his throat was scarce sufficient to
give an alarm to his attendants, 'till within some very little time
before he expired. A man in possession of his reason would have wished
for such a kind dissolution; but Swift was totally insensible of
happiness, or pain. He had not even the power or expression of a child,
appearing for some years before his death, referred only as an example
to mortify human pride, and to reverse that fine description of human
nature, which is given us by the inimitable Shakespeare. 'What a piece
of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form
and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in
apprehension how like a God! the beauty of the world! the paragon of
animals!' Swift's friends often heard him lament the state of childhood
and idiotism, to which some of the greatest men of this nation were
reduced before their death. He mentioned, as examples within his own
time, the duke of Marlborough and lord Somers; and when he cited these
melancholy instances, it was always with a heavy sigh, and with gestures
that shewed great uneasiness, as if he felt an impulse of what was to
happen to him before he died. He left behind him about twelve thousand
pounds, inclusive of the specific legacies mentioned in his will, and
which may be computed at the sum of twelve hundred pounds, so that the
remaining ten thousand eight hundred pounds, is entirely applicable to
the Hospital for Idiots and Lunatics; an establishment remarkably
generous, as those who receive the benefit, must for ever remain
ignorant of their benefactor.

Lord Orerry has observed, that a propension to jocularity and humour is
apparent in the last works of Swift. His Will, like all his other
writings, is drawn up in his own peculiar manner. Even in so serious a
composition, he cannot help indulging himself in leaving legacies, that
carry with them an air of raillery and jest. He disposes of his three
best hats (his best, his second best, and his third best beaver) with an
ironical solemnity, that renders the bequests ridiculous. He bequeaths,
'To Mr. John Grattan a silver-box, to keep in it the tobacco which the
said John usually chewed, called pigtail.' But his legacy to Mr. Robert
Grattan, is still more extraordinary. 'Item, I bequeath to the Revd. Mr.
Robert Grattan, Prebendary of St. Audeon's, my strong box, on condition
of his giving the sole use of the said box to his brother, Dr. James
Grattan, during the life of the said Doctor, who hath more occasion for
it.'

These are so many last expressions of his turn, and way of thinking, and
no doubt the persons thus distinguished looked upon these instances as
affectionate memorials of his friendship, and tokens of the jocose
manner, in which he had treated them during his life-time.

With regard to Dean Swift's poetical character, the reader will take the
following sketch of it in the words of Lord Orrery. 'The poetical
performances of Swift (says he) ought to be considered as occasional
poems, written either to pleasure[3], or to vex some particular persons.
We must not suppose them designed for posterity; if he had cultivated
his genius that way, he must certainly have excelled, especially in
satire. We see fine sketches in several of his pieces; but he seems more
desirous to inform and strengthen his mind, than to indulge the
luxuriancy of his imagination. He chuses to discover, and correct errors
in the works of others, rather than to illustrate, and add beauties of
his own. Like a skilful artist, he is fond of probing wounds to their
depth, and of enlarging them to open view. He aims to be severely
useful, rather than politely engaging; and as he was either not formed,
nor would take pains to excel in poetry, he became in some measure
superior to it; and assumed more the air, and manner of a critic than a
poet.' Thus far his lordship in his VIth letter, but in his IXth, he
adds, when speaking of the Second Volume of Swift's Works, 'He had the
nicest ear; he is remarkably chaste, and delicate in his rhimes. A bad
rhime appeared to him one of the capital sins of poetry.'

The Dean's poem on his celebrated Vanessa, is number'd among the best of
his poetical pieces. Of this lady it will be proper to give some
account, as she was a character as singular as Swift himself.

Vanessa's real name was Esther Vanhomrich[4]. She was one of the
daughters of Bartholomew Vanhomrich, a Dutch merchant of Amsterdam; who
upon the Revolution went into Ireland, and was appointed by king William
a commissioner of the revenue. The Dutch merchant, by parsimony and
prudence, had collected a fortune of about 16,000 _l_. He bequeathed an
equal division of it to his wife, and his four children, of which two
were sons, and two were daughters. The sons after the death of their
father travelled abroad: The eldest died beyond sea; and the youngest
surviving his brother only a short time, the whole patrimony fell to his
two sisters, Esther and Mary.

With this encrease of wealth, and with heads and hearts elated by
affluence, and unrestrained by fore-sight or discretion, the widow
Vanhomrich, and her two daughters, quitted their native country for the
more elegant pleasures of the English court. During their residence at
London, they lived in a course of prodigality, that stretched itself far
beyond the limits of their income, and reduced them to great distress,
in the midst of which the mother died, and the two daughters hastened in
all secresy back to Ireland, beginning their journey on a Sunday, to
avoid the interruption of creditors. Within two years after their
arrival in Ireland, Mary the youngest sister died, and the small remains
of the shipwreck'd fortune center'd in Vanessa.

Vanity makes terrible devastations in a female breast: Vanessa was
excessively vain. She was fond of dress; impatient to be admired; very
romantic in her turn of mind; superior in her own opinion to all her
sex; full of pertness, gaiety, and pride; not without some agreeable
accomplishments, but far from being either beautiful or genteel:
Ambitious at any rate to be esteemed a wit; and with that view always
affecting to keep company with wits; a great reader, and a violent
admirer of poetry; happy in the thoughts of being reputed Swift's
concubine; but still aiming to be his wife. By nature haughty and
disdainful, looking with contempt upon her inferiors; and with the
smiles of self-approbation upon her equals; but upon Dr. Swift, with the
eyes of love: Her love was no doubt founded in vanity.

Though Vanessa had exerted all the arts of her sex, to intangle Swift in
matrimony; she was yet unsuccessful. She had lost her reputation, and
the narrowness of her income, and coldness of her lover contributed to
make her miserable, and to increase the phrensical disposition of her
mind. In this melancholly situation she remained several years, during
which time Cadenus (Swift) visited her frequently. She often press'd him
to marry her: His answers were rather turns of wit, than positive
denials; till at last being unable to sustain the weight of misery any
longer, she wrote a very tender epistle to him, insisting peremptorily
upon a serious answer, and an immediate acceptance, or absolute refusal
of her as his wife. His reply was delivered by his own hand. He brought
it with him when he made his final visit; and throwing down the letter
upon the table with great passion, hastened back to his house, carrying
in his countenance the frown of anger, and indignation. Vanessa did not
survive many days the letter delivered to her by Swift, but during that
short interval she was sufficiently composed, to cancel a will made in
his favour, and to make another, wherein she left her fortune (which by
a long retirement was in some measure retrieved) to her two executors,
Dr. Berkley the late lord bishop of Cloyne, and Mr. Marshal one of the
king's Serjeants at law. Thus perished under all the agonies of despair,
Mrs. Esther Vanhomrich; a miserable example of an ill-spent life,
fantastic wit, visionary schemes, and female weakness.

It is strange that vanity should have so great a prevalence in the
female breast, and yet it is certain that to this principle it was
owing, that Swift's house was often a seraglio of very virtuous women,
who attended him from morning till night, with an obedience, an awe, and
an assiduity that are seldom paid to the richest, or the most powerful
lovers. These ladies had no doubt a pride in being thought the
companions of Swift; but the hours which were spent in his company could
not be very pleasant, as his sternness and authority were continually
exerted to keep them in awe.

Lord Orrery has informed us, that Swift took every opportunity to expose
and ridicule Dryden, for which he imagines there must have been some
affront given by that great man to Swift. In this particular we can
satisfy the reader from authentic information.

When Swift was a young man, and not so well acquainted with the world as
he afterwards became, he wrote some Pindaric Odes. In this species of
composition he succeeded ill; sublimity and fire, the indispensable
requisites in a Pindaric Ode not being his talent. As Mr. Dryden was
Swift's kinsman, these odes were shewn to him for his approbation, who
said to him with an unreserved freedom, and in the candour of a friend,
'Cousin Swift, turn your thoughts some other way, for nature has never
formed you for a Pindaric poet.'

Though what Dryden observed, might in some measure be true, and Swift
perhaps was conscious that he had not abilities to succeed in that
species of writing; yet this honest dissuasive of his kinsman he never
forgave. The remembrance of it soured his temper, and heated his
passions, whenever Dryden's name was mention'd.

We shall now take a view of Swift in his moral life, the distinction he
has obtained in the literary world having rendered all illustrations of
his genius needless.

Lord Orrery, throughout his excellent work, from which we have drawn our
account of Swift, with his usual marks of candour, has displayed his
moral character. In many particulars, the picture he draws of the Dean
resembles the portrait of the same person as drawn by Mrs. Pilkington.

'I have beheld him (says his lordship) in all humours and dispositions,
and I have formed various speculations from the several weaknesses to
which I observed him liable. His capacity, and strength of mind, were
undoubtedly equal to any talk whatsoever. His pride, his spirit, or his
ambition (call it by what name you please) was boundless; but his views
were checked in his younger years, and the anxiety of that
disappointment had a sensible effect upon all his actions. He was sour
and severe, but not absolutely ill-natur'd. He was sociable only to
particular friends, and to them only at particular hours. He knew
politeness more than he practiced it. He was a mixture of avarice and
generosity; the former was frequently prevalent, the latter seldom
appeared unless excited by compassion. He was open to adulation, and
would not, or could not, distinguish between low flattery and just
applause. His abilities rendered him superior to envy. He was
undisguised, and perfectly sincere. I am induced to think that he
entered into orders, more from some private and fixed resolution, than
from absolute choice: Be that as it may, he performed the duties of the
church with great punctuality, and a decent degree of devotion. He read
prayers, rather in a strong nervous voice, than in a graceful manner;
and although he has been often accused of irreligion, nothing of that
kind appeared in his conversation or behaviour. His cast of mind induced
him to think and speak more of politics than religion. His perpetual
views were directed towards power; and his chief aim was to be removed
to England: But when he found himself entirely disappointed, he turned
his thoughts to opposition, and became the Patron of Ireland.'

Mrs. Pilkington has represented him as a tyrant in his family, and has
discovered in him a violent propension to be absolute in every company
where he was. This disposition, no doubt, made him more feared than
loved; but as he had the most unbounded vanity to gratify, he was
pleased with the servility and awe with which inferiors approached him.
He may be resembled to an eastern monarch, who takes delight in
surveying his slaves, trembling at his approach, and kneeling with
reverence at his feet.

Had Swift been born to regal honours, he would doubtless have bent the
necks of his people to the yoke: As a subject, he was restless and
turbulent; and though as lord Orrery says, he was above corruption, yet
that virtue was certainly founded on his pride, which disdained every
measure, and spurned every effort in which he himself was not the
principal.

He was certainly charitable, though it had an unlucky mixture of
ostentation in it. One particular act of his charity (not mentioned,
except by Mrs. Pilkington, in any account of him yet published) is well
worthy of remembrance, praise, and imitation:--He appropriated the sum
of five-hundred pounds intirely to the use of poor tradesmen and
handicraftsmen, whose honesty and industry, he thought merited
assistance, and encouragement: This he lent to them in small loans, as
their exigencies required, without any interest; and they repaid him at
so much per week, or month, as their different circumstances best
enabled them.--To the wealthy let us say--

"Abi tu et fac similiter."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Lord Orrery, page 6.

[2] The authors of the Monthly Review have justly remarked, that this
observation of his lordship's seems premature.

The same public rumour, say they, that made HER Sir William Temple's
daughter, made HIM also Sir William's son: Therefore he (Swift)
could never with decency, have acknowledged Mrs. Johnson as his
wife, while that rumour continued to retain any degree of credit;
and if there had been really no foundation for it, surely it might
have been no very hard task to obviate its force, by producing the
necessary proofs and circumstances of his birth: Yet, we do not
find that ever this was done, either by the Dean or his relations.

[3] We are assured, there was one while a misunderstanding subsisting
between Swift and Pope: But that worthy gentleman, the late general
Dormer (who had a great regard for both) reconciled them, e'er it
came to an open rupture:--Though the world might be deprived by the
general's mediation of great matter of entertainment, which the
whetted wit of two such men might have afforded; yet his
good-nature, and sincere friendship, deserves to be remember'd with
honour.--This gentleman Mr. Cibber senior was very intimate with,
and once hinted to him, 'He was concerned to find he stood so ill in
the Dean's opinion, whose great parts, wit, genius, &c. he held in
the highest estimation; nor could he easily account for the Dean's
so frequently appearing his enemy, as he never knowingly had
offended him; and regretted the want of an opportunity of being
better acquainted with him.'--The general had also a great regard
for Mr. Cibber, and wished to bring them together on an agreeable
footing:--Why they were not so, came out soon after.--The secret
was,--Mr. Pope was angry; [for the long-latent cause, look into Mr.
Cibber's letter to Mr. Pope.] Passion and prejudice are not always
friends to truth;--and the foam of resentment never rose higher,
than when it boil'd and swell'd in Mr. Pope's bosom: No wonder then,
that his misrepresentation might make the Dean believe, Mr. Cibber
was not unworthy of that satire and raillery (not always just
neither, and sometimes solicited) which is not unsparingly thrown on
him in the Dean's works:--That this was the case, appears from the
following circumstance.

As soon as Mr. Cibber's Apology was first printed, it was
immediately carried over to Dublin, and given to Mr. Faulkner (an
eminent printer and bookseller there) by a gentleman, who wished to
see an edition of it in Ireland; Mr. Faulkner published it, and the
success thereof was so great, some thousands thereof were disposed
of in a very short time: Just before the intended edition appeared,
the Dean (who often visited Mr. Faulkner) coming into the shop,
asked, 'What new pieces were likely to come forth?'--Mr. Faulkner
gave Mr. Cibber's Apology to him;--The Dean's curiosity
[Transcriber's note: 'curosity' in original] was pretty strong to
see a work of that uncommon sort:--In short, he stay'd and dined
there; and did not quit the house, or the book, 'till he had read it
through: He advised Faulkner, to lose no time in printing it; and
said, he would answer for it's success:--He declared, he had not
perus'd any thing a long time that had pleas'd him so much; and
dwelt long in commendation of it: He added, that he almost envy'd
the author the pleasure he must have in writing it;--That he was
sorry he had ever said any thing to his disadvantage; and was
convinced Cibber had been very much misrepresented to him; nor did
he scruple to say, that, as it had been formerly the fashion to
abuse Cibber, he had unwarily been drawn into it by Pope, and
others. He often, afterwards, spoke in praise of Mr. Cibber, and his
writing in general, and of this work in particular.--He afterwards
told Mr. Faulkner, he had read Cibber's Apology thro' three times;
that he was more and more pleased with it: That the style was not
inferior to any English he had ever read: That his words were
properly adapted: His similes happy, uncommon, and well chosen: He
then in a pleasant manner said--'You must give me this book, which
is the first thing I ever begg'd from you.' To this, we may be sure
Mr. Faulkner readily consented. Ever after in company, the Dean gave
this book a great character.--Let the reader make the application of
this true and well known fact.

[4] The name is pronounced Vannumery.

* * * * *

MRS. CONSTANTIA GRIERSON.

This lady was born in Ireland; and, as Mrs. Barber judiciously remarks,
was one of the most extraordinary women that either this age, or perhaps
any other, ever produced. She died in the year 1733, at the age of 27,
and was allowed long before to be an excellent scholar, not only in
Greek and Roman literature, but in history, divinity, philosophy, and
mathematics.

Mrs. Grierson (says she) 'gave a proof of her knowledge in the Latin
tongue, by her dedication of the Dublin edition of Tacitus to the lord
Carteret, and by that of Terence to his son, to whom she likewise wrote
a Greek epigram. She wrote several fine poems in English[1], on which
she set so little value, that she neglected to leave copies behind her
of but very few.

'What makes her character the more remarkable is, that she rose to this
eminence of learning merely by the force of her own genius, and
continual application. She was not only happy in a fine imagination, a
great memory, an excellent understanding, and an exact judgment, but had
all these crowned by virtue and piety: she was too learned to be vain,
too wise to be conceited, too knowing and too clear-sighted to
irreligious.

'If heaven had spared her life, and blessed her with health, which she
wanted for some years before her death, there is good reason to think
she would have made as great a figure in the learned world, as any of
her sex are recorded to have done.

'As her learning and abilities raised her above her own sex, so they
left her no room to envy any; on the contrary, her delight was to see
others excel. She was always ready to advise and direct those who
applied to her, and was herself willing to be advised.

'So little did she value herself upon her uncommon excellences, that it
has often recalled to my mind a fine reflexion of a French author, _That
great geniuses should be superior to their own abilities._

'I perswade myself that this short account of so extraordinary a woman,
of whom much more might have been said, will not be disagreeable to my
readers; nor can I omit what I think is greatly to the lord Carteret's
honour, that when he was lord lieutenant of Ireland, he obtained a
patent for Mr. Grierson, her husband, to be the King's Printer, and to
distinguish and reward her uncommon merit, had her life inserted in it.'
Thus far Mrs. Barber. We shall now subjoin Mrs. Pilkington's account of
this wonderful genius.

'About two years before this, a young woman (afterwards married to Mr.
Grierson) of about eighteen years of age, was brought to my father[2],
to be by him instructed in Midwifry: she was mistress of Hebrew[3],
Greek, Latin, and French, and understood the mathematics as well as most
men: and what made these extraordinary talents yet more surprizing was,
that her parents were poor, illiterate, country people: so that her
learning appeared like the gift poured out on the apostles, of speaking
all languages without the pains of study; or, like the intuitive
knowledge of angels: yet inasmuch as the power of miracles is ceased, we
must allow she used human means for such great and excellent
acquirements. And yet, in a long friendship and familiarity with her, I
could never obtain a satisfactory account from her on this head; only
she said, she had received some little instruction from the minister of
the parish, when she could spare time from her needle-work, to which she
was closely kept by her mother. She wrote elegantly both in verse and
prose, and some of the most delightful hours I ever passed were in the
conversation of this female philosopher.

'My father readily consented to accept of her as a pupil, and gave her a
general invitation to his table; so that she and I were seldom asunder.
My parents were well pleased with our intimacy, as her piety was not
inferior to her learning. Her turn was chiefly to philosophical or
divine subjects; yet could her heavenly muse descend from its sublime
height to the easy epistolary stile, and suit itself to my then gay
disposition[4].

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Mrs. Barber has preserved several specimens of her talent in this
way, which are printed with her own poems.

[2] Dr. Van Lewen of Dublin, an eminent physician and man-midwife.

[3] Her knowledge of the Hebrew is not mentioned by Mrs. Barber.

[4] Vide MRS. PILKINGTON'S MEMOIRS, Vol. I.

* * * * *

MRS. CATHERINE COCKBURN.

The Revd. Dr. Birch, who has prefixed a life of Mrs. Cockburn before the
collection he has made of her works, with great truth observes, that it
is a justice due to the public, as well as to the memory of Mrs.
Cockburn, to premise some account of so extraordinary a person.
"Posterity, at least, adds he, will be so sollicitous to know, to whom
they will owe the most demonstrative and perspicuous reasonings, upon
subjects of eternal importance; and her own sex is entitled to the
fullest information about one, who has done such honour to them, and
raised our ideas of their intellectual powers, by an example of the
greatest extent of understanding and correctness of judgment, united to
all the vivacity of imagination. Antiquity, indeed, boasted of its
Female Philosophers, whose merits have been drawn forth in an elaborate
treatise of Menage[1]. But our own age and country may without injustice
or vanity oppose to those illustrious ladies the defender of Lock and
Clark; who, with a genius equal to the most eminent of them, had the
superior advantage of cultivating it in the only effectual method of
improvement, the study of a real philosophy, and a theology worthy human
nature, and its all-perfect author. [Transcriber's note: closing quotes
missing from original.]

She was the daughter of captain David Trotter, a Scots gentleman, and
commander of the royal navy in the reign of Charles II. He was highly in
favour with that prince, who employed him as commodore in the demolition
of Tangier, in the year 1683. Soon after he was sent to convoy the fleet
of the Turkey company; when being seized by the plague, then raging at
Scanderoon, he died there. His death was an irreparable loss to his
family, who were defrauded of all his effects on board his ship, which
were very considerable, and of all the money which he had advanced to
the seamen, during a long voyage: And to add to this misfortune, the
goldsmith, in whose hands the greatest part of his money was lodged,
became soon after a bankrupt. These accumulated circumstances of
distress exciting the companion of king Charles, the captain's widow was
allowed a pension, which ended with that king's life; nor had she any
consideration for her losses in the two succeeding reigns. But queen
Anne, upon her accession to the throne, granted her an annual pension of
twenty pounds.

Captain Trotter at his death, left only two daughters, the youngest of
whom, Catherine, our celebrated author, was born in London, August 16,
1679. She gave early marks of her genius, and was not passed her
childhood when she surprized a company of her relations and friends with
extemporary verses, on an accident which had fallen under her
observation in the street. She both learned to write, and made herself
mistress of the French language, by her own application and diligence,
without any instructor. But she had some assistance in the study of the
Latin Grammar and Logic, of which latter she drew up an abstract for her
own use. The most serious and important subjects, and especially
[Transcriber's note: 'espepecially' in original] those of religion, soon
engaged her attention. But not withstanding her education, her intimacy
with several families of distinction of the Romish persuasion exposed
her, while very young, to impressions in favour of that church, which
not being removed by her conferences with some eminent and learned
members of the church of England, she followed the dictates of a
misguided conscience, and embraced the Romish communion, in which she
continued till the year 1707.

She was but 14 years of age, when she wrote a copy of verses upon Mr.
Bevil Higgons's sickness and recovery from the small pox, which are
printed in our author's second volume. Her next production was a Tragedy
called Agnes de Castro, which was acted at the Theatre-royal, in 1695,
when she was only in her seventeenth year, and printed in 1696. The
reputation of this performance, and the verses which she addressed to
Mr. Congreve upon his Mourning Bride, in 1697, were probably the
foundation of her acquaintance with that admirable writer.

Her second Tragedy, intitled Fatal Friendship, was acted in 1698, at the
new Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. This Tragedy met with great
applause, and is still thought the most perfect of her dramatic
performances. Among other copies of verses sent to her upon occasion of
it, and prefixed to it, was one from an unknown hand, which afterwards
appeared to be from the elegant pen of Mr. Hughs, author of the Siege of
Damascus [2].

The death of Mr. Dryden engaged her to join with several other ladies in
paying a just tribute to the memory of that great improver of the
strength, fulness, and harmony of English verse; and their performances
were published together, under the title of the Nine Muses; or Poems
written by so many Ladies, upon the Death of the late famous John
Dryden, Esq;

Her dramatic talents not being confined to Tragedy, she brought upon the
stage, in 1701, a Comedy called Love at a Loss; or most Votes carry it,
published in May that year. In the same year she gave the public her
third Tragedy, intitled, The Unhappy Penitent, acted at the
Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane. In the dedication to Charles lord Hallifax,
she draws the characters of several of the most eminent of her
predecessors in tragic poetry, with great judgment and precision. She
observes, that Shakespear had all the images of nature present to him,
studied her thoroughly, and boldly copied all her various features: and
that though he chiefly exerted himself on the more masculine passions,
it was the choice of his judgment, not the restraint of his genius; and
he seems to have designed those few tender moving scenes, which he has
given us, as a proof that he could be every way equally admirable. She
allows Dryden to have been the most universal genius which this nation
ever bred; but thinks that he did not excel in every part; for though he
is distinguished in most of his writings, by greatness and elevation of
thought, yet at the same time that he commands our admiration of
himself, he little moves our concern for those whom he represents, not
being formed for touching the softer passions. On the other hand, Otway,
besides his judicious choice of the fable, had a peculiar art to move
compassion, which, as it is one of the chief ends of Tragedy, he found
most adapted to his genius; and never venturing where that did not lead
him, excelled in the pathetic. And had Lee, as she remarks, consulted
his strength as well, he might have given us more perfect pieces; but
aiming at the sublime, instead of being great, he is extravagant; his
stile too swelling; and if we pursue him in his flight, he often carries
us out of nature. Had he restrained that vain ambition, and intirely
applied himself to describe the softest of the passions (for love, of
all the passions, he seems best to have understood, if that be allowed a
proper subject for Tragedy) he had certainly had fewer defects.

But poetry and dramatic writing did not so far engross the thoughts of
our author, but that she sometimes turned them to subjects of a very
different nature; and at an age when few of the other sex were capable
of understanding the Essay of Human Understanding, and most of them
prejudiced against the novelty of its principles; and though she was at
that time engaged in the profession of a religion not very favourable to
so rational a philosophy as that of Mr. Lock; yet she had read that
incomparable book, with so clear a comprehension, and so unbiassed a
judgment, that her own conviction of the truth and importance of the
notions contained in it, led her to endeavour that of others, by
removing some of the objections urged against them. She drew up
therefore a Defence of the Essay, against some Remarks which had been
published against it in 1667. The author of these remarks was never
known to Mr. Lock, who animadverted upon them with some marks of
chagrin, at the end of his reply to Stillingfleet, 1697. But after the
death of the ingenious Dr. Thomas Burner, master of the Charter-House,
it appeared from his papers, that the Remarks were the product of his
pen. They were soon followed by second Remarks, printed the same year,
in vindication of the first, against Mr. Lock's Answer to them; and in
1699, by Third Remarks, addressed likewise to Mr. Lock. Mrs. Trotter's
Defence of the Essay against all these Remarks was finished so early as
the beginning of December 1701, when she was but 22 years old. But being
more apprehensive of appearing before the great writer whom she
defended, than of the public censure, and conscious that the name of a
woman would be a prejudice against a work of that nature, she resolved
to conceal herself with the utmost care. But her title to the reputation
of this piece did not continue long a secret to the world. For Mrs.
Burnet, the late wife of Dr. Burnet, bishop of Sarum, a lady of an
uncommon degree of knowledge, and whose Method of Devotion, which passed
through several editions, is a proof of her exemplary piety, and who, as
well as that prelate, honoured our author with a particular friendship,
notwithstanding the difference of her religion, being informed that she
was engaged in writing, and that it was not poetry, was desirous to know
the subject. This Mrs. Trotter could not deny a lady of her merit, in
whom she might safely confide, and who, upon being acquainted with it,
shewed an equal sollicitude that the author might not be known. But
afterwards finding the performance highly approved by the bishop her
husband, Mr. Norris of Bemmerton, and Mr. Lock himself; she thought the
reasons of secrecy ceased, and discovered the writer; and in June 1707
returned her thanks to Mrs. Trotter, then in London, for her present of
the book, in a letter which does as much honour to her own
understanding, principles and temper, as to her friend, to whom she
addressed it. Dr. Birch has given a copy of this letter.

Mr. Lock likewise was so highly satisfied with the Defence, (which was
perhaps the only piece that appeared in favour of his Essay, except one
by Mr. Samuel Bold, rector of Steeple in Dorsetshire, 1699) that being
in London, he desired Mr. King, afterwards lord high chancellor, to make
Mrs. Trotter a visit, and a present of books; and when she had owned
herself, he wrote to her a letter of compliment, a copy of which is
inserted in these memoirs.

But while our author continued to shew the world so deep a penetration
into subjects of the most difficult and abstract kind, she was still
incapable of extricating herself from those subtilties and perplexities
of argument, which retained her in the church of Rome. And the sincerity
of her attachment to it, in all its outward severities, obliged her to
so strict an observance of its fasts, as proved extremely injurious to
her health. Upon which Dr. Denton Nicholas, a very ingenious learned
physician of her acquaintance, advised her to abate of those rigours of
abstinence, as insupportable to a constitution naturally infirm.

She returned to the exercise of her dramatic genius in 1703, and having
fixed upon the Revolution of Sweden under Gustavus Erickson (which has
been related in prose with so much force and beauty by the Abbé Vertot)
for the subject of a Tragedy, she sent the first draught of it to Mr.
Congreve, who returned her an answer, which, on account of the just
remarks upon the conduct of the drama, well deserves a place here, did
it not exceed our proposed bounds, and therefore we must refer the
reader to Dr. Birch's account. This Tragedy was acted in 1706, at the
Queen's Theatre in the Hay-Market, and was printed in quarto.

By a letter from Mrs. Trotter to her friend George Burnet of Kemnay in
Scotland, Esq; then at Geneva, dated February 2, 1703-4, it appears that
she then began to entertain more moderate notions of religion, and to
abate of her zeal for the church of Rome. Her charitableness and
latitude of sentiments seems to have increased a-pace, from the farther
examination which she was now probably making into the state of the
controversy between the church of Rome and the Protestants; for in
another letter to Mr. Burnet, of August 8, 1704, she speaks to the
subject of religion, with a spirit of moderation unusual in the
communion of which she still professed herself.

'I wish, (says she) there was no distinction of churches; and then I
doubt not there would be much more real religion, the name and notion of
which I am so sorry to observe confined to the being of some particular
community; and the whole of it, I am afraid, placed by most in a zeal
of those points, which make the differences between them; from which
mistaken zeal, no doubt, have proceeded all the massacres,
persecutions, and hatred of their fellow christians, which all churches
have been inclined to, when in power. And I believe it is generally
true, that those who are most bigotted to a sect, or most rigid and
precise in their forms and outward discipline, are most negligent of
the moral duties, which certainly are the main end of religion. I have
observed this so often, both in private persons and public societies,
that I am apt to suspect it every where.'

The victory at Blenheim, which exercised the pens of Mr. Addison and Mr.
John Philips, whose poems on that occasion divided the admiration of the
public, tempted Mrs. Trotter to write a copy of verses to the duke of
Marlborough, upon his return from his glorious campaign in Germany,
December, 1704. But being doubtful with respect to the publication of
them, she sent them in manuscript to his grace; and received for answer,
that the duke and duchess, and the lord treasurer Godolphin, with
several others to whom they were shewn, were greatly pleased with them;
and that good judges of poetry had declared, that there were some lines
in them superior to any that had been written on the subject. Upon this
encouragement she sent the poem to the press.

The high degree of favour with which she was honoured by these
illustrious persons, gave her, about this time, hopes of some
establishment of her fortune, which had hitherto been extremely narrow
and precarious. But though she failed of such an establishment, she
succeeded in 1705, in another point, which was a temporary relief to
her. This particular appears from one of her letters printed in the
second volume; but of what nature or amount this relief was, we do not
find.

Her enquiries into the nature of true religion were attended with their
natural and usual effects, in opening and enlarging her notions beyond
the contracted pale of her own church. For in her letter of the 7th of
July 1705, to Mr. Burnet, she says, 'I am zealous to have you agree with
me in this one article, that all good christians are of the same
religion; a sentiment which I sincerely confess, how little soever it is
countenanced by the church of Rome.' And in the latter end of the
following year, or the beginning of 1707, her doubts about the Romish
religion, which she had so many years professed, having led her to a
thorough examination of the grounds of it, by consulting the best books
on both sides of the question, and advising with men of the best
judgment, the result was a conviction of the falseness of the
pretensions of that church, and a return to that of England, to which
she adhered during the rest of her life. In the course of this enquiry,
the great and leading question concerning A Guide in Controversy, was
particularly discussed by her; and the two letters which she wrote upon
it, the first to Mr. Bennet, a Romish priest, and the second to Mr.
H----, who had procured an answer to that letter from a stranger, Mr.
Beimel's indisposition preventing him from returning one, were thought
so valuable on account of the strength and perspicuity of reasoning, as
well as their conciseness, that she consented to the importunity of her
friends, for their publication in June 1707, under the following title,
A Discourse concerning a Guide in Controversies; in two Letters: Written
to one of the Church Church of Rome, by a Person lately converted from
that Communion; a later edition of them being since printed at Edinburgh
in 1728 in 8vo. Bishop Burnet wrote the preface to them, though without
his name to it; and he observes, that they might be of use to such of
the Roman Catholics as are perswaded, that those who deny the
infallibility of their church, take away all certainty of the Christian
religion, or of the authority of the scriptures. This is the main topic
of those two letters, and the point was considered by our author as of
such importance, that she procured her friend Mrs. Burnet to consult Mr.
(afterwards Dr.) Clark upon it, and to show him a paper, which had been
put into her hands, urging the difficulties on that article, on the side
of the Papists. The sentiments of that great man upon this subject are
comprised in a letter from Mrs. Burnet to Mrs. Trotter, of which our
editor has given a copy, to which we refer the reader in the 31st page
of his account.

In 1708 our author was married to Mr. Cockburn, the son of Dr. Cockburn,
an eminent and learned divine of Scotland, at first attached to the
court of St. Germains, but obliged to quit it on account of his
inflexible adherence to the Protestant religion; then for some time
minister of the Episcopal church at Amsterdam, and at last collated to
the rectory of Northaw in Middlesex, by Dr. Robinson bishop of London,
at the recommendation of Queen Anne. Mr. Cockburn, his son, soon after
his marriage with our author, had the donative of Nayland in Sussex,
where he settled in the same year 1708; but returned afterwards from
thence to London, to be curate of St. Dunstan's in Fleet-street, where
he continued 'till the accession of his late majesty to the throne, when
falling into a scruple about the oath of abjuration, though he always
prayed for the King and Royal Family by name, he was obliged to quit
that station, and for ten or twelve years following was reduced to great
difficulties in the support of his family; during which time he
instructed the youth of the academy in Chancery-Lane, in the Latin
tongue. At last, in 1726, by consulting the lord chancellor King and his
own father, upon the sense and intent of that oath, and by reading some
papers put into his hands, with relation to it, he was reconciled to the
taking of it. In consequence of this, being the year following invited
to be minister of the Episcopal congregation at Aberdeen in Scotland, he
qualified himself conformably to the law, and, on the day of his present
Majesty's accession, preached a sermon there on the duty and benefit of
praying for the government. This sermon being printed and animadverted
upon, he published a reply to the remarks on it, with some papers
relating to the oath of abjuration, which have been much esteemed. Soon
after his settlement at Aberdeen, the lord chancellor presented him to
the living of Long-Horsely, near Morpeth in Northumberland, as a means
of enabling him to support and educate his family; for which purpose he
was allowed to continue his function at Aberdeen, 'till the negligence
and ill-behaviour of the curates, whom he employed at Long Horsely,
occasioned Dr. Chandler, the late bishop of Durham, to call him to
residence on that living, 1737; by which means he was forced to quit his
station at Aberdeen, to the no small diminution of his income. He was a
man of considerable learning; and besides his sermon abovementioned, and
the vindication of it, he published, in the Weekly Miscellany, A Defence
of Prime Ministers, in the Character of Joseph; and a Treatise of the
Mosaic Design, published since his death.

Mrs. Cockburn, after her marriage, was entirely diverted from her
studies for many years, by attending tending upon the duties of a wife
and a mother, and by the ordinary cares of an encreasing family, and the
additional ones arising from the reduced circumstances of her husband.
However, her zeal for Mr. Lock's character and writings drew her again
into the public light in 1716, upon this occasion.

Dr. Holdsworth, fellow of St. John's College in Oxford, had preached on
Easter-Monday, 1719 20, before that university, a sermon on John v. 28,
29, which he published, professing in his title page to examine and
answer the Cavils, False Reasonings, and False Interpretations of
Scripture, of Mr. Lock and others, against the Resurrection of the Same
Body. This sermon did not reach Mrs. Cockburn's hands 'till some years
after; when the perusal of it forced from her some animadversions, which
she threw together in the form of a letter to the Dr. and sent to him in
May 1724, with a design of suppressing it entirely, if it should have
the desired effect upon him. After nine months the Dr. informed her,
that he had drawn up a large and particular answer to it, but was
unwilling to trust her with his manuscript, 'till she should publish her
own. However, after a long time, and much difficulty, she at last
obtained the perusal of his answer; but not meeting with that conviction
from it, which would have made her give up her cause, she was prevailed
on to let the world judge between them, and accordingly published her
Letter to Dr. Holdsworth, in January 1726 7, without her name, but said
in the title page to be by the author of, A Defence of Mr. Lock's Essay
of Human Understanding. The Dr. whose answer to it was already finished,
was very expeditious in the publication of it in June 1727, in an 8vo
volume, under the title of A Defence of the Doctrine of the Resurrection
of the same Body, &c.

Mrs. Cockburn wrote a very particular reply to this, and entitled it, A
Vindication of Mr. Lock's Principles, from the injurious Imputations of
Dr. Holdsworth. But though it is an admirable performance, and she was
extremely desirous of doing justice to Mr. Lock and herself, yet not
meeting with any Bookseller willing to undertake, nor herself being able
to support the expence of the impression, it continued in manuscript,
and was reserved to enrich the collection published after her death.

Her Remarks upon some Writers in the Controversy concerning the
Foundation of Moral Duty and Moral Obligation were begun during the
winter of the year 1739, and finished in the following one; for the
weakness of her eyes, which had been a complaint of many years standing,
not permitting her to use, by candlelight, her needle, which so fully
employed her in the summer season, that she read little, and wrote less;
she amused herself, during the long winter-evenings, in digesting her
thoughts upon the most abstract subjects in morality and metaphysics.
They continued in manuscript till 1743, for want of a Bookseller
inclined to accept the publication of them, and were introduced to the
world in August that year, in The History of the Works of the Learned.
Her name did not go with them, but they were Inscribed with the utmost
Deference to Alexander Pope, Esq; by an Admirer of his moral Character;
for which she shews a remarkable zeal in her letters, whenever she has
occasion to mention him. And her high opinion of him in that respect,
founded chiefly on his writings, and especially his letters, as well as
her admiration of his genius, inspired her with a strong desire of being
known to him; for which purpose she drew up a pretty long letter to him
about the year 1738: but it was never sent. The strength, clearness, and
vivacity shewn in her Remarks upon the most abstract and perplexed
questions, immediately raised the curiosity of all good judges about the
concealed writer; and their admiration was greatly increased when her
sex and advanced age were known. And the worthy Dr. Sharp[3], archdeacon
of Northumberland, who had these Remarks in manuscript, and encouraged
the publication of them, being convinced by them, that no person was
better qualified for a thorough examination of the grounds of morality,
entered into a correspondence with her upon that subject. But her ill
state of health at last interrupted her prosecution of it; a
circumstance to be regretted, since a discussion carried on with so much
sagacity and candour on both sides, would, in all probability, have left
little difficulty remaining on the question.

Dr. Rutherforth's Essay on the Nature and Obligations of virtue,
published in May 1744, soon engaged her thoughts, and notwithstanding
the asthmatic disorder, which had seized her many years before, and now
left her small intervals of ease, she applied herself to the confutation
of that elaborate discourse; and having finished it with a spirit,
elegance, and perspicuity equal, if not superior to all her former
writings, transmitted her manuscript to Mr. Warburton, who published it
in 8vo. with a Preface of his own, in April 1747, under the title of
Remarks upon the Principles and Reasonings of Dr. Rutherforth's Essay on
the Nature and Obligations of Virtue, in Vindication of the contrary
Principles and Reasons inforced in the Writings of the late Dr. Samuel
Clark.

The extensive reputation which this and her former writings had gained
her, induced her friends to propose to her, the collecting and
publishing them in a body. And upon her consenting to the scheme, which
was to be executed by subscription, in order to secure to her the full
benefit of the edition, it met with a ready encouragement from all
persons of true taste; but though Mrs. Cockburn did not live to
discharge the office of editor, yet the public has received the
acquisition by her death, of a valuable series of letters, which her own
modesty would have restrained her from permitting to see the light. And
it were to be wished that these two volumes, conditioned for by the
terms of subscription, could have contained all her dramatic writings,
of which only one is here published. But as that was impossible, the
preference was, upon the maturest deliberation, given to those in prose,
as superior in their kind to the most perfect of her poetical, and of
more general and lasting use to the world.

The loss of her husband on the 4th of January 1748, in the 71st year of
his age, was a severe shock to her; and she did not long survive him,
dying on the 11th of May, 1749, in her 71st year, after having long
supported a painful disorder, with a resignation to the divine will,
which had been the governing principle of her whole life, and her
support under the various trials of it. Her memory and understanding
continued unimpaired, 'till within a few days of her death. She was
interred near her husband and youngest daughter at Long-Horsley, with
this short sentence on their tomb:

Let their works praise them in the gates.
Prov. xxxi. 31.

They left only one son, who is clerk of the cheque at Chatham, and two
daughters.

Mrs. Cockburn was no less celebrated for her beauty, in her younger
days, than for her genius and accomplishments. She was indeed small of
stature, but had a remarkable liveliness in her eye, and delicacy of
complexion, which continued to her death. Her private character rendered
her extremely amiable to those who intimately knew her. Her conversation
was always innocent, useful and agreeable, without the least affectation
of being thought a wit, and attended with a remarkable modesty and
diffidence of herself, and a constant endeavour to adapt her discourse
to her company. She was happy in an uncommon evenness and chearfulness
of temper. Her disposition was generous and benevolent; and ready upon
all occasions to forgive injuries, and bear them, as well as
misfortunes, without interrupting her own ease, or that of others, with
complaints or reproaches. The pressures of a very contracted fortune
were supported by her with calmness and in silence; nor did she ever
attempt to improve it among those great personages to whom she was
known, by importunities; to which the best minds are most averse, and
which her approved merit and established reputation mould have rendered
unnecessary.

The collection now exhibited to the world is, says Dr. Birch, and we
entirely agree with him, so incontestable a proof of the superiority of
our author's genius, as in a manner supersedes every thing that can be
said upon that head. But her abilities as a writer, and the merit of her
works, will not have full justice done them, without a due attention to
the peculiar circumstances, in which they were produced: her early
youth, when she wrote some, her very advanced age, and ill state of
health, when she drew up others; the uneasy situation of her fortune,
during the whole course of her life; and an interval of near twenty
years in the vigour of it, spent in the cares of a family, without the
least leisure for reading or contemplation: after which, with a mind so
long diverted and incumbered, resuming her studies, she instantly
recovered its intire powers, and in the hours of relaxation from her
domestic employments, pursued, to their utmost limits, some of the
deepest enquiries of which the human mind is capable!

CONTENTS of the First Volume of Mrs. COCKBURN'S Works.

I. A Discourse concerning a Guide in Controversy. First published in
1707, with a preface by bishop Burnet.

II. A Defence of Mr. Lock's Essay of Human Understanding. First
published in 1702.

III. A Letter to Dr. Holdsworth, concerning the Resurrection of the
same Body. First published in 1726.

IV. A Vindication of Mr. Lock's Christian Principles, from the
injurious Imputations of Dr. Holdsworth. Now first published.

V. Remarks upon some Writers in the Controversy, concerning the
Foundation of Moral Virtue, and Moral Obligation. With some Thoughts
concerning Necessary Existence; the Reality and Infinity of Space; the
Extension and Place of Spirits; and on Dr. Watts's Notion of Substance.
First published in 1743.

CONTENTS of the Second Volume.

I. Remarks upon Dr. Rutherforth's Essay on the Nature and Obligations of
Virtue. First published in the year 1747.

II. Miscellaneous Pieces. Now first printed. Containing a Letter of
Advice to her Son.--Sunday's Journal.--On the Usefulness of Schools and
Universities.--On the Credibility of the Historical Parts of Scripture.
--On Moral Virtue.--Notes on Christianity as old as the Creation.--On
the Infallibility of the Church of Rome.--Answer to a Question
concerning the Jurisdiction of the Magistrate over the Life of the
Subject.--Remarks on Mr. Seed's Sermon on Moral Virtue.--Remarks upon
an Enquiry into the Origin of Human Appetites and Affections.

III. Letters between Mrs. Cockburn and several of her Friends. These
take up the greatest part of the volume.

IV. Letters between the Rev. Dr. Sharp, Archdeacon of Northumberland and
Mrs. Cockburn concerning the Foundation of Moral Virtue.

V. Fatal Friendship, a Tragedy.

VI. Poems on several Occasions. There are very few of these, and what
there are, are of little note. Her poetical talent was the smallest and
least valuable of our author's literary accomplishments.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Historia Mulierum Philosopharum. 8vo. Lyons. 1690.

[2] Dr. Birch mentions also Mr. Higgons's verses on this occasion, and
gives a copy of a complimentary letter to our author, from Mr.
George Farquhar.

[3] Author of an excellent pamphlet, entitled, Two Dissertations
concerning the Etymology and Scripture-meaning of the Hebrew Words
Elohim and Berith. Vide Monthly Review.

* * * * *

AMBROSE PHILLIPS, ESQ;

This Gentleman was descended from a very ancient, and considerable
family in the county of Leicester, and received his education in St.
John's college Cambridge, where he wrote his Pastorals, a species of
excellence, in which he is thought to have remarkably distinguished
himself. When Mr. Philips quitted the university, and repaired to the
metropolis, he became, as Mr. Jacob phrases it, one of the wits at
Buttons; and in consequence of this, contracted an acquaintance with
those bright genius's who frequented it; especially Sir Richard Steele,
who in the first volume of his Tatler inserts a little poem of this
author's dated from Copenhagen, which he calls a winter piece; Sir
Richard thus mentions it with honour. 'This is as fine a piece, as we
ever had from any of the schools of the most learned painters; such
images as these give us a new pleasure in our fight, and fix upon our
minds traces of reflexion, which accompany us wherever the like objects
occur.'

This short performance which we shall here insert, was reckoned so
elegant, by men of taste then living, that Mr. Pope himself, who had a
confirmed aversion to Philips, when he affected to despise his other
works, always excepted this out of the number.

It is written from Copenhagen, addressed to the Earl of Dorset, and
dated the 9th of May 1709.

A WINTER PIECE.

From frozen climes, and endless tracks of snow,
From streams that northern winds forbid to flow;
What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary winter here conceals from sight,
All pleasing objects that to verse invite.
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,
The flow'ry plains, and silver streaming floods,
By snow distinguished in bright confusion lie,
And with one dazling waste, fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring,
No birds within the desart region sing.
The ships unmov'd the boist'rous winds defy,
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.
The vast Leviathan wants room to play,
And spout his waters in the face of day.
The starving wolves along the main sea prowl,
And to the moon in icy valleys howl,
For many a shining league the level main,
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain:
There solid billows of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen ev'n here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow;
At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose;
And the descending rain unsully'd froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view,
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd every object to my eyes:

And ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass,
And ev'ry pointed thorn seem'd wrought in glass.
In pearls and rubies rich, the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick sprung reeds, the watry marshes yield,
Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The flag in limpid currents with surprize,
Sees crystal branches on his fore-head rise.
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine.
The frighted birds, the rattling branches shun.
That wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies:
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled show'r the prospect ends.
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller, a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees.

Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads
Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads;
While here inchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wand'ring feet the magic paths pursue;
And while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

But it was not enough for Sir Richard to praise this performance of Mr.
Philips. He was also an admirer of his Pastorals, which had then
obtained a great number of readers: He was about to form a Critical
Comparison of Pope's Pastorals, and these of Mr. Philips; and giving in
the conclusion, the preference to the latter. Sir Richard's design being
communicated to Mr. Pope, who was not a little jealous of his
reputation, he took the alarm; and by the most artful and insinuating
method defeated his purpose.

The reader cannot be ignorant, that there are several numbers in the
Guardian, employed upon Pastoral Poetry, and one in particular, upon the
merits of Philips and Pope, in which the latter is found a better
versifier; but as a true Arcadian, the preference is given to Philips.
That we may be able to convey a perfect idea of the method which Mr.
Pope took to prevent the diminution of his reputation, we shall
transcribe the particular parts of that paper in the Guardian, Number
XL. Monday April the 27th.

I designed to have troubled the reader with no farther discourses of
Pastorals, but being informed that I am taxed of partiality, in not
mentioning an author, whose Eclogues are published in the same volume
with Mr. Philips's, I shall employ this paper in observations upon him,
written in the free spirit of criticism, and without apprehensions of
offending that gentleman, whose character it is, that he takes the
greatest care of his works before they are published, and has the least
concern for them afterwards. I have laid it down as the first rule of
Pastoral, that its idea should be taken from the manners of the Golden
Age, and the moral formed upon the representation of innocence; 'tis
therefore plain, that any deviations from that design, degrade a poem
from being true Pastoral.

So easy as Pastoral writing may seem (in the simplicity we have
described it) yet it requires great reading, both of the ancients and
moderns, to be a master of it. Mr. Philips hath given us manifest proofs
of his knowledge of books; it must be confessed his competitor has
imitated some single thoughts of the antients well enough, if we
consider he had not the happiness of an university education: but he
hath dispersed them here and there without that order and method Mr.
Philips observes, whose whole third pastoral, is an instance how well he
studied the fifth of Virgil, and how judiciously he reduced Virgil's
thoughts to the standard of pastoral; and his contention of Colin Clout,
and the Nightingale, shews with what exactness he hath imitated Strada.
When I remarked it as a principal fault to introduce fruits, and flowers
of a foreign growth in descriptions, where the scene lies in our
country, I did not design that observation should extend also to
animals, or the sensitive life; for Philips hath with great judgment
described wolves in England in his first pastoral. Nor would I have a
poet slavishly confine himself, (as Mr. Pope hath done) to one
particular season of the year, one certain time of the day, and one
unbroken scene in each Eclogue. It is plain, Spencer neglected this
pedantry, who in his Pastoral of November, mentions the mournful song of
the Nightingale.

Sad Philomel, her song in tears doth sleep.

And Mr. Philips by a poetical creation, hath raised up finer beds of
flowers, than the most industrious gardener; his roses, lilies, and
daffadils, blow in the same season.

But the better to discover the merit of our two cotemporary pastoral
writers. I shall endeavour to draw a parallel of them, by placing
several of their particular thoughts in the same light; whereby it will
be obvious, how much Philips hath the advantage: With what simplicity he
introduces two shepherds singing alternately.

HOBB.

Come Rosalind, O come, for without thee
What pleasure can the country have for me?
Come Rosalind, O come; my brinded kine,
My snowy sheep, my farm and all is thine.

LANG.

Come Rosalind, O come; here shady bowers.
Here are cool fountains, and here springing flowers.
Come Rosalind; here ever let us stay,
And sweetly waste our live-long time away.

Our other pastoral writer in expressing the same thought, deviates into
downright poetry.

STREPHON.

In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove,
But Delia always; forc'd from Delia's sight,
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.

DAPHNE.

Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May,
More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day;
Ev'n spring displeases when she shines not here:
But blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year.

In the first of these authors, two shepherds thus innocently describe
the behaviour of their mistresses.

HOBB.

As Marian bath'd, by chance I passed by;
She blush'd, and at me cast a side-long eye:
Then swift beneath, the crystal waves she tried,
Her beauteous form, but all in vain, to hide.

LANG.

As I to cool me bath'd one sultry day,
Fond Lydia lurking in the sedges lay,
The woman laugh'd, and seem'd in haste to fly;
Yet often stopp'd, and often turn'd her eye.

The other modern (who it must be confess'd has a knack at versifying)
has it as follows,

STREPHON.

Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain,
Thus, hid in shades, eludes her eager swain;
But feigns a laugh, to see me search around,
And by that laugh the willing fair is found.

DAPHNE.

The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green;
She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen;
While a kind glance, at her pursuer flies,
How much at variance are her feet and eyes.

There is nothing the writers of this kind of poetry are fonder of, than
descriptions of pastoral presents.

Philips says thus of a Sheep-hook.

Of season'd elm, where studs of brass appear,
To speak the giver's name, the month, and year;
The hook of polished steel, the handle turn'd,
And richly by the graver's skill adorn'd.

The other of a bowl embossed with figures,

--Where wanton ivy twines,
And swelling clusters bend the curling vines,
Four figures rising from the work appear,
The various seasons of the rolling year;
And what is that which binds the radiant sky,
Where twelve bright signs, in beauteous order lye.

The simplicity of the swain in this place who forgets the name of the
Zodiac, is no ill imitation of Virgil; but how much more plainly, and
unaffectedly would Philips have dressed this thought in his Doric.

And what that height, which girds the welkin-sheen
Where twelve gay signs in meet array are seen.

If the reader would indulge his curiosity any farther in the comparison
of particulars, he may read the first Pastoral of Philips, with the
second of his contemporary, and the fourth and fifth of the former, with
the fourth and first of the latter; where several parallel places will
occur to every one.

Having now shewn some parts, in which these two writers may be compared,
it is a justice I owe to Mr. Philips, to discover those in which no man
can compare with him. First, the beautiful rusticity, of which I shall
now produce two instances, out of a hundred not yet quoted.

O woeful day! O day of woe, quoth he,
And woeful I, who live the day to see!

That simplicity of diction, the melancholy flowing of the numbers, the
solemnity of the sound, and the easy turn of the words, are extremely
elegant.

In another Pastoral, a shepherd utters a Dirge, not much inferior to the
former in the following lines.

Ah me the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah luckless lad, the rather might I say;
Ah silly I! more silly than my sheep,
Which on the flow'ry plains I once did keep.

How he still charms the ear, with his artful repetition of the epithets;
and how significant is the last verse! I defy the most common reader to
repeat them, without feeling some motions of compassion. In the next
place, I shall rank his Proverbs in which I formerly observed he excels:
For example,

A rolling stone is ever bare of moss;
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross,
--He that late lies down, as late will rise,
And sluggard like, till noon-day snoring lies.
Against ill-luck, all cunning foresight fails;
Whether we sleep or wake, it nought avails.
--Nor fear, from upright sentence wrong,

Lastly, His excellent dialect, which alone might prove him the eldest
born of Spencer, and the only true Arcadian, &c.

Thus far the comparison between the merit of Mr. Pope and Mr. Philips,
as writers of Pastoral, made by the author of this paper in the
Guardian, after the publication of which, the enemies of Pope exulted,
as in one particular species of poetry, upon which he valued himself, he
was shewn to be inferior to his contemporary. For some time they enjoyed
their triumph; but it turned out at last to their unspeakable
mortification.

The paper in which the comparison is inserted, was written by Mr. Pope
himself. Nothing could have so effectually defeated the design of
diminishing his reputation, as this method, which had a very contrary
effect. He laid down some false principles, upon these he reasoned, and
by comparing his own and Philips's Pastorals, upon such principles it
was no great compliment to the latter, that he wrote more agreeable to
notions which are in themselves false.

The subjects of pastoral are as various as the passions of human nature;
nay, it may in some measure partake of every kind of poetry, but with
this limitation, that the scene of it ought always to be laid in the
country, and the thoughts never contrary to the ideas of those who are
bred there. The images are to be drawn from rural life; and provided the
language is perspicuous, gentle, and flowing, the sentiments may be as
elegant as the country scenes can furnish.--In the particular comparison
of passages between Pope and Philips, the former is so much superior,
that one cannot help wondering, that Steele could be thus imposed upon,
who was in other respects a very quick discerner. Though 'tis not
impossible, but that Guardian might go to the press without Sir
Richard's seeing it; he not being the only person concern'd in that
paper.

The two following lines so much celebrated in this paper, are
sufficiently convincing, that the whole criticism is ironical.

Ah! silly I, more silly than my sheep,
Which on the flowr'y plains I once did keep.

Nothing can be much more silly than these lines; and yet the author
says, "How he still charms the ear with the artful repetitions of
epithets."

SILLY I, MORE SILLY THAN MY SHEEP.

The next work Mr. Philips published after his Pastorals, and which it is
said he wrote at the university, was his life of John Williams lord
keeper of the great-seal, bishop of Lincoln and archbishop of York, in
the reigns of king James and Charles the First, in which are related
some remarkable occurrences in those times, both in church and state,
with an appendix, giving an account of his benefactions to St. John's
college.

Mr. Philips, seems to have made use of archbishop William's life, the
better to make known his own state principles, which in the course of
that work he had a fair occasion of doing. Bishop Williams was the great
opposer of High-Church measures, he was a perpetual antagonist to Laud;
and lord Clarendon mentions him in his history with very great decency
and respect, when it is considered that they adhered to opposite
parties.

Mr. Philips, who early distinguished himself in revolution principles,
was concerned with Dr. Boulter, afterwards archbishop of Armagh, the
right honourable Richard West, Esq; lord chancellor of Ireland; the
revd. Mr. Gilbert Burnet, and the revd. Mr. Henry Stevens, in writing a
paper called the Free-Thinker; but they were all published by Mr.
Philips, and since re-printed in three volumes in 12mo. In the latter
part of the reign of queen Anne, he was secretary to the Hanover Club, a
set of noblemen and gentlemen, who associated in honour of that
succession. They drank regular toasts to the health of those ladies, who
were most zealously attached to the Hanoverian family; upon whom Mr.
Philips wrote the following lines,

While these, the chosen beauties of our isle,
Propitious on the cause of freedom smile,
The rash Pretender's hopes we may despise,
And trust Britannia's safety to their eyes.

After the accession of his late majesty, Mr. Philips was made a justice
of peace, and appointed a commissioner of the lottery. But though his
circumstances were easy, the state of his mind was not so; he fell under
the severe displeasure of Mr. Pope, who has satirized him with his usual
keenness.

'Twas said, he used to mention Mr. Pope as an enemy to the government;
and that he was the avowed author of a report, very industriously
spread, that he had a hand in a paper called The Examiner. The revenge
which Mr. Pope took in consequence of this abuse, greatly ruffled the
temper of Mr. Philips, who as he was not equal to him in wit, had
recourse to another weapon; in the exercise of which no great parts are
requisite. He hung up a rod at Button's, with which he resolved to
chastise his antagonist, whenever he should come there. But Mr. Pope,
who got notice of this design, very prudently declined coming to a
place, where in all probability he must have felt the resentment of an
enraged author, as much superior to him in bodily strength, as inferior
in wit and genius.

When Mr. Philips's friend, Dr. Boulter, rose to be archbishop of Dublin,
he went with him into Ireland, where he had considerable preferments;
and was a member of the House of Commons there, as representative of the
county of Armagh.

Notwithstanding the ridicule which Mr. Philips has drawn upon himself,
by his opposition to Pope, and the disadvantageous light his Pastorals
appear in, when compared with his; yet, there is good reason to believe,
that Mr. Philips was no mean Arcadian: By endeavouring to imitate too
servilely the manners and sentiments of vulgar rustics, he has sometimes
raised a laugh against him; yet there are in some of his Pastorals a
natural simplicity, a true Doric dialect, and very graphical
descriptions.

Mr. Gildon, in his compleat Art of Poetry, mentions him with Theocritus
and Virgil; but then he defeats the purpose of his compliment, for by
carrying the similitude too far, he renders his panegyric hyperbolical.

We shall now consider Mr. Philips as a dramatic writer. The first piece
he brought upon the stage, was his Distress'd Mother, translated from
the French of Monsieur Racine, but not without such deviations as Mr.
Philips thought necessary to heighten the distress; for writing to the
heart is a secret which the best of the French poets have not found out.
This play was acted first in the year 1711, with every advantage a play
could have. Pyrrhus was performed by Mr. Booth, a part in which he
acquired great reputation. Orestes was given to Mr. Powel, and
Andromache was excellently personated by the inimitable Mrs. Oldfield.
Nor was Mrs. Porter beheld in Hermione without admiration. The
Distress'd Mother is so often acted, and so frequently read, we shall
not trouble the reader with giving any farther account of it.

A modern critic speaking of this play, observes that the distress of
Andromache moves an audience more than that of Belvidera, who is as
amiable a wife, as Andromache is an affectionate mother; their
circumstances though not similar, are equally interesting, and yet says
he, 'the female part of the audience is more disposed to weep for the
suffering mother, than the suffering wife.[1]' The reason 'tis imagin'd
is this, there are more affectionate mothers in the world than wives.

Mr. Philips's next dramatic performance was The Briton, a Tragedy; acted
1721. This is built on a very interesting and affecting story, whether
founded on real events I cannot determine, but they are admirably fitted
to raise the passion peculiar to tragedy. Vanoc Prince of the Cornavians
married for his second wife Cartismand, Queen of the Brigantians, a
woman of an imperious spirit, who proved a severe step-mother to the
King's daughter Gwendolen, betrothed to Yvor, the Prince of the
Silurians. The mutual disagreement between Vanoc and his Queen, at last
produced her revolt from him. She intrigues with Vellocad, who had been
formerly the King's servant, and enters into a league with the Roman
tribune, in order to be revenged on her husband. Vanoc fights some
successful battles, but his affairs are thrown into the greatest
confusion, upon receiving the news that a party of the enemy has carried
off the Princess his daughter. She is conducted to the tent of Valens
the Roman tribune, who was himself in love with her, but who offered her
no violation. He went to Vanoc in the name of Didius the Roman general,
to offer terms of peace, but he was rejected with indignation. The scene
between Vanoc and Valens is one of the most masterly to be met with in
tragedy. Valens returns to his fair charge, while her father prepares
for battle, and to rescue his daughter by the force of arms. But
Cartismand, who knew that no mercy would be shewn her at the hands of
her stern husband, flies to the Princess's tent, and in the violence of
her rage stabs her. The King and Yvor enter that instant, but too late
to save the beauteous Gwendolen from the blow, who expires in the arms
of her betrothed husband, a scene wrought up with the greatest
tenderness. When the King reproaches Cartismand for this deed of horror,
she answers,

Hadst thou been more forgiving, I had been less cruel.

VANOC

Wickedness! barbarian! monster--
What had she done, alas!--Sweet innocence!
She would have interceded for thy crimes.

CARTISMAND

Too well I knew the purpose of thy soul.--
Didst thou believe I would submit?--resign my crown?--
Or that thou only hadst the power to punish?

VANOC

Yet I will punish;--meditate strange torments!--
Then give thee to the justice of the Gods.

CARTISMAND

Thus Vanoc, do I mock thy treasur'd rage.--
My heart springs forward to the dagger's point.

Vanoc

Quick, wrest it from her!--drag her hence to chains.

CARTISMAND

There needs no second stroke--
Adieu, rash man!--my woes are at an end:--
Thine's but begun;--and lasting as thy life.

Mr. Philips in this play has shewn how well he was acquainted with the
stage; he keeps the scene perpetually busy; great designs are carrying
on, the incidents rise naturally from one another, and the catastrophe
is moving. He has not observed the rules which some critics have
established, of distributing poetical justice; for Gwendolen, the most
amiable character in the play is the chief sufferer, arising from the
indulgence of no irregular passion, nor any guilt of hers.

The next year Mr. Philips introduced another tragedy on the stage called
Humfrey Duke of Gloucester, acted 1721. The plot of this play is founded
on history. During the minority of Henry VI. his uncle, the duke of
Gloucester, was raised to the dignity of Regent of the Realm. This high
station could not but procure him many enemies, amongst whom was the
duke of Suffolk, who, in order to restrain his power, and to inspire the
mind of young Henry with a love of independence, effected a marriage
between that Prince, and Margaret of Anjou, a Lady of the most
consummate beauty, and what is very rare amongst her sex, of the most
approved courage. This lady entertained an aversion for the duke of
Gloucester, because he opposed her marriage with the King, and
accordingly resolves upon his ruin.

She draws over to her party cardinal Beaufort, the Regent's uncle, a
supercilious proud churchman. They fell upon a very odd scheme to shake
the power of Gloucester, and as it is very singular, and absolutely
fact, we shall here insert it.

The duke of Gloucester had kept Eleanor Cobham, daughter to the lord
Cobham, as his concubine, and after the dissolution of his marriage with
the countess of Hainault, he made her his wife; but this did not restore
her reputation: she was, however, too young to pass in common repute for
a witch, yet was arrested for high treason, founded on a pretended piece
of witchcraft, and after doing public penance several days, by sentence
of convocation, was condemned to perpetual imprisonment in the Isle of
Man, but afterwards removed to Killingworth-castle. The fact charged
upon her, was the making an image of wax resembling the King, and
treated in such a manner by incantations, and sorceries, as to make
him waste away, as the image gradually consumed. John Hume, her
chaplain, Thomas Southwell, a canon of St. Stephen's Westminster, Roger
Bolingbroke, a clergyman highly esteemed, and eminent for his uncommon
learning, and merit, and perhaps on that account, reputed to have great
skill in necromancy, and Margery Jourdemain, commonly called The Witch
of Eye, were tried as her accomplices, and condemned, the woman to be
burnt, the others to be drawn, hanged, and quartered at Tyburn[2]. This
hellish contrivance against the wife of the duke of Gloucester, was
meant to shake the influence of her husband, which in reality it did, as
ignorance and credulity cooperated with his enemies to destroy him. He
was arrested for high treason, a charge which could not be supported,
and that his enemies might have no further trouble with him, cardinal
Beaufort hired assassins to murder him. The poet acknowledges the hints
he has taken from the Second Part of Shakespear's Henry VI, and in some
scenes has copied several lines from him. In the last scene, that
pathetic speech of Eleanor's to Cardinal Beaufort when he was dying in
the agonies of remorse and despair, is literally borrowed.

WARWICK

See how the pangs of death work in his features.

YORK

Disturb him not--let him pass peaceably.

ELEANOR

Lord Cardinal;--if thou think'st of Heaven's bliss
Hold up thy hand;--make signal of that hope.
He dies;--and makes no sign!--

In praise of this tragedy, Mr. Welsted has prefixed a very elegant copy
of verses.

Mr. Philips by a way of writing very peculiar, procured to himself the
name of Namby Pamby. This was first bestowed on him by Harry Cary, who
burlesqued some little pieces of his, in so humorous a manner, that for
a long while, Harry's burlesque, passed for Swift's with many; and by
others were given to Pope: 'Tis certain, each at first, took it for the
other's composition.

In ridicule of this manner, the ingenious Hawkins Brown, Esq; now a
Member of Parliament, in his excellent burlesque piece called The Pipe
of Tobacco, has written an imitation, in which the resemblance is so
great, as not to be distinguished from the original. This gentleman has
burlesqued the following eminent authors, by such a close imitation of
their turn of verse, that it has not the appearance of a copy, but an
original.

SWIFT,

POPE,

THOMSON,

YOUNG,

PHILIPS,

CIBBER.

As a specimen of the delicacy of our author's turn of verification, we
shall present the reader with his translation of the following beautiful
Ode of Sappho.

Hymn to Venus

O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gayly false, in gentle smiles,
Full of love, perplexing wiles;
O Goddess! from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferr'd,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
O gentle goddess! hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest!
In all thy radiant charms confess'd.

Thou once did leave almighty Jove,
And all the golden roofs above;
The carr thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hov'ring in air, they lightly flew;
As to my bower they wing'd their way,
I saw their quiv'ring pinions play.

The birds dismiss'd (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again;
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In ev'ry heav'nly feature smil'd,
And ask'd what new complaints I made,
And why I call'd you to my aid?

What frenzy in my bosom rag'd,
And by what cure to be asswag'd?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who!

Tho' now he shuns my longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Tho' now thy off'rings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Tho' now he freeze, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.

Celestial visitant once more,
Thy needful presence I implore.
In pity come, and ease my grief,
Bring my distemper'd soul relief,
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart's desires.

There is another beautiful ode by the same Grecian poetess, rendered
into English by Mr. Philips with inexpressible delicacy, quoted in the
Spectator, vol. iii,. No. 229.

Blest, as th'immortal Gods is he
The youth who fondly fits by thee,
And hears, and sees thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow'd; the subtle flame
Ran quick thro' all my vital frame,
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

Mr. Philips having purchased an annuity of 400 l. per annum, for his
life, came over to England sometime in the year 1748: But had not his
health; and died soon after at his lodgings near Vauxhall.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Vide the ACTOR.

[2] See Cart's History of England, Reign of Henry VI.

* * * * *

RICHARD MAITLAND, EARL OF LAUDERDALE

This learned nobleman was nephew to John, the great duke of Lauderdale,
who was secretary of state to King Charles II for Scotch affairs, and
for many years had the government of that kingdom entirely entrusted to
him. Whoever is acquainted with history will be at no loss to know, with
how little moderation he exercised his power; he ruled his native
country with a rod of iron, and was the author of all those disturbances
and persecutions which have stained the Annals of Scotland, during that
inglorious period.

As the duke of Lauderdale was without issue-male of his own body, he
took our author into his protection as his immediate heir, and ordered
him to be educated in such a manner as to qualify him for the possession
of those great employments his ancestors enjoyed in the state. The
improvement of this young nobleman so far exceeded his years, that he
was very early admitted into the privy council, and made lord justice
clerk, anno 1681. He married the daughter of the earl of Argyle, who was
tried for sedition in the state, and confined in the castle of
Edinburgh. When Argyle found his fate approaching, he meditated, and
effected his escape; and some letters of his being intercepted and
decyphered, which had been written to the earl of Lauderdale, his
lordship fell under a cloud, and was stript of his preferments. These
letters were only of a familiar nature, and contained nothing but
domestic business; but a correspondence with a person condemned, was
esteemed a sin in politics not to be forgiven, especially by a man of
the Duke of York's furious disposition.

Though the duke of Lauderdale had ordered our author to be educated as
his heir, yet he left all his personal estate, which was very great, to
another, the young nobleman having, by some means, disobliged him; and
as he was of an ungovernable implacable temper, could never again
recover his favour[1]. Though the earl of Lauderdale was thus removed
from his places by the court, yet he persisted in his loyalty to the
Royal Family, and, upon the revolution, followed the fortune of King
James II, and some years after died in France, leaving no surviving
issue, so that the titles devolved on his younger brother.

While the earl was in exile with his Royal master, he applied his mind
to the delights of poetry, and, in his leisure hours, compleated a
translation of Virgil's works. Mr. Dryden, in his dedication of the
Aeneis, thus mentions it; 'The late earl of Lauderdale, says he, sent me
over his new translation of the Aeneis, which he had ended before I
engaged in the same design. Neither did I then intend it, but some
proposals being afterwards made me by my Bookseller, I desired his
lordship's leave that I might accept them, which he freely granted, and
I have his letter to shew for that permission. He resolved to have
printed his work, which he might have done two years before I could have
published mine; and had performed it, if death had not prevented him.
But having his manuscript in my hands, I consulted it as often as I
doubted of my author's sense; for no man understood Virgil better than
that learned nobleman. His friends have yet another, and more correct
copy of that translation by them, which if they had pleased to have
given the public, the judges might have been convinced that I have not
flattered him.'

Lord Lauderdale's friends, some years after the publication of Dryden's
Translation, permitted his lordship's to be printed, and, in the late
editions of that performance, those lines are marked with inverted
commas, which Dryden thought proper to adopt into his version, which are
not many; and however closely his lordship may have rendered Virgil, no
man can conceive a high opinion of that poet, contemplated through the
medium of his Translation.

Dr. Trapp, in his preface to the Aeneis, observes,
'that his lordship's Translation is pretty near to the original, though
not so close as its brevity would make one imagine; and it sufficiently
appears, that he had a right taste in poetry in general, and the Aeneid
in particular. He shews a true spirit, and, in many places, is very
beautiful. But we should certainly have seen Virgil far better
translated, by a noble hand, had the earl of Lauderdale been the earl of
Roscommon, and had the Scottish peer followed all the precepts, and been
animated with the genius of the Irish.'

We know of no other poetical compositions of this learned nobleman, and
the idea we have received from history of his character, is, that he was
in every respect the reverse of his uncle, from whence we may reasonably
conclude, that he possessed many virtues, since few statesmen of any age
ever were tainted with more vices than the duke of Lauderdale.

FOOTNOTE:
[1] Crawford's Peerage of Scotland.

* * * * *

DR. JOSEPH TRAPP

This poet was second son to the rev. Mr. Joseph Trapp, rector of
Cherington in Gloucestershire, at which place he was born, anno 1679. He
received the first rudiments of learning from his father, who instructed
him in the languages, and superintended his domestic education. When he
was ready for the university he was sent to Oxford, and was many years
scholar and fellow of Wadham College, where he took the degree of master
of arts. In the year 1708 he was unanimously chosen professor of poetry,
being the first of that kind. This institution was founded by Dr. Henry
Birkhead, formerly fellow of All-Souls, and the place of lecturer can be
held only for ten years.

Dr. Trapp was, in the early part of his life, chaplain to lord
Bolingbroke, the father of the famous Bolingbroke, lately deceased. The
highest preferment Dr. Trapp ever had in the church, though he was a man
of extensive learning, was, the rectory of Harlington, Middlesex, and of
the united parishes of Christ-Church, Newgate Street, and St. Leonard's
Foster-Lane, with the lectureship of St. Lawrence Jewry, and St.
Martin's in the Fields. The Dr's principles were not of that cast, by
which promotion could be expected. He was attached to the High-Church
interest, and as his temper was not sufficiently pliant to yield to the
prevalence of party, perhaps for that very reason, his rising in the
church was retarded. A gentleman of learning and genius, when paying a
visit to the Dr. took occasion to lament, as there had been lately some
considerable alterations made, and men less qualified than he, raised to
the mitre, that distinctions should be conferred with so little regard
to merit, and wondered that he (the Dr.) had never been promoted to a
see. To this the Dr. replied, 'I am thought to have some learning, and
some honesty, and these are but indifferent qualifications to enable a
man to rise in the church.'

Dr. Trapp's action in the pulpit has been censured by many, as
participating too much of the theatrical manner, and having more the air
of an itinerant enthusiast, than a grave ecclesiastic. Perhaps it may be
true, that his pulpit gesticulations were too violent, yet they bore
strong expressions of sincerity, and the side on which he erred, was the
most favourable to the audience; as the extreme of over-acting any part,
is not half so intolerable as a languid indifference, whether what the
preacher is then uttering, is true or false, is worth attention or no.
The Dr. being once in company with a person, whose profession was that
of a player, took occasion to ask him, 'what was the reason that an
actor seemed to feel his part with so much sincerity, and utter it with
so much emphasis and spirit, while a preacher, whose profession is of a
higher nature, and whose doctrines are of the last importance, remained
unaffected, even upon the most solemn occasion, while he stood in the
pulpit as the ambassador of God, to teach righteousness to the people?'
the player replied, 'I believe no other reason can be given, sir, but
that we are sincere in our parts, and the preachers are insincere in
theirs.' The Dr. could not but acknowledge the truth of this observation
in general, and was often heard to complain of the coldness and
unaffected indifference of his brethren in those very points, in which
it is their business to be sincere and vehement. Would you move your
audience, says an ancient sage, you must yourself be moved; and it is a
proposition which holds universally true. Dr. Trapp was of opinion, that
the highest doctrines of religion were to be considered as infallibly
true, and that it was of more importance to impress them strongly on the
minds of the audience, to speak to their hearts, and affect their
passions, than to bewilder them in disputation, and lead them through
labyrinths of controversy, which can yield, perhaps, but little
instruction, can never tend to refine the passions, or elevate the mind.
Being of this opinion, and from a strong desire of doing good, Dr. Trapp
exerted himself in the pulpit, and strove not only to convince the
judgment, but to warm the heart, for if passions are the elements of
life, they ought to be devoted to the service of religion, as well as
the other faculties, and powers of the soul.

But preaching was not the only method by which, this worthy man promoted
the interest of religion; he drew the muses into her service, and that
he might work upon the hopes and fears of his readers, he has presented
them with four poems, on these important subjects; _Death, Judgment,
Heaven_, and _Hell._ The reason of his making choice of those themes on
which to write, he very fully explains in his preface. He observes, that
however dull, and trite it may be to declaim against the corruption of
the age one lives in, yet he presumes it will be allowed by every body,
that all manner of wickedness, both in principles and practice, abounds
amongst men. 'I have lived (says he) in six reigns, but for about these
twenty years last past, the English nation has been, and is so
prodigiously debauched, its very nature and genius so changed, that I
scarce know it to be the English nation, and am almost a foreigner in
my own country. Not only barefaced, impudent, immorality of all kinds,
but often professed infidelity and atheism. To slop these overflowings
of ungodliness, much has been done in prose, yet not so as to supersede
all other endeavours: and therefore the author of these poems was
willing to try, whether any good might be done in verse. This manner of
conveyance may, perhaps, have some advantage, which the other has not;
at least it makes variety, which is something considerable. The four
last things are manifestly subjects of the utmost importance. If due
reflexions upon Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell, will not reclaim men
from their vices, nothing will. This little work was intended for the
use of all, from the greatest to the least. But as it would have been
intolerably flat, and insipid to the former, had it been wholly written
in a stile level to the capacities of the latter; to obviate
inconveniences on both sides, an attempt has been made to entertain the
upper class of readers, and, by notes, to explain such passages in
divinity, philosophy, history, &c. as might be difficult to the lower.
The work (if it may be so called) being partly argumentative, and partly
descriptive, it would have been ridiculous, had it been possible to make
the first mentioned as poetical as the other. In long pieces of music
there is the plain recitativo, as well as the higher, and more musical
modulation, and they mutually recommend, and set off each other. But
about these matters the writer is little sollicitous, and otherwise,
than as they are subservient to the design of doing good.'

A good man would naturally wish, that such generous attempts, in the
cause of virtue, were always successful. With the lower class of
readers, it is more than probably that these poems may have inspired
religious thoughts, have awaked a solemn dread of punishment, kindled a
sacred hope of happiness, and fitted the mind for the four last
important period[1]; But with readers of a higher taste, they can have
but little effect. There is no doctrine placed in a new light, no
descriptions are sufficiently emphatical to work upon a sensible mind,
and the perpetual flatness of the poetry is very disgustful to a
critical reader, especially, as there were so many occasions of rising
to an elevated sublimity.

The Dr. has likewise written a Paraphrase on the 104th Psalm, which,
though much superior in poetry to his Four Last Things, yet falls
greatly short of that excellent version by Mr. Blacklocke, quoted in the
Life of Dr. Brady.

Our author has likewise published four volumes of sermons, and a volume
of lectures on poetry, written in Latin.

Before we mention his other poetical compositions, we shall consider him
as the translator of Virgil, which is the most arduous province he ever
undertook. Dr. Trapp, in his preface, after stating the controversy,
which has been long held, concerning the genius of Homer and Virgil, to
whom the superiority belongs, has informed us, that this work was very
far advanced before it was undertaken, having been, for many years, the
diversion of his leisure hours at the university, and grew upon him, by
insensible degrees, so that a great part of the Aeneis was actually
translated, before he had any design of attempting the whole.

He further informs us, 'that one of the greatest geniuses, and best
judges, and critics, our age has produced, Mr. Smith of Christ Church,
having seen the first two or three hundred lines of this translation,
advised him by all means to go through with it. I said, he laughed at
me, replied the Dr. and that I should be the most impudent of mortals to
have such a thought. He told me, he was very much in earnest; and asked
me why the whole might not be done, in so many years, as well as such a
number of lines in so many days? which had no influence upon me, nor did
I dream of such an undertaking, 'till being honoured by the university
of Oxford with the public office of professor of poetry, which I shall
ever gratefully acknowledge, I thought it might not be improper for me
to review, and finish this work, which otherwise had certainly been as
much neglected by me, as, perhaps, it will now be by every body else.'

As our author has made choice of blank verse, rather than rhime, in
order to bear a nearer resemblance to Virgil, he has endeavoured to
defend blank verse, against the advocates for rhime, and shew its
superiority for any work of length, as it gives the expression a greater
compass, or, at least, does not clog and fetter the verse, by which the
substance and meaning of a line must often be mutilated, twisted, and
sometimes sacrificed for the sake of the rhime.

'Blank verse (says he) is not only more majestic and sublime, but more
musical and harmonious. It has more rhime in it, according to the
ancient, and true sense of the word, than rhime itself, as it is now
used: for, in its original signification, it consists not in the
tinkling of vowels and consonants, but in the metrical disposition of
words and syllables, and the proper cadence of numbers, which is more
agreeable to the ear, without the jingling of like endings, than with
it. And, indeed, let a man consult his own ears.

Him th'Almighty pow'r
Hurl'd headlong, flaming from the ætherial sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition; there to dwell
In adamantine chains, and penal fire;
Who durst defy th'Omnipotent to arms.
Nine times the space that measures day and night

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
Lay vanquish'd, rowling in the fiery gulph,
Confounded, tho' immortal

Who that hears this, can think it wants rhime to recommend it? or rather
does not think it sounds far better without it? We purposely produced a
citation, beginning and ending in the middle of a verse, because the
privilege of resting on this, or that foot, sometimes one, and sometimes
another, and so diversifying the pauses and cadences, is the greatest
beauty of blank verse, and perfectly agreeable to the practice of our
masters, the Greeks and Romans. This can be done but rarely in rhime;
for if it were frequent, the rhime would be in a manner lost by it; the
end of almost every verse must be something of a pause; and it is but
seldom that a sentence begins in the middle. Though this seems to be the
advantage of blank verse over rhime, yet we cannot entirely condemn the
use of it, even in a heroic poem; nor absolutely reject that in
speculation, which. Mr. Dryden and Mr. Pope have enobled by their
practice. We acknowledge too, that in some particular views, what way of
writing has the advantage over this. You may pick out mere lines, which,
singly considered, look mean and low, from a poem in blank verse, than
from one in rhime, supposing them to be in other respects equal. For
instance, the following verses out of Milton's Paradise Lost, b. ii.

Of Heav'n were falling, and these elements--
Instinct with fire, and nitre hurried him--

taken singly, look low and mean: but read them in conjunction with
others, and then see what a different face will be set upon them.

--Or less than of this frame
Of Heav'n were falling, and these elements
In mutiny had from her axle torn
The stedfast earth. As last his sail-broad vans
He spreads for flight; and in the surging smoke
Uplifted spurns the ground--
--Had not by ill chance
The strong rebuff of some tumultuous cloud
Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him
As many miles aloft. That fury stay'd;
Quench'd in a boggy syrtis, neither sea,
Nor good dry land: night founder'd on he fares,
Treading the crude consistence.

Our author has endeavoured to justify his choice of blank verse, by
shewing it less subject to restraints, and capable of greater sublimity
than rhime. But tho' this observation may hold true, with respect to
elevated and grand subjects, blank verse is by no means capable of so
great universality. In satire, in elegy, or in pastoral writing, our
language is, it seems, so feebly constituted, as to stand in need of the
aid of rhime; and as a proof of this, the reader need only look upon the
pastorals of Virgil, as translated by Trapp in blank verse, and compare
them with Dryden's in rhime. He will then discern how insipid and fiat
the pastorals of the same poet are in one kind of verification, and how
excellent and beautiful in another. Let us give one short example to
illustrate the truth of this, from the first pastoral of Virgil.

MELIBÆUS.

Beneath the covert of the spreading beech
Thou, Tityrus, repos'd, art warbling o'er,
Upon a slender reed, thy sylvan lays:
We leave our country, and sweet native fields;
We fly our country: careless in the shade,
Thou teachest, Tityrus, the sounding groves
To eccho beauteous Amaryllis' name.

TITYRUS.

O Melibæus, 'twas a god to us
Indulged this freedom: for to me a god
He shall be ever: from my folds full oft
A tender lamb his altar shall embrue:
He gave my heifers, as thou seest, to roam;
And me permitted on my rural cane
To sport at pleasure, and enjoy my muse,

TRAPP.

MELIBÆUS.

Beneath the shade which beechen-boughs diffuse,
You, Tityrus, entertain your Silvan muse:
Round the wide world in banishment we roam,
Forc'd from our pleasing fields, and native home:
While stretch'd at ease you sing your happy loves:
And Amaryllis fills the shady groves.

TITYRUS.

These blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd:
For never can I deem him less than God.
The tender firstlings of my woolly breed
Shall on his holy altar often bleed.
He gave my kine to graze the flowry plain:
And to my pipe renew'd the rural strain.

DRYDEN.

Dr. Trapp towards the conclusion of his Preface to the Aeneid, has
treated Dryden with less reverence, than might have been expected from a
man of his understanding, when speaking of so great a genius. The cause
of Trapp's disgust to Dryden, seems to have been this: Dryden had a
strong contempt for the priesthood, which we have from his own words,

"Priests of all professions are the same."

and takes every opportunity to mortify the usurping superiority of
spiritual tyrants. Trapp, with all his virtues (for I think it appears
he possessed many) had yet much of the priest in him, and for that very
reason, perhaps, has shewn some resentment to Dryden; but if he has with
little candour of criticism treated Mr. Dryden, he has with great
servility flattered Mr. Pope; and has insinuated, as if the Palm of
Genius were to be yielded to the latter. He observes in general, that
where Mr. Dryden shines most, we often see the least of Virgil. To omit
many other instances, the description of the Cyclops forging Thunder for
Jupiter, and Armour for Aeneas, is elegant and noble to the last degree
in the Latin; and it is so to a great degree in the English. But then is
the English a translation of the Latin?

Hither the father of the fire by night,
Thro' the brown air precipitates his flight:
On their eternal anvil, here he found
The brethren beating, and the blows go round.

The lines are good, and truely poetical; but the two first are set to
render

Hoc tunc ignipotens caelo descendit ab alto.

There is nothing of _caelo ab alto_ in the version; nor by _night, brown
air_, or _precipitates his sight_, in the original. The two last are put
in the room of

Ferrum exercebant vasto Cylopes in antro,
Brontesque, Steropesque, & nudus membra Pyraemon.

Vasto in antro, in the first of these lines, and the last line is
entirely left out in the translation. Nor is there any thing of eternal
anvils, or _hers he found_, in the original, and the brethren beating,
and the blows go round, is but a loose version of _Ferrum exercebant._
Dr. Trapp has allowed, however, that though Mr. Dryden is often distant
from the original, yet he sometimes rises to a more excellent height, by
throwing out implied graces, which none but so great a poet was capable
of. Thus in the 12th book, after the last speech of Saturn,

Tantum effata, caput glauco contexit amictu,
Multa gemens, & se fluvio Dea condidit also.

She drew a length of sighs, no more she said,
But with an azure mantle wrapp'd her head;
Then plunged into her stream with deep despair,
_And her last sobs came bubbling up in air_.

Though the last line is not expressed in the original, it is yet in some
measure implied, and it is in itself so exceedingly beautiful, that the
whole passage can never be too much admired. These are excellencies
indeed; this is truly Mr. Dryden. The power of truth, no doubt, extorted
this confession from the Dr. and notwithstanding many objections may be
brought against this performance of Dryden, yet we believe most of our
poetical readers upon perusing it, will be of the opinion of Pope,
'that, excepting a few human errors, it is the noblest and most spirited
translation in any language.' To whom it may reasonable be asked, has
Virgil been most obliged? to Dr. Trapp who has followed his footsteps in
every line; has shewn you indeed the design, the characters, contexture,
and moral of the poem, that is, has given you Virgil's account of the
actions of Æneas, or to Mr. Dryden, who has not only conveyed the
general ideas of his author, but has conveyed them with the same majesty
and fire, has led you through every battle with trepidation, has soothed
you in the tender scenes, and inchanted you with the flowers of poetry?
Virgil contemplated thro' the medium of Trapp, appears an accurate
writer, and the Aeneid as well conducted fable, but discerned in
Dryden's page, he glows as with fire from heaven, and the Aeneid is a
continued series of whatever is great, elegant, pathetic, and sublime.

We have already observed, in the Life of Dryden, that it is easier to
discern wherein the beauties of poetical composition consist, than to
throw out those beauties. Dr. Trapp, in his Prælectiones Poeticæ, has
shewn how much he was master of every species of poetry; that is, how
excellently he understood the structure of a poem; what noble rules he
was capable of laying down, and what excellent materials he could
afford, for building upon such a foundation, a beautiful fabric. There
are few better criticisms in any language, Dryden's dedications and
prefaces excepted, than are contained in these lectures. The mind is
enlarged by them, takes in a wide range of poetical ideas, and is taught
to discover how many amazing requisites are necessary to form a poet. In
his introduction to the first lecture, he takes occasion to state a
comparison between poetry and painting, and shew how small pretensions
the professors of the latter have, to compare themselves with the
former. 'The painter indeed (says he) has to do with the passions, but
then they are such passions only, as discover themselves in the
countenance; but the poet is to do more, he is to trace the rise of
those passions, to watch their gradations, to pain their progress, and
mark them in the heart in their genuine conflicts; and, continues he,
the disproportion between the soul and the body, is not greater than the
disproportion between the painter and the poet.

Dr. Trapp is author of a tragedy called Abramule, or Love and Empire,
acted at the New Theatre at Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1704, dedicated to the
Right Honourable the Lady Harriot Godolphin. Scene Constantinople. The
story is built upon the dethronement of Mahomet IV.

Our author has likewise written a piece called The Church of England
Defended against the False Reasoning of the Church of Rome. Several
occasional poems were written by him in English; and there is one Latin
poem of his in the Musæ Anglicanæ. He has translated the Paradise Lost
into Latin Verse, with little success, and, as he published it at his
own risk, he was a considerable loser. The capital blemish of that work,
is, the unharmonious versification, which gives perpetual offence to the
ear, neither is the language universally pure.

He died in the month of November 1747, and left behind him the character
of a pathetic and instructive preacher, a profound scholar, a discerning
critic, a benevolent gentleman, and a pious Christian.

We shall conclude the life of Dr. Trapp with the following verses of Mr.
Layng, which are expressive of the Dr's. character as a critic and a
poet. The author, after applauding Dryden's version, proceeds thus in
favour of Trapp.

Behind we see a younger bard arise,
No vulgar rival in the grand emprize.
Hail! learned Trapp! upon whose brow we find
The poet's bays, and critic's ivy join'd.
Blest saint! to all that's virtuous ever dear,
Thy recent fate demands a friendly tear.
None was more vers'd in all the Roman store,
Or the wide circle of the Grecian lore,
Less happy, from the world recluse too long,
In all the sweeter ornaments of song;
Intent to teach, too careless how to please,
He boasts in strength, whate'er he wants in ease.

FOOTNOTE

[1] By his last Will he ordered a copy of that book to be given to each
of his parishioners, that when he could no longer speak to them from
the pulpit, he might endeavour to instruct them in his writings.

* * * * *

MR. SAMUEL BOYSE.

This Poet was the son of the Revd. Mr. Joseph Boyse, a Dissenting
minister of great eminence in Dublin. Our author's father was a person
so much respected by those immediately under his ministerial care, and
whoever else had the happiness of his acquaintance, that people of all
denominations united in esteeming him, not only for his learning and
abilities, but his extensive humanity and undisembled piety.

The Revd. Gentleman had so much dignity in his manner, that he obtained
from the common people the name of bishop Boyse, meant as a compliment
to the gracefulness of his person and mien. But though Mr. Boyse was
thus reverenced by the multitude, and courted by people of fashion, he
never contracted the least air of superciliousness: He was humane and
affable in his temper, equally removed from the stiffness of pedantry,
and offensive levity. During his ministerial charge at Dublin, he
published many sermons, which compose several folio volumes, a few Poems
and other Tracts; but what chiefly distinguished him as a writer, was
the controversy he carried on with Dr. King, archbishop of Dublin, and
author of the Origin of Evil, concerning the office of a scriptural
bishop. This controverted point was managed on both sides with great
force of argument, and calmness of temper. The bishop asserted that the
episcopal right of jurisdiction had its foundation in the New-Testament:
Mr. Boyse, consistent with his principles, denied that any
ecclesiastical superiority appeared there; and in the opinion of many,
Mr. Boyse was more than equal to his antagonist, whom he treated in the
course of the controversy, with the greatest candour and good-manners.

It has been reported that Mr. Boyse had two brothers, one a clergyman of
the church of England, and the other a cardinal at Rome; but of this
circumstance we have no absolute certainty: Be it as it may, he had,
however, no brother so much distinguished in the world as himself.

We shall now enter upon the life of our poet, who will appear while we
trace it, to have been in every respect the reverse of his father,
genius excepted.--

He was born in the year 1708, and received the rudiments of his
education in a private school in Dublin. When he was but eighteen years
old, his father, who probably intended him for the ministry, sent him to
the university of Glasgow, that he might finish his education there. He
had not been a year at the university, till he fell in love with one
Miss Atchenson, the daughter of a tradesman in that city, and was
imprudent enough to interrupt his education, by marrying her, before he
had entered into his 20th year.

The natural extravagance of his temper soon exposed him to want, and as
he had now the additional charge of a wife, his reduced circumstances
obliged him to quit the university, and go over with his wife (who also
carried a sister with her) to Dublin; where they relied upon the old
gentleman for support. His behaviour in this dependent state, was the
very reverse of what it should have been. In place of directing his
studies to some useful acquisition, so as to support himself and family,
he spent his time in the most abject trifling, and drew many heavy
expences upon his father, who had no other means of supporting himself
than what his congregation afforded, and a small estate of fourscore
pounds a year in Yorkshire.

Considerations of prudence never entered into the heart of this unhappy
young roan, who ran from one excess to another, till an indulgent parent
was reduced by his means to very great embarrassments. Young Boyse was
of all men the farthest removed from a gentleman; he had no graces of
person, and fewer still of conversation. To this cause it was perhaps
owing, that his wife, naturally of a very volatile sprightly temper,
either grew tired of him, or became enamour'd of variety. It was however
abundantly certain, that she pursued intrigues with other men; and what
is still more surprising, not without the knowledge of her husband, who
had either too abject a spirit to resent it; or was bribed by some
lucrative advantage, to which, he had a mind mean enough to stoop.
Though never were three people of more libertine characters than young
Boyse, his wife, and sister-in-law; yet the two ladies wore such a mask
of decency before the old gentleman, that his fondness was never abated.
He hoped that time and experience would recover his son from his courses
of extravagance; and as he was of an unsuspecting temper, he had not the
least jealousy of the real conduct of his daughter-in-law, who grew
every day in his favour, and continued to blind him, by the seeming
decency of her behaviour, and a performance of those acts of piety, he
naturally expected from her. But the old gentleman was deceived in his
hopes, for time made no alteration in his son. The estate his father
possessed in Yorkshire was sold to discharge his debts; and when the old
man lay in his last sickness, he was entirely supported by presents from
his congregation, and buried at their expence.

We have no farther account of Mr. Boyse, till we find him soon after his
father's death at Edinburgh; but from what motives he went there we
cannot now discover. At this place his poetical genius raised him many
friends, and some patrons of very great eminence. He published a volume
of poems in 1731, to which is subjoined The Tablature of Cebes, and a
Letter upon Liberty, inserted in the Dublin Journal 1726; and by these
he obtained a very great reputation. They are addressed to the countess
of Eglington, a lady of distinguished excellencies, and so much
celebrated for her beauty, that it would be difficult for the best
panegyrist to be too lavish in her praise. This amiable lady was
patroness of all men of wit, and very much distinguished Mr. Boyse,
while he resided in that country. She was not however exempt from the
lot of humanity, and her conspicuous accomplishments were yet chequered
with failings: The chief of which was too high a consciousness of her
own charms, which inspired a vanity that sometimes betrayed her into
errors.

The following short anecdote was frequently related by Mr. Boyse. The
countess one day came into the bed chamber of her youngest daughter,
then about 13 years old, while she was dressing at her toilet. The
countess observing the assiduity with which the young lady wanted to set
off her person to the best advantage, asked her, what she would give to
be 'as handsome as her mamma?' To which Miss replied; 'As much as your
ladyship would give to be as young as me.' This smart repartee which was
at once pungent and witty, very sensibly affected the countess; who for
the future was less lavish in praise of her own charms.--

Upon the death of the viscountess Stormont, Mr. Boyse wrote an Elegy,
which was very much applauded by her ladyship's relations. This Elegy he
intitled, The Tears of the Muses, as the deceased lady was a woman of
the most refined taste in the sciences, and a great admirer of poetry.
The lord Stormont was so much pleased with this mark of esteem paid to
the memory of his lady, that he ordered a very handsome present to be
given to Mr. Boyse, by his attorney at Edinburgh.

Though Mr. Boyse's name was very well known in that city, yet his person
was obscure; for as he was altogether unsocial in his temper, he had but
few acquaintances, and those of a cast much inferior to himself, and
with whom he ought to have been ashamed to associate. It was some time
before he could be found out; and lord Stormont's kind intentions had
been defeated, if an advertisement had not been published in one of
their weekly papers, desiring the author of the Tears of the Muses to
call at the house of the attorney[1].

The personal obscurity of Mr. Boyse might perhaps not be altogether
owing to his habits of gloominess and retirement. Nothing is more
difficult in that city, than to make acquaintances; There are no places
where people meet and converse promiscuously: There is a reservedness
and gravity in the manner of the inhabitants, which makes a stranger
averse to approach them. They naturally love solitude; and are very slow
in contracting friendships. They are generous; but it is with a bad
grace. They are strangers to affability, and they maintain a haughtiness
and an apparent indifference, which deters a man from courting them.
They may be said to be hospitable, but not complaisant to strangers:
Insincerity and cruelty have no existence amongst them; but if they
ought not to be hated, they can never be much loved, for they are
incapable of insinuation, and their ignorance of the world makes them
unfit for entertaining sensible strangers. They are public-spirited, but
torn to pieces by factions. A gloominess in religion renders one part of
them very barbarous, and an enthusiasm in politics so transports the
genteeler part, that they sacrifice to party almost every consideration
of tenderness. Among such a people, a man may long live, little known,
and less instructed; for their reservedness renders them
uncommunicative, and their excessive haughtiness prevents them from
being solicitous of knowledge.

The Scots are far from being a dull nation; they are lovers of pomp and
shew; but then there is an eternal stiffness, a kind of affected
dignity, which spoils their pleasures. Hence we have the less reason to
wonder that Boyse lived obscurely at Edinburgh. His extreme carelesness
about his dress was a circumstance very inauspicious to a man who lives
in that city. They are such lovers of this kind of decorum, that they
will admit of no infringement upon it; and were a man with more wit than
Pope, and more philosophy than Newton, to appear at their market place
negligent in his apparel, he would be avoided by his acquaintances who
would rather risk his displeasure, than the censure of the public, which
would not fail to stigmatize them, for assocciating with a man seemingly
poor; for they measure poverty, and riches, understanding, or its
opposite, by exterior appearance. They have many virtues, but their not
being polished prevents them from shining.

The notice which Lady Eglington and the lord Stormont took of our poet,
recommended him likewise to the patronage of the dutchess of Gordon, who
was a lady not only distinguished for her taste; but cultivated a
correspondence with some of the most eminent poets then living. The
dutchess was so zealous in Mr. Boyse's affairs, and so felicitous to
raise him above necessity, that she employed her interest in procuring
the promise of a place for him. She gave him a letter, which he was next
day to deliver to one of the commissioners of the customs at Edinburgh.
It happened that he was then some miles distant from the city, and the
morning on which he was to have rode to town with her grace's letter of
recommendation proved to be rainy. This slender circumstance was enough
to discourage Boyse, who never looked beyond the present moment: He
declined going to town on account of the rainy weather, and while he let
slip the opportunity, the place was bestowed upon another, which the
commissioner declared he kept for some time vacant, in expectation of
seeing a person recommended by the dutchess of Gordon.

Of a man of this indolence of temper, this sluggish meanness of spirit,
the reader cannot be surprised to find the future conduct consist of a
continued serious of blunders, for he who had not spirit to prosecute an
advantage put in his hands, will neither bear distress with fortitude,
nor struggle to surmount it with resolution.

Boyse at last, having defeated all the kind intentions of his patrons
towards him, fell into a contempt and poverty, which obliged him to quit
Edinburgh, as his creditors began to sollicit the payment of their
debts, with an earnestness not to be trifled with. He communicated his
design of going to London to the dutchess of Gordon; who having still a
very high opinion of his poetical abilities, gave him a letter of
recommendation to Mr. Pope, and obtained another for him to Sir Peter
King, the lord chancellor of England. Lord Stormont recommended him to
the sollicitor-general his brother, and many other persons of the first
fashion.

Upon receiving these letters, he, with great caution, quitted Edinburgh,
regretted by none but his creditors, who were so exaggerated as to
threaten to prosecute him wherever he should be found. But these menaces
were never carried into execution, perhaps from the consideration of his
indigence, which afforded no probable prospect of their being paid.

Upon his arrival in London, he went to Twickenham, in order to deliver
the dutchess of Gordon's letter to Mr. Pope; but that gentleman not
being at home, Mr. Boyse never gave himself the trouble to repeat his
visit, nor in all probability would Pope have been over-fond of him; as
there was nothing in his conversation which any wife indicated the
abilities he possessed. He frequently related, that he was graciously
received by Sir Peter King, dined at his table, and partook of his
pleasures. But this relation, they who knew Mr. Boyse well, never could
believe; for he was so abject in his disposition, that he never could
look any man in the face whose appearance was better than his own; nor
likely had courage to sit at Sir Peter King's table, where every one was
probably his superior. He had no power of maintaining the dignity of
wit, and though his understanding was very extensive, yet but a few
could discover that he had any genius above the common rank. This want
of spirit produced the greatest part of his calamities, because he; knew
not how to avoid them by any vigorous effort of his mind. He wrote
poems, but those, though excellent in their kind, were lost to the
world, by being introduced with no advantage. He had so strong a
propension to groveling, that his acquaintance were generally of such a
cast, as could be of no service to him; and those in higher life he
addressed by letters, not having sufficient confidence or politeness to
converse familiarly with them; a freedom to which he was intitled by the
power of his genius. Thus unfit to support himself in the world, he was
exposed to variety of distress, from which he could invent no means of
extricating himself, but by writing mendicant letters. It will appear
amazing, but impartiality obliges us to relate it, that this man, of so
abject a spirit, was voluptuous and luxurious: He had no taste for any
thing elegant, and yet was to the last degree expensive. Can it be
believed, that often when he had received half a guinea, in consequence
of a supplicating letter, he would go into a tavern, order a supper to
be prepared, drink of the richest wines, and spend all the money that
had just been given him in charity, without having any one to
participate the regale with him, and while his wife and child were
starving home? This is an instance of base selfishness, for which no
name is as yet invented, and except by another poet[2], with some
variation of circumstances, was perhaps never practiced by the most
sensual epicure.

He had yet some friends, many of the most eminent dissenters, who from a
regard to the memory of his father, afforded him supplies from time to
time. Mr. Boyse by perpetual applications, at last exhausted their
patience; and they were obliged to abandon a man on whom their
liberality was ill bestowed, as it produced no other advantage to him,
than a few days support, when he returned again with the same
necessities.

The epithet of cold has often been given to charity, perhaps with a
great deal of truth; but if any thing can warrant us to withhold our
charity, it is the consideration that its purposes are prostituted by
those on whom it is bestowed.

We have already taken notice of the infidelity of his wife; and now her
circumstances were reduced, her virtue did not improve. She fell into a
way of life disgraceful to the sex; nor was his behaviour in any degree
more moral. They were frequently covered with ignominy, reproaching one
another for the acquisition of a disease, which both deserved, because
mutually guilty.

It was about the year 1740, that Mr. Boyse reduced to the last extremity
of human wretchedness, had not a shirt, a coat, or any kind of apparel
to put on; the sheets in which he lay were carried to the pawnbroker's,
and he was obliged to be confined to bed, with no other covering than a
blanket. He had little support but what he got by writing letters to his
friends in the most abject stile. He was perhaps ashamed to let this
instance of distress be known to his friends, which might be the
occasion of his remaining six weeks in that situation. During this time
he had some employment in writing verses for the Magazines; and whoever
had seen him in his study, must have thought the object singular enough.
He sat up in bed with the blanket wrapt about him, through which he had
cut a hole large enough to admit his arm, and placing the paper upon his
knee, scribbled in the best manner he could the verses he was obliged to
make: Whatever he got by those, or any of his begging letters, was but
just sufficient for the preservation of life. And perhaps he would have
remained much longer in this distressful state, had not a compassionate
gentleman, upon hearing this circumstance related, ordered his cloaths
to be taken out of pawn, and enabled him to appear again abroad.

This six weeks penance one would imagine sufficient to deter him for the
future, from suffering himself to be exposed to such distresses; but by
a long habit of want it grew familiar to him, and as he had less
delicacy than other men, he was perhaps less afflicted with his exterior
meanness. For the future, whenever his distresses so press'd, as to
induce him to dispose of his shirt, he fell upon an artificial method of
supplying one. He cut some white paper in slips, which he tyed round his
wrists, and in the same manner supplied his neck. In this plight he
frequently appeared abroad, with the additional inconvenience of want of
breeches.

He was once sent for in a hurry, to the house of a printer who had
employed him to write a poem for his Magazine: Boyse then was without
breeches, or waistcoat, but was yet possessed of a coat, which he threw
upon him, and in this ridiculous manner went to the printer's house;
where he found several women, whom his extraordinary appearance obliged
immediately to retire.

He fell upon many strange schemes of raising trifling sums: He sometimes
ordered his wife to inform people that he was just expiring, and by this
artifice work upon their compassion; and many of his friends were
frequently surprised to meet the man in the street to day, to whom they
had yesterday sent relief, as to a person on the verge of death. At
other times he would propose subscriptions for poems, of which only the
beginning and conclusion were written; and by this expedient would
relieve some present necessity. But as he seldom was able to put any of
his poems to the press, his veracity in this particular suffered a
diminution; and indeed in almost every other particular he might justly
be suspected; for if he could but gratify an immediate appetite, he
cared not at what expence, whether of the reputation, or purse of
another.

About the year 1745 Mr. Boyse's wife died. He was then at Reading, and
pretended much concern when he heard of her death.

It was an affectation in Mr. Boyse to appear very fond of a little lap
dog which he always carried about with him in his arms, imagining it
gave him the air of a man of taste. Boyse, whose circumstances were then
too mean to put himself in mourning, was yet resolved that some part of
his family should. He step'd into a little shop, purchased half a yard
of black ribbon, which he fixed round his dog's neck by way of mourning
for the loss of its mistress. But this was not the only ridiculous
instance of his behaviour on the death of his wife. Such was the
sottishness of this man, that when he was in liquor, he always indulged
a dream of his wife's being still alive, and would talk very spightfully
of those by whom he suspected she was entertained. This he never
mentioned however, except in his cups, which was only as often as he had
money to spend. The manner of his becoming intoxicated was very
particular. As he had no spirit to keep good company, so he retired to
some obscure ale-house, and regaled himself with hot two-penny, which
though he drank in very great quantities, yet he had never more than a
pennyworth at a time.--Such a practice rendered him so compleatly
sottish, that even his abilities, as an author, became sensibly
impaired.

We have already mentioned his being at Reading. His business there was
to compile a Review of the most material transactions at home and
abroad, during the last war; in which he has included a short account of
the late rebellion. For this work by which he got some reputation, he
was paid by the sheet, a price sufficient to keep him from starving, and
that was all. To such distress must that man be driven, who is destitute
of prudence to direct the efforts of his genius. In this work Mr. Boyse
discovers how capable he was of the most irksome and laborious
employment, when he maintained a power over his appetites, and kept
himself free from intemperance.

While he remained at Reading, he addressed, by supplicating letters, two
Irish noblemen, lord Kenyston, and lord Kingsland, who resided in
Berkshire, and received some money from them; he also met with another
gentleman there of a benevolent disposition, who, from the knowledge he
had of the father, pitied the distresses of the son, and by his interest
with some eminent Dissenters in those parts, railed a sufficient sum to
cloath him, for the abjectness of his appearance secluded our poet even
from the table of his Printer[3].

Upon his return from Reading, his behaviour was more decent than it had
ever been before, and there were some hopes that a reformation, tho'
late, would be wrought upon him. He was employed by a Bookseller to
translate Fenelon on the Existence of God, during which time he married
a second wife, a woman in low circumstances, but well enough adapted to
his taste. He began now to live with more regard to his character, and
support a better appearance than usual; but while his circumstances were
mending, and his irregular appetites losing ground, his health visibly
declined: he had the satisfaction, while in this lingering illness, to
observe a poem of his, entitled The Deity, recommended by two eminent
writers, the ingenious Mr. Fielding, and the rev. Mr. James Harvey,
author of The Meditations. The former, in the beginning of his humorous
History of Tom Jones, calls it an excellent poem. Mr. Harvey stiles it a
pious and instructive piece; and that worthy gentleman, upon hearing
that the author was in necessitous circumstances, deposited two guineas
in the hands of a trusty person to be given him, whenever his occasions
should press. This poem was written some years before Mr. Harvey or Mr.
Fielding took any notice of it, but it was lost to the public, as the
reputation of the Bookseller consisted in sending into the world
abundance of trifles, amongst which, it was considered as one. Mr. Boyse
said, that upon its first publication, a gentleman acquainted with Mr.
Pope, took occasion to ask that poet, if he was not the author of it, to
which Mr. Pope replied, 'that he was not the author, but that there were
many lines in it, of which he should not be ashamed.' This Mr. Boyse
considered as a very great compliment. The poem indeed abounds with
shining lines and elevated sentiments on the several Attributes of the
Supreme Being; but then it is without a plan, or any connexion of parts,
for it may be read either backwards or forwards, as the reader pleases.

While Mr. Boyse was in this lingering illness, he seemed to have no
notion of his approaching end, nor did he expect it, 'till it was almost
past the thinking of. His mind, indeed, was often religiously disposed;
he frequently talked upon that subject, and, probably suffered a great
deal from the remorse of his conscience. The early impressions of his
good education were never entirely obliterated, and his whole life was a
continued struggle between his will and reason, as he was always
violating his duty to the one, while he fell under the subjection of the
other. It was in consequence of this war in his mind, that he wrote a
beautiful poem called The Recantation.

In the month of May, 1749, he died in obscure lodgings near Shoe-Lane.
An old acquaintance of his endeavoured to collect money to defray the
expences of his funeral, so that the scandal of being buried by the
parish might be avoided. But his endeavours were in vain, for the
persons he sollicited, had been so troubled with applications during the
life of this unhappy man, that they refused to contribute any thing
towards his funeral. The remains of this son of the muses were, with
very little ceremony, hurried away by the parish officers, and thrown
amongst common beggars; though with this distinction, that the service
of the church was performed over his corpse. Never was an exit more
shocking, nor a life spent with less grace, than those of Mr. Boyse, and
never were such distinguished abilities given to less purpose. His
genius was not confined to poetry only, he had a taste for painting,
music and heraldry, with the latter of which he was very well
acquainted. His poetical pieces, if collected, would make six moderate
volumes. Many of them are featured in the Gentleman's Magazine, marked
with the letter Y. and Alceus. Two volumes were published in London, but
as they never had any great sale, it will be difficult to find them.

An ode of his in the manner of Spenser, entitled The Olive, was
addressed to Sir Robert Walpole, which procured him a present of ten
guineas. He translated a poem from the High Dutch of Van Haren, in
praise of peace, upon the conclusion of that made at Aix la Chapelle;
but the poem which procured him the greatest reputation, was, that upon
the Attributes of the Deity, of which we have already taken notice. He
was employed by Mr. Ogle to translate some of Chaucer's Tales into
modern English, which he performed with great spirit, and received at
the rate of three pence a line for his trouble. Mr. Ogle published a
complete edition of that old poet's Canterbury Tales Modernized; and Mr.
Boyse's name is put to such Tales as were done by him. It had often been
urged to Mr. Boyse to turn his thoughts towards the drama, as that was
the most profitable kind of poetical writing, and as many a poet of
inferior genius to him has raised large contributions on the public by
the success of their plays. But Boyse never seemed to relish this
proposal, perhaps from a consciousness that he had not spirit to
prosecute the arduous task of introducing it on the stage; or that he
thought himself unequal to the task.

In the year 1743 Mr. Boyse published without his name, an Ode on the
battle of Dettingen, entitled Albion's Triumph; some Stanza's of which
we shall give as a specimen of Mr. Boyse's poetry.

STANZA's from ALBION's Triumph.

XIII.

But how, blest sovereign! shall th'unpractis'd muse
These recent honours of thy reign rehearse!
How to thy virtues turn her dazzled views,
Or consecrate thy deeds in equal verse!
Amidst the field of horrors wide display'd,
How paint the calm[4] that smil'd upon, thy brow!
Or speak that thought which every part surveyed,
'Directing where the rage of war should glow:'[5]
While watchful angels hover'd round thy head,
And victory on high the palm of glory spread.

XIV.

Nor royal youth reject the artless praise,
Which due to worth like thine the Muse bestows,
Who with prophetic extasy surveys
These early wreaths of fame adorn thy brows.
Aspire like Nassau in the glorious strife,
Keep thy great fires' examples full in eye;
But oh! for Britain's sake, consult a life
The noblest triumphs are too mean to buy;
And while you purchase glory--bear in mind,
A prince's truest fame is to protect mankind.

XV.

Alike in arts and arms acknowledg'd great,
Let Stair accept the lays he once could own!
Nor Carteret, thou the column of the state!
The friend of science! on the labour frown!
Nor shall, unjust to foreign worth, the Muse
In silence Austria's valiant chiefs conceal;
While Aremberg's heroic line she views,
And Neiperg's conduct strikes even envy pale:
Names Gallia yet shall further learn to fear,
And Britain, grateful still, shall treasure up as dear!

XIX.

But oh! acknowledg'd victor in the field,
What thanks, dread sovereign, shall thy toils reward!
Such honours as delivered nations yield,
Such for thy virtues justly stand prepar'd:
When erst on Oudenarde's decisive plain,
Before thy youth, the Gaul defeated fled,
The eye of fate[6] foresaw on distant Maine,
The laurels now that shine around thy head:
Oh should entwin'd with these fresh Olives bloom!
Thy Triumphs then would shame the pride of antient Rome.

XX.

Mean time, while from this fair event we shew
That British valour happily survives,
And cherish'd by the king's propitious view,
The rising plant of glory sweetly thrives!
Let all domestic faction learn to cease,
Till humbled Gaul no more the world alarms:
Till GEORGE procures to Europe solid peace,
A peace secur'd by his victorious arms:
And binds in iron fetters ear to ear,
Ambition, Rapine, Havock, and Despair,
With all the ghastly fiends of desolating war.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A Profession, which in that City is denominated a Writer.

[2] Savage.

[3] During his abode at Reading an accident had like to have put an end
to his follies and his life together; for he had the ill-luck to
fall from his garret down the whole flight of stairs; but being
destined to lengthen out a useless life for some time longer, he
escaped with only a severe bruising.

[4] The King gave his orders with the utmost calmness, tho' no body was
more expos'd.

[5]
Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
Mr. Addison's Campaign.

[6] His Majesty early distinguished himself as a volunteer at the battle
of Oudenarde, in 1708.

* * * * *

Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE.

This eminent poet and physician was son of Mr. Robert Blackmore, an
Attorney at Law. He received his early education at a private country
school, from whence, in the 13th year of his age, he was removed to
Westminster, and in a short time after to the university of Oxford,
where he continued thirteen years.

In the early period of our author's life he was a Schoolmaster, as
appears by a satirical copy of verses Dr. Drake wrote against him,
consisting of upwards of forty lines, of which the following are very
pungent.

By nature form'd, by want a pedant made,
Blackmore at first set up the whipping trade:
Next quack commenc'd; then fierce with pride he swore,
That tooth-ach, gout, and corns should be no more.
In vain his drugs, as well as birch he tried;
His boys grew blockheads, and his patients died.

Some circumstances concurring, it may be presumed in Sir Richard's
favour, he travelled into Italy, and at Padua took his degrees in
physic[1].

He gratified his curiosity in visiting France, Germany, and the Low
Countries, and after spending a year and a half in this delightful
exercise, he returned to England. As Mr. Blackmore had made physic his
chief study, so he repaired to London to enter upon the practice of it,
and no long after he was chosen fellow of the Royal College of
Physicians, by the charter of King James II. Sir Richard had seen too
much of foreign slavery to be fond of domestic chains, and therefore
early declared himself in favour of the revolution, and espoused those
principles upon which it was effected. This zeal, recommended him to
King William, and in the year 1697 he was sworn one of his physicians in
ordinary. He was honoured by that Prince with a gold medal and chain,
was likewise knighted by him, and upon his majesty's death was one of
those who gave their opinion in the opening of the king's body. Upon
Queen Anne's accession to the throne, he was appointed one of her
physicians, and continued so for some time.

This gentleman is author of more original poems, of a considerable
length, besides a variety of other works, than can well be conceived
could have been composed by one man, during the longest period of human
life. He was a chaste writer; he struggled in the cause of virtue, even
in those times, when vice had the countenance of the great, and when an
almost universal degeneracy prevailed. He was not afraid to appear the
advocate of virtue, in opposition to the highest authority, and no
lustre of abilities in his opponents could deter him from stripping vice
of those gaudy colours, with which poets of the first eminence had
cloathed her.

An elegant writer having occasion to mention the state of wit in the
reign of King Charles II, characterizes the poets in the following
manner;

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame:
Nor sought for Johnson's art, nor Shakespear's flame:
Themselves they studied; as they lived, they writ,
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
Their cause was gen'ral, their supports were strong,
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long.

Mr. Pope somewhere says,

Unhappy Dryden--in all Charles's days,
Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays.

He might likewise have excepted Blackmore, who was not only chaste in
his own writings, but endeavoured to correct those who prostituted the
gifts of heaven, to the inglorious purposes of vice and folly, and he
was, at least, as good a poet as Roscommon.

Sir Richard had, by the freedom of his censures on the libertine writers
of his age, incurred the heavy displeasure of Dryden, who takes all
opportunities to ridicule him, and somewhere says, that he wrote to the
rumbling of his chariot wheels. And as if to be at enmity with Blackmore
had been hereditary to our greatest poets, we find Mr. Pope taking up
the quarrel where Dryden left it, and persecuting this worthy man with
yet a severer degree of satire. Blackmore had been informed by Curl,
that Mr. Pope was the author of a Travestie on the first Psalm, which he
takes occasion to reprehend in his Essay on Polite Learning, vol. ii. p.
270. He ever considered it as the disgrace of genius, that it should be
employed to burlesque any of the sacred compositions, which as they
speak the language of inspiration, tend to awaken the soul to virtue,
and inspire it with a sublime devotion. Warmed in this honourable cause,
he might, perhaps, suffer his zeal to transport him to a height, which
his enemies called enthusiasm; but of the two extremes, no doubt can be
made, that Blackmore's was the safest, and even dullness in favour of
virtue (which, by the way, was not the case with Sir Richard) is more
tolerable than the brightest parts employed in the cause of lewdness and
debauchery.

The poem for which Sir Richard had been most celebrated, was,
undoubtedly, his Creation, now deservedly become a classic. We cannot
convey a more amiable idea of this great production, than in the words
of Mr. Addison, in his Spectator, Number 339, who, after having
criticised on that book of Milton, which gives an account of the Works
of Creation, thus proceeds, 'I cannot conclude this book upon the
Creation, without mentioning a poem which has lately appeared under that
title. The work was undertaken with so good an intention, and executed
with so great a mastery, that it deserves to be, looked upon as one of
the most useful and noble productions in our English verse. The reader
cannot but be pleased to find the depths of philosophy, enlivened with
all the charms of poetry, and to see so great a strength of reason
amidst so beautiful a redundancy of the imagination. The author has
shewn us that design in all the works of nature, which necessarily leads
us to the knowledge of its first cause. In short, he has illustrated, by
numberless and incontestable instances, that divine wisdom, which the
son of Sirach has so nobly ascribed to the Supreme Being in his
formation of the world, when he tells us, that he _created her, and saw
her, and numbered her, and poured her out upon all his works_.'

The design of this excellent poem is to demonstrate the self-existence
of an eternal mind, from the created and dependent existence of the
universe, and to confute the hypothesis of the Epicureans and the
Fatalists, under whom all the patrons of impiety, ancient and modern, of
whatsoever denomination may be ranged. The first of whom affirm, the
world was in time caused by chance, and the other, that it existed from
eternity without a cause. 'Tis true, both these acknowledge the
existence of Gods, but by their absurd and ridiculous description of
them, it is plain, they had nothing else in view, but to avoid the
obnoxious character of atheistical philosophers. To adorn this poem, no
embellishments are borrowed from the exploded and obsolete theology of
the ancient idolaters of Greece and Rome; no rapturous invocations are
addressed to their idle deities, nor any allusions to their fabulous
actions. 'I have more than once (says Sir Richard) publicly declared my
opinion, that a Christian poet cannot but appear monstrous and
ridiculous in a Pagan dress. That though it should be granted, that the
Heathen religion might be allowed a place in light and loose songs, mock
heroic, and the lower lyric compositions, yet in Christian poems, of the
sublime and greater kind, a mixture of the Pagan theology must, by all
who are masters of reflexion and good sense, be condemned, if not as
impious, at least, as impertinent and absurd. And this is a truth so
clear and evident, that I make no doubt it will, by degrees, force its
way, and prevail over the contrary practice. Should Britons recover
their virtue, and reform their taste, they could no more bear the
Heathen religion in verse, than in prose. Christian poets, as well as
Christian preachers, the business of both being to instruct the people,
though the last only are wholly appropriated to it, should endeavour to
confirm, and spread their own religion. If a divine should begin his
sermon with a solemn prayer to Bacchus or Apollo, to Mars or Venus, what
would the people think of their preacher? and is it not as really,
though not equally absurd, for a poet in a great and serious poem,
wherein he celebrates some wonderful and happy event of divine
providence, or magnifies the illustrious instrument that was honoured to
bring the event about, to address his prayer to false deities, and cry
for help to the abominations of the heathen?'

Mr. Gildon, in his Compleat Art of Poetry, after speaking of our author
in the most respectful terms, says, 'that notwithstanding his merit,
this admirable author did not think himself upon the same footing with
Homer.' But how different is the judgment of Mr. Dennis, who, in this
particular, opposes his friend Mr. Gildon.

'Blackmore's action (says he) has neither unity, integrity, morality,
nor universality, and consequently he can have no fable, and no heroic
poem. His narration is neither probable, delightful, nor wonderful. His
characters have none of these necessary qualifications.--The things
contained in his narrations, are neither in their own nature delightful
nor numerous enough, nor rightly disposed, nor surprizing, nor
pathetic;' nay he proceeds so far as to say Sir Richard has no genius;
first establishing it as a principle, 'That genius is known by a furious
joy, and pride of soul, on the conception of an extraordinary hint. Many
men (says he) have their hints without these motions of fury and pride
of soul; because they want fire enough to agitate their spirits; and
these we call cold writers. Others who have a great deal of fire, but
have not excellent organs, feel the fore-mentioned motions, without the
extraordinary hints; and these we call fustian writers.'

And he declares, that Sir Richard hath neither the hints nor the
motions[2]. But Dennis has not contented himself, with charging
Blackmore with want of genius; but has likewise the following remarks to
prove him a bad Church of England man: These are his words. 'All Mr.
Blackmore's coelestial machines, as they cannot be defended so much as
by common received opinion, so are they directly contrary to the
doctrine of the church of England, that miracles had ceased a long time
before prince Arthur come into the world. Now if the doctrine of the
church of England be true, as we are obliged to believe, then are all
the coelestial machines of prince Arthur unsufferable, as wanting not
only human but divine probability. But if the machines are sufferable,
that is, if they have so much as divine probability, then it follows of
necessity, that the doctrine of the church is false; so that I leave it
to every impartial clergyman to consider.'

If no greater objection could be brought against Blackmore's Prince
Arthur, than those raised by Mr. Dennis, the Poem would be faultless;
for what has the doctrine of the church of England to do with an epic
poem? It is not the doctrine of the church of England, to suppose that
the apostate spirits put the power of the Almighty to proof, by openly
resisting his will, and maintaining an obstinate struggle with the
angels commissioned by him, to drive them from the mansions of the
bless'd; or that they attempted after their perdition, to recover heaven
by violence. These are not the doctrines of the church of England; but
they are conceived in a true spirit of poetry, and furnish those
tremendous descriptions with which Milton has enriched his Paradise
Lost.

Whoever has read Mr. Dryden's dedication of his Juvenal, will there
perceive, that in that great man's opinion, coelestial machines might
with the utmost propriety be introduced in an Epic Poem, built upon a
christian model; but at the same time he adds, 'The guardian angels of
states and kingdoms are not to be managed by a vulgar hand.'

Perhaps it may be true, that the guardian angels of states and kingdoms
may have been too powerful for the conduct of Sir Richard Blackmore; but
he has had at least the merit of paving the way, and has set an example
how Epic Poems may be written, upon the principles of christianity; and
has enjoyed a comfort of which no bitterness, or raillery can deprive
him, namely the virtuous intention of doing good, and as he himself
expresses it, 'of rescuing the Muses from the hands of ravishers,
and restoring them again to their chaste and pure mansions.'

Sir Richard Blackmore died on the 9th of October 1729, in an advanced
age; and left behind him the character of a worthy man, a great poet,
and a friend to religion. Towards the close of his life, his business as
a physician declined, but as he was a man of prudent conduct, it is not
to be supposed that he was subjected to any want by that accident, for
in his earlier years he was considered amongst the first in his
profession, and his practice was consequently very extensive.

The decay of his employment might partly be owing to old age and
infirmities, which rendered him less active than before, and partly to
the diminution his character might suffer by the eternal war, which the
wits waged against him, who spared neither bitterness nor calumny; and,
perhaps, Sir Richard may be deemed the only poet, who ever suffered for
having too much religion and morality.

The following is the most accurate account we could obtain of his
writings, which for the sake of distinction we have divided into
classes, by which the reader may discern how various and numerous his
compositions are--To have written so much upon so great a variety of
subjects, and to have written nothing contemptibly, must indicate a
genius much superior to the common standard.--His versification is
almost every where beautiful; and tho' he has been ridiculed in the
Treatise of the Bathos, published in Pope's works, for being too minute
in his descriptions of the objects of nature; yet it rather proceeded
from a philosophical exactness, than a penury of genius.

It is really astonishing to find Dean Swift, joining issue with less
religious wits, in laughing at Blackmore's works, of which he makes a
ludicrous detail, since they were all written in the cause of virtue,
which it was the Dean's business more immediately to support, as on this
account he enjoy'd his preferment: But the Dean perhaps, was one of
those characters, who chose to sacrifice his cause to his joke. This was
a treatment Sir Richard could never have expected at the hands of a
clergyman.

A List of Sir Richard Blackmore's
Works.

THEOLOGICAL.

I. Just Prejudices against the Arian Hypothesis, Octavo. 1725

II. Modern Arians Unmask'd, Octavo, 1721

III. Natural Theology; or Moral Duties considered apart from positive;
with some Observations on the Desirableness and Necessity of a
super-natural Revelation, Octavo, 1728

IV. The accomplished Preacher; or an Essay upon Divine Eloquence,
Octavo, 1731

This Tract was published after the author's death, in pursuance of his
express order, by the Reverend Mr. John White of Nayland in Essex; who
attended on Sir Richard during his last illness, in which he manifested
an elevated piety towards God, and faith in Christ, the Saviour of the
World. Mr. White also applauds him as a person in whose character great
candour and the finest humanity were the prevailing qualities. He
observes also that he had the greatest veneration for the clergy of the
Church of England, whereof he was a member. No one, says he, did more
highly magnify our office, or had a truer esteem and honour for our
persons, discharging our office as we ought, and supporting the holy
character we bear, with an unblameable conversation,

POETICAL.

I. Creation, a Philosophical Poem, demonstrating the Existence and
Providence of God, in seven Books, Octavo, 1712

II. The Redeemer, a Poem in six Books, Octavo, 1721

III. Eliza, a Poem in ten Books, Folio, 1705

IV. King Arthur, in ten Books, 1697

V. Prince Arthur, in ten Books, 1695

VI. King Alfred, in twelve books, Octavo, 1723

VII. A Paraphrase on the Book of Job; the Songs of Moses, Deborah and
David; the ii. viii. ciii. cxiv, cxlviii. Psalms. Four chapters of
Isaiah, and the third of Habbakkuk, Folio and Duodecimo, 1716

VIII. A New Version of the Book of Psalms, Duodecimo, 1720

IX. The Nature of Man, a Poem in three Books, Octavo, 1720

X. A Collection of Poems, Octavo, 1716

XI. Essays on several Subjects, 2 vols. Octavo. Vol. I. On Epic Poetry,
Wit, False Virtue, Immortality of the Soul, Laws of Nature, Origin of
Civil Power. Vol. II. On Athesim, Spleen, Writing, Future Felicity,
Divine Love. 1716

XII. History of the Conspiracy against King William the IIId, 1696,
Octavo, 1723

MEDICINAL.

I. A Discourse on the Plague, with a preparatory Account of Malignant
Fevers, in two Parts; containing an Explication of the Nature of those
Diseases, and the Method of Cure, Octavo, 1720

II. A Treatise on the Small-Pox, in two Parts; containing an Account of
the Nature, and several Kinds of that Disease; with the proper Methods
of Cure: And a Dissertation upon the modern Practice of Inoculation,
Octavo, 1722

III. A Treatise on Consumptions, and other Distempers belonging to the
Breast and Lungs, Octavo, 1724

VI. A Treatise on the Spleen and Vapours; or Hyppocondriacal and
Hysterical Affections; with three Discourses on the Nature and Cure of
the Cholic, Melancholly and Palsy, Octavo, 1725

V. A Critical Dissertation upon the Spleen, so far as concerns the
following Question, viz. Whether the Spleen is necessary or useful to
the animal possessed of it? 1725

VI. Discourses on the Gout, Rheumatism, and the King's Evil; containing
an Explanation of the Nature, Causes, and different Species of those
Diseases, and the Method of curing them, Octavo, 1726

VII. Dissertations on a Dropsy, a Tympany, the Jaundice, the Stone, and
the Diabetes, Octavo, 1727

Single POEMS by Sir _Richard Blackmore_.

I. His Satire against Wit, Folio, 1700

II. His Hymn to the Light of the World; with a short Description of the
Cartoons at Hampton-Court, Folio, 1703

III. His Advice to the Poets, Folio, 1706

IV. His Kit-Kats, Folio, 1708

It might justly be esteemed an injury to Blackmore, to dismiss his life
without a specimen from his beautiful and philosophical Poem on the
Creation. In his second Book he demonstrates the existence of a God,
from the wisdom and design which appears in the motions of the heavenly
orbs; but more particularly in the solar system. First in the situation
of the Sun, and its due distance from the earth. The fatal consequences
of its having been placed, otherwise than it is. Secondly, he considers
its diurnal motion, whence the change of the day and night proceeds;
which we shall here insert as a specimen of the elegant versification,
and sublime energy of this Poem.

Next see Lucretian Sages, see the Sun,
His course diurnal, and his annual run.
How in his glorious race he moves along,
Gay as a bridegroom, as a giant strong.
How his unweari'd labour he repeats,
Returns at morning, and at eve retreats;
And by the distribution of his light,
Now gives to man the day, and now the night:
Night, when the drowsy swain, and trav'ler cease
Their daily toil, and sooth their limbs with ease;
When all the weary sons of woe restrain
Their yielding cares with slumber's silken chain,
Solace sad grief, and lull reluctant pain.
And while the sun, ne'er covetous of rest,
Flies with such rapid speed from east to west,
In tracks oblique he thro' the zodiac rolls,
Between the northern and the southern poles;
From which revolving progress thro' the skies.
The needful seasons of the year arise:
And as he now advances, now retreats,
Whence winter colds proceed, and summer heats,
He qualifies, and chears the air by turns,
Which winter freezes, and which summer burns.
Thus his kind rays the two extremes reduce,
And keep a temper fit for nature's use.
The frost and drought by this alternate pow'r.
The earth's prolific energy restore.
The lives of man and beast demand the change;
Hence fowls the air, and fish the ocean range.
Of heat and cold, this just successive reign,
Which does the balance of the year maintain,
The gard'ner's hopes, and farmer's patience props,
Gives vernal verdure, and autumnal crops.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Jacob.

[2] Preface to Remarks on Prince Arthur, octavo 1696.

* * * * *

Mr. JAMES THOMSON.

This celebrated poet, from whom his country has derived the most
distinguished honour, was son of the revd. Mr. Thomson, a minister of
the church of Scotland, in the Presbytery of Jedburgh.

He was born in the place where his father was minister, about the
beginning of the present century, and received the rudiments of his
education at a private country school. Mr. Thomson, in the early part of
his life, so far from appearing to possess a sprightly genius, was
considered by his school master, and those which directed his education,
as being really without a common share of parts.

While he was improving himself in the Latin and Greek tongues at this
country school, he often visited a minister, whose charge lay in the
same presbytery with his father's, the revd. Mr. Rickerton, a man of
such amazing powers, that many persons of genius, as well as Mr.
Thomson, who conversed with him, have been astonished, that such great
merit should be buried in an obscure part of the country, where he had
no opportunity to display himself, and, except upon periodical meetings
of the ministers, seldom an opportunity of conversing with men of
learning.

Though Mr. Thomson's schoolmaster could not discover that he was endowed
with a common portion of understanding, yet Mr. Rickerton was not so
blind to his genius; he distinguished our author's early propension to
poetry, and had once in his hands some of the first attempts Mr. Thomson
ever made in that province.

It is not to be doubted but our young poet greatly improved while he
continued to converse with Mr. Rickerton, who, as he was a philosophical
man, inspired his mind with a love of the Sciences, nor were the revd.
gentleman's endeavours in vain, for Mr. Thomson has shewn in his works
how well he was acquainted with natural and moral philosophy, a
circumstance which, perhaps, is owing to the early impressions he
received from Mr. Rickerton.

Nature, which delights in diversifying her gifts, does not bestow upon
every one a power of displaying the abilities she herself has granted to
the best advantage. Though Mr. Rickerton could discover that Mr.
Thomson, so far from being without parts, really possessed a very fine
genius, yet he never could have imagined, as he often declared, that
there existed in his mind such powers, as even by the best cultivation
could have raised him to so high a degree of eminence amongst the poets.

When Mr. Rickerton first saw Mr. Thomson's Winter, which was in a
Bookseller's shop at Edinburgh, he stood amazed, and after he had read
the lines quoted below, he dropt the poem from his hand in the extasy of
admiration. The lines are his induction to Winter, than which few poets
ever rose to a more sublime height[1].

After spending the usual time at a country school in the acquisition of
the dead languages, Mr. Thomson was removed to the university of
Edinburgh, in order to finish his education, and be fitted for the
ministry. Here, as at the country school, he made no great figure: his
companions thought contemptuously of him, and the masters under whom he
studied, had not a higher opinion of our poet's abilities, than their
pupils. His course of attendance upon the classes of philosophy being
finished, he was entered in the Divinity Hall, as one of the candidates
for the ministry, where the students, before they are permitted to enter
on their probation, must yield six years attendance.

It was in the second year of Mr. Thomson's attendance upon this school
of divinity, whose professor at that time was the revd. and learned Mr.
William Hamilton, a person whom he always mentioned with respect, that
our author was appointed by the professor to write a discourse on the
Power of the Supreme Being. When his companions heard their task
assigned him, they could not but arraign the professor's judgment, for
assigning so copious a theme to a young man, from whom nothing equal to
the subject could be expected. But when Mr. Thomson delivered the
discourse, they had then reason to reproach themselves for want of
discernment, and for indulging a contempt of one superior to the
brightest genius amongst them. This discourse was so sublimely elevated,
that both the professor and the students who heard it delivered, were
astonished. It was written in blank verse, for which Mr. Hamilton
rebuked him, as being improper upon that occasion. Such of his
fellow-students as envied him the success of this discourse, and the
admiration it procured him, employed their industry to trace him as a
plagiary; for they could not be persuaded that a youth seemingly so much
removed from the appearance of genius, could compose a declamation, in
which learning, genius, and judgment had a very great share. Their
search, however, proved fruitless, and Mr. Thomson continued, while he
remained at the university, to possess the honour of that discourse,
without any diminution.

We are not certain upon what account it was that Mr. Thomson dropt the
notion of going into the ministry; perhaps he imagined it a way of life
too severe for the freedom of his disposition: probably he declined
becoming a presbyterian minister, from a consciousness of his own
genius, which gave him a right to entertain more ambitious views; for it
seldom happens, that a man of great parts can be content with obscurity,
or the low income of sixty pounds a year, in some retired corner of a
neglected country; which must have been the lot of Thomson, if he had
not extended his views beyond the sphere of a minister of the
established church of Scotland.

After he had dropt all thoughts of the clerical profession, he began to
be more sollicitous of distinguishing his genius, as he placed some
dependence upon it, and hoped to acquire such patronage as would enable
him to appear in life with advantage. But the part of the world where he
then was, could not be very auspicious to such hopes; for which reason
he began to turn his eyes towards the grand metropolis.

The first poem of Mr. Thomson's, which procured him any reputation from
the public, was his Winter, of which mention is already made, and
further notice will be taken; but he had private approbation for several
of his pieces, long before his Winter was published, or before he
quitted his native country. He wrote a Paraphrase on the 104th Psalm,
which, after it had received the approbation of Mr. Rickerton, he
permitted his friends to copy. By some means or other this Paraphrase
fell into the hands of Mr. Auditor Benson, who, expressing his
admiration of it, said, that he doubted not if the author was in London,
but he would meet with encouragement equal to his merit. This
observation of Benson's was communicated to Thomson by a letter, and, no
doubt, had its natural influence in inflaming his heart, and hastening
his journey to the metropolis. He soon set out for Newcastle, where he
took shipping, and landed at Billinsgate. When he arrived, it was his
immediate care to wait on [2]Mr. Mallet, who then lived in
Hanover-Square in the character of tutor to his grace the duke of
Montrose, and his late brother lord G. Graham. Before Mr. Thomson
reached Hanover-Square, an accident happened to him, which, as it may
divert some of our readers, we shall here insert. He had received
letters of recommendation from a gentleman of rank in Scotland, to some
persons of distinction in London, which he had carefully tied up in his
pocket-handkerchief. As he sauntered along the streets, he could not
withhold his admiration of the magnitude, opulence, and various objects
this great metropolis continually presented to his view. These must
naturally have diverted the imagination of a man of less reflexion, and
it is not greatly to be wondered at, if Mr. Thomson's mind was so
ingrossed by these new presented scenes, as to be absent to the busy
crowds around him. He often stopped to gratify his curiosity, the
consequences of which he afterwards experienced. With an honest
simplicity of heart, unsuspecting, as unknowing of guilt, he was ten
times longer in reaching Hanover-Square, than one less sensible and
curious would have been. When he arrived, he found he had paid for his
curiosity; his pocket was picked of his handkerchief, and all the
letters that were wrapped up in it. This accident would have proved very
mortifying to a man less philosophical than Thomson; but he was of a
temper never to be agitated; he then smiled at it, and frequently made
his companions laugh at the relation.

It is natural to suppose, that as soon as Mr. Thomson arrived in town,
he shewed to some of his friends his poem on Winter[3]. The approbation
it might meet with from them, was not, however, a sufficient
recommendation to introduce it to the world. He had the mortification of
offering it to several Booksellers without success, who, perhaps, not
being qualified themselves to judge of the merit of the performance,
refused to risque the necessary expences, on the work of an obscure
stranger, whose name could be no recommendation to it. These were severe
repulses; but, at last, the difficulty was surmounted. Mr. Mallet,
offered it to Mr. Millan, now Bookseller at Charing-Cross, who without
making any scruples, printed it. For some time Mr. Millan had reason to
believe, that he should be a loser by his frankness; for the impression
lay like as paper on his hands, few copies being sold, 'till by an
accident its merit was discovered.[4] One Mr. Whatley, a man of some
taste in letters, but perfectly enthusiastic in the admiration of any
thing which pleased him, happened to cast his eye upon it, and finding
something which delighted him, perused the whole, not without growing
astonishment, that the poem should be unknown, and the author obscure.
He learned from the Bookseller the circumstances already mentioned, and,
in the extasy of his admiration of this poem, he went from Coffee-house
to Coffee house, pointing out its beauties, and calling upon all men of
taste, to exert themselves in rescuing one of the greatest geniuses that
ever appeared, from obscurity. This had a very happy effect, for, in a
short time, the impression was bought up, and they who read the poem,
had no reason to complain of Mr. Whatley's exaggeration; for they found
it so compleatly beautiful, that they could not but think themselves
happy in doing justice to a man of so much merit.

The poem of Winter is, perhaps, the most finished, as well as most
picturesque, of any of the Four Seasons. The scenes are grand and
lively. It is in that season that the creation appears in distress, and
nature assumes a melancholy air; and an imagination so poetical as
Thomson's, could not but furnish those awful and striking images, which
fill the soul with a solemn dread of _those Vapours, and Storms, and
Clouds_, he has so well painted. Description is the peculiar talent of
Thomson; we tremble at his thunder in summer, we shiver with his
winter's cold, and we rejoice at the renovation of nature, by the sweet
influence of spring. But the poem deserves a further illustration, and
we shall take an opportunity of pointing out some of its most striking
beauties; but before we speak of these, we beg leave to relate the
following anecdote.

As soon as Winter was published, Mr. Thomson sent a copy of it as a
present to Mr. Joseph Mitchell, his countryman, and brother poet, who,
not liking many parts of it, inclosed to him the following couplet;

Beauties and faults so thick lye scattered here,
Those I could read, if these were not so near.

To this Mr. Thomson answered extempore.

Why all not faults, injurious Mitchell; why
Appears one beauty to thy blasted eye;
Damnation worse than thine, if worse can be,
Is all I ask, and all I want from thee.

Upon a friend's remonstrating to Mr. Thomson, that the expression of
blasted eye would look like a personal reflexion, as Mr. Mitchell had
really that misfortune, he changed the epithet blasted, into blasting.
But to return:

After our poet has represented the influence of Winter upon the face of
nature, and particularly described the severities of the frost, he has
the following beautiful transition;

--Our infant winter sinks,
Divested of its grandeur; should our eye
Astonish'd shoot into the frigid zone;
Where, for relentless months, continual night
Holds o'er the glitt'ring waste her starry reign:
There thro' the prison of unbounded wilds
Barr'd by the hand of nature from escape,
Wide roams the Russian exile. Nought around
Strikes his sad eye, but desarts lost in snow;
And heavy loaded groves; and solid floods,
That stretch athwart the solitary waste,
Their icy horrors to the frozen main;
And chearless towns far distant, never bless'd
Save when its annual course, the caravan
Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay[5]
With news of human-kind. Yet there life glows;
Yet cherished there, beneath the shining waste,
The furry nations harbour: tipt with jet
Fair ermines, spotless as the snows they press;
Sables of glossy black; and dark embrown'd
Or beauteous, streak'd with many a mingled hue,
Thousands besides, the costly pride of courts.

The description of a thaw is equally picturesque. The following lines
consequent upon it are excellent.

--Those sullen seas
That wash th'ungenial pole, will rest no more
Beneath the shackles of the mighty North;
But rousing all their waves resistless heave.--
And hark! the lengthen'd roar continuous runs
Athwart the rested deep: at once it bursts
And piles a thousand mountains to the clouds.
Ill fares the bark, with trembling wretches charg'd,
That tost amid the floating fragments, moors
Beneath the shelter of an icy isle,
While night o'erwhelms the sea, and horror looks
More horrible. Can human force endure
Th' assembled mischiefs that besiege 'em round!
Heart-gnawing hunger, fainting weariness,
The roar of winds and waves, the crush of ice,
Now ceasing, now renew'd with louder rage,
And in dire ecchoes bellowing round the main.

As the induction of Mr. Thomson's Winter has been celebrated for its
sublimity, so the conclusion has likewise a claim to praise, for the
tenderness of the sentiments, and the pathetic force of the expression.

'Tis done!--Dread winter spreads her latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year.
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!
How dumb the tuneful! horror wide extends
Her desolate domain. Behold, fond man!
See here thy pictur'd life; pass some few years,
Thy flow'ring spring, thy summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober autumn fading into age,
And page concluding winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene.--

He concludes the poem by enforcing a reliance on providence, which will
in proper compensate for all those seeming severities, with which good
men are often oppressed.

--Ye good distrest!
Ye noble few! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile,
And what your bounded view which only saw
A little part, deemed evil, is no more:
The storms of Wintry time will quickly pass,
And one unbounded Spring encircle all.

The poem of Winter meeting with such general applause, Mr. Thomson was
induced to write the other three seasons, which he finished with equal
success. His Autumn was next given to the public, and is the most
unfinished of the four; it is not however without its beauties, of which
many have considered the story of Lavinia, naturally and artfully
introduced, as the most affecting. The story is in itself moving and
tender. It is perhaps no diminution to the merit of this beautiful tale,
that the hint of it is taken from the book of Ruth in the Old Testament.

The author next published the Spring, the induction to which is very
poetical and beautiful.

Come gentle Spring, etherial mildness come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a show'r
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.

It is addressed to the countess of Hertford, with the following elegant
compliment,

O Hertford! fitted, or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plains,
With innocence and meditation joined,
In soft assemblage; listen to the song,
Which thy own season paints; while nature all
Is blooming, and benevolent like thee.--

The descriptions in this poems are mild, like the season they paint; but
towards the end of it, the poet takes occasion to warn his countrymen
against indulging the wild and irregular passion of love. This
digression is one of the most affecting in the whole piece, and while he
paints the language of a lover's breast agitated with the pangs of
strong desire, and jealous transports, he at the same time dissuades the
ladies from being too credulous in the affairs of gallantry. He
represents the natural influence of spring, in giving a new glow to the
beauties of the fair creation, and firing their hearts with the passion
of love.

The shining moisture swells into her eyes,
In brighter flow; her wishing bosom heaves,
With palpitations wild; kind tumults seize
Her veins; and all her yielding soul is love.
From the keen gaze her lover turns away,
Full of the dear extatic power, and sick
With sighing languishment. Ah then, ye fair!
Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts:
Dare not th'infectious sigh; the pleading look,
Down-cast, and low, in meek submission drest,
But full of guile. Let not the fervent tongue,
Prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth,
Gain on your purpos'd will. Nor in the bower,
Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch,
While evening draws her crimson curtains round,
Trust your soft minutes with betraying man.

Summer has many manly and striking beauties, of which the Hymn to the
Sun, is one of the sublimest and most masterly efforts of genius we have
ever seen.--There are some hints taken from Cowley's beautiful Hymn to
Light.--Mr. Thomson has subjoined a Hymn to the Seasons, which is not
inferior to the foregoing in poetical merit.

The Four Seasons considered separately, each Season as a distinct poem
has been judged defective in point of plan. There appears no particular
design; the parts are not subservient to one another; nor is there any
dependance or connection throughout; but this perhaps is a fault almost
inseparable from a subject in itself so diversified, as not to admit of
such limitation. He has not indeed been guilty of any incongruity; the
scenes described in spring, are all peculiar to that season, and the
digressions, which make up a fourth part of the poem, flow naturally. He
has observed the same regard to the appearances of nature in the other
seasons; but then what he has described in the beginning of any of the
seasons, might as well be placed in the middle, and that in the middle,
as naturally towards the close. So that each season may rather be called
an assemblage of poetical ideas, than a poem, as it seems written
without a plan.

Mr. Thomson's poetical diction in the Seasons is very peculiar to him:
His manner of writing is entirely his own: He has introduced a number of
compound words; converted substantives into verbs, and in short has
created a kind of new language for himself. His stile has been blamed
for its singularity and stiffness; but with submission to superior
judges, we cannot but be of opinion, that though this observation is
true, yet is it admirably fitted for description. The object he paints
stands full before the eye, we admire it in all its lustre, and who
would not rather enjoy a perfect inspection into a natural curiosity
through a microscope capable of discovering all the minute beauties,
though its exterior form should not be comely, than perceive an object
but faintly, through a microscope ill adapted for the purpose, however
its outside may be decorated. Thomson has a stiffness in his manner, but
then his manner is new; and there never yet arose a distinguished
genius, who had not an air peculiarly his own. 'Tis true indeed, the
tow'ring sublimity of Mr. Thomson's stile is ill adapted for the tender
passions, which will appear more fully when we consider him as a
dramatic writer, a sphere in which he is not so excellent as in other
species of poetry.

The merit of these poems introduced our author to the acquaintance and
esteem of several persons, distinguished by their rank, or eminent for
their talents:--Among the latter Dr. Rundle, afterwards bishop of Derry,
was so pleased with the spirit of benevolence and piety, which breathes
throughout the Seasons, that he recommended him to the friendship of the
late lord chancellor Talbot, who committed to him the care of his eldest
son, then preparing to set out on his travels into France and Italy.

With this young nobleman, Mr. Thomson performed (what is commonly
called) The Tour of Europe, and stay'd abroad about three years, where
no doubt he inriched his mind with the noble monuments of antiquity, and
the conversation of ingenious foreigners. 'Twas by comparing modern
Italy with the idea he had of the antient Romans, which furnished him
with the hint of writing his Liberty, in three parts. The first is
Antient and Modern Italy compared. The second Greece, and the third
Britain. The whole is addressed to the eldest son of lord Talbot, who
died in the year 1734, upon his travels.

Amongst Mr. Thomson's poems, is one to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton,
of which we shall say no more than this, that if he had never wrote any
thing besides, he deserved to enjoy a distinguished reputation amongst
the poets. Speaking of the amazing genius of Newton, he says,

Th'aerial flow of sound was known to him,
From whence it first in wavy circles breaks.
Nor could the darting beam of speed immense,
Escape his swift pursuit, and measuring eye.
Ev'n light itself, which every thing displays,
Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter mind
Untwisted all the shining robe of day;
And from the whitening undistinguished blaze,
Collecting every separated ray,
To the charm'd eye educ'd the gorgeous train
Of parent colours. First, the flaming red,
Sprung vivid forth, the tawny orange next,
And next refulgent yellow; by whose side
Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing green.
Then the pure blue, that swells autumnal skies,
Ætherial play'd; and then of sadder hue,
Emerg'd the deepen'd indico, as when
The heavy skirted evening droops with frost,
While the last gleamings of refracted light,
Died in the fainting violet away.
These when the clouds distil the rosy shower,
Shine out distinct along the watr'y bow;
While o'er our heads the dewy vision bends,
Delightful melting in the fields beneath.
Myriads of mingling dyes from these result,
And myriads still remain--Infinite source
Of beauty ever-flushing, ever new.

About the year 1728 Mr. Thomson wrote a piece called Britannia, the
purport of which was to rouse the nation to arms, and excite in the
spirit of the people a generous disposition to revenge the injuries done
them by the Spaniards: This is far from being one of his best poems.

Upon the death of his generous patron, lord chancellor Talbot, for whom
the nation joined with Mr. Thomson in the most sincere inward sorrow, he
wrote an elegiac poem, which does honour to the author, and to the
memory of that great man he meant to celebrate. He enjoyed, during lord
Talbot's life, a very profitable place, which that worthy patriot had
conferred upon him, in recompence of the care he had taken in forming
the mind of his son. Upon his death, his lordship's successor reserved
the place for Mr. Thomson, and always expected when he should wait upon
him, and by performing some formalities enter into the possession of it.
This, however, by an unaccountable indolence he neglected, and at last
the place, which he might have enjoyed with so little trouble, was
bestowed upon another.

Amongst the latest of Mr. Thomson's productions is his Castle of
Indolence, a poem of so extraordinary merit, that perhaps we are not
extravagant, when we declare, that this single performance discovers
more genius and poetical judgment, than all his other works put
together. We cannot here complain of want of plan, for it is artfully
laid, naturally conducted, and the descriptions rise in a beautiful
succession: It is written in imitation of Spenser's stile; and the
obsolete words, with the simplicity of diction in some of the lines,
which borders on the ludicrous, have been thought necessary to make the
imitation more perfect.

'The stile (says Mr. Thomson) of that admirable poet, as well as the
measure in which he wrote, are, as it were, appropriated by custom to
all allegorical poems written in our language; just as in French, the
stile of Marot, who lived under Francis the 1st, has been used in Tales
and familiar Epistles, by the politest writers of the age of Louis the
XIVth.'

We shall not at present enquire how far Mr. Thomson is justifiable in
using the obsolete words of Spenser: As Sir Roger de Coverley observed
on another occasion, much may be said on both sides. One thing is
certain, Mr. Thomson's imitation is excellent, and he must have no
poetry in his imagination, who can read the picturesque descriptions in
his Castle of Indolence, without emotion. In his LXXXIst Stanza he has
the following picture of beauty:

Here languid beauty kept her pale-fac'd court,
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,
From every quarter hither made resort;
Where, from gross mortal care, and bus'ness free,
They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury:
Or should they a vain shew of work assume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom;
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel and loom.

He pursues the description in the subsequent Stanza.

Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe.
They fit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhime;
Then rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tott'ring steps and slow:
This soon too rude an exercise they find;
Strait on the couch their limbs again they throw,
Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclin'd,
And court the vapoury God soft breathing in the wind.

In the two following Stanzas, the dropsy and hypochondria are
beautifully described.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldly man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;
For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of spleen, in robes of various die,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;
And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.
A lady proud she was, of antient blood,
Yet oft her fear, her pride made crouchen low:
She felt, or fancy'd in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spitals know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow;
And still new leaches, and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering too and fro;
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry,
And sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.

The speech of Sir Industry in the second Canto, when he enumerates the
various blessings which flow from action, is surely one of the highest
instances of genius which can be produced in poetry. In the second
stanza, before he enters upon the subject, the poet complains of the
decay of patronage, and the general depravity of taste; and in the third
breaks out into the following exclamation, which is so perfectly
beautiful, that it would be the greatest mortification not to transcribe
it,

I care not, fortune, what you me deny:
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shews her bright'ning face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream at eve:
Let health my nerves, and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave;
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

Before we quit this poem, permit us, reader, to give you two more
stanzas from it: the first shews Mr. Thomson's opinion of Mr. Quin as an
actor; of their friendship we may say more hereafter.

STANZA LXVII.

Of the CASTLE of INDOLENCE.

Here whilom ligg'd th'Aesopus[6] of the age;
But called by fame, in foul ypricked deep,
A noble pride restor'd him to the stage,
And rous'd him like a giant from his sleep.
Even from his slumbers we advantage reap:
With double force th'enliven'd scene he wakes,
Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to keep
Each due decorum: now the heart he shakes,
And now with well-urg'd sense th'enlighten'd judgment takes.

The next stanza (wrote by a friend of the author's, as the note
mentions) is a friendly, though familiar, compliment; it gives us an
image of our bard himself, at once entertaining, striking, and just.

STANZA LXVIII.

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,
Who void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain:
The world forsaking with a calm disdain.
Here laugh'd he, careless in his easy seat;
Here quaff'd, encircl'd with the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage: his ditty sweet
He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.

We shall now consider Mr. Thomson as a dramatic writer.

In the year 1730, about six years after he had been in London, he
brought a Tragedy upon the stage, called Sophonisba, built upon the
Carthaginian history of that princess, and upon which the famous
Nathaniel Lee has likewise written a Tragedy. This play met with a
favourable reception from the public. Mrs. Oldfield greatly
distinguished herself in the character of Sophonisba, which Mr. Thomson
acknowledges in his preface.--'I cannot conclude, says he, without
owning my obligations to those concerned in the representation. They
have indeed done me more than justice; Whatever was designed as amiable
and engageing in Masinessa shines out in Mr. Wilks's action. Mrs.
Oldfield, in the character of Sophonisba, has excelled what even in the
fondness of an author I could either wish or imagine. The grace, dignity
and happy variety of her action, have been universally applauded, and
are truly admirable.'

Before we quit this play, we must not omit two anecdotes which happened
the first night of the representation. Mr. Thomson makes one of his
characters address Sophonisba in a line, which some critics reckoned the
false pathetic.

O! Sophonisba, Sophonisba Oh!

Upon which a smart from the pit cried out,

Oh! Jamey Thomson, Jamey Thomson Oh!

However ill-natured this critic might be in interrupting the action of
the play for sake of a joke; yet it is certain that the line ridiculed
does partake of the false pathetic, and should be a warning to tragic
poets to guard against the swelling stile; for by aiming at the sublime,
they are often betrayed into the bombast.--Mr. Thomson who could not but
feel all the emotions and sollicitudes of a young author the first night
of his play, wanted to place himself in some obscure part of the house,
in order to see the representation to the best advantage, without being
known as the poet.--He accordingly placed himself in the upper gallery;
but such was the power of nature in him, that he could not help
repeating the parts along with the players, and would sometimes whisper
to himself, 'now such a scene is to open,' by which he was soon
discovered to be the author, by some gentlemen who could not, on account
of the great crowd, be situated in any other part of the house.

After an interval of four years, Mr. Thomson exhibited to the public his
second Tragedy called Agamemnon. Mr. Pope gave an instance of his great
affection to Mr. Thomson on this occasion: he wrote two letters in its
favour to the managers, and honoured the representation on the first
night with his presence. As he had not been for some time at a play,
this was considered as a very great instance of esteem. Mr. Thomson
submitted to have this play considerably shortened in the action, as
some parts were too long, other unnecessary, in which not the character
but the poet spoke; and though not brought on the stage till the month
of April, it continued to be acted with applause for several nights.

Many have remark'd that his characters in his plays are more frequently
descriptive, than expressive, of the passions; but they all abound with
uncommon beauties, with fire, and depth of thought, with noble
sentiments and nervous writing. His speeches are often too long,
especially for an English audience; perhaps sometimes they are
unnaturally lengthened: and 'tis certainly a greater relief to the ear
to have the dialogue more broken; yet our attention is well rewarded,
and in no passages, perhaps, in his tragedies, more so, than in the
affecting account Melisander [7] gives of his being betrayed, and left
on the desolate island.

--'Tis thus my friend.
Whilst sunk in unsuspecting sleep I lay,
Some midnight ruffians rush'd into my chamber,
Sent by Egisthus, who my presence deem'd
Obstructive (so I solve it) to his views,
Black views, I fear, as you perhaps may know,
Sudden they seiz'd, and muffled up in darkness,
Strait bore me to the sea, whose instant prey
I did conclude myself, when first around
The ship unmoor'd, I heard the chiding wave.
But these fel tools of cruel power, it seems,
Had orders in a desart isle to leave me;
There hopeless, helpless, comfortless, to prove
The utmost gall and bitterness of death.
Thus malice often overshoots itself,
And some unguarded accident betrays
The man of blood.--Next night--a dreary night!
Cast on the wildest of the Cyclad Isles,
Where never human foot had mark'd the shore,
These ruffians left me.--Yet believe me, Arcas,
Such is the rooted love we bear mankind,
All ruffians as they were, I never heard
A sound so dismal as their parting oars.--
Then horrid silence follow'd, broke alone
By the low murmurs of the restless deep,
Mixt with the doubtful breeze that now and then
Sigh'd thro' the mournful woods. Beneath a shade
I sat me down, more heavily oppress'd,
More desolate at heart, than e'er I felt
Before. When, Philomela, o'er my head
Began to tune her melancholy strain,
As piteous of my woes, 'till, by degrees,
Composing sleep on wounded nature shed
A kind but short relief. At early morn,
Wak'd by the chant of birds, I look'd around
For usual objects: objects found I none,
Except before me stretch'd the toiling main,
And rocks and woods in savage view behind.
Wrapt for a moment in amaz'd confusion,
My thought turn'd giddy round; when all at once,
To memory full my dire condition rush'd--

In the year 1736 Mr. Thomson offered to the stage a Tragedy called
Edward and Eleonora, which was forbid to be acted, for some political
reason, which it is not in our power to guess.

The play of Tancred and Sigismunda was acted in the year 1744; this
succeeded beyond any other of Thomson's plays, and is now in possesion
of the stage. The plot is borrowed from a story in the celebrated
romance of Gil Blas: The fable is very interesting, the characters are
few, but active; and the attention in this play is never suffered to
wander. The character of Seffredi has been justly censured as
inconsistent, forced, and unnatural.

By the command of his royal highness the prince of Wales, Mr. Thomson,
in conjunction with Mr. Mallet, wrote the Masque of Alfred, which was
performed twice in his royal highness's gardens at Cliffden. Since Mr.
Thomson's death, this piece has been almost entirely new modelled by Mr.
Mallet, and brought on the stage in the year 1751, its success being
fresh in the memory of its frequent auditors, 'tis needless to say more
concerning it.

Mr. Thomson's last Tragedy, called Coriolanus, was not acted till after
his death; the profits of it were given to his sisters in Scotland, one
of whom is married to a minister there, and the other to a man of low
circumstances in the city of Edinburgh. This play, which is certainly
the least excellent of any of Thomson's, was first offered to Mr.
Garrick, but he did not think proper to accept it. The prologue was
written by Sir George Lyttleton, and spoken by Mr. Quin, which had a
very happy effect upon the audience. Mr. Quin was the particular friend
of Thomson, and when he spoke the following lines, which are in
themselves very tender, all the endearments of a long acquaintance, rose
at once to his imagination, while the tears gushed from his eyes.

He lov'd his friends (forgive this gushing tear:
Alas! I feel I am no actor here)
He lov'd his friends with such a warmth of heart,
So clear of int'rest, so devoid of art,
Such generous freedom, such unshaken real,
No words can speak it, but our tears may tell.

The beautiful break in these lines had a fine effect in speaking. Mr.
Quin here excelled himself; he never appeared a greater actor than at
this instant, when he declared himself none: 'twas an exquisite stroke
to nature; art alone could hardly reach it. Pardon the digression,
reader, but, we feel a desire to say somewhat more on this head. The
poet and the actor were friends, it cannot then be quite foreign to the
purpose to proceed. A deep fetch'd sigh filled up the heart felt pause;
grief spread o'er all the countenance; the tear started to the eye, the
muscles fell, and,

'The whiteness of his cheek
Was apter than his tongue to speak his tale.'

They all expressed the tender feelings of a manly heart, becoming a
Thomson's friend. His pause, his recovery were masterly; and he
delivered the whole with an emphasis and pathos, worthy the excellent
lines he spoke; worthy the great poet and good man, whose merits they
painted, and whose loss they deplored.

The epilogue too, which was spoken by Mrs. Woffington, with an exquisite
humour, greatly pleased. These circumstances, added to the consideration
of the author's being no more, procured this play a run of nine nights,
which without these assistances 'tis likely it could not have had; for,
without playing the critic, it is not a piece of equal merit to many
other of his works. It was his misfortune as a dramatist, that he never
knew when to have done; he makes every character speak while there is
any thing to be said; and during these long interviews, the action too
stands still, and the story languishes. His Tancred and Sigismunda may
be excepted from this general censure: But his characters are too little
distinguished; they seldom vary from one another in their manner of
speaking. In short, Thomson was born a descriptive poet; he only wrote
for the stage, from a motive too obvious to be mentioned, and too strong
to be refilled. He is indeed the eldest born of Spenser, and he has
often confessed that if he had any thing excellent in poetry, he owed it
to the inspiration he first received from reading the Fairy Queen, in
the very early part of his life.

In August 1748 the world was deprived of this great ornament of poetry
and genius, by a violent fever, which carried him off in the 48th year
of his age. Before his death he was provided for by Sir George
Littleton, in the profitable place of comptroller of America, which he
lived not long to enjoy. Mr. Thomson was extremely beloved by his
acquaintance. He was of an open generous disposition; and was sometimes
tempted to an excessive indulgence of the social pleasures: A failing
too frequently inseparable from men of genius. His exterior appearance
was not very engaging, but he grew more and more agreeable, as he
entered into conversation: He had a grateful heart, ready to acknowledge
every favour he received, and he never forgot his old benefactors,
notwithstanding a long absence, new acquaintance, and additional
eminence; of which the following instance cannot be unacceptable to the
reader.

Some time before Mr. Thomson's fatal illness, a gentleman enquired for
him at his house in Kew-Lane, near Richmond, where he then lived. This
gentleman had been his acquaintance when very young, and proved to be
Dr. Gustard, the son of a revd. minister in the city of Edinburgh. Mr.
Gustard had been Mr. Thomson's patron in the early part of his life, and
contributed from his own purse (Mr. Thomson's father not being in very
affluent circumstances) to enable him to prosecute his studies. The
visitor sent not in his name, but only intimated to the servant that an
old acquaintance desired to see Mr. Thomson. Mr. Thomson came forward to
receive him, and looking stedfastly at him (for they had not seen one
another for many years) said, Troth Sir, I cannot say I ken your
countenance well--Let me therefore crave your name. Which the gentleman
no sooner mentioned but the tears gushed from Mr. Thomson's eyes. He
could only reply, good God! are you the son of my dear friend, my old
benefactor; and then rushing to his arms, he tenderly embraced him;
rejoicing at so unexpected a meeting.

It is a true observation, that whenever gratitude is absent from a
heart, it is generally capable of the most consummate baseness; and on
the other hand, where that generous virtue has a powerful prevalence in
the soul, the heart of such a man is fraught with all those other
endearing and tender qualities, which constitute goodness. Such was the
heart of this amiable poet, whose life was as inoffensive as his page
was moral: For of all our poets he is the farthest removed from whatever
has the appearance of indecency; and, as Sir George Lyttleton happily
expresses it, in the prologue to Mr. Thomson's Coriolanus,

--His chaste muse employ'd her heav'n-taught lyre
None but the noblest passions to inspire,
Not one immoral, one corrupted thought,
One line, which dying he could wish to blot.

FOOTNOTES:

[1]
See winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train!
Vapours, and storms, and clouds; be these my theme;
These that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
And heav'nly musing; welcome kindred glooms.
Congenial horrors hail!--with frequent foot
Oft have I in my pleasing calm of life,
When nurs'd by careless solitude I liv'd,
Oft have I wander'd thro' your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin snows; my self as pure;
Heard the winds blow, or the big torrents burst,
Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd
In the red evening sky. Thus pass'd the time,
'Till from the lucid chambers of the south
Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out and smil'd.

[2] Mr. Mallet was his quondam schoolfellow (but much his junior) they
contracted an early intimacy, which improved with their years, nor
was it ever once disturbed by any casual mistake, envy, or jealousy
on either side: a proof that two writers of merit may agree, in
spite of the common observation to the contrary.

[3] The Winter was first wrote in detached pieces, or occasional
descriptions; it was by the advice of Mr. Mallet they were collected
and made into one connected piece. This was finished the first of
all the seasons, and was the first poem he published. By the farther
advice, and at the earnest request, of Mr. Mallet, he wrote the
other three seasons.

[4] Though 'tis possible this piece might be offered to more Printers
who could read, than could taste, nor is it very surprizing, that an
unknown author might meet with a difficulty of this sort; since an
eager desire to peruse a new piece, with a fashionable name to it,
shall, in one day, occasion the sale of thousands of what may never
reach a second edition: while a work, that has only its intrinsic
merit to depend on, may lie long dormant in a Bookseller's shop,
'till some person, eminent for taste, points out its worth to the
many, declares the bullion sterling, stamps its value with his name,
and makes it pass current with the world. Such was the fate of
Thomson at this juncture: Such heretofore was Milton's, whose works
were only found in the libraries of the curious, or judicious few,
'till Addison's remarks spread a taste for them; and, at length, it
became even unfashionable not to have read them.

[5] The old name of China.

[6] Mr. Quin.

[7] The mention of this name reminds me of an obligation I had to Mr.
Thomson; and, at once, an opportunity offers, of gratefully
acknowledging the favour, and doing myself justice.

I had the pleasure of perusing the play of Agamemnon, before it was
introduced to the manager. Mr. Thomson was so thoroughly satisfied
(I might say more) with my reading of it; he said, he was confirmed
in his design of giving to me the part of Melisander. When I
expressed my sentiments of the favour, he told me, he thought it
none; that my old acquaintance Savage knew, he had not forgot my
taste in reading the poem of Winter some years before: he added,
that when (before this meeting) he had expressed his doubt, to which
of the actors he should give this part (as he had seen but few plays
since his return from abroad) Savage warmly urged, I was the fittest
person, and, with an oath affirmed, that Theo. Cibber would taste
it, feel it, and act it; perhaps he might extravagantly add, 'beyond
any one else.' 'Tis likely, Mr. Savage might be then more vehement
in this assertion, as some of his friends had been more used to see
me in a comic, than a serious light; and which was, indeed, more
frequently my choice. But to go on. When I read the play to the
manager, Mr. Quin, &c. (at which several gentlemen, intimate friends
of the author, were present) I was complimented by them all; Mr.
Quin particularly declared, he never heard a play done so much
justice to, in reading, through all its various parts, Mrs. Porter
also (who on this occasion was to appear in the character of
Clytemnestra) so much approved my entering into the taste, sense,
and spirit of the piece, that she was pleased to desire me to repeat
a reading of it, which, at her request, and that of other principal
performers, I often did; they all confessed their approbation, with
thanks.

When this play was to come forward into rehearsal, Mr. Thomson told
me, another actor had been recommended to him for this part in
private, by the manager (who, by the way) our author, or any one
else, never esteemed as the best judge, of either play, or player.
But money may purchase, and interest procure, a patent, though they
cannot purchase taste, or parts, the person proposed was, possibly,
some favoured flatterer, the partner of his private pleasures, or
humble admirer of his table talk: These little monarchs have their
little courtiers. Mr. Thomson insisted on my keeping the part. He
said, 'Twas his opinion, none but myself, or Mr. Quin, could do it
any justice; and, as that excellent actor could not be spared from
the part of Agamemnon (in the performance of which character he
added to his reputation, though before justly rated as the first
actor of that time) he was peremptory for my appearing in it; I did
so, and acquitted myself to the satisfaction of the author and his
friends (men eminent in rank, in taste, and knowledge) and received
testimonies of approbation from the audience, by their attention and
applause.

By this time the reader may be ready to cry out, 'to what purpose is
all this?' Have patience, sir. As I gained reputation in the
forementioned character, is there any crime in acknowledging my
obligation to Mr. Thomson? or, am I unpardonable, though I should
pride myself on his good opinion and friendship? may not gratitude,
as well as vanity, be concerned in this relation? but there is
another reason that may stand as an excuse, for my being led into
this long narrative; which, as it is only an annotation, not made
part of our author's life, the reader, at his option, may peruse, or
pass it over, without being interrupted in his attention to what
more immediately concerns Mr. Thomson. As what I have related is a
truth, which living men of worth can testify; and as it evidently
shows that Mr. Savage's opinion of me as an actor was, in this
latter part of his life, far from contemptible, of which, perhaps,
in his earlier days he had too lavishly spoke; I thought this no
improper (nor ill-timed) contradiction to a remark the writer of[7A]
Mr. Savage's Life has been pleased, in his Gaité de Coeur, to make,
which almost amounts to an unhandsome innuendo, that Mr. Savage, and
some of his friends, thought me no actor at all.

I accidentally met with the book some years ago, and dipt into that
part where the author says, 'The preface (to Sir Thomas Overbury)
contains a very liberal encomium on the blooming excellences of Mr.
Theophilus Cibber, which Mr. Savage could not, in the latter part of
his life, see his friends about to read, without snatching the play
out of their hands.' As poor Savage was well remembered to have been
as inconsiderate, inconsistent, and inconstant a mortal as ever
existed, what he might have said carried but little weight; and, as
he would blow both hot and cold, nay, too frequently, to gratify the
company present, would sacrifice the absent, though his best friend,
I disregarded this invidious hint, 'till I was lately informed, a
person of distinction in the learned world, had condescended to
become the biographer of this unhappy man's unimportant life: as the
sanction of such a name might prove of prejudice to me, I have since
thought it worth my notice.

The truth is, I met Savage one summer, in a condition too melancholy
for description. He was starving; I supported him, and my father
cloathed him, 'till his tragedy was brought on the stage, where it
met with success in the representation, tho' acted by the young part
of the company, in the summer season; whatever might be the merit of
his play, his necessities were too pressing to wait 'till winter for
its performance. When it was just going to be published (as I met
with uncommon encouragement in my young attempt in the part of
Somerset) he repeated to me a most extraordinary compliment, as he
might then think it, which, he said, he intended to make me in his
preface. Neither my youth (for I was then but 18) or vanity, was so
devoid of judgment, as to prevent my objecting to it. I told him, I
imagined this extravagancy would have so contrary an effect to his
intention, that what he kindly meant for praise, might be
misinterpreted, or render him liable to censure, and me to ridicule;
I insisted on his omitting it: contrary to his usual obstinacy, he
consented, and sent his orders to the Printer to leave it out; it
was too late; the sheets were all work'd off, and the play was
advertised to come out (as it did) the next day. T.C.

[7A] _Published about the year_ 1743.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER POPE, Esq;

This illustrious poet was born at London, in 1688, and was descended
from a good family of that name, in Oxfordshire, the head of which was
the earl of Downe, whose sole heiress married the earl of Lindsey. His
father, a man of primitive simplicity, and integrity of manners, was a
merchant of London, who upon the Revolution quitted trade, and converted
his effects into money, amounting to near 10,000 l. with which he
retired into the country; and died in 1717, at the age of 75.

Our poet's mother, who lived to a very advanced age, being 93 years old
when she died, in 1733, was the daughter of William Turner, Esq; of
York. She had three brothers, one of whom was killed, another died in
the service of king Charles; and the eldest following his fortunes, and
becoming a general officer in Spain, left her what estate remained after
sequestration, and forfeitures of her family. To these circumstances our
poet alludes in his epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, in which he mentions his
parents.

Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause,
While yet in Britain, honour had applause)
Each parent sprang,--What fortune pray?--their own,
And better got than Bestia's from the throne.
Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,
Nor marrying discord in a noble wife;
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walked innoxious thro' his age:
No courts he saw; no suits would ever try;
Nor dar'd an oath, nor hazarded a lye:
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolmen's subtle art,
No language, but the language of the heart:
By nature honest, by experience wise,
Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercise;
His life though long, to sickness past unknown,
His death was instant and without a groan.

The education of our great author was attended with circumstances very
singular; and some of them extremely unfavourable; but the amazing force
of his genius fully compensated the want of any advantage in his
earliest instruction. He owed the knowledge of his letters to an aunt;
and having learned very early to read, took great delight in it, and
taught himself to write by copying after printed books, the characters
of which he could imitate to great perfection. He began to compose
verses, farther back than he could well remember; and at eight years of
age, when he was put under one Taverner a priest, who taught him the
rudiments of the Latin and Greek tongues at the same time, he met with
Ogilby's Homer, which gave him great delight; and this was encreased by
Sandys's Ovid: The raptures which these authors, even in the disguise of
such translations, then yielded him, were so strong, that he spoke of
them with pleasure ever after. From Mr. Taverner's tuition he was sent
to a private school at Twiford, near Winchester, where he continued
about a year, and was then removed to another near Hyde Park Corner; but
was so unfortunate as to lose under his two last masters, what he had
acquired under the first.

While he remained at this school, being permitted to go to the
play-house, with some of his school fellows of a more advanced age, he
was so charmed with dramatic representations, that he formed the
translation of the Iliad into a play, from several of the speeches in
Ogilby's translation, connected with verses of his own; and the several
parts were performed by the upper boys of the school, except that of
Ajax by the master's gardener. At the age of 12 our young poet, went
with his father to reside at his house at Binfield, in Windsor forest,
where he was for a few months under the tuition of another priest, with
as little success as before; so that he resolved now to become his own
master, by reading those Classic Writers which gave him most
entertainment; and by this method, at fifteen he gained a ready habit in
the learned languages, to which he soon after added the French and
Italian. Upon his retreat to the forest, he became first acquainted with
the writings of Waller, Spenser and Dryden; in the last of which he
immediately found what he wanted; and the poems of that excellent writer
were never out of his hands; they became his model, and from them alone
he learned the whole magic of his versification.

The first of our author's compositions now extant in print, is an Ode on
Solitude, written before he was twelve years old: Which, consider'd as
the production of so early an age, is a perfect master piece; nor need
he have been ashamed of it, had it been written in the meridian of his
genius. While it breathes the most delicate spirit of poetry, it at the
same time demonstrates his love of solitude, and the rational pleasures
which attend the retreats of a contented country life.

Two years after this he translated the first Book of Statius' Thebais,
and wrote a copy of verses on Silence, in imitation of the Earl of
Rochester's poem on Nothing[1]. Thus we find him no sooner capable of
holding the pen, than he employed it in writing verses,

"_He lisp'd [Transcriber's note: 'lips'd' in original] in Numbers, for
the Numbers came_."

Though we have had frequent opportunity to observe, that poets have
given early displays of genius, yet we cannot recollect, that among the
inspired tribe, one can be found who at the age of twelve could produce
so animated an Ode; or at the age of fourteen translate from the Latin.
It has been reported indeed, concerning Mr. Dryden, that when he was at
Westminster-School, the master who had assigned a poetical task to some
of the boys, of writing a Paraphrase on our Saviour's Miracle, of
turning Water into Wine, was perfectly astonished when young Dryden
presented him with the following line, which he asserted was the best
comment could be written upon it.

The conscious water saw its God, and blush'd.

This was the only instance of an early appearance of genius in this
great man, for he was turn'd of 30 before he acquired any reputation; an
age in which Mr. Pope's was in its full distinction.

The year following that in which Mr. Pope wrote his poem on Silence, he
began an Epic Poem, intitled Alcander, which he afterwards very
judiciously committed to the flames, as he did likewise a Comedy, and a
Tragedy; the latter taken from a story in the legend of St. Genevieve;
both of these being the product of those early days. But his Pastorals,
which were written in 1704, when he was only 16 years of age, were
esteemed by Sir William Trumbull, Mr. Granville, Mr. Wycherley, Mr.
Walsh and others of his friends, too valuable to be condemned to the
same fate.

Mr. Pope's Pastorals are four, viz.

Spring, address'd to Sir William Trumbull,
Summer, to Dr. Garth.
Autumn, to Mr. Wycherley.
Winter, in memory of Mrs. Tempest.

The three great writers of Pastoral Dialogue, which Mr. Pope in some
measure seems to imitate, are Theocritus, Virgil, and Spenser. Mr. Pope
is of opinion, that Theocritus excells all others in nature and
simplicity.

That Virgil, who copies Theocritus, refines on his original; and in all
points in which judgment has the principal part is much superior to his
master.

That among the moderns, their success has been, greatest who have most
endeavoured to make these antients their pattern. The most considerable
genius appears in the famous Tasso, and our Spenser. Tasso in his Aminta
has far excelled all the pastoral writers, as in his Gierusalemme he has
outdone the Epic Poets of his own country. But as this piece seems to
have been the original of a new sort of poem, the Pastoral Comedy, in
Italy, it cannot so well be considered as a copy of the antients.
Spenser's Calendar, in Mr. Dryden's opinion, is the most compleat work
of this kind, which any nation has produced ever since the time of
Virgil. But this he said before Mr. Pope's Pastorals appeared.

Mr. Walsh pronounces on our Shepherd's Boy (as Mr. Pope called himself)
the following judgment, in a letter to Mr. Wycherly.

'The verses are very tender and easy. The author seems to have a
particular genius for that kind of poetry, and a judgment that much
exceeds the years, you told me he was of. It is no flattery at all to
say, that Virgil had written nothing so good at his age. I shall take it
as a favour if you will bring me acquainted with him; and if he will
give himself the trouble, any morning, to call at my house, I shall be
very glad to read the verses with him, and give him him my opinion of
the particulars more largely than I can well do in this letter.'

Thus early was Mr. Pope introduced to the acquaintance of men of genius,
and so improved every advantage, that he made a more rapid progress
towards a consummation in fame, than any of our former English poets.
His Messiah; his Windsor-Forest, the first part of which was written at
the same time with his pastorals; his Essay on Criticism in 1709, and
his Rape of the Lock in 1712, established his poetical character in such
a manner, that he was called upon by the public voice, to enrich our
language with the translation of the Iliad; which he began at 25, and
executed in five years. This was published for his own benefit, by
subscription, the only kind of reward, which he received for his
writings, which do honour to our age and country: His religion rendering
him incapable of a place, which the lord treasurer Oxford used to
express his concern for, but without offering him a pension, as the earl
of Halifax, and Mr. Secretary Craggs afterwards did, though Mr. Pope
declined it.

The reputation of Mr. Pope gaining every day upon the world, he was
caressed, flattered, and railed at; according as he was feared, or loved
by different persons. Mr. Wycherley was amongst the first authors of
established reputation, who contributed to advance his fame, and with
whom he for some time lived in the most unreserved intimacy. This poet,
in his old age, conceived a design of publishing his poems, and as he
was but a very imperfect master of numbers, he entrusted his manuscripts
to Mr. Pope, and submitted them to his correction. The freedom which our
young bard was under a necessity to use, in order to polish and refine
what was in the original, rough, unharmonious, and indelicate, proved
disgustful to the old gentleman, then near 70, who, perhaps, was a
little ashamed, that a boy at 16 should so severely correct his works.
Letters of dissatisfaction were written by Mr. Wycherley, and at last he
informed him, in few words, that he was going out of town, without
mentioning to what place, and did not expect to hear from him 'till he
came back. This cold indifference extorted from Mr. Pope a protestation,
that nothing should induce him ever to write to him again.
Notwithstanding this peevish behaviour of Mr. Wycherley, occasioned by
jealousy and infirmities, Mr. Pope preserved a constant respect and
reverence for him while he lived, and after his death lamented him. In a
letter to Edward Blount, esq; written immediately upon the death of this
poet, he has there related some anecdotes of Wycherly, which we shall
insert here, especially as they are not taken notice of in his life.

'DEAR SIR,

'I know of nothing that will be so interesting to you, at present, as
some circumstances of the last act of that eminent comic poet, and our
friend, Wycherley. He had often told me, as, I doubt not, he did all his
acquaintance, that he would marry, as soon as his life was despaired of:
accordingly, a few days before his death, he underwent the ceremony, and
joined together those two sacraments, which, wise men say, should be the
last we receive; for, if you observe, matrimony is placed after extreme
unction in our catechism, as a kind of hint of the order of time in
which they are to be taken. The old man then lay down, satisfied in the
conscience of having, by this one act, paid his just debts, obliged a
woman, who, he was told, had merit, and shewn a heroic resentment of
the ill usage of his next heir. Some hundred pounds which he had with
the lady, discharged those debts; a jointure of four hundred a year made
her a recompence; and the nephew he left to comfort himself, as well as
he could, with the miserable remains of a mortgaged estate. I saw our
friend twice after this was done, less peevish in his sickness, than he
used to be in his health, neither much afraid of dying, nor (which in
him had been more likely) much ashamed of marrying. The evening before
he expired, he called his young wife to the bed side, and earnestly
entreated her not to deny him one request, the last he should ever make.
Upon her assurance of consenting to it, he told her, my dear, it is only
this, that you will never marry an old man again. I cannot help
remarking, that sickness, which often destroys both wit and wisdom, yet
seldom has power to remove that talent we call humour. Mr. Wycherley
shewed this even in this last compliment, though, I think, his request a
little hard; for why should he bar her from doubling her jointure on the
same easy terms.'

One of the most affecting and tender compositions of Mr. Pope, is, his
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady, built on a true story. We
are informed in the Life of Pope, for which Curl obtained a patent, that
this young lady was a particular favourite of the poet, though it is not
ascertained whether he himself was the person from whom she was removed.
This young lady was of very high birth, possessed an opulent fortune,
and under the tutorage of an uncle, who gave her an education suitable
to her titles and pretensions. She was esteemed a match for the greatest
peer in the realm, but, in her early years, she suffered her heart to be
engaged by a young gentleman, and in consequence of this attachment,
rejected offers made to her by persons of quality, seconded by the
sollicitations of her uncle. Her guardian being surprized at this
behaviour, set spies upon her, to find out the real cause of her
indifference. Her correspondence with her lover was soon discovered,
and, when urged upon that topic, she had too much truth and honour to
deny it. The uncle finding, that she would make no efforts to disengage
her affection, after a little time forced her abroad, where she was
received with a ceremony due to her quality, but restricted from the
conversation of every one, but the spies of this severe guardian, so
that it was impossible for her lover even to have a letter delivered to
her hands. She languished in this place a considerable time, bore an
infinite deal of sickness, and was overwhelmed with the profoundest
sorrow. Nature being wearied out with continual distress, and being
driven at last to despair, the unfortunate lady, as Mr. Pope justly
calls her, put an end to her own life, having bribed a maid servant to
procure her a sword. She was found upon the ground weltering in her
blood. The severity of the laws of the place, where this fair
unfortunate perished, denied her Christian burial, and she was interred
without solemnity, or even any attendants to perform the last offices of
the dead, except some young people of the neighbourhood, who saw her put
into common ground, and strewed the grave with flowers.

The poet in the elegy takes occasion to mingle with the tears of sorrow,
just reproaches upon her cruel uncle, who drove her to this violation.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou base betrayer of a brother's blood!
See on those ruby lips the trembling breath,
Those cheeks now fading at the blast of death:
Lifeless the breast, which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.

The conclusion of this elegy is irresistably affecting.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
Which once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame,
How lov'd, how honoured once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

No poem of our author's more deservedly obtained him reputation, than
his Essay on Criticism. Mr. Addison, in his Spectator, No. 253, has
celebrated it with such profuse terms of admiration, that it is really
astonishing, to find the same man endeavouring afterwards to diminish
that fame he had contributed to raise so high.

The art of criticism (says he) which was published some months ago, is a
master-piece in its kind. The observations follow one another, like
those in Horace's Art of Poetry, without that methodical regularity,
which would have been requisite in a prose writer. They are some of them
uncommon, but such as the reader must assent to, when he sees them
explained with that elegance and perspicuity in which they are
delivered. As for those which are the most known, and the most received,
they are placed in so beautiful a light, and illustrated with such apt
allusions, that they have in them all the graces of novelty, and make
the reader, who was before acquainted with them, still more convinced of
their truth and solidity. And here give me leave to mention, what
Monsieur Boileau has so well enlarged upon, in the preface to his works;
that wit and fine writing do not consist so much in advancing things
that are new, as in giving things that are known an agreeable turn. It
is impossible for us, who live in the latter ages of the world, to make
observations in criticism, morality, or any art and science, which have
not been touched upon by others. We have little else left us, but to
represent the common sense of mankind in more strong, more beautiful, or
more uncommon lights. If a reader examines Horace's Art of Poetry, he
will find but few precepts in it, which he may not meet with in
Aristotle, and which were not commonly known by all the poets of the
Augustan age. His way of expressing, and applying them, not his
invention of them, is what we are chiefly to admire.--

"Longinus, in his Reflexions, has given us the same kind of sublime,
which he observes in the several passages which occasioned them. I
cannot but take notice, that our English author has, after the same
manner, exemplified several of his precepts, in the very precepts
themselves." He then produces some instances of a particular kind of
beauty in the numbers, and concludes with saying, that "we have three
poems in our tongue of the same nature, and each a master-piece in its
kind: The Essay on Translated Verse, the Essay on the Art of Poetry, and
the Essay on Criticism." [Transcriber's note: Opening quotes missing in
original.]

In the Lives of Addison and Tickell, we have thrown out some general
hints concerning the quarrel which subsisted between our poet and the
former of these gentlemen; here it will not be improper to give a more
particular account of it.

The author of Mist's Journal positively asserts, 'that Mr. Addison
raised Pope from obscurity, obtained him the acquaintance and friendship
of the whole body of our nobility, and transferred his powerful
influence with those great men to this rising bard, who frequently
levied by that means, unusual contributions on the public.[Transcriber's
note: 'pubic' in original.] No sooner was his body lifeless, but this
author reviving his resentment, libelled the memory of his departed
friend, and what was still more heinous, made the scandal public.'

When this charge of ingratitude and dishonour was published against Mr.
Pope, to acquit himself of it, he called upon any nobleman, whose
friendship, or any one gentleman, whose subscription Mr. Addison had
procured to our author, to stand forth, and declare it, that truth might
appear. But the whole libel was proved a malicious story, by many
persons of distinction, who, several years before Mr. Addison's decease,
approved those verses denominated a libel, but which were, 'tis said, a
friendly rebuke, sent privately in our author's own hand, to Mr. Addison
himself, and never made public, 'till by Curl in his Miscellanies, 12mo.
1727. The lines indeed are elegantly satirical, and, in the opinion of
many unprejudiced judges, who had opportunities of knowing the character
of Mr. Addison, are no ill representation of him. Speaking of the
poetical triflers of the times, who had declared against him, he makes a
sudden transition to Addison.

Peace to all such! But were there one whose fires
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires,
Blest with each talent, and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease;
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no rival near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts, that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, others teach to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading even fools; by flatt'rers besieg'd;
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd.
Like Cato give his little senate laws,
[Transcriber's note: 'litttle' in original]
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise.
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be!
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!

Some readers may think these lines severe, but the treatment he received
from Mr. Addison, was more than sufficient to justify them, which will
appear when we particularize an interview between these two poetical
antagonists, procured by the warm sollicitations of Sir Richard Steele,
who was present at it, as well as Mr. Gay.

Mr. Jervas being one day in company with Mr. Addison, the conversation
turned upon Mr. Pope, for whom Addison, at that time, expressed the
highest regard, and assured Mr. Jervas, that he would make use not only
of his interest, but of his art likewise, to do Mr. Pope service; he
then said, he did not mean his art of poetry, but his art at court, and
protested, notwithstanding many insinuations were spread, that it shall
not be his fault, if there was not the best understanding and
intelligence between them. He observed, that Dr. Swift might have
carried him too far among the enemy, during the animosity, but now all
was safe, and Mr. Pope, in his opinion, was escaped. When Mr. Jervas
communicated this conversation to Mr. Pope, he made this reply: 'The
friendly office you endeavour to do between Mr. Addison and me deserves
acknowledgments on my part. You thoroughly know my regard to his
character, and my readiness to testify it by all ways in my power; you
also thoroughly knew the meanness of that proceeding of Mr. Phillips, to
make a man I so highly value suspect my disposition towards him. But as,
after all, Mr. Addison must be judge in what regards himself, and as he
has seemed not to be a very just one to me, so I must own to you, I
expect nothing but civility from him, how much soever I wish for his
friendship; and as for any offers of real kindness or service which it
is in his power to do me, I should be ashamed to receive them from a
man, who has no better opinion of my morals, than to think me a party
man, nor of my temper, than to believe me capable of maligning, or
envying another's reputation as a poet. In a word, Mr. Addison is sure
of my respect at all times, and of my real friendship, whenever he shall
think fit to know me for what I am.'

Some years after this conversation, at the desire of Sir Richard Steele,
they met. At first, a very cold civility, and nothing else appeared on
either side, for Mr. Addison had a natural reserve and gloom at the
beginning of an evening, which, by conversation and a glass, brightened
into an easy chearfulness. Sir Richard Steele, who was a most social
benevolent man, begged of him to fulfill his promise, in dropping all
animosity against Mr. Pope. Mr. Pope then desired to be made sensible
how he had offended; and observed, that the translation of Homer, if
that was the great crime, was undertaken at the request, and almost at
the command of Sir Richard Steele. He entreated Mr. Addison to speak
candidly and freely, though it might be with ever so much severity,
rather than by keeping up forms of complaisance, conceal any of his
faults. This Mr. Pope spoke in such a manner as plainly indicated he
thought Mr. Addison the aggressor, and expected him to condescend, and
own himself the cause of the breach between them. But he was
disappointed; for Mr. Addison, without appearing to be angry, was quite
overcome with it. He began with declaring, that he always had wished him
well, had often endeavoured to be his friend, and in that light advised
him, if his nature was capable of it, to divert himself of part of his
vanity, which was too great for his merit; that he had not arrived yet
to that pitch of excellence he might imagine, or think his most partial
readers imagined; that when he and Sir Richard Steele corrected his
verses, they had a different air; reminding Mr. Pope of the amendment
(by Sir Richard) of a line, in the poem called The MESSIAH.

He wipes the tears for ever from our eyes.

Which is taken from the prophet Isaiah,

The Lord God will wipe all tears from off all faces.

From every face he wipes off ev'ry tear.

And it stands so altered in the newer editions of Mr. Pope's works. He
proceeded to lay before him all the mistakes and inaccuracies hinted at
by the writers, who had attacked Mr. Pope, and added many things, which
he himself objected to. Speaking of his translation in general, he said,
that he was not to be blamed for endeavouring to get so large a sum of
money, but that it was an ill-executed thing, and not equal to Tickell,
which had all the spirit of Homer. Mr. Addison concluded, in a low
hollow voice of feigned temper, that he was not sollicitous about his
own fame as a poet; that he had quitted the muses to enter into the
business of the public, and that all he spoke was through friendship to
Mr. Pope, whom he advised to have a less exalted sense of his own merit.

Mr. Pope could not well bear such repeated reproaches, but boldly told
Mr. Addison, that he appealed from his judgment to the public, and that
he had long known him too well to expect any friendship from him;
upbraided him with being a pensioner from his youth, sacrificing the
very learning purchased by the public money, to a mean thirst of power;
that he was sent abroad to encourage literature, in place of which he
had always endeavoured to suppress merit. At last, the contest grew so
warm, that they parted without any ceremony, and Mr. Pope upon this
wrote the foregoing verses, which are esteemed too true a picture of Mr.
Addison.

In this account, and, indeed, in all other accounts, which have been
given concerning this quarrel, it does not appear that Mr. Pope was the
aggressor. If Mr. Addison entertained suspicions of Mr. Pope's being
carried too far among the enemy, the danger was certainly Mr. Pope's,
and not Mr. Addison's. It was his misfortune, and not his crime. If Mr.
Addison should think himself capable of becoming a rival to Mr. Pope,
and, in consequence of this opinion, publish a translation of part of
Homer; at the same time with Mr. Pope's, and if the public should decide
in favour of the latter by reading his translation, and neglecting the
other, can any fault be imputed to Mr. Pope? could he be blamed for
exerting all his abilities in so arduous a province? and was it his
fault that Mr. Addison (for the first book of Homer was undoubtedly his)
could not translate to please the public? Besides, was it not somewhat
presumptuous to insinuate to Mr. Pope, that his verses bore another face
when he corrected them, while, at the same time, the translation of
Homer, which he had never seen in manuscript, bore away the palm from
that very translation, he himself asserted was done in the true spirit
of Homer? In matters of genius the public judgment seldom errs, and in
this case posterity has confirmed the sentence of that age, which gave
the preference to Mr. Pope; for his translation is in the hands of all
readers of taste, while the other is seldom regarded but as a soil to
Pope's.

It would appear as if Mr. Addison were himself so immersed in party
business, as to contrast his benevolence to the limits of a faction:
Which was infinitely beneath the views of a philosopher, and the rules
which that excellent writer himself established. If this was the failing
of Mr. Addison, it was not the error of Pope, for he kept the strictest
correspondence with some persons, whose affections to the Whig-interest
were suspected, yet was his name never called in question. While he was
in favour with the duke of Buckingham, the lords Bolingbroke, Oxford,
and Harcourt, Dr. Swift, and Mr. Prior, he did not drop his
correspondence with the lord Hallifax, Mr. Craggs, and most of those who
were at the head of the Whig interest. A professed Jacobite one day
remonstrated to Mr. Pope, that the people of his party took it ill that
he should write with Mr. Steele upon ever so indifferent a subject; at
which he could not help smiling, and observed, that he hated narrowness
of soul in any party; and that if he renounced his reason in religious
matters, he should hardly do it on any other, and that he could pray not
only for opposite parties, but even for opposite religions. Mr. Pope
considered himself as a citizen of the world, and was therefore obliged
to pray for the prosperity of mankind in general. As a son of Britain he
wished those councils might be suffered by providence to prevail, which
were most for the interest of his native country: But as politics was
not his study, he could not always determine, at least, with any degree
of certainty, whose councils were best; and had charity enough to
believe, that contending parties might mean well. As taste and science
are confined to no country, so ought they not to be excluded from any
party, and Mr. Pope had an unexceptionable right to live upon terms of
the strictest friendship with every man of parts, to which party soever
he might belong. Mr. Pope's uprightness in his conduct towards
contending politicians, is demonstrated by his living independent of
either faction. He accepted no place, and had too high a spirit to
become a pensioner.

Many effects however were made to proselyte him from the Popish faith,
which all proved ineffectual. His friends conceived hopes from the
moderation which he on all occasions expressed, that he was really a
Protestant in his heart, and that upon the death of his mother, he would
not scruple to declare his sentiments, notwithstanding the reproaches he
might incur from the Popish party, and the public observation it would
draw upon him. The bishop of Rochester strongly advised him to read the
controverted points between the Protestant and the Catholic church, to
suffer his unprejudiced reason to determine for him, and he made no
doubt, but a separation from the Romish communion would soon ensue. To
this Mr. Pope very candidly answered, 'Whether the change would be to my
spiritual advantage, God only knows: This I know, that I mean as well in
the religion I now profess, as ever I can do in any other. Can a man who
thinks so, justify a change, even if he thought both equally good? To
such an one, the part of joining with any one body of Christians might
perhaps be easy, but I think it would not be so to renounce the other.

'Your lordship has formerly advised me to read the best controversies
between the churches. Shall I tell you a secret? I did so at 14 years
old (for I loved reading, and my father had no other books) there was a
collection of all that had been written on both sides, in the reign of
King James II. I warmed my head with them, and the consequence was, I
found myself a Papist, or a Protestant by turns, according to the last
book I read. I am afraid most seekers are in the same case, and when
they stop, they are not so properly converted, as outwitted. You see how
little glory you would gain by my conversion: and after all, I verily
believe, your lordship and I are both of the same religion, if we were
thoroughly understood by one another, and that all honest and reasonable
Christians would be so, if they did but talk enough together every day,
and had nothing to do together but to serve God, and live in peace with
their neighbours.

"As to the temporal side of the question, I can have no dispute with
you; it is certain, all the beneficial circumstances of life, and all
the shining ones, lie on the part you would invite me to. But if I could
bring myself to fancy, what I think you do but fancy, that I have any
talents for active life, I want health for it; and besides it is a real
truth. I have, if possible, less inclination, than ability.
Contemplative life is not only my scene, but is my habit too. I begun my
life where most people end theirs, with all that the world calls
ambition. I don't know why it is called so, for, to me, it always seemed
to be stooping, or climbing. I'll tell you my politic and religious
sentiments in a few words. In my politics, I think no farther, than how
to preserve my peace of life, in any government under which I live; nor
in my religion, than to preserve the peace of my conscience, in any
church with which I communicate. I hope all churches, and all
governments are so far of God, as they are rightly understood, and
rightly administered; and where they are, or may be wrong, I leave it to
God alone to mend, or reform them, which, whenever he does, it must be
by greater instruments than I am. I am not a Papist, for I renounce the
temporal invasions of the papal power, and detest their arrogated
authority over Princes and States. I am a Catholic in the strictest
sense of the word. If I was born under an absolute Prince, I would be a
quiet subject; but, I thank God, I was not. I have a due sense of the
excellence of the British constitution. In a word, the things I have
always wished to see, are not a Roman Catholic, or a French Catholic, or
a Spanish Catholic, but a True Catholic; and not a King of Whigs, or
[Transcriber's note: repeated 'or' removed] a King of Tories, but a King
of England."

These are the peaceful maxims upon which we find Mr. Pope conducted his
life, and if they cannot in some respects be justified, yet it must be
owned, that his religion and his politics were well enough adapted for a
poet, which entitled him to a kind of universal patronage, and to make
every good man his friend.

Dean Swift sometimes wrote to Mr. Pope on the topic of changing his
religion, and once humorously offered him twenty pounds for that
purpose. Mr. Pope's answer to this, lord Orrery has obliged the world by
preserving in the life of Swift. It is a perfect master-piece of wit and
pleasantry.

We have already taken notice, that Mr. Pope was called upon by the
public voice to translate the Iliad, which he performed with so much
applause, and at the same time, with so much profit to himself, that he
was envied by many writers, whose vanity perhaps induced them to believe
themselves equal to so great a design. A combination of inferior wits
were employed to write The Popiad, in which his translation is
characterized, as unjust to the original, without beauty of language, or
variety of numbers. Instead of the justness of the original, they say
there is absurdity and extravagance. Instead of the beautiful language
of the original, there is solecism and barbarous English. A candid
reader may easily discern from this furious introduction, that the
critics were actuated rather by malice than truth, and that they must
judge with their eyes shut, who can see no beauty of language, no
harmony of numbers in this translation.

But the most formidable critic against Mr. Pope in this great
undertaking, was the celebrated Madam Dacier, whom Mr. Pope treated with
less ceremony in his Notes on the Iliad, than, in the opinion of some
people, was due to her sex. This learned lady was not without a sense of
the injury, and took an opportunity of discovering her resentment.

"Upon finishing (says she) the second edition of my translation of
Homer, a particular friend sent me a translation of part of Mr. Pope's
preface to his Version of the Iliad. As I do not understand English, I
cannot form any judgment of his performance, though I have heard much of
it. I am indeed willing to believe, that the praises it has met with are
not unmerited, because whatever work is approved by the English nation,
cannot be bad; but yet I hope I may be permitted to judge of that part
of the preface, which has been transmitted to me, and I here take the
liberty of giving my sentiments concerning it. I must freely acknowledge
that Mr. Pope's invention is very lively, though he seems to have been
guilty of the same fault into which he owns we are often precipitated by
our invention, when we depend too much upon the strength of it; as
magnanimity (says he) may run up to confusion and extravagance, so may
great invention to redundancy and wildness.

"This has been the very case of Mr. Pope himself; nothing is more
overstrained, or more false than the images in which his fancy has
represented Homer; sometimes he tells us, that the Iliad is a wild
paradise, where, if we cannot see all the beauties, as in an ordered
garden, it is only because the number of them is infinitely greater.
Sometimes he compares him to a copious nursery, which contains the seeds
and first productions of every kind; and, lastly, he represents him
under the notion of a mighty tree, which rises from the most vigorous
seed, is improved with industry, flourishes and produces the finest
fruit, but bears too many branches, which might be lopped into form, to
give it a more regular appearance.

"What! is Homer's poem then, according to Mr. Pope, a confused heap of
beauties, without order or symmetry, and a plot whereon nothing but
seeds, nor nothing perfect or formed is to be found; and a production
loaded with many unprofitable things which ought to be retrenched, and
which choak and disfigure those which deserve to be preserved? Mr. Pope
will pardon me if I here oppose those comparisons, which to me appear
very false, and entirely contrary to what the greatest of ancient, and
modern critics ever thought.

"The Iliad is so far from being a wild paradise, that it is the most
regular garden, and laid out with more symmetry than any ever was. Every
thing herein is not only in the place it ought to have been, but every
thing is fitted for the place it hath. He presents you at first with
that which ought to be first seen; he places in the middle what ought to
be in the middle, and what would be improperly placed at the beginning
or end, and he removes what ought to be at a greater distance, to create
the more agreeable surprize; and, to use a comparison drawn from
painting, he places that in the greatest light which cannot be too
visible, and sinks in the obscurity of the shade, what does not require
a full view; so that it may be said, that Homer is the Painter who best
knew how to employ the shades and lights. The second comparison is
equally unjust; how could Mr. Pope say, 'that one can only discover
seeds, and the first productions of every kind in the Iliad?' every
beauty is there to such an amazing perfection, that the following ages
could add nothing to those of any kind; and the ancients have always
proposed Homer, as the most perfect model in every kind of poetry.

"The third comparison is composed of the errors of the two former; Homer
had certainly an incomparable fertility of invention, but his fertility
is always checked by that just sense, which made him reject every
superfluous thing which his vast imagination could offer, and to retain
only what was necessary and useful. Judgment guided the hand of this
admirable gardener, and was the pruning hook he employed to lop off
every useless branch."

Thus far Madam Dacier differs in her opinion from Mr. Pope concerning
Homer; but these remarks which we have just quoted, partake not at all
of the nature of criticism; they are meer assertion. Pope had declared
Homer to abound with irregular beauties. Dacier has contradicted him,
and asserted, that all his beauties are regular, but no reason is
assigned by either of these mighty geniuses in support of their
opinions, and the reader is left in the dark, as to the real truth. If
he is to be guided by the authority of a name only, no doubt the
argument will preponderate in favour of our countryman. The French lady
then proceeds to answer some observations, which Mr. Pope made upon her
Remarks on the Iliad, which she performs with a warmth that generally
attends writers of her sex. Mr. Pope, however, paid more regard to this
fair antagonist, than any other critic upon his works. He confessed that
he had received great helps from her, and only thought she had (through
a prodigious, and almost superstitious, fondness for Homer) endeavoured
to make him appear without any fault, or weakness, and stamp a
perfection on his works, which is no where to be found. He wrote her a
very obliging letter, in which he confessed himself exceedingly sorry
that he ever should have displeased so excellent a wit, and she, on the
other hand, with a goodness and frankness peculiar to her, protested to
forgive it, so that there remained no animosities between those two
great admirers and translators of Homer.

Mr. Pope, by his successful translation of the Iliad, as we have before
remarked, drew upon him the envy and raillery of a whole tribe of
writers. Though he did not esteem any particular man amongst his enemies
of consequence enough to provoke an answer, yet when they were
considered collectively, they offered excellent materials for a general
satire. This satire he planned and executed with so extraordinary a
mastery, that it is by far the most compleat poem of our author's; it
discovers more invention, and a higher effort of genius, than any other
production of his. The hint was taken from Mr. Dryden's Mac Flecknoe,
but as it is more general, so it is more pleasing. The Dunciad is so
universally read, that we reckon it superfluous to give any further
account of it here; and it would be an unpleasing task to trace all the
provocations and resentments, which were mutually discovered upon this
occasion. Mr. Pope was of opinion, that next to praising good writers,
there was a merit in exposing bad ones, though it does not hold
infallibly true, that each person stigmatized as a dunce, was genuinely
so. Something must be allowed to personal resentment; Mr. Pope was a man
of keen passions; he felt an injury strongly, retained a long
remembrance of it, and could very pungently repay it. Some of the
gentlemen, however, who had been more severely lashed than the rest,
meditated a revenge, which redounds but little to their honour. They
either intended to chastize him corporally, or gave it out that they had
really done so, in order to bring shame upon Mr. Pope, which, if true,
could only bring shame upon themselves.

While Mr. Pope enjoyed any leisure from severer applications to study,
his friends were continually solliciting him to turn his thoughts
towards something that might be of lasting use to the world, and engage
no more in a war with dunces who were now effectually humbled. Our great
dramatic poet Shakespear had pass'd through several hands, some of whom
were very reasonably judged not to have understood any part of him
tolerably, much less were capable to correct or revise him.

The friends of Mr. Pope therefore strongly importuned him, to undertake
the whole of Shakespear's plays, and, if possible, by comparing all the
different copies now to be procured, restore him to his ancient purity.
To which our poet made this modest reply, that not having attempted any
thing in the Drama, it might in him be deemed too much presumption. To
which he was answered, that this did not require great knowledge of the
foundation and disposition of the drama, as that must stand as it was,
and Shakespear [Transcriber's note: 'Skakespear' in original] himself
had not always paid strict regard to the rules of it; but this was to
clear the scenes from the rubbish with which ignorant editors had filled
them.

His proper business in this work was to render the text so clear as to
be generally understood, to free it from obscurities, and sometimes
gross absurdities, which now seem to appear in it, and to explain
doubtful and difficult passages of which there are great numbers. This
however was an arduous province, and how Mr. Pope has acquitted himself
in it has been differently determined: It is certain he never valued
himself upon that performance, nor was it a task in the least adapted to
his genius; for it seldom happens that a man of lively parts can undergo
the servile drudgery of collecting passages, in which more industry and
labour are necessary than persons of quick penetration generally have to
bestow.

It has been the opinion of some critics, that Mr. Pope's talents were
not adapted for the drama, otherwise we cannot well account for his
neglecting the most gainful way of writing which poetry affords,
especially as his reputation was so high, that without much ceremony or
mortification, he might have had any piece of his brought upon the
stage. Mr. Pope was attentive to his own interest, and if he had not
either been conscious of his inability in that province, or too timid to
wish the popular approbation, he would certainly have attempted the
drama. Neither was he esteemed a very competent judge of what plays were
proper or improper for representation. He wrote several letters to the
manager of Drury-Lane Theatre, in favour of Thomson's Agamemnon, which
notwithstanding his approbation, Thomson's friends were obliged to
mutulate and shorten; and after all it proved a heavy play.--Though it
was generally allowed to have been one of the best acted plays that had
appeared for some years.

He was certainly concerned in the Comedy, which was published in Mr.
Gay's name, called Three Hours after Marriage, as well as Dr. Arbuthnot.
This illustrious triumvirate, though men of the most various parts, and
extensive understanding, yet were not able it seems to please the
people, tho' the principal parts were supported by the best actors in
that way on the stage. Dr. Arbuthnot and Mr. Pope were no doubt
solicitous to conceal their concern in it; but by a letter which Gay
wrote to Pope, published in Ayre's Memoirs, it appears evident (if
Ayre's authority may be depended on) that they, both assisted in the
composition.

DEAR POPE,

'Too late I see, and confess myself mistaken in relation to the Comedy;
yet I do not think, had I followed your advice, and only introduced the
mummy, that the absence of the crocodile had saved it. I can't help
laughing myself (though the vulgar do not consider it was designed to
look ridiculous) to think how the poor monster and mummy were dashed at
their reception, and when the cry was loudest, I thought that if the
thing had been written by another, I should have deemed the town in some
measure mistaken; and as to your apprehension that this may do us future
injury, do not think of it; the Dr. has a more valuable name than can be
hurt by any thing of this nature; and your's is doubly safe. I will, if
any shame there be, take it all to myself, and indeed I ought, the
motion being first mine, and never heartily approved by you.'

Of all our poet's writings none were read with more general approbation
than his Ethic Epistles, or multiplied into more editions. Mr. Pope who
was a perfect oeconomist, secured to himself the profits arising from
his own works; he was never subjected to necessity, and therefore was
not to be imposed upon by the art or fraud of publishers.

But now approaches the period in which as he himself expressed it, he
stood in need of the generous tear he paid,

Posts themselves must fall like those they sung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays.

Mr. Pope who had been always subjected to a variety of bodily
infirmities, finding his strength give way, began to think that his
days, which had been prolonged past his expectation, were drawing
towards a conclusion. However, he visited the Hot-Wells at Bristol,
where for some time there were small hopes of his recovery; but making
too free with purges he grew worse, and seemed desirous to draw nearer
home. A dropsy in the breast at last put a period to his life, at the
age of 56, on the 30th of May 1744, at his house at Twickenham, where he
was interred in the same grave with his father and mother.

Mr. Pope's behaviour in his last illness has been variously represented
to the world: Some have affirmed that it was timid and peevish; that
having been fixed in no particular system of faith, his mind was
wavering, and his temper broken and disturb'd. Others have asserted that
he was all chearfulness and resignation to the divine will: Which of
these opinions is true we cannot now determine; but if the former, it
must be regretted, that he, who had taught philosophy to others, should
himself be destitute of its assistance in the most critical moments of
his life.

The bulk of his fortune he bequeath'd to Mrs. Blount, with whom he lived
in the strictest friendship, and for whom he is said to have entertained
the warmest affection. His works, which are in the hands of every person
of true taste, and will last as long as our language will be understood,
render unnecessary all further remarks on his writings. He was equally
admired for the dignity and sublimity of his moral and philosophical
works, the vivacity of his satirical, the clearness and propriety of his
didactic, the richness and variety of his descriptive, and the elegance
of all, added to an harmony of versification and correctness of
sentiment and language, unknown to our former poets, and of which he has
set an example which will be an example or a reproach to his successors.
His prose-stile is as perfect in its kind as his poetic, and has all the
beauties proper for it, joined to an uncommon force and perspicuity.

Under the profession of the Roman-Catholic religion, to which he adhered
to the last, he maintained all the moderation and charity becoming the
most thorough and confident Protestant. His conversation was natural,
easy and agreeable, without any affectation of displaying his wit, or
obtruding his own judgment, even upon subjects of which he was so
eminently a master.

The moral character of our author, as it did not escape the lash of his
calumniators in his life; so have there been attempts since his death to
diminish his reputation. Lord Bolingbroke, whom Mr. Pope esteemed to
almost an enthusiastic degree of admiration, was the first to make this
attack. Not many years ago, the public were entertained with this
controversy immediately upon the publication of his lordship's Letters
on the Spirit of Patriotism, and the Idea of a Patriot King. Different
opinions have been offered, some to extenuate the fault of Mr. Pope, for
printing and mutilating these letters, without his lordship's knowledge;
others to blame him for it as the highest breach of friendship, and the
greatest mark of dishonour. It would exceed our proposed bounds to enter
into the merits of this controversy; the reader, no doubt, will find it
amply discussed in that account of the life of this great author, which
Mr. Warburton has promised the public.

This great man is allowed to have been one of the first rank amongst the
poets of our nation, and to acknowledge the superiority of none but
Shakespear, Milton, and Dryden. With the two former, it is unnatural to
compare him, as their province in writing is so very different. Pope has
never attempted the drama, nor published an Epic Poem, in which these
two distinguished genius's have so wonderfully succeeded. Though Pope's
genius was great, it was yet of so different a cast from Shakespear's,
and Milton's, that no comparison can be justly formed. But if this may
be said of the former two, it will by no means hold with respect to the
later, for between him and Dryden, there is a great similarity of
writing, and a very striking coincidence of genius. It will not perhaps
be unpleasing to our readers, if we pursue this comparison, and
endeavour to discover to whom the superiority is justly to be
attributed, and to which of them poetry owes the highest obligations.

When Dryden came into the world, he found poetry in a very imperfect
state; its numbers were unpolished; its cadences rough, and there was
nothing of harmony or mellifluence to give it a graceful of flow. In
this harsh, unmusical situation, Dryden found it (for the refinements of
Waller were but puerile and unsubstantial) he polished the rough
diamond, he taught it to shine, and connected beauty, elegance, and
strength, in all his poetical compositions. Though Dryden thus polished
our English numbers, and thus harmonized versification, it cannot be
said, that he carried his art to perfection. Much was yet left undone;
his lines with all their smoothness were often rambling, and expletives
were frequently introduced to compleat his measures. It was apparent
therefore that an additional harmony might still be given to our
numbers, and that cadences were yet capable of a more musical
modulation. To effect this purpose Mr. Pope arose, who with an ear
elegantly delicate, and the advantage of the finest genius, so
harmonized the English numbers, as to make them compleatly musical. His
numbers are likewise so minutely correct, that it would be difficult to
conceive how any of his lines can be altered to to advantage. He has
created a kind of mechanical versification; every line is alike; and
though they are sweetly musical, they want diversity, for he has not
studied so great a variety of pauses, and where the accents may be laid
gracefully. The structure of his verse is the best, and a line of his is
more musical than any other line can be made, by placing the accents
elsewhere; but we are not quite certain, whether the ear is not apt to
be soon cloy'd with this uniformity of elegance, this sameness of
harmony. It must be acknowledged however, that he has much improved upon
Dryden in the article of versification, and in that part of poetry is
greatly his superior. But though this must be acknowledged, perhaps it
will not necessarily follow that his genius was therefore superior.

The grand characteristic of a poet is his invention, the surest
distinction of a great genius. In Mr. Pope, nothing is so truly original
as his Rape of the Lock, nor discovers so much invention. In this kind
of mock-heroic, he is without a rival in our language, for Dryden has
written nothing of the kind. His other work which discovers invention,
fine designing, and admirable execution, is his Dunciad; which, tho'
built on Dryden's Mac Flecknoe, is yet so much superior, that in satiric
writing, the Palm must justly be yielded to him. In Mr. Dryden's Absalom
and Achitophel, there are indeed the most poignant strokes of satire,
and characters drawn with the most masterly touches; but this poem with
all its excellencies is much inferior to the Dunciad, though Dryden had
advantages which Mr. Pope had not; for Dryden's characters are men of
great eminence and figure in the state, while Pope has to expose men of
obscure birth and unimportant lives only distinguished from the herd of
mankind, by a glimmering of genius, which rendered the greatest part of
them more emphatically contemptible. Pope's was the hardest task, and he
has executed it with the greatest success. As Mr. Dryden must
undoubtedly have yielded to Pope in satyric writing, it is incumbent on
the partizans of Dryden to name another species of composition, in which
the former excells so as to throw the ballance again upon the side of
Dryden. This species is the Lyric, in which the warmest votaries of Pope
must certainly acknowledge, that he is much inferior; as an irrefutable
proof of this we need only compare Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's
Day, with Mr. Pope's; in which the disparity is so apparent, that we
know not if the most finished of Pope's compositions has discovered such
a variety and command of numbers.

It hath been generally acknowledged, that the Lyric is a more excellent
kind of writing than the Satiric; and consequently he who excells in the
most excellent species, must undoubtedly be esteemed the greatest poet.
--Mr. Pope has very happily succeeded in many of his occasional pieces,
such as Eloisa to Abelard, his Elegy on an unfortunate young Lady, and a
variety of other performances deservedly celebrated. To these may be
opposed Mr. Dryden's Fables, which though written in a very advanced
age, are yet the most perfect of his works. In these Fables there is
perhaps a greater variety than in Pope's occasional pieces: Many of them
indeed are translations, but such as are original shew a great extent of
invention, and a large compass of genius.

There are not in Pope's works such poignant discoveries of wit, or such
a general knowledge of the humours and characters of men, as in the
Prologues and Epilogues of Dryden, which are the best records of the
whims and capricious oddities of the times in which they are written.

When these two great genius's are considered in the light of
translators, it will indeed be difficult to determine into whose scale
the ballance should be thrown: That Mr. Pope had a more arduous province
in doing justice to Homer, than Dryden with regard to Virgil is
certainly true; as Homer is a more various and diffuse poet than Virgil;
and it is likewise true, that Pope has even exceeded Dryden in the
execution, and none will deny, that Pope's Homer's Iliad, is a finer
poem than Dryden's Aeneis of Virgil: Making a proper allowance for the
disproportion of the original authors. But then a candid critic should
reflect, that as Dryden was prior in the great attempt of rendering
Virgil into English, so did he perform the task under many
disadvantages, which Pope, by a happier situation in life, was enabled
to avoid; and could not but improve upon Dryden's errors, though the
authors translated were not the same: And it is much to be doubted, if
Dryden were to translate the Aeneid now, with that attention which the
correctness of the present age would force upon him, whether the
preference would be due to Pope's Homer.

But supposing it to be yielded (as it certainly must) that the latter
bard was the greatest translator; we are now to throw into Mr. Dryden's
scale all his dramatic works; which though not the most excellent of his
writings, yet as nothing of Mr. Pope's can be opposed to them, they have
an undoubted right to turn the ballance greatly in favour of Mr.
Dryden.--When the two poets are considered as critics, the comparison
will very imperfectly hold. Dryden's Dedications and Prefaces, besides
that they are more numerous, and are the best models for courtly
panegyric, shew that he understood poetry as an art, beyond any man that
ever lived. And he explained this art so well, that he taught his
antagonists to turn the tables against himself; for he so illuminated
the mind by his clear and perspicuous reasoning, that dullness itself
became capable of discerning; and when at any time his performances fell
short of his own ideas of excellence; his enemies tried him by rules of
his own establishing; and though they owed to him the ability of
judging, they seldom had candour enough to spare him.

Perhaps it may be true that Pope's works are read with more appetite, as
there is a greater evenness and correctness in them; but in perusing the
works of Dryden the mind will take a wider range, and be more fraught
with poetical ideas: We admire Dryden as the greater genius, and Pope as
the most pleasing versifier.

ERRATA in the foregoing life, viz.

P. 237. l. 27. for with all that the world calls ambition, read with _a
disgust of_ all, &c. And l. 29. for 'stooping or climbing' read,
_rather_ stooping _than_ climbing.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] See a Note in Warburton's Edition of Pope's Works.

* * * * *

AARON HILL, Esq;[1]

Was the son of George Hill, esq; of Malmsbury-Abbey in Wiltshire; a
gentleman possessed of an estate of about 2000 l. a year, which was
entailed upon him, and the eldest son, and to his heirs for many
descents. But the unhappy misconduct of Mr. George Hill, and the
weakness of the trustees, entangled it in such a manner as hitherto has
rendered it of no advantage to his family; for, without any legal title
so to do, he sold it all, at different times, for sums greatly beneath
the value of it, and left his children to their mother's care, and her
mother's (Mrs. Ann Gregory) who took great pains with her grandson's
education. At nine years old she put him to school to Mr. Rayner at
Barnstable in Devonshire, from whence, he went to Westminster school;
where soon (under the care of Dr. Knipe) his genius shewed itself in a
distinguished light, and often made him some amends for his hard
fortune, which denied him such supplies of pocket-money as his spirit
wished, by enabling him to perform the tasks of many who had not his
capacity.

Mr. Aaron Hill, was born in Beaufort-Buildings in the Strand, on
February 10, 1684-5. At fourteen years of age he left Westminster
school; and, shortly after, hearing his grandmother make mention of a
relation much esteemed (lord Paget, then ambassador at Constantinople)
he formed a resolution of paying him a visit there, being likewise very
desirous to see that empire.

His grandmother being a woman of uncommon understanding, and great
good-nature, would not oppose him in it; and accordingly he soon
embark'd on board a ship, then going there, March 2, 1700, as appears by
a Journal which he kept during his voyage, and in his travels (though at
so weak an age) wherein he gave the most accurate account of every
particular, in a manner much above his years.

When he arrived, lord Paget received him with as much surprize, as
pleasure, wondering that so young a person as he was (but then in his
fifteenth year) should chuse to run the hazard of such a voyage to visit
a relation, whom he knew but by character. The ambassador immediately
provided for him a very learned ecclesiastic in his own house, and,
under his tuition, sent him to travel, being desirous to improve, as far
as possible, the education of a person he found worthy of it. With this
tutor he had the opportunity of seeing Egypt, Palestine, and a great
part of the Eastern country.

With lord Paget he returned home, about the year 1703, through great
part of Europe; in which tour he saw most of the courts.

He was in great esteem with that nobleman; insomuch, that in all
probability he had been still more distinguished by him at his death,
than in his life time, had not the envious fears and malice of a certain
female, who was in high authority and favour with that lord, prevented
and supplanted his kind disposition towards him: My lord took great
pleasure in instructing him himself, wrote him whole books in different
languages, on which his student placed the greatest value; which was no
sooner taken notice of by jealous observation, than they were stolen
from his apartment, and suffered to be some days missing, to the great
displeasure of my lord, but still much greater affliction of his pupil,
whose grief for losing a treasure he so highly valued, was more than
doubled, by perceiving that from some false insinuation that had been
made, it was believed he had himself wilfully lost them: But young Mr.
Hill was soon entirely cleared on this head.

A few years after, he was desired both on account of his sobriety and
understanding, to accompany Sir William Wentworth, a worthy baronet of
Yorkshire, who was then going to make the tour of Europe; with whom he
travelled two or three years, and brought him home improved, to the
satisfaction of that gentleman's relations.

'Twas in those different travels he collected matter for the history he
wrote of Turkey, and published in 1709; a work he afterwards often
repented having printed; and (though his own) would criticise upon it
with much severity. (But, as he used to say, he was a very boy when he
began and ended it; therefore great allowance may be made on that
account); and in a letter which has since been printed in his works,
wrote to his greatly valued friend, the worthy author of Clarissa, he
acknowledges his consciousness of such defects: where speaking of
obscurity, he says,

'Obscurity, indeed (if they had penetration to mean that) is burying
sense alive, and some of my rash, early, too affected, puerile
scriblings must, and should, have pleaded guilty to so just an
accusation.'

The fire of youth, with an imagination lively as his was, seldom, if
ever, go hand in hand with solid judgment. Mr. Hill did not give himself
indeed time for correction, having wrote it so very expeditiously, as
hardly would be credited. But (as Dr. Sprat, then bishop of Rochester,
used to observe) there is certainly visible in that book, the seeds of a
great writer.--He seldom in his riper years was guilty of the fault of
non-correction; for he revis'd, too strictly rather, every piece he
purposed for the public eye (exclusive of an author's natural fondness);
and it has been believed by many, who have read some of his pieces in
the first copy, that had they never been by a revisal deepened
[Transcriber's note: 'deepned' in original] into greater strength, they
would have pleased still more, at least more generally.

About the year 1709 he published his first poem, called Camillus; in
vindication, and honour of the earl of Peterborough, who had been
general in Spain. After that nobleman had seen it, he was desirous to
know who was the author of it; which having found by enquiry, he
complimented him by making him his secretary, in the room of Mr. Furly,
who was gone abroad with another nobleman: And Mr. Hill was always held
in high esteem with that great peer; with whom, however, he did not
continue long; for in the year 1710 he married the only daughter of
Edmund Morris, Esq; of Stratford, in Essex; with whom he had a very
handsome fortune: By her he had nine children, four of whom (a son, and
three daughters) are still living.

In 1709 he was made master of the Theatre in Drury-Lane; and then, at
the desire of Mr. Barton Booth, wrote his first Tragedy, (Elfrid, or the
Fair Inconstant) which from his first beginning of it he compleated in a
little more than a week.--The following year, 1710, he was master of the
Opera House in the Hay-Market; and then wrote an Opera called Rinaldo,
which met with great success: It was the first which that admirable
genius Mr. Handel compos'd, after he came to England; (this he dedicated
to Queen Anne).--His genius was adapted greatly to the business of the
stage; and while he held the management, he conducted both Theatres,
intirely to the satisfaction of the public.--But in a few months he
relinquished it, from some misunderstanding with the then lord
chamberlain; and though he was soon after sollicited to take that charge
again upon him (by a person the highest in command) he still declined
it.

From that time he bent his thoughts on studies far more solid and
desirable to him; to views of public benefit: For his mind was ardently
devoted to the pursuit of general improvement. But, as one genius seldom
is adapted to both theory and practice; so in the execution of a variety
of undertakings, the most advantageous in themselves, by some
mismanagement of those concerned with him, he fail'd of the success his
labours merited.

As in particular, in an affair he set on foot about the year 1715, and
was the sole discoverer of, for which he had a patent; the making of an
Oil, as sweet as that from Olives, from the Beech-Nuts: But this being
an undertaking of a great extent, he was obliged to work conjointly with
other men's assistance, and materials; whence arose disputes among them,
which terminated in the overthrowing the advantage then arising from it;
which otherwise might have been great and lasting.

This, has occasioned that affair to be misunderstood by many; it
therefore may not be thought improper, here, to set it in a juster
light; and this cannot more exactly be given, than from his own words,
called, A fair state of the Account, published in the year 1716.

'An impartial state of the case, between the patentee, annuitants, and
sharers, in the Beech-Oil-Company.'--Some part of which is here
recited.

'The disappointments of the Beech-Oil-Company this year have made
abundance of sharers peevish; the natural effect of peevishness is
clamour, and clamour like a tide will work itself a passage, where it
has no right of flowing; some gentlemen, misled by false conceptions
both of the affair and its direction, have driven their discontent
through a mistaken chanel, and inclined abundance who are strangers to
the truth, to accuse the patentee of faults, he is not only absolutely
free from, but by which he is, of all concern'd, the greatest sufferer.

'But, he is not angry with the angry; he considers they must take things
as they hear them represented; he governs all his actions by this
general maxim; never to be moved at a reproach, unless it be a just one.

'In October 1713 the patentee procured a grant for fourteen years, to
him and his assigns, for the Beech-Oil invention.

'Anno 1714, he made and published proposals, for taking a subscription
of 20,000 l. upon the following conditions;

'That every subscriber should receive, by half yearly payments, at
Lady-Day and Michaelmas, during the continuance of the patent from
Lady-Day 1715, inclusive, an annuity amounting to fifty-pound per cent,
for any sum subscribed, excepting a deduction for the payment of the
directors.

'That nine directors should be chosen on midsummer-day, who should
receive complaints upon non-payments of annuities; and in such case,
upon refusal, any five of the nine directors had power to meet and chuse
a governor from among themselves, enrolling that choice in chancery,
together with the reasons for it.

'That after such choice and enrollment, the patentee should stand
absolutely excluded, the business be carried on, and all the right of
the grant be vested (not as a mortgage, but as a sale without
redemption) in the governor so chosen, for the joint advantage of the
annuitants, in proportion to their several interests.

'As a security for making good the articles, the patentee did, by
indenture enrolled in chancery, assign and make over his patent to
trustees, in the indenture named, for the uses above-mentioned.

'In the mean time the first half yearly payments to the annuitants,
amounting to 3750 l. became due, and the company not being yet
compleated, the patentee himself discharged it, and has never reckon'd
that sum to the account between him and the company; which he might have
done by virtue of the articles on which he gave admission to the
sharers.

'For the better explanation of this scheme it will be necessary to
observe, that while the shares were selling, he grew apprehensive that
the season would be past, before the fifty pounds per share they were to
furnish by the articles could be contributed: He therefore gave up
voluntarily, and for the general good, 20,000 l. of his own 25,000
guineas purchase money, as a loan to the company till the expiration of
the patent, after which it was again to be made good to him, or his
assigns; and this money so lent by the patentee, is all the stock that
ever has been hitherto employed by the company.

'But instead of making good the above-mentioned conditional covenant,
the board proceeded to unnecessary warmth, and found themselves involved
still more and more in animosities, and those irregularities which
naturally follow groundless controversy. He would therefore take upon
himself the hazard and the power of the whole affair, accountable
however to the board, as to the money part; and yet would bind himself
to pay for three years to come, a profit of forty shillings per annum
upon every share, and then deliver back the business to the general
care, above the reach of future disappointments.

'What reasons the gentlemen might have to refuse so inviting an offer is
best known to themselves; but they absolutely rejected that part of it,
which was to fix the sole power of management in the patentee. Upon
which, and many other provocations afterward, becoming more and more
dissatisfied, he thought fit to demand repayment of five hundred pounds,
which he had lent the company; as he had several other sums before; and
not receiving it, but, on the contrary, being denied so much as an
acknowledgment that it was due, withdrew himself intirely from the
board, and left them to their measures.

'Thus at the same time have I offered my defence, and my opinion: By the
first I am sure I shall be acquitted from all imputations; and confirmed
in the good thoughts of the concerned on either side, who will know for
the future what attention they should give to idle reflections, and the
falsehood of rumour; and from the last, I have hopes that a plan may be
drawn, which will settle at once all disputed pretensions, and restore
that fair prospect, which the open advantage of last year's success
(indifferent as it was) has demonstrated to be a view that was no way
chimerical.--

'They know how to judge of malicious insinuations to my prejudice, by
this _one most scandalous example_, which has been given by the
endeavours of some to persuade the out-sharers that I have made an
extravagant _profit_ from the _losses_ of the adventurers. Whereas on
the contrary, out of _Twenty-five Thousand Guineas_, which was the whole
I should have received by the sale of the shares, I have given up
_Twenty Thousand Pounds_ to the use of the company, and to the annuities
afterward; and three thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds more I paid
to the annuitants, at Lady-Day 1715, on the company's account; and have
never demanded it again, in consideration of their disappointments the
first year.

'So that it plainly appears, that out of twenty-five thousand guineas, I
have given away in two articles only, twenty-three thousand seven
hundred and fifty pounds for the public advantage. And I can easily
prove, that the little remainder has been short of making good the
charges I have been at for their service; by which means I am not one
farthing a gainer by the company, notwithstanding the clamour and malice
of some unthinking adventurers: And for the truth of all this, I appeal
to their own _Office-Books_, and defy the most angry among them to deny
any article of it. See then what a grateful and generous encouragement
may be expected by men, who would dedicate their labours to the profit
of others.

November the 30th. 1716. A. HILL.'

This, and much more, too tedious to insert, serves to demonstrate that
it was a great misfortune, for a mind so fertile of invention and
improvement, to be embarrassed by a narrow power of fortune; too weak
alone to execute such undertakings.

About the same year he wrote another Tragedy, intitled [Transcriber's
note: 'intiled' in original] the Fatal Vision[2], or the Fall of Siam
(which was acted the same year, in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields) to which he
gave this Motto out of Horace.

I not for vulgar admiration write;
To be well read, not much, is my delight.

And to his death he would declare in favour of that choice.--That year,
he likewise published the two first books of an Epic Poem, called Gideon
(founded on a Hebrew Story) which like its author, and all other
authors, had its enemies; but many more admirers.

But his poetic pieces were not frequent in their appearance. They were
the product of some leisure hours, when he relaxed his thoughts from
drier study; as he took great delight in diving into every useful
science, viz. criticism, history, geography, physic, commerce in
general, agriculture, war, and law; but in particular natural
philosophy, wherein he has made many and valuable discoveries.

Concerning poetry, he says, in his preface to King Henry the Vth, where
he laments the want of taste for Tragedy,

'But in all events I will be easy, who have no better reason to wish
well to poetry, than my love for a mistress I shall never be married to:
For, whenever I grow ambitious, I shall wish to build higher; and owe my
memory to some occasion of more importance than my writings.'

He had acquired so deep an insight in law, that he has from his
arguments and demonstrations obliged some of the greatest council
(formally) under their hands, to retract their own first-given opinions.

He wrote part of a Tract of War; another upon Agriculture; but they are
left unfinished, with several other pieces.

In his younger days he bought a grant of Sir Robert Montgomery (who had
purchas'd it of the lords proprietors of Carolina) with whom, &c. be had
been concern'd, in a design of settling a new plantation in the South of
Carolina, of a vast tract of land; on which he then designed to pursue
the same intention.--But being not master of a fortune equal to that
scheme, it never proved of any service to him, though many years since,
it has been cultivated largely[3].

His person was (in youth) extremely fair, and handsome; his eyes were a
dark blue, both bright and penetrating; brown hair and visage oval;
which was enlivened with a smile, the most agreeable in conversation;
where his address was affably engageing; to which was joined a dignity,
which rendered him at once respected and admired, by those (of either
sex) who were acquainted with him--He was tall, genteelly made, and not
thin.--His voice was sweet, his conversation elegant; and capable of
entertaining upon various subjects.--His disposition was benevolent,
beyond the power of the fortune he was blessed with; the calamities of
those he knew (and valued as deserving) affected him more than his own:
He had fortitude of mind sufficient to support with calmness great
misfortune; and from his birth it may be truly said he was obliged to
meet it.

Of himself, he says in his epistle dedicatory to one of his poems,

'I am so devoted a lover of a private and unbusy life, that I cannot
recollect a time wherein I wish'd an increase to the little influence
I cultivate in the dignified world, unless when I have felt the
deficience of my own power, to reward some merit that has charm'd
me:'--

His temper, though by nature warm (when injuries were done him) was as
nobly forgiving; mindful of that great lesson in religion, of returning
good for evil; and he fulfilled it often to the prejudice of his own
circumstances. He was a tender husband, friend, and father; one of the
best masters to his servants, detesting the too common inhumanity, that
treats them almost as if they were not fellow-creatures.

His manner of life was temperate in all respects (which might have
promis'd greater length of years) late hours excepted which his
indefatigable love of study drew him into; night being not liable to
interruptions like the day.

About the year 1718 he wrote a poem called the Northern-Star, upon the
actions of the Czar Peter the Great; and several years after he was
complimented with a gold medal from the empress Catherine (according to
the Czar's desire before his death) and was to have wrote his life, from
papers which were to be sent him of the Czar's: But the death of the
Czarina, quickly after, prevented it.--In an advertisement to the
reader, in the fifth edition of that poem, published in 1739, the author
says of it.

'Though the design was profess'd panegyric, I may with modesty venture
to say it was not a very politic, perhaps, but an honest example of
praise without flattery.--In the verse, I am afraid there was much to be
blamed, as too low; but, I am sure there was none of that fault in the
purpose: The poem having never been hinted, either before or after the
publication, to any person (native or foreigner) who could be supposed
to have interest in, or concern for, its subject.

'In effect, it had for six years or more been forgot by myself--and my
country,--when upon the death of the prince it referred to, I was
surprized by the condescension of a compliment from the empress his
relict, and immediate successor; and thereby first became sensible that
the poem had, by means of some foreign translation, reach'd the eye and
regard of that emphatically great monarch, in justice to whom it was
written.'

Soon after he finished six books more of Gideon; which made eight, of
the twelve he purpos'd writing; but did not live to finish it.

In 1723 he brought his Tragedy called King Henry the Vth, upon the stage
in Drury-Lane; which is (as he declares in the preface) a new fabric,
yet built on Shakespear's foundation.

In 1724, for the advantage of an unhappy gentleman (an old officer in
the army) he wrote a paper in the manner of the Spectators, in
conjunction with Mr. William Bond, &c. intitled the Plain Dealer; which
were some time after published in two volumes octavo. And many of his
former writings were appropriated to such humane uses; both those to
which he has prefixed his name, and several others which he wrote and
gave away intirely. But, though the many imagined authors are not
living, their names, and those performances will be omitted here; yet,
in mere justice to the character of Mr. Hill, we mention this
particular.

In 1728, he made a journey into the North of Scotland, where he had been
about two years before, having contracted with the York-Buildings
Company, concerning many woods of great extent in that kingdom, for
timber for the uses of the navy; and many and various were the
assertions upon this occasion: Some thought, and thence reported, that
there was not a stick in Scotland could be capable of answering that
purpose; but he demonstrated the contrary: For, though there was not a
great number large enough for masts to ships of the greatest burthen;
yet there were millions, fit for all smaller vessels; and planks and
banks, proper for every sort of building.--One ship was built entirely
of it; and a report was made, that never any better timber was brought
from any part of the world: But he found many difficulties in this
undertaking; yet had sagacity to overcome them all (as far as his own
management extended) for when the trees were by his order chain'd
together into floats, the ignorant Highlanders refus'd to venture
themselves on them down the river Spey; till he first went himself, to
make them sensible there was no danger.--In which passage however, he
found a great obstacle in the rocks, by which that river seemed
impassible; but on these he ordered fires to be made, when by the
lowness of the river they were most expos'd; and then had quantities of
water thrown upon them: Which method being repeated with the help of
proper tools, they were broke in pieces and thrown down, which made the
passage easy for the floats.

This affair was carried on to a very good account, till those concern'd
thought proper to call off the men and horses from the woods of
Abernethy, in order to employ them in their lead mines in the same
country; from which they hoped to make greater advantage.

The magistrates of Inverness paid him the compliment of making him a
present of the freedom of that place (at an elegant entertainment made
by them on that occasion) a favour likewise offered him at Aberdeen, &c.

After a stay of several months in the Highlands, during which time he
visited the duke and duchess of Gordon, who distinguished him with great
civilities, he went to York, and other places in that country; where his
wife then was, with some relations, for the recovery of her health; but
his staying longer there (on that account) than he intended, had like to
have proved of unhappy consequence; by giving room for some, who
imagined (as they wished) that he would not return, to be guilty of a
breach of trust that aimed at the destruction of great part of what he
then was worth; but they were disappointed.

In that retirement in the North, he wrote a poem intitled, The Progress
of Wit, a Caveat for the use of an eminent Writer. It was composed of
the genteelest praise, and keenest allegorical satire; and it gave no
small uneasiness to Mr. Pope: Who had indeed drawn it upon himself, by
being the aggressor in his Dunciad.--This afterwards occasioned a
private paper-war between those writers, in which 'tis generally thought
that Mr. Hill had greatly the advantage of Mr. Pope. For the
particulars, the reader is referred to a shilling pamphlet lately
published by Owen, containing Letters between Mr. Pope and Mr. Hill, &c.

The progress of wit begins with the eight following lines, wherein the
SNEAKINGLY APPROVES affected Mr. Pope extreamly.

Tuneful Alexis on the Thames' fair side,
The Ladies play-thing, and the Muses pride,
With merit popular, with wit polite,
Easy tho' vain, and elegant tho' light:
Desiring, and deserving other's praise,
Poorly accepts a fame he ne'er repays:
Unborn to cherish, SNEAKINGLY APPROVES,
And wants the soul to spread the worth he loves.

During their controversy, Mr. Pope seemed to express his repentance, by
denying the offence he had given; thus, in one of his letters, he says,

'That the letters A.H. were apply'd to you in the papers I did not know
(for I seldom read them) I heard it only from Mr. Savage[4], as from
yourself, and sent my assurances to the contrary: But I don't see how
the annotator on the D. could have rectified that mistake publicly,
without particularizing your name in a book where I thought it too good
to be inserted, &c.[5].'

And in another place he says,

'I should imagine the Dunciad meant you a real compliment, and so it has
been thought by many who have ask'd to whom that passage made that
oblique panegyric. As to the notes, I am weary of telling a great truth,
which is, that I am not author of them, &c.'

Which paragraph was answer'd by the following in Mr. Hill's reply.

'As to your oblique panegyric, I am not under so blind an attachment to
the goddess I was devoted to in the Dunciad, but that I know it was a
commendation; though a dirtier one than I wished for; who am neither
fond of some of the company in which I was listed--the noble reward, for
which I was to become a diver;--the allegorical muddiness in which I was
to try my skill;--nor the institutor of the games you were so kind to
allow me a share in, &c.'--A genteel severe reprimand.

Much about the same time he wrote another poem, called Advice to the
Poets; in praise of worthy poetry, and in censure of the misapplication
of poetry in general. The following lines here quoted, are the motto of
it, taken from the poem.

Shame on your jingling, ye soft sons of rhyme,
Tuneful consumers of your reader's time!
Fancy's light dwarfs! whose feather-footed strains,
Dance in wild windings, thro' a waste of brains:
Your's is the guilt of all, who judging wrong,
Mistake tun'd nonsense for the poet's song.

He likewise in this piece, reproves the above named celebrated author,
for descending below his genius; and in speaking of the inspiration of
the Muse, he says,

I feel her now.--Th'invader fires my breast:
And my soul swells, to suit the heav'nly guest.
Hear her, O Pope!--She sounds th'inspir'd decree,
Thou great Arch-Angel of wit's heav'n! for thee!
Let vulgar genii, sour'd by sharp disdain,
Piqu'd and malignant, words low war maintain,
While every meaner art exerts her aim,
O'er rival arts, to list her question'd fame;
Let half-soul'd poets still on poets fall,
And teach the willing world to scorn them all.
But, let no Muse, pre-eminent as thine,
Of voice melodious, and of force divine,
Stung by wits, wasps, all rights of rank forego,
And turn, and snarl, and bite, at every foe.
No--like thy own Ulysses, make no stay
Shun monsters--and pursue thy streamy way.

In 1731 he brought his Tragedy of Athelwold upon the stage in
Drury-Lane; which, as he says in his preface to it, was written on the
same subject as his Elfrid or the Fair Inconstant, which he there calls,
'An unprun'd wilderness of fancy, with here and there a flower among the
leaves; but without any fruit of judgment.'--

He likewise mentions it as a folly, having began and finished Elfrid in
a week; and both the difference of time and judgment are visible in
favour of the last of those performances.

That year he met the greatest shock that affliction ever gave him; in
the loss of one of the most worthy of wives, to whom he had been married
above twenty years.

The following epitaph he wrote, and purpos'd for a monument which he
designed to erect over her grave.

Enough, cold stone! suffice her long-lov'd name;
Words are too weak to pay her virtues claim.
Temples, and tombs, and tongues, shall waste away,
And power's vain pomp, in mould'ring dust decay.
But e'er mankind a wife more perfect see,
Eternity, O Time! shall bury thee.

He was a man susceptible of love, in its sublimest sense; as may be seen
in that poetical description of that passion, which he has given in his
poem called the Picture of Love; wrote many years ago (from whence the
following two lines are taken)

No wild desire can this proud bliss bestow,
Souls must be match'd in heav'n, tho' mix'd below.

About the year 1735 he was concern'd with another gentleman in writing a
paper called the Prompter; all those mark'd with a B. were his.--This
was meant greatly for the service of the stage; and many of them have
been regarded in the highest manner.--But, as there was not only
instruction, but reproof, the bitter, with the sweet, by some could not
be relish'd.

In 1736 having translated from the French of Monsieur de Voltaire, the
Tragedy of Zara, he gave it to be acted for the benefit of Mr. William
Bond; and it was represented first, at the Long-Room in Villars-Street,
York-Buildings; where that poor gentleman performed the part of Lusignan
(the old expiring king) a character he was at that time too well suited
to; being, and looking, almost dead, as in reality he was before the run
of it was over.--Soon after this play was brought upon the stage in
Drury-Lane, by Mr. Fleetwood, at the earnest sollicitation of Mr.
Theophilus Cibber; the part of Zara was played by Mrs. Cibber, and was
her first attempt in Tragedy; of the performers therein he makes very
handsome mention in the preface. This play he dedicated to his royal
highness the Prince of Wales.

The same year was acted, at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, another
Tragedy of his translating from the same French author, called Alzira,
which was likewise dedicated to the Prince.--His dedications generally
wore a different face from those of other writers; he there most warmly
recommends Monsieur de Voltaire, as worthy of his royal highness's
partiality; disclaiming for himself all expectations of his notice. But
he was, notwithstanding, particularly honoured with his approbation.

These plays, if not a litteral translation, have been thought much
better, for their having past his hands; as generously was acknowledged
by Monsieur de Voltaire himself.

In 1737 he published a poem called, The Tears of the Muses; composed of
general satire: in the address to the reader he says (speaking of
satire)

'There is, indeed, something so like cruelty in the face of that
species of poetry, that it can only be reconciled to humanity, by the
general benevolence of its purpose; attacking particulars for the
public advantage.'

The following year he wrote (in prose) a book called, An Enquiry into
the Merit of Assassination, with a View to the Character of Cæsar; and
his Designs on the Roman Republic.

About this time, he in a manner left the world, (though living near so
populous a part of it as London) and settled at Plaistow in Essex; where
he entirely devoted himself to his study, family, and garden; and the
accomplishment of many profitable views; particularly one, in which for
years he had laboured through experiments in vain; and when he brought
it to perfection, did not live to reap the benefit of it: The discovery
of the art of making pot-ash like the Russian, which cost this nation,
yearly, an immense sum of money.

In the year 1743 he published The Fanciad, an Heroic Poem; inscribed to
his grace the duke of Marlborough: Who as no name was then prefixed to
it, perhaps, knew not the author by whom he was distinguished in it.

Soon after he wrote another, intitled the Impartial; which he inscribed,
in the same manner, to the lord Carteret (now earl of Granville). In the
beginning of it are the following lines,

Burn, sooty slander, burn thy blotted scroll;
Greatness is greatness, spite of faction's soul.

Deep let my soul detest th'adhesive pride,
That changing sentiment, unchanges side.

It would be tedious to enumerate the variety of smaller pieces he at
different times was author of.

His notions of the deity were boundlessly extensive; and the few lines
here quoted from his Poem upon faith, published in 1746, must give the
best idea of his sentiments upon that most elevated of all subjects.

What then must be believ'd?--Believe God kind,
To fear were to offend him. Fill thy heart
With his felt laws; and act the good he loves.
Rev'rence his power. Judge him but by his works:
Know him but in his mercies. Rev'rence too
The most mistaken schemes that mean his praise.
Rev'rence his priests.--for ev'ry priest is his,--
Who finds him in his conscience.--

This year he published his Art of Acting, a Poem, deriving Rules from a
new Principle, for touching the Passions in a natural Manner, &c. Which
was dedicated to the Earl of Chesterfield.

Having for many years been in a manner forgetful of the eight Books he
had finished of his Epic Poem called Gideon,--in 1749 he re-perused that
work, and published three of the Books; to which he gave the name of
Gideon, or the Patriot.--They were inscribed to the late lord
Bolingbroke; to whom he accounts as follows, for the alterations he had
made since the first publication of two Books.

Erring, where thousands err'd, in youth's hot smart,
Propulsive prejudice had warp'd his heart:
Bold, and too loud he sigh'd, for high distress,
Fond of the fall'n, nor form'd to serve success;
Partial to woes, had weigh'd their cause too light,
Wept o'er misfortune,--and mis-nam'd it right:
Anguish, attracting, turn'd attachment wrong,
And pity's note mis-tun'd his devious song.

'Tis much lamented by many who are admirers of that species of poetry,
that the author did not finish it.

The same year (after a length of different applications, for several
seasons, at both Theatres without success) his Tragedy, called Merope,
was brought upon the stage in Drury-Lane by Mr. Garrick; to whom, as
well as to another gentleman he likewise highly both admired and
esteemed, he was greatly obliged; and his own words (here borrowed) will
shew how just a sense he had of these obligations.--They begin the
preface to the play.

'If there can be a pride that ranks with virtues, it is that we feel
from friendships with the worthy. Mr. Mallet, therefore, must forgive
me, that I boast the honour he has done my Merope--I have so long been a
retreater from the world, that one of the best spirits in it told me
lately, I had made myself an alien there. I must confess, I owe so many
obligations to its ornaments of most distinguished genius, that I must
have looked upon it as a great unhappiness to have made choice of
solitude, could I have judged society in general, by a respect so due to
these adorners of it.'

And in relation to this Tragedy he says, after very justly censuring
Monsieur de Voltaire, for representing in the preface to his Merope the
English as incapable of Tragedy,

'To such provoking stimulations I have owed inducement to retouch, for
Mr. Voltaire's use, the characters in his high boasted Merope; and I
have done it on a plan as near his own as I could bring it with a safe
conscience; that is to say, without distaste to English audiences.

This he likewise dedicated to lord Bolingbroke; and was the last he ever
wrote.--There is a melancholy thread of fatal prophecy in the beginning
of it; of his own approaching dissolution.

Cover'd in fortune's shade, I rest reclin'd;
My griefs all silent; and my joys resign'd.
With patient eye life's evening gloom survey:
Nor shake th'out-hast'ning sands; nor bid 'em stay--
Yet, while from life my setting prospects fly,
Fain wou'd my mind's weak offspring shun to die.
Fain wou'd their hope some light through time explore;
The name's kind pasport--When the man's no more.

From about the time he was solliciting the bringing on this play, an
illness seized him; from the tormenting pains of which he had scarce an
hour's intermission; and after making trial of all he thought could be
of service to him in medicine; he was desirous to try his native air of
London (as that of Plaistow was too moist a one) but he was then past
all recovery, and wasted almost to a skeleton, from some internal cause,
that had produced a general decay (and was believed to have been an
inflamation in the kidneys; which his intense attachment to his studies
might probably lay the foundation of.--When in town, he had the comfort
of being honoured with the visits of the most worthy and esteemed among
his friends; but he was not permitted many weeks to taste that blessing.
[Transcriber's note: closing brackets missing in original.]

The same humane and generous Mr. Mallet, who had before aided his
Merope, about this time was making interest for its being played again,
for the advantage of its author:--His royal highness the prince of
Wales; had the great goodness to command it; and Mr. Hill just lived to
express his grateful acknowledgments (to those about him) upon hearing
of it:--But on the day before it was to be represented he died, in the
very minute of the earthquake, February the eighth, 1749, which he
seemed sensible of, though then deprived of utterance. Had he lived two
days longer, he had been sixty-five years old.--He endur'd a
twelve-month's torment of the body with a calmness that confess'd a
superiority of soul! He was interred in the same grave with her the most
dear to him when living, in the great cloister of Westminster-Abbey;
near the lord Godolphin's tomb.

It may be truly said of Mr. Hill, he was a great and general writer; and
had he been possest of the estate he was intitled to, his liberality had
been no less extensive than his genius. But often do we see misfortune's
clouds obscure the brightest sunshine.

Besides his works which here have been enumerated, there are several
other; particularly two poems, intitled the Creation, and the
Judgment-Day; which were published many years ago.--Another in blank
verse he published in the time of his retreat into Essex; it was called,
Cleon to Lycidas, a Time Piece; the date not marked by the printer.

Some years before his death, he talked of making a collection of his
works for publication; but postponed it for the finishing some pieces,
which he did not live to effect.

Since his death, four volumes of them have been published by
subscription, for his family. He left one Tragedy, never yet acted;
which was wrote originally about 1737, and intitled Cæsar; but since, he
has named it the Roman Revenge:--But as the author was avowedly a great
admirer of Cæsar's character, not in the light he is generally
understood (that of a tyrant) but in one much more favourable, he was
advised by several of the first distinction, both in rank and judgment,
to make such alterations in it as should adapt it more to the general
opinion; and upon that advice he in a manner new wrote the play: But as
most first opinions are not easily eradicated, it has been never able to
make a public trial of the success; which many of the greatest
understanding have pronounced it highly worthy of.--The late lord
Bolingbroke (in a letter wrote to the author) has called it one of the
noblest drama's, that our language, or any age can boast.

These few little speeches are taken from the part of Cæsar.

'Tis the great mind's expected pain, Calphurnia,
To labour for the thankless.--He who seeks
Reward in ruling, makes ambition guilt;
And living for himself disclaims mankind.

And thus speaking to Mark Anthony;

If man were placed above the reach of insult,
To pardon were no virtue.--Think, warm Anthony,
What mercy is--'Tis, daring to be wrong'd,
Yet unprovok'd by pride, persist, in pity.

This again to Calphurnia.

No matter.--Virtue triumphs by neglect:
Vice, while it darkens, lends but foil to brightness:
And juster times, removing slander's veil,
Wrong'd merit after death is help'd to live.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This was sent us by an unknown hand.

[2] This play he made a present of to the patentee, and had several fine
scenes painted for it, at his own expence: He indeed gave all his
pieces to the stage; never taking any benefit, or gratuity from the
managers, as an author--'till his last piece, Merope, was brought on
the stage; when (unhappy gentleman) he was under the necessity of
receiving his profits of the third nights; which 'till then, his
generosity, and spirit, had ever declined.

[3] Under the name of Georgia.

[4] Savage was of great use to Mr. Pope, in helping him to little
stories, and idle tales, of many persons whose names, lives, and
writings, had been long since forgot, had not Mr. Pope mentioned
them in his Dunciad:--This office was too mean for any one but
inconsistent Savage: Who, with a great deal of absurd pride, could
submit to servile offices; and for the vanity of being thought Mr.
Pope's intimate, made no scruple of frequently sacrificing a regard
to sincerity or truth. He had certainly, at one time, considerable
influence over that great poet; but an assuming arrogance at last
tired out Mr. Pope's patience.

[5] A lame come-off.

* * * * *

Mr. LEWIS THEOBALD.

This gentleman was born at Sittingburn in Kent, of which place his
father, Mr. Peter Theobald, was an eminent attorney. His grammatical
learning he received chiefly under the revd. Mr. Ellis, at Isleworth in
Middlesex, and afterwards applied himself to the study and practice of
the law: but finding that study too tedious and irksome for his genius,
he quitted it for the profession of poetry. He engaged in a paper called
the Censor, published in Mill's Weekly Journal; and by delivering his
opinion with two little reserve, concerning some eminent wits, he
exposed himself to their lashes, and resentment. Upon the publication of
Pope's Homer, he praised it in the most extravagant terms of admiration;
but afterwards thought proper to retract his opinion, for reasons we
cannot guess, and abused the very performance he had before
hyperbollically praised.

Mr. Pope at first made Mr. Theobald the hero of his Dunciad, but
afterwards, for reasons best known to himself, he thought proper to
disrobe him of that dignity, and bestow it upon another: with what
propriety we shall not take upon us to determine, but refer the reader
to Mr. Cibber's two letters to Mr. Pope. He was made hero of the poem,
the annotator informs us, because no better was to be had. In the first
book of the Dunciad, Mr. Theobald, or Tibbald, as he is there called, is
thus stigmatised,

--Dullness her image full exprest,
But chief in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast;
Sees Gods with Daemons in strange league engage,
And Earth, and heav'n, and hell her battles wage;
She eyed the bard, where supperless he sate,
And pin'd unconscious of his rising fate;
Studious he sate, with all his books around,
Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound!
Plung'd for his sense, but found no bottom there;
Then writ, and flounder'd on, in meer despair.
He roll'd his eyes, that witness'd huge dismay,
Where yet unpawn'd much learned lumber lay.

He describes Mr. Theobald as making the following address to Dulness.

--For thee
Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek,
And crucify poor Shakespear once a-week.
For thee I dim these eyes, and stuff this head,
With all such reading as was never read;
For thee, supplying in the worst of days,
Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays;
For thee explain a thing till all men doubt it,
And write about it, goddess, and about it;
So spins the silk-worm small its slender store,
And labours till it clouds itself all o'er.

In the year 1726 Mr. Theobald published a piece in octavo, called
Shakespear Restored: Of this it is said, he was so vain as to aver, in
one of Mist's Journals, June the 8th, 'That to expose any errors in it
was impracticable;' and in another, April the 27th, 'That whatever care
might for the future be taken, either by Mr. Pope, or any other
assistants, he would give above five-hundred emendations, that would
escape them all.'

During two whole years, while Mr. Pope was preparing his edition, he
published advertisements, requesting assistance, and promising
satisfaction to any who would contribute to its greater perfection. But
this restorer, who was at that time solliciting favours of him, by
letters, did wholly conceal that he had any such design till after its
publication; which he owned in the Daily Journal of November 26, 1728:
and then an outcry was made, that Mr. Pope had joined with the
bookseller to raise an extravagant subscription; in which he had no
share, of which he had no knowledge, and against which he had publickly
advertised in his own proposals for Homer.

Mr. Theobald was not only thus obnoxious to the resentment of Pope, but
we find him waging war with Mr. Dennis, who treated him with more
roughness, though with less satire. Mr. Theobald in the Censor, Vol. II.
No. XXXIII. calls Mr. Dennis by the name of Furius. 'The modern Furius
(says he) is to be looked upon as more the object of pity, than that
which he daily provokes, laughter, and contempt. Did we really know how
much this poor man suffers by being contradicted, or which is the same
thing in effect, by hearing another praised; we should in compassion
sometimes attend to him with a silent nod, and let him go away with the
triumphs of his ill-nature. Poor Furius, where any of his cotemporaries
are spoken well of, quitting the ground of the present dispute, steps
back a thousand years, to call in the succour of the antients. His very
panegyric is spiteful, and he uses it for the same reason as some ladies
do their commendations of a dead beauty, who never would have had their
good word; but that a living one happened to be mentioned in their
company. His applause is not the tribute of his heart, but the sacrifice
of his revenge.'

Mr. Dennis in resentment of this representation made of him, in his
remarks on Pope's Homer, page 9. 10. thus mentions him. 'There is a
notorious idiot, one HIGHT WHACHUM, who from an Under-spur-leather to
the law, is become an Under strapper to the play-house, who has lately
burlesqued the Metamorphoses of Ovid, by a vile translation, &c. This
fellow is concerned in an impertinent paper called the Censor.' Such was
the language of Mr. Dennis, when enflamed by contradiction.

In the year 1729 Mr. Theobald introduced upon the stage a Tragedy called
the Double Falsehood; the greatest part of which he asserted was
Shakespear's. Mr. Pope insinuated to the town, that it was all, or
certainly the greatest part written, not by Shakespear, but Theobald
himself, and quotes this line,

None but thyself can be thy parallel.

Which he calls a marvellous line of Theobald, 'unless (says he) the play
called the Double Falsehood be (as he would have it thought)
Shakespear's; but whether this line is his or not, he proves Shakespear
to have written as bad.' The arguments which Mr. Theobald uses to prove
the play to be Shakespear's are indeed far from satisfactory;--First,
that the MS. was above sixty years old;--Secondly, that once Mr.
Betterton had it, or he hath heard so;--Thirdly, that some body told him
the author gave it to a bastard daughter of his;--But fourthly, and
above all, that he has a great mind that every thing that is good in our
tongue should be Shakespear's.

This Double Falsehood was vindicated by Mr. Theobald, who was attacked
again in the art of sinking in poetry. Here Mr. Theobald endeavours to
prove false criticisms, want of understanding Shakespear's manner, and
perverse cavelling in Mr. Pope: He justifies himself and the great
dramatic poet, and essays to prove the Tragedy in question to be in
reality Shakespear's, and not unworthy of him. We cannot set this
controversy in a clearer light, than by transcribing a letter subjoined
to the Double Falsehood.

Dear Sir,

You desire to know, why in the general attack which Mr. Pope has lately
made against writers living and dead, he has so often had a fling of
satire at me. I should be very willing to plead guilty to his
indictment, and think as meanly of myself as he can possibly do, were
his quarrel altogether upon a fair, or unbiassed nature. But he is angry
at the man; and as Juvenal says--

Facit indignatio versum.

He has been pleased to reflect on me in a few quotations from a play,
which I had lately the good fortune to usher into the world; I am there
concerned in reputation to enter upon my defence. There are three
passages in his Art of Sinking in Poetry, which he endeavours to bring
into disgrace from the Double Falsehood.

One of these passages alledged by our critical examiner is of that
stamp, which is certain to include me in the class of profound writers.
The place so offensive for its cloudiness, is,

--The obscureness of her birth
Cannot eclipse the lustre of her eyes,
Which make her all one light.

I must own, I think, there needs no great Oedipus to solve the
difficulty of this passage. Nothing has ever been more common, than for
lovers to compare their mistresses eyes to suns and stars. And what does
Henriquez say more here than this, 'That though his mistress be obscure
by her birth; yet her eyes are so refulgent, they set her above that
disadvantage, and make her all over brightness.' I remember another
rapture in Shakespear, upon a painter's drawing a fine lady's picture,
where the thought seems to me every whit as magnified and dark at the
first glance,

--But her eyes--
How could he see to do them! having done one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfinished.--

This passage is taken from the Merchant of Venice, which will appear the
more beautiful, the more it is considered.

Another passage which Mr. Pope is pleased to be merry with, is in a
speech of Violante's;

Wax! render up thy trust.--

This, in his English is open the letter; and he facetiously mingles it
with some pompous instances, most I believe of his own framing; which in
plain terms signify no more than, See, whose there; snuff the candle;
uncork the bottle; chip the bread; to shew how ridiculous actions of no
consequence are, when too much exalted in the diction. This he brings
under a figure, which he calls the Buskin, or Stately. But we'll examine
circumstances fairly, and then we shall see which is most ridiculous;
the phrase, or our sagacious censurer.

Violante is newly debauched by Henriquez, on his solemn promise of
marrying her: She thinks he is returning to his father's court, as he
told her, for a short time; and expects no letter from him. His servant
who brings the letter, contradicts his master's going for court; and
tells her he is gone some two months progress another way, upon a change
of purpose. She who knew what concessions she had made to him, declares
herself by starts, under the greatest agonies; and immediately upon the
servant leaving her, expresses an equal impatience, and fear of the
contents of this unexpected letter.

To hearts like mine, suspence is misery.
Wax! render up thy trust,--Be the contents
Prosperous, or fatal, they are all my due.

Now Mr. Pope shews us his profound judgment in dramatical passions;
thinks a lady in her circumstances cannot without absurdity open a
letter that seems to her as surprize, with any more preparation than the
most unconcerned person alive should a common letter by the penny-post.
I am aware Mr. Pope may reply, his cavil was not against the action
itself of addressing to the wax, but of exalting that action in the
terms. In this point I may fairly shelter myself under the judgment of a
man, whose character in poetry will vie with any rival this age shall
produce.

Mr. Dryden in his Essay on Dramatic Poetry, tells us. 'That when from
the most elevated thoughts of verse, we pass to those which are most
mean, and which are common with the lowest houshold conversation; yet
still there is a choice to be made of the best words, and the least
vulgar (provided they be apt) to express such thoughts. Our language,
says he, is noble, full, and significant; and I know not, why he who is
master of it, may not cloath ordinary things in it as decently as the
Latin, if we use the same diligence in the choice of words.'

I come now to the last quotation, which in our examiner's handling,
falls under this predicament of _being a thought astonishingly out of
the way of common sense._

None but himself can be his parallel.

This, he hints, may seem borrowed from the thought of that master of a
show in Smithfield, who wrote in large letters over the picture of his
Elephant. _This is the greatest Elephant in the world except himself._ I
like the pleasantry of the banter, but have no great doubt of getting
clear from the severity of it. The lines in the play stand thus.

Is there a treachery like this in baseness,
Recorded any where? It is the deepest;
None but itself can be its parallel.

I am not a little surprized, to find that our examiner at last is
dwindled into a word-catcher. Literally speaking, indeed, I agree with
Mr. Pope, that nothing can be the parallel to itself; but allowing a
little for the liberty of expression, does it not plainly imply, that it
is a treachery which stands single for the nature of its baseness, and
has not its parallel on record; and that nothing but a treachery equal
to it in baseness can parallel it? If this were such nonsense as Pope
would willingly have it, it would be a very bad plea for me to alledge,
as the truth is, that the line is in Shakespear's old copy; for I might
have suppressed it. But I hope it is defensible; at least if examples
can keep it in countenance. There is a piece of nonsense of the same
kind in the Amphytrio of Plautus: Sofia having survey'd Mercury from top
to toe, finds him such an exact resemblance of himself, in dress, shape,
and features, that he cries out,

Tam consimil' est, atq; ego.

That is, he is as like me, as I am to myself. Now I humbly conceive, in
strictness of expression a man can no more be like himself, than a thing
its own parallel. But to confine myself to Shakespear. I doubt not but I
can produce some similar passages from him, which literally examined,
are stark nonsense; and yet taken with a candid latitude have never
appeared ridiculous. Mr. Pope would scarce allow one man to say to
another. 'Compare and weigh your mistress with your mistress; and I
grant she is a very fair woman; but compare her with some other woman
that I could name, and the case will be very much altered.' Yet the very
substance of this, is said by Shakespear, in Romeo and Juliet; and Mr.
Pope has not degraded it as any absurdity, or unworthy of the author.

Pho! pho! you saw her fair, none else being by;
HERSELF poiz'd with HERSELF in either eye.
But, &c.

Or, what shall we say of the three following quotations.

ROMEO and JULIET.
--Oh! so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint.

WINTER'S TALE.
--For _Cogitation_
Resides not in the man _that does not think._

HAMLET.
--Try what repentance can, what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one _cannot repent._

Who does not see at once, the heaviest foot that ever trod cannot wear
out the everlasting flint? or that he who does not think has no thoughts
in him? or that repentance can avail nothing when a man has not
repentance? yet let these passages appear, with a casting weight of
allowance, and their absurdity will not be so extravagant, as when
examined by the literal touchstone.--

Your's, &c.

LEWIS THEOBALD.

By perusing the above, the reader will be enabled to discern whether Mr.
Pope has wantonly ridiculed the passages in question; or whether Mr.
Theobald has, from a superstitious zeal for the memory of Shakespear,
defended absurdities, and palliated extravagant blunders.

The ingenious Mr. Dodd, who has lately favoured the public with a
judicious collection of the beauties of Shakespear, has quoted a
beautiful stroke of Mr. Theobald's, in his Double Falsehood, upon music.

--Strike up, my masters;
But touch the strings with a religious softness;
Teach sounds to languish thro' the night's dull ear,
'Till Melancholy start from her lazy couch,
And carelessness grow concert to attention.

ACT I. SCENE III.

A gentleman of great judgment happening to commend these lines to Mr.
Theobald, he assured him he wrote them himself, and only them in the
whole play.

Mr. Theobald, besides his edition of all Shakespear's plays, in which he
corrected, with great pains and ingenuity, many faults which had crept
into that great poet's writings, is the author of the following dramatic
pieces.

I. The Persian Princess, or the Royal Villain; a Tragedy, acted at the
Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, printed in the year 1715. The author
observes in his preface, this play was written and acted before he was
full nineteen years old.

II. The Perfidious Brother; a Tragedy acted at the Theatre in Little
Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1716. This play is written on the model of Otway's
Orphan; the scene is in a private family in Brussels.

III. Pan and Syrinx; an Opera of one act, performed on the Theatre in
Little Lincoln's Inn-Fields, 1717.

IV. Decius and Paulina, a Masque; to which is added Musical
Entertainments, as performed at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, in
the Dramatic Opera of Circe.

V. Electra, a Tragedy; translated from the Greek of Sophocles, with
notes, printed in the year 1714, dedicated to Joseph Addison, Esq;

VI. Oedipus King of Thebes; a Tragedy translated from Sophocles, with
notes, translated in the year 1715, dedicated to the earl of Rockingham.

VII. Plutus, or the World's Idol; a Comedy translated from the Greek of
Aristophanes, with notes, printed in the year 1715. The author has to
this Translation prefixed a Discourse, containing some Account of
Aristophanes, and his two Comedies of Plutus and the Clouds.

VIII. The Clouds, a Comedy; translated from Aristophanes, with notes,
printed in the year 1715.

IX. The Rape of Proserpine; a Farce acted at the Theatre-Royal in
Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1727.

X. The Fatal Secret; a Tragedy acted at the Theatre-Royal in
Covent-Garden, 1725.

XI. The Vocal Parts of an Entertainment, called Apollo and Daphne,
or the Burgo Master Trick'd; performed at the Theatre in
Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1726.

XII. Double Falsehood; which we have already mentioned.

Mr. Theobald's other Works are chiefly these.

The Gentleman's Library, containing Rules for Conduct in all Parts of
Life, in 12mo. 1722.

The first Book of Homer's Odyssey translated, with notes, 8vo. 1716.

The Cave of Poverty, written in imitation of Shakespear.

Pindaric Ode on the Union, 1707.

A Poem sacred to the Memory of Queen Anne, Folio 1714.

Translations from Ovid's Metamorphoses.

Lives of Antiochus, and Berenice, from the French, 1717.

* * * * *

The Revd. Dr. SAMUEL CROXALL,

The celebrated author of the Fair Circassian, was son of the revd. Mr.
Samuel Croxall, rector of Hanworth, Middlesex, and vicar of Walton upon
Thames in Surry, in the last of which places our author was born. He
received his early education at Eton school, and from thence was
admitted to St. John's College, Cambridge. Probably while he was at the
university, he became enamoured of Mrs. Anna Maria Mordaunt, who first
inspired his breast with love, and to whom he dedicates the poem of the
Circassian, for which he has been so much distinguished. This dedication
is indeed the characteristic of a youth in love, but then it likewise
proves him altogether unacquainted with the world, and with that
easiness of address which distinguishes a gentleman. A recluse scholar
may be passionately in love, but he discovers it by strains of bombast,
and forced allusions, of which this dedication is a very lively
instance.

'The language of the Fair Circassian, says he, like yours, was natural
poetry; her voice music, and the excellent colouring and formation of
her features, painting; but still, like yours, drawn by the inimitable
pencil of nature, life itself; a pattern for the greatest master, but
copying after none; I will not say angels are not cast in the same
mould.' And again in another place, 'Pardon, O lovely deity, the
presumption of this address, and favour my weak endeavours. If my
confession of your divine power is any where too faint, believe it not
to proceed from a want of due respect, but of a capacity more than
human. Whoever thinks of you can no longer be himself; and if he could,
ought to be something above man to celebrate the accomplishment of a
goddess. To you I owe my creation as a lover, and in the beams of your
beauty only I live, move, and exist. If there should be a suspension of
your charms, I should fall to nothing. But it seems to be out of your
power to deprive us of their kind influence; wherever you shine they
fill all our hearts, and you are charming out of necessity, as the
author of nature is good.' We have quoted enough to shew the enthusiasm,
or rather phrenzy, of this address, which is written in such a manner as
if it were intended for a burlesque on the False Sublime, as the
speeches of James I. are upon pedantry.

Mr. Croxall, who was intended for holy orders, and, probably, when he
published the Circassian, had really entered into them, was cautious
lest he should be known to be the author of this piece, since many
divines have esteemed the Song of Solomon, from which it is taken, as an
inspired poem, emblematic of the Messiah and the Church. Our author was
of another opinion, and with him almost all sensible men join, in
believing that it is no more than a beautiful poem, composed by that
Eastern monarch, upon some favourite lady in his Seraglio. He artfully
introduces it with a preface, in which he informs us, that it was the
composition of a young gentleman, his pupil, lately deceased, executed
by him, while he was influenced by that violent passion with which Mrs.
Mordaunt inspired him. He then endeavours to ascertain who this Eastern
beauty was, who had charms to enflame the heart of the royal poet. He is
of opinion it could not be Pharaoh's daughter, as has been commonly
conjectured, because the bride in the Canticles is characterised as a
private person, a shepherdess, one that kept a vineyard, and was ill
used by her mother's children, all which will agree very well with
somebody else, but cannot, without great straining, be drawn to fit the
Egyptian Princess. He then proceeds, 'seeing we have so good reason to
conclude that it was not Pharaoh's daughter, we will next endeavour to
shew who she was: and here we are destitute of all manner of light, but
what is afforded us by that little Arabian manuscript, mentioned in the
Philosophical Transactions of Amsterdam, 1558, said to be found in a
marble chest among the ruins of Palmyra, and presented to the university
of Leyden by Dr. Hermanus Hoffman. The contents of which are something
in the nature of Memoirs of the Court of Solomon; giving a sufficient
account of the chief offices and posts in his houshold; of the several
funds of the royal revenue; of the distinct apartments of his palace
there; of the different Seraglios, being fifty two in number in that one
city. Then there is an account given of the Sultanas; their manner of
treatment and living; their birth and country, with some touches of
their personal endowments, how long they continued in favour, and what
the result was of the King's fondness for each of them. Among these,
there is particular mention made of a slave of more exceeding beauty
than had ever been known before; at whose appearance the charms of all
the rest vanished like stars before the morning sun; that the King
cleaved to her with the strongest affection, and was not seen out of the
Seraglio, where she was kept, for about a month. That she was taken
captive, together with her mother, out of a vineyard, on the Coast of
Circassia, by a Corsair of Hiram King of Tyre, and brought to Jerusalem.
It is said, she was placed in the ninth Seraglio, to the east of
Palmyra, which, in the Hebrew tongue, is called Tadmor; which, without
farther particulars, are sufficient to convince us that this was the
charming person, sung with so much rapture by the Royal poet, and in the
recital of whose amour he seems so transported. For she speaks of
herself as one that kept a vineyard, and her mother's introducing her in
one of the gardens of pleasure (as it seems she did at her first
presenting her to the King) is here distinctly mentioned. The manuscript
further takes notice, that she was called Saphira, from the heavenly
blue of her eyes.'

Notwithstanding the caution with which Mr. Croxall published the Fair
Circassian, yet it was some years after known to be his. The success it
met with, which was not indeed above its desert, was perhaps too much
for vanity (of which authors are seldom entirely divested) to resist,
and he might be betrayed into a confession, from that powerful
principle, of what otherwise would have remained concealed.

Some years after it was published, Mr. Cragg, one of the ministers of
the city of Edinburgh, gave the world a small volume of spiritual poems,
in one of which he takes occasion to complain of the prostitution of
genius, and that few poets have ever turned their thoughts towards
religious subjects; and mentions the author of the Circassian with great
indignation, for having prostituted his Muse to the purposes of
lewdness, in converting the Song of Solomon (a work, as he thought it,
of sacred inspiration) into an amorous dialogue between a King and his
mistress. His words are,

Curss'd be he that the Circassian wrote,
Perish his fame, contempt be all his lot,
Who basely durst in execrable strains,
Turn holy mysteries into impious scenes.

The revd. gentleman met with some remonstrances from his friends, for
indulging so splenetic a temper, when he was writing in the cause of
religion, as to wish any man accursed. Of this censure he was not
insensible; in the next edition of his poems, he softened the sarcasm,
by declaring, in a note, that he had no enmity to the author's person,
and that when he wished him accursed, be meant not the man, but the
author, which are two very distinct considerations; for an author may be
accursed, that is, damned to fame, while the man may be in as fair a way
to happiness as any body; but, continues he, I should not have expected
such prophanation from a clergyman.

The Circassian, however, is a beautiful poem, the numbers are generally
smooth, and there is a tender delicacy in the dialogue, though greatly
inferior to the noble original.

Mr. Croxall had not long quitted the university, e'er he was instituted
to the living of Hampton in Middlesex; and afterwards to the united
parishes of St. Mary Somerset, and St. Mary Mounthaw, in the city of
London, both which he held 'till his death. He was also chancellor,
prebend, and canon residentiary and portionist of the church of
Hereford. Towards the latter end of the reign of Queen Anne he published
two original Cantos, in imitation of Spenser's Fairy Queen, which were
meant as a satire on the earl of Oxford's administration. In the year
1715 he addressed a poem to the duke of Argyle, upon his obtaining a
Victory over the Rebels, and the same year published The Vision, a poem,
addressed to the earl of Halifax. He was concerned, with many others, in
the translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, of which the following were
performed by him:

The Story of Nisus and Scylla, from the sixth Book.

The Labyrinth, and Dædalus and Icarus, from the eighth Book.

Part of the Fable of Cyparissus from the tenth Book.

Most part of the eleventh Book, and The Funeral of Memnon, from the
thirteenth Book.

He likewise performed an entire Translation of Æsop's Fables.

Subjoined to the Fair Circassian are several Poems addressed to Sylvia;
Naked Truth, from the second Book of Ovid's Fastorum; Heathen
Priestcraft, from the first Book of Ovid's Fastorum; A Midsummer's Wish;
and an Ode on Florinda, seen while she was Bathing. He is also author of
a curious work, in one Volume Octavo, entitled Scripture Politics: being
a view of the original constitution, and subsequent revolutions in the
government of that people, out of whom the Saviour of the World was to
arise: As it is contained in the Bible.

In consequence of his strong attachment to the Whig interest, he was
made archdeacon of Salop 1732, and chaplain in ordinary to his present
Majesty.

As late as the year 1750, Dr. Croxall published a poem called The Royal
Manual, in the preface to which he endeavours to shew, that it was
composed by Mr. Andrew Marvel, and found amongst his MSS. but the
proprietor declares, that it was written by Dr. Croxall himself. This
was the last of his performances, for he died the year following, in a
pretty advanced age. His abilities, as a poet, we cannot better display,
than by the specimen we are about to quote.

On FLORINDA, Seen while she was Bathing.

Twas summer, and the clear resplendent moon
Shedding far o'er the plains her full-orb'd light,
Among the lesser stars distinctly shone,
Despoiling of its gloom the scanty night,
When, walking forth, a lonely path I took
Nigh the fair border of a purling brook.

Sweet and refreshing was the midnight air,
Whose gentle motions hush'd the silent grove;
Silent, unless when prick'd with wakeful care
Philomel warbled out her tale of love:
While blooming flowers, which in the meadows grew,
O'er all the place their blended odours threw.

Just by, the limpid river's crystal wave,
Its eddies gilt with Phoebe's silver ray,
Still as it flow'd a glittering lustre gave
With glancing gleams that emulate the day;
Yet oh! not half so bright as those that rise
Where young Florinda bends her smiling eyes.

Whatever pleasing views my senses meet,
Her intermingled charms improve the theme;
The warbling birds, the flow'rs that breath so sweet,
And the soft surface of the dimpled stream,
Resembling in the nymph some lovely part,
With pleasures more exalted seize my heart.

Rapt in these thoughts I negligently rov'd,
Imagin'd transports all my soul employ,
When the delightful voice of her I lov'd
Sent thro' the Shades a sound of real joy.
Confus'd it came, with giggling laughter mixt,
And echo from the banks reply'd betwixt.

Inspir'd with hope, upborn with light desire,
To the dear place my ready footsteps tend.
Quick, as when kindling trails of active fire
Up to their native firmament ascend:
There shrouded in the briers unseen I stood,
And thro' the leaves survey'd the neighb'ring flood.

Florinda, with two sister nymphs, undrest,
Within the channel of the cooly tide,
By bathing sought to sooth her virgin breast,
Nor could the night her dazzling beauties hide;
Her features, glowing with eternal bloom,
Darted, like Hesper, thro' the dusky gloom.

Her hair bound backward in a spiral wreath
Her upper beauties to my sight betray'd;
The happy stream concealing those beneath,
Around her waste with circling waters play'd;
Who, while the fair one on his bosom sported,
Her dainty limbs with liquid kisses courted.

A thousand Cupids with their infant arms
Swam padling in the current here and there;
Some, with smiles innocent, remarked the charms
Of the regardless undesigning fair;
Some, with their little Eben bows full-bended,
And levell'd shafts, the naked girl defended.

Her eyes, her lips, her breasts exactly round,
Of lilly hue, unnumber'd arrows sent;
Which to my heart an easy passage found,
Thrill'd in my bones, and thro' my marrow went:
Some bubbling upward thro' the water came,
Prepar'd by fancy to augment my flame.

Ah love! how ill I bore thy pleasing pain?
For while the tempting scene so near I view'd,
A fierce impatience throb'd in every vein,
Discretion fled and reason lay subdu'd;
My blood beat high, and with its trembling made
A strange commotion in the rustling shade.

Fear seiz'd the tim'rous Naiads, all aghast
Their boding spirits at the omen sink,
Their eyes they wildly on each other cast,
And meditate to gain the farther brink;
When in I plung'd, resolving to asswage
In the cool gulph love's importuning rage.

Ah, stay Florinda (so I meant to speak)
Let not from love the loveliest object fly!
But ere I spoke, a loud combining squeak
From shrilling voices pierc'd the distant sky:
When straight, as each was their peculiar care,
Th' immortal pow'rs to bring relief prepare.

A golden cloud descended from above,
Like that which whilom hung on Ida's brow,
Where Juno, Pallas, and the queen of love,
As then to Paris, were conspicuous now.
Each goddess seiz'd her fav'rite charge, and threw
Around her limbs a robe of azure hue.

But Venus, who with pity saw my flame
Kindled by her own Amorer so bright,
Approv'd in private what she seem'd to blame,
And bless'd me with a vision of delight:
Careless she dropt Florinda's veil aside,
That nothing might her choicest beauties hide.

I saw Elysium and the milky way
Fair-opening to the shades beneath her breast;
In Venus' lap the struggling wanton lay,
And, while she strove to hide, reveal'd the rest.
A mole, embrown'd with no unseemly grace,
Grew near, embellishing the sacred place.

So pleas'd I view'd, as one fatigu'd with heat,
Who near at hand beholds a shady bower,
Joyful, in hope-amidst the kind retreat
To shun the day-star in his noon-tide hour;
Or as when parch'd with droughty thirst he spies
A mossy grot whence purest waters rise.

So I Florinda--but beheld in vain:
Like Tantalus, who in the realms below
Sees blushing fruits, which to increase his pain,
When he attempts to eat, his taste forego.
O Venus! give me more, or let me drink
Of Lethe's fountain, and forget to think.

* * * * *

The Revd. Mr. CHRISTOPHER PITT,

The celebrated translator of Virgil, was born in the year 1699. He
received his early education in the college near Winchester; and in 1719
was removed from thence to new college in Oxford. When he had studied
there four years, he was preferred to the living of Pimperne in
Dorsetshire, by his friend and relation, Mr. George Pitt; which he held
during the remaining part of his life. While he was at the university,
he possessed the affection and esteem of all who knew him; and was
particularly distinguished by that great poet Dr. Young, who so much
admired the early displays of his genius, that with an engaging
familiarity he used to call him his son.

Amongst the first of Mr. Pitt's performances which saw the light, were a
panegyric on lord Stanhope, and a poem on the Plague of Marseilles: But
he had two large Folio's of MS. Poems, very fairly written out, while he
was a school-boy, which at the time of election were delivered to the
examiners. One of these volumes contained an entire translation of
Lucan; and the other consisted of Miscellaneous pieces. Mr. Pitt's Lucan
has never been published; perhaps from the consideration of its being
the production of his early life, or from a consciousness of its not
equalling the translation of that author by Rowe, who executed this talk
in the meridian of his genius. Several of his other pieces were
published afterwards, in his volume of Miscellaneous Poems.

The ingenious writer of the Student hath obliged the world by inferring
in that work several original pieces by Mr. Pitt; whose name is prefixed
to them.

Next to his beautiful Translation of Virgil, Mr. Pitt gained the
greatest reputation by rendering into English, Vida's Art of Poetry,
which he has executed with the strictest attention to the author's
sense, with the utmost elegance of versification, and without suffering
the noble spirit of the original to be lost in his translation.

This amiable poet died in the year 1748, without leaving one enemy
behind him. On his tombstone were engraved these words,

"He lived innocent, and died beloved."

Mr. Auditor Benson, who in a pamphlet of his writing, has treated
Dryden's translation of Virgil with great contempt, was yet charmed with
that by Mr. Pitt, and found in it some beauties, of which he was fond
even to a degree of enthusiasm. Alliteration is one of those beauties
Mr. Benson so much admired, and in praise of which he has a long
dissertation in his letters on translated verse. He once took an
opportunity, in conversation with Mr. Pitt, to magnify that beauty, and
to compliment him upon it. Mr. Pitt thought this article far less
considerable than Mr. Benson did; but says he, 'since you are so fond of
alliteration, the following couplet upon Cardinal Woolsey will not
displease you,

'Begot by butchers, but by bishops bred,
How high his honour holds his haughty head.

Benson was no doubt charmed to hear his favourite grace in poetry so
beautifully exemplified, which it certainly is, without any affectation
or stiffness. Waller thought this a beauty; and Dryden was very fond of
it. Some late writers, under the notion of imitating these two great
versifiers in this point, run into downright affectation, and are guilty
of the most improper and ridiculous expressions, provided there be but
an alliteration. It is very remarkable, that an affectation of this
beauty is ridiculed by Shakespear, in Love's Labour Lost, Act II. where
the Pedant Holofernes says,

I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility.--
The praiseful princess pierced, and prickt.--

Mr. Upton, in his letter concerning Spencer, observes, that alliteration
is ridiculed too in Chaucer, in a passage which every reader does not
understand.

The Ploughman's Tale is written, in some measure, in imitation of
Pierce's Ploughman's Visions; and runs chiefly upon some one letter, or
at least many stanza's have this affected iteration, as

A full sterne striefe is stirr'd now,--
For some be grete grown on grounde.

When the Parson therefore in his order comes to tell his tale, which
reflected on the clergy, he says,

--I am a southern man,
I cannot jest, rum, ram, riff, by letter,
And God wote, rime hold I but little better.

Ever since the publication of Mr. Pitt's version of the Aeneid, the
learned world has been divided concerning the just proportion of merit,
which ought to be ascribed to it. Some have made no scruple in defiance
of the authority of a name, to prefer it to Dryden's, both in exactness,
as to his author's sense, and even in the charms of poetry. This
perhaps, will be best discovered by producing a few shining passages of
the Aeneid, translated by these two great masters.

In biographical writing, the first and most essential principal is
candour, which no reverence for the memory of the dead, nor affection
for the virtues of the living should violate. The impartiality which we
have endeavoured to observe through this work, obliges us to declare,
that so far as our judgment may be trusted, the latter poet has done
most justice to Virgil; that he mines in Pitt with a lustre, which
Dryden wanted not power, but leisure to bestow; and a reader, from
Pitt's version, will both acquire a more intimate knowledge of Virgil's
meaning, and a more exalted idea of his abilities.--Let not this detract
from the high representations we have endeavoured in some other places
to make of Dryden. When he undertook Virgil, he was stooping with age,
oppressed with wants, and conflicting with infirmities. In this
situation, it was no wonder that much of his vigour was lost; and we
ought rather to admire the amazing force of genius, which was so little
depressed under all these calamities, than industriously to dwell on his
imperfections.

Mr. Spence in one of his chapters on Allegory, in his Polymetis, has
endeavoured to shew, how very little our poets have understood the
allegories of the antients, even in their translations of them; and has
instanced Mr. Dryden's translation of the Aeneid, as he thought him one
of our most celebrated poets. The mistakes are very numerous, and some
of them unaccountably gross. Upon this, says Mr. Warton, "I was desirous
to examine Mr. Pitt's translation of the same passages; and was
surprized to find near fifty instances which Mr. Spence has given of
Dryden's mistakes of that kind, when Mr. Pitt had not fallen into above
three or four." Mr. Warton then produces some instances, which we shall
not here transcribe, as it will be more entertaining to our readers to
have a few of the most shining passages compared, in which there is the
highest room for rising to a blaze of poetry.

There are few strokes in the whole Aeneid, which have been more admired
than Virgil's description of the Lake of Avernus, Book VI.

Spelunca alta fuit, vastoque immanis hiatu,
Scrupea, tuta lacu nigro, nemorumque tenebris;
Quam super haud ullæ poterant impune volantes.
Tendere iter pennis; talis sese halitus atris,
Faucibus effundens supera ad convexa ferebat:
Unde locum Graii dixerunt nomine Aornon.
Quatuor hic primum nigrantes terga juvencos
Constituit, frontique invergit vina sacerdos;
Et, summas carpens media inter cornua setas,
Ignibus imponit sacris libarmina prima,
Voce vocans Hecaten, cæloque ereboque potentem.

DRYDEN.

Deep was the cave; and downward as it went,
From the wide mouth, a rocky wide descent;
And here th'access a gloomy grove defends;
And there th'innavigable lake extends.
O'er whose unhappy waters, void of light,
No bird presumes to steer his airy flight;
Such deadly stenches from the depth arise,
And steaming sulphur that infects the skies.
From hence the Grecian bards their legends make,
And give the name Aornus to the lake.
Four fable bullocks in the yoke untaught,
For sacrifice, the pious hero brought.
The priestess pours the wine betwixt their horns:
Then cuts the curling hair, that first oblation burns,
Invoking Hecate hither to repair;
(A powerful name in hell and upper air.)

PITT.

Deep, deep, a cavern lies, devoid of light,
All rough with rocks, and horrible to sight;
Its dreadful mouth is fenc'd with sable floods,
And the brown horrors of surrounding woods.
From its black jaws such baleful vapours rise,
Blot the bright day, and blast the golden skies,
That not a bird can stretch her pinions there,
Thro' the thick poisons, and incumber'd air,
But struck by death, her flagging pinions cease;
And hence Aornus was it call'd by Greece.
Hither the priestess, four black heifers led,
Between their horns the hallow'd wine she shed;
From their high front the topmost hairs she drew,
And in the flames the first oblations threw.
Then calls on potent Hecate, renown'd
In Heav'n above, and Erebus profound.

The next instance we shall produce, in which, as in the former, Mr. Pitt
has greatly exceeded Dryden, is taken from Virgil's description of
Elysium, which says Dr. Trap is so charming, that it is almost Elysium
to read it.

His demum exactis, perfecto munere divæ,
Devenere locos lætos, & amoena vireta
Fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas.
Largior hic campos æther & lumine vestit
Purpureo; solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.
Pars in gramineis exercent membra palæstris,
Contendunt ludo, & fulva luctanter arena:
Pars pedibus plaudunt choreas, & carmina dicunt.
Necnon Threicius longa cum veste sacerdos
Obloquitur numeris septem discrimina vocum:
Jamque eadem digitis, jam pectine pulsat eburno.

PITT.

These rites compleat, they reach the flow'ry plains,
The verdant groves, where endless pleasure reigns.
Here glowing Æther shoots a purple ray,
And o'er the region pours a double day.
From sky to sky th'unwearied splendour runs,
And nobler planets roll round brighter suns.
Some wrestle on the sands, and some in play
And games heroic pass the hours away.
Those raise the song divine, and these advance
In measur'd steps to form the solemn dance.
There Orpheus graceful in his long attire,
In seven divisions strikes the sounding lyre;
Across the chords the quivering quill he flings,
Or with his flying fingers sweeps the strings.

DRYDEN.

These holy rites perform'd, they took their way,
Where long extended plains of pleasure lay.
The verdant fields with those of heav'n may vie;
With Æther veiled, and a purple sky:
The blissful seats of happy souls below;
Stars of their own, and their own suns they know.
Their airy limbs in sports they exercise,
And on the green contend the wrestlers prize.
Some in heroic verse divinely sing,
Others in artful measures lead the ring.
The Thracian bard surrounded by the rest,
There stands conspicuous in his flowing vest.
His flying fingers, and harmonious quill,
Strike seven distinguish'd notes, and seven at once they fill.

In the celebrated description of the swiftness of Camilla in the VIIth
Aeneid, which Virgil has laboured with so much industry, Dryden is more
equal to Pitt than in the foregoing instances, tho' we think even in
this he falls short of him.

Illa vel intactæ segetis per summa volaret
Gramina, nec teneras curfu læsisset aristas:
Vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti
Ferret iter; celeres nec tingeret æquore plantas.

DRYDEN.

--The fierce virago fought,--
Outstrip'd the winds, in speed upon the plain,
Flew o'er the fields, nor hurt the bearded grain:
She swept the seas, and as she skim'd along,
Her flying feet, unbath'd, on billows hung.

PITT.

She led the rapid race, and left behind,
The flagging floods, and pinions of the wind;
Lightly she flies along the level plain,
Nor hurts the tender grass, nor bends the golden grain;
Or o'er the swelling surge suspended sweeps,
And smoothly skims unbath'd along the deeps.

We shall produce one passage of a very different kind from the former,
that the reader may have the pleasure of making the comparison. This is
the celebrated simile in the XIth Book, when the fiery eagerness of
Turnus panting for the battle, is resembled to that of a Steed; which is
perhaps one of the most picturesque beauties in the whole Aeneid.

Qualis, ubi abruptis fugit præsepia vinc'lis,
Tandem liber equus, campoque potitus aperto;
Aut ille in pastus armentaque tendit equarum,
Aut assuetus aquæ perfundi flumine noto
Emicat; arrectisque fremit cervicibus alte
Luxurians, luduntque jubæ per colla, per armos.

DRYDEN.

Freed from his keepers, thus with broken reins,
The wanton courser prances o'er the plains:
Or in the pride of youth, o'erleaps the mounds,
And snuffs the females in forbidden grounds.
Or seeks his wat'ring in the well-known flood,
To quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood:
He swims luxuriant in the liquid plain;
And o'er his shoulders flows his waving main.
He neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high;
Before his ample chest, the frothy waters fly.

PITT.

So the gay pamper'd steed with loosen'd reins,
Breaks from the stall, and pours along the plains;
With large smooth strokes he rushes to the flood,
Bathes his bright sides, and cools his fiery blood;
Neighs as he flies, and tossing high his head,
Snuffs the fair females in the distant mead;
At every motion o'er his neck reclin'd,
Plays his redundant main, and dances in the wind.

From the above specimens, our readers may determine for themselves to
whose translation they would give the preference. Critics, like
historians, should divest themselves of prejudice: they should never be
misguided by the authority of a great name, nor yield that tribute to
prescription, which is only due to merit. Mr. Pitt, no doubt, had many
advantages above Dryden in this arduous province: As he was later in the
attempt, he had consequently the version of Dryden to improve upon. He
saw the errors of that great poet, and avoided them; he discovered his
beauties, and improved upon them; and as he was not impelled by
necessity, he had leisure to revise, correct, and finish his excellent
work.

The Revd. and ingenious Mr. Joseph Warton has given to the world a
compleat edition of Virgil's works made English. The Aeneid by Mr. Pitt:
The Eclogues, Georgics, and notes on the whole, by himself; with some
new observations by Mr. Holdsworth, Mr. Spence, and others. This is the
compleatest English dress, in which Virgil ever appeared. It is enriched
with a dissertation on the VIth Book of the Aeneid, by Warburton. On the
Shield of Aeneas, by Mr. William Whitehead. On the Character of Japis,
by the late Dr. Atterbury bishop of Rochester; and three Essays on
Pastoral, Didactic, and Epic Poetry, by Mr. Warton.

* * * * *

Mr. HAMMOND.

This Gentleman, known to the world by the Love Elegies, which some years
after his death were published by the Earl of Chesterfield, was the son
of a Turkey merchant, in the city of London. We cannot ascertain where
he received his education; but it does not appear that he was at any of
the universities. Mr. Hammond was early preferred to a place about the
person of the late Prince of Wales, which he held till an unfortunate
accident stript him of his reason, or at least so affected his
imagination, that his senses were greatly disordered. The unhappy cause
of his calamity was a passion he entertained for one Miss Dashwood,
which proved unsuccessful. Upon this occasion it was that he wrote his
Love Elegies, which have been much celebrated for their tenderness. The
lady either could not return his passion with a reciprocal fondness, or
entertained too ambitious views to settle her affections upon him, which
he himself in some of his Elegies seems to hint; for he frequently
mentions her passion for gold and splendour, and justly treats it as
very unworthy a fair one's bosom. The chief beauty of these Elegies
certainly consists in their being written by a man who intimately felt
the subject; for they are more the language of the heart than of the
head. They have warmth, but little poetry, and Mr. Hammond seems to have
been one of those poets, who are made so by love, not by nature.

Mr. Hammond died in the year 1743, in the thirty-first year of his age,
at Stow, the seat of his kind patron, the lord Cobham, who honoured him
with a particular intimacy. The editor of Mr. Hammond's Elegies
observes, that he composed them before he was 21 years of age; a period,
says he, when fancy and imagination commonly riot at the expence of
judgment and correctness. He was sincere in his love, as in his
friendship; he wrote to his mistress, as he spoke to his friends,
nothing but the true genuine sentiments of his heart. Tibullus seems to
have been the model our author judiciously preferred to Ovid; the former
writing directly from the heart to the heart, the latter too often
yielding and addressing himself to the imagination.

As a specimen of Mr. Hammond's turn for Elegiac Poetry, we shall quote
his third Elegy, in which he upbraids and threatens the avarice of
Neæra, and resolves to quit her.

Should Jove descend in floods of liquid ore,
And golden torrents stream from every part,
That craving bosom still would heave for more,
Not all the Gods cou'd satisfy thy heart.

But may thy folly, which can thus disdain
My honest love, the mighty wrong repay,
May midnight-fire involve thy sordid gain,
And on the shining heaps of rapine prey.

May all the youths, like me, by love deceiv'd,
Not quench the ruin, but applaud the doom,
And when thou dy'st, may not one heart be griev'd:
May not one tear bedew the lonely tomb.

But the deserving, tender, gen'rous maid,
Whose only care is her poor lover's mind,
Tho' ruthless age may bid her beauty fade,
In every friend to love, a friend shall find.

And when the lamp of life will burn no more,
When dead, she seems as in a gentle sleep,
The pitying neighbour shall her loss deplore;
And round the bier assembled lovers weep.

With flow'ry garlands, each revolving year
Shall strow the grave, where truth and softness rest,
Then home returning drop the pious tear,
And bid the turff lie easy on her breast.

* * * * *

Mr. JOHN BANKS.

This poet was the son of Mr. John Banks of Sunning in Berkshire, in
which place he was born in 1709. His father dying while our author was
very young, the care of his education devolved upon an uncle in law, who
placed him at a private school, under the tuition of one Mr. Belpene, an
Anabaptist. This schoolmaster, so far from encouraging young Banks to
make a great progress in classical learning, exerted his influence with
his relations to have him taken from school, and represented him as
incapable of receiving much erudition. This conduct in Mr. Belpene
proceeded from an early jealousy imbibed against this young man, who, so
far from being dull, as the school-master represented him, possessed
extraordinary parts, of which he gave very early proofs.

Mr. Belpene was perhaps afraid, that as soon as Mr. Banks mould finish
his education, he would be preferred to him as minister to the
congregation of Anabaptists, which place he enjoyed, independent of his
school. The remonstrances of Mr. Belpene prevailed with Mr. Banks's
uncle, who took him from school, and put him apprentice to a Weaver at
Reading. Before the expiration of the apprenticeship, Mr. Banks had the
misfortune to break his arm, and by that accident was disqualified from
pursuing the employment to which he was bred. How early Mr. Banks began
to write we cannot determine, but probably the first sallies of his wit
were directed against this school-master, by whom he was injuriously
treated, and by whose unwarrantable jealousy his education, in some
measure, was ruined. Our author, by the accident already mentioned,
being rendered unfit to obtain a livelihood, by any mechanical
employment, was in a situation deplorable enough. His uncle was either
unable, or unwilling to assist him, or, perhaps, as the relation between
them was only collateral, he had not a sufficient degree of tenderness
for him, to make any efforts in his favour. In this perplexity of our
young poet's affairs, ten pounds were left him by a relation, which he
very oeconomically improved to the best advantage. He came to London,
and purchasing a parcel of old books, he set up a stall in
Spital-Fields.

Much about this time Stephen Duck, who had wrote a poem called The
Thresher, reaped very great advantages from it, and was caressed by
persons in power, who, in imitation of the Royal patroness, heaped
favours upon him, perhaps more on account of the extraordinary regard
Queen Caroline had shewn him, than any opinion of his merit. Mr. Banks
considered that the success of Mr. Duck was certainly owing to the
peculiarity of his circumstances, and that the novelty of a thresher
writing verses, was the genuine cause of his being taken notice of, and
not any intrinsic excellence in the verses themselves. This reflexion
inspired him with a resolution of making an effort of the same kind; but
as curiosity was no more to be excited by novelty, the attempt was
without success. He wrote, in imitation of The Thresher, The Weaver's
Miscellany, which failed producing the intended effect, and, 'tis said,
never was reckoned by Mr. Banks himself as any way worthy of particular
distinction. His business of selling books upon a stall becoming
disagreeable to him, as it demanded a constant and uncomfortable
attendance, he quitted that way of life, and was received into the shop
of one Mr. Montague a bookbinder, and bookseller, whom he served some
time as a journeyman. During the time he lived with Mr. Montague, he
employed his leisure hours in composing several poems, which were now
swelled to such a number, that he might sollicit a subscription for them
with a good grace. He had taken care to improve his acquaintance, and as
he had a power of distinguishing his company, he found his interest
higher in the world than he had imagined. He addressed a poem to Mr.
Pope, which he transmitted to that gentleman, with a copy of his
proposals inclosed. Mr. Pope answered his letter, and the civilities
contained in it, by subscribing for two setts of his poems, and 'tis
said he wrote to Mr. Banks the following compliment,

'May this put money in your purse:
For, friend, believe me, I've seen worse.'

The publication of these poems, while they, no doubt, enhanced his
interest, added likewise something to his reputation; and quitting his
employment at Mr. Montague's, he made an effort to live by writing only.
He engaged in a large work in folio, entitled, The Life of Christ, which
was very acceptable to the public, and was executed with much piety and
precision.

Mr. Banks's next prose work, of any considerable length, was A Critical
Review of the Life of Oliver Cromwell. We have already taken notice that
he received his education among the Anabaptists, and consequently was
attached to those principles, and a favourer of that kind of
constitution which Cromwell, in the first period of his power, meant to
establish. Of the many Lives of this great man, with which the biography
of this nation has been augmented, perhaps not one is written with a
true dispassionate candour. Men are divided in their sentiments
concerning the measures which, at that critical Æra, were pursued by
contending factions. The writers, who have undertaken to review those
unhappy times, have rather struggled to defend a party, to which they
may have been swayed by education or interest, than, by stripping
themselves of all partiality, to dive to the bottom of contentions in
search of truth. The heats of the Civil War produced such animosities,
that the fervour which then prevailed, communicated itself to posterity,
and, though at the distance of a hundred years, has not yet subsided. It
will be no wonder then if Mr. Banks's Review is not found altogether
impartial. He has, in many cases, very successfully defended Cromwell;
he has yielded his conduct, in others, to the just censure of the world.
But were a Whig and a Tory to read this book, the former would pronounce
him a champion for liberty, and the latter would declare him a subverter
of truth, an enemy to monarchy, and a friend to that chaos which Oliver
introduced.

Mr. Banks, by his early principles, was, no doubt, biassed to the Whig
interest, and, perhaps, it may be true, that in tracing the actions of
Cromwell, he may have dwelt with a kind of increasing pleasure on the
bright side of his character, and but slightly hinted at those facts on
which the other party fasten, when they mean to traduce him as a
parricide and an usurper. But supposing the allegation to be true, Mr.
Banks, in this particular, has only discovered the common failing of
humanity: prejudice and partiality being blemishes from which the mind
of man, perhaps, can never be entirely purged.

Towards the latter end of Mr. Banks's life, he was employed in writing
two weekly news-papers, the Old England, and the Westminster Journals.
Those papers treated chiefly on the politics of the times, and the trade
and navigation of England. They were carried on by our author, without
offence to any party, with an honest regard to the public interest, and
in the same kind of spirit, that works of that sort generally are. These
papers are yet continued by other hands.

Mr. Banks had from nature very considerable abilities, and his poems
deservedly hold the second rank. They are printed in two volumes 8vo.
Besides the poems contained in these volumes, there are several other
poetical pieces of his scattered in news-papers, and other periodical
works to which he was an occasional contributer. He had the talent of
relating a tale humorously in verse, and his graver poems have both
force of thinking, and elegance of numbers to recommend them.

Towards the spring of the year 1751 Mr. Banks, who had long been in a
very indifferent state of health, visibly declined. His disorder was of
a nervous sort, which he bore with great patience, and even with a
chearful resignation. This spring proved fatal to him; he died on the
19th of April at his house at Islington, where he had lived several
years in easy circumstances, by the produce of his pen, without leaving
one enemy behind him.

Mr. Banks was a man of real good nature, of an easy benevolent
disposition, and his friends ever esteemed him as a most agreeable
companion. He had none of the petulance, which too frequently renders
men of genius unacceptable to their acquaintance. He was of so composed
a temper, that he was seldom known to be in a passion, and he wore a
perpetual chearfulness in his countenance. He was rather bashful, than
forward; his address did not qualify him for gay company, and though he
possessed a very extensive knowledge of things, yet, as he had not much
grace of delivery, or elegance of manner, he could not make so good a
figure in conversation, as many persons of his knowledge, with a happier
appearance. Of all authors Mr. Banks was the farthest removed from envy
or malevolence. As he could not bear the least whisper of detraction, so
he was never heard to express uneasiness at the growing reputation of
another; nor was he ever engaged in literacy contests. We shall conclude
this article in the words of lord Clarendon. 'He that lives such a life,
need be less anxious at how short warning it is taken from him [1].'

[1] See lord Clarendon's character of the lord Falkland.

* * * * *

Mrs. LÆTITIA PILKINGTON.

This unfortunate poetess, the circumstances of whose life, written by
herself, have lately entertained the public, was born in the year 1712.
She was the daughter of Dr. Van Lewen, a gentleman of Dutch extraction,
who settled in Dublin. Her mother was descended of an ancient and
honourable family, who have frequently intermarried with the nobility.

Mrs. Pilkington, from her earliest infancy, had a strong disposition to
letters, and particularly to poetry. All her leisure hours were
dedicated to the muses; from a reader she quickly became a writer, and,
as Mr. Pope expresses it,

'She lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.'

Her performances were considered as extraordinary for her years, and
drew upon her the admiration of many, who found more pleasure in her
conversation, than that of girls generally affords. In consequence of a
poetical genius, and an engaging sprightliness peculiar to her, she had
many wooers, some of whom seriously addressed her, while others meant no
more than the common gallantries of young people. After the usual
ceremony of a courtship, she became the wife of Mr. Matthew Pilkington,
a gentleman in holy orders, and well known in the poetical world by his
volume of Miscellanies, revised by dean Swift. As we have few materials
for Mrs. Pilkington's life, beside those furnished by herself in her
Memoirs published in 1749, our readers must depend upon her veracity for
some facts which we may be obliged to mention, upon her sole authority.

Our poetess, says she, had not been long married, e'er Mr. Pilkington
became jealous, not of her person, but her understanding. She was
applauded by dean Swift, and many other persons of taste; every
compliment that was paid her, gave a mortal stab to his peace. Behold
the difference between the lover and the husband! When Mr. Pilkington
courted her, he was not more enamoured of her person, than her poetry,
he shewed her verses to every body in the enthusiasm of admiration: but
now he was become a husband, it was a kind of treason for a wife to
pretend to literary accomplishments.

It is certainly true, that when a woman happens to have more
understanding than her husband, she should be very industrious to
conceal it; but it is like wise true, that the natural vanity of the sex
is difficult to check, and the vanity of a poet still more difficult:
wit in a female mind can no more cease to sparkle, than she who
possesses it, can cease to speak. Mr. Pilkington began to view her with
scornful, yet with jealous eyes, and in this situation, nothing but
misery was likely to be their lot. While these jealousies subsisted, Mr.
Pilkington, contrary to the advice of his friends, went into England, in
order to serve as chaplain to alderman Barber during his mayoralty of
the city of London.

While he remained in London, and having the strange humour of loving his
wife best at a distance, he wrote her a very kind letter, in which he
informed her, that her verses were like herself, full of elegance and
beauty[1]; that Mr. Pope and others, to whom he had shewn them, longed
to see the writer, and that he heartily wished her in London. This
letter set her heart on flame. London has very attractive charms to most
young people, and it cannot be much wondered at if Mrs. Pilkington
should take the only opportunity she was ever likely to have, of
gratifying her curiosity: which however proved fatal to her; for though
we cannot find, that during this visit to London, her conduct was the
least reproachable, yet, upon her return to Ireland, she underwent a
violent persecution of tongues. They who envied her abilities, fastened
now upon her morals; they were industrious to trace the motives of her
going to London; her behaviour while she was there; and insinuated
suspicions against her chastity. These detracters were chiefly of her
own sex, who supplied by the bitterest malice what they wanted in power.

Not long after this an accident happened, which threw Mrs. Pilkington's
affairs into the utmost confusion. Her father was stabbed, as she has
related, by an accident, but many people in Dublin believe, by his own
wife, though some say, by his own hand. Upon this melancholy occasion,
Mrs. Pilkington has given an account of her father, which places her in
a very amiable light. She discovered for him the most filial tenderness;
she watched round his bed, and seems to have been the only relation then
about him, who deserved his blessing. From the death of her father her
sufferings begin, and the subsequent part of her life is a continued
series of misfortunes.

Mr. Pilkington having now no expectation of a fortune by her, threw off
all reserve in his behaviour to her. While Mrs. Pilkington was in the
country for her health, his dislike of her seems to have encreased,
and, perhaps, he resolved to get rid of his wife at any rate: nor was he
long waiting for an occasion of parting with her. The story of their
separation may be found at large in her Memoirs. The substance is, that
she was so indiscreet as to permit a gentleman to be found in her
bed-chamber at an unseasonable hour; for which she makes this apology.
'Lovers of learning I am sure will pardon me, as I solemnly declare, it
was the attractive charms of a new book, which the gentleman would not
lend me, but consented to stay till I read it through, that was the
sole motive of my detaining him.' This indeed is a poor evasion; and as
Mrs. Pilkington has said no more in favour of her innocence, they must
have great charity indeed with whom she can stand exculpated.

While the gentleman was with her, the servants let in twelve men at the
kitchen window, who, though they might, as she avers, have opened the
chamber door, chose rather to break it to pieces, and took both her and
the gentleman prisoners. Her husband now told her, that she must turn
out of doors; and taking hold of her hand, made a present of it to the
gentleman, who could not in honour refuse to take her, especially as his
own liberty was to be procured upon no other terms. It being then two
o'clock in the morning, and not knowing where to steer, she went home
with her gallant: but she sincerely assures us, that neither of them
entertained a thought of any thing like love, but sat like statues 'till
break of day.

The gentleman who was found with her, was obliged to fly, leaving a
letter and five guineas inclosed in it for her. She then took a lodging
in some obscure street, where she was persecuted by infamous women, who
were panders to men of fortune.

In the mean time Mr. Pilkington carried on a vigorous prosecution
against her in the Spiritual Court; during which, as she says, he
solemnly declared, he would allow her a maintainance, if she never gave
him any opposition: but no sooner had he obtained a separation, than he
retracted every word he had said on that subject. Upon this she was
advised to lodge an appeal, and as every one whom he consulted, assured
him he would be cast, he made a proposal of giving her a small annuity,
and thirty pounds[2] in money; which, in regard to her children, she
chose to accept, rather than ruin their father. She was with child at
the time of her separation, and when her labour came on, the woman where
she lodged insisted upon doubling her rent: whereupon she was obliged to
write petitionary letters, which were not always successful.

Having passed the pains and peril of childbirth, she begged of Mr.
Pilkington to send her some money to carry her to England; who, in hopes
of getting rid of her, sent her nine pounds. She was the more desirous
to leave Ireland, as she found her character sinking every day with the
public. When she was on board the yacht, a gentleman of figure in the
gay world took an opportunity of making love to her, which she rejected
with some indignation. 'Had I (said she) accepted the offers he made me,
poverty had never approached me. I dined with him at Parkgate, and I
hope virtue will be rewarded; for though I had but five guineas in the
world to carry me to London, I yet possessed chastity enough to refuse
fifty for a night's lodging, and that too from a handsome well-bred man.
I shall scarcely ever forget his words to me, as they seemed almost
prophetic. "Well, madam, said he, you do not know London; you will be
undone there." "Why, sir, said I, I hope you don't imagine I will go
into a bad course of life?" "No, madam, said he, but I think you will
sit in your chamber and starve;" which, upon my word, I have been pretty
near doing; and, but that the Almighty raised me one worthy friend, good
old Mr. Cibber, to whose humanity I am indebted, under God, both for
liberty and life, I had been quite lost.'

When Mrs. Pilkington arrived in London, her conduct was the reverse of
what prudence would have dictated. She wanted to get into favour with
the great, and, for that purpose, took a lodging in St. James's Street,
at a guinea a week; upon no other prospect of living, than what might
arise from some poems she intended to publish by subscription. In this
place she attracted the notice of the company frequenting White's
Chocolate-House; and her story, by means of Mr. Cibber, was made known
to persons of the first distinction, who, upon his recommendation, were
kind to her.

Her acquaintance with Mr. Cibber began by a present she made him of The
Trial of Constancy, a poem of hers, which Mr. Dodsley published. Mr.
Cibber, upon this, visited her, and, ever after, with the most unwearied
zeal, promoted her interest. The reader cannot expect that we should
swell this volume by a minute relation of all the incidents which
happened to her, while she continued a poetical mendicant. She has not,
without pride, related all the little tattle which passed between her
and persons of distinction, who, through the abundance of their
idleness, thought proper to trifle an hour with her.

Her virtue seems now to have been in a declining state; at least, her
behaviour was such, that a man, must have extraordinary faith, who can
think her innocent. She has told us, in the second volume of her
Memoirs, that she received from a noble person a present of fifty
pounds. This, she says, was the ordeal, or fiery trial; youth, beauty,
nobility of birth, attacking at once the most desolate person in the
world. However, we find her soon after this thrown into great distress,
and making various applications to persons of distinction for
subscriptions to her poems. Such as favoured her by subscribing, she has
repaid with most lavish encomiums, and those that withheld that proof of
their bounty, she has sacrificed to her resentment, by exhibiting them
in the most hideous light her imagination could form.

From the general account of her characters, this observation results,
That such as she has stigmatized for want of charity, ought rather to be
censured for want of decency. There might be many reasons, why a person
benevolent in his nature, might yet refuse to subscribe to her; but, in
general, such as refused, did it (as she says) in a rude manner, and she
was more piqued at their deficiency in complaisance to her, than their
want of generosity. Complaisance is easily shewn; it may be done without
expence; it often procures admirers, and can never make an enemy. On the
other hand, benevolence itself, accompanied with a bad grace, may lay us
under obligations, but can never command our affection. It is said of
King Charles I. that he bestowed his bounty with so bad a grace, that he
disobliged more by giving, than his son by refusing; and we have heard
of a gentleman of great parts, who went to Newgate with a greater
satisfaction, as the judge who committed him accompanied the sentence
with an apology and a compliment, than he received from his releasment
by another, who, in extending the King's mercy to him, allayed the Royal
clemency by severe invectives against the gentleman's conduct.

We must avoid entering into a detail of the many addresses,
disappointments and encouragements, which she met with in her attendance
upon the great: her characters are naturally, sometimes justly, and
often strikingly, exhibited. The incidents of her life while she
remained in London were not very important, though she has related them
with all the advantage they can admit of. They are such as commonly
happen to poets in distress, though it does not often fall out, that the
insolence of wealth meets with such a bold return as this lady has given
it. There is a spirit of keenness, and freedom runs through her book,
she spares no man because he is great by his station, or famous by his
abilities. Some knowledge of the world may be gained from reading her
Memoirs; the different humours of mankind she has shewn to the life, and
whatever was ridiculous in the characters she met with, is exposed in
very lively terms.

The next scene which opens in Mrs. Pilkington's life, is the prison of
the Marshalsea. The horrors and miseries of this jail she has
pathetically described, in such a manner as should affect the heart of
every rigid creditor. In favour of her fellow-prisoners, she wrote a
very moving memorial, which, we are told, excited the legislative power
to grant an Act of Grace for them. After our poetess had remained nine
weeks in this prison, she was at last released by the goodness of Mr.
Cibber, from whose representation of her distress, no less than sixteen
dukes contributed a guinea apiece towards her enlargement. When this
news was brought her, she fainted away with excess of joy. Some time
after she had tasted liberty, she began to be weary of that continued
attendance upon the great; and therefore was resolved, if ever she was
again favoured with a competent sum, to turn it into trade, and quit the
precarious life of a poetical mendicant. Mr. Cibber had five guineas in
reserve for her, which, with ten more she received from the duke of
Marlborough, enabled her to take a shop in St. James's Street, which she
filled with pamphlets and prints, as being a business better suited to
her taste and abilities, than any other. Her adventures, while she
remained a shopkeeper, are not extremely important. She has neglected to
inform us how long she continued behind the counter, but has told us,
however, that by the liberality of her friends, and the bounty of her
subscribers, she was set above want, and that the autumn of her days was
like to be spent in peace and serenity.

But whatever were her prospects, she lived not long to enjoy the
comforts of competence, for on the 29th of August, 1750, a few years
after the publication of her second volume, she died at Dublin, in the
thirty ninth year of her age.

Considered as a writer, she holds no mean rank. She was the author of
The Turkish Court, or The London Apprentice, acted at the theatre in
Caple-street, Dublin, 1748, but never printed. This piece was poorly
performed, otherwise it promised to have given great satisfaction. The
first act of her tragedy of the Roman Father, is no ill specimen of her
talents that way, and throughout her Memoirs there are scattered many
beautiful little pieces, written with a true spirit of poetry, though
under all the disadvantages that wit can suffer. Her memory seems to
have been amazingly great, of which her being able to repeat almost all
Shakespear is an astonishing instance.

One of the prettiest of her poetical performances, is the following
Address to the reverend Dr. Hales, with whom she became acquainted at
the house of captain Mead, near Hampton-Court.

To the Revd. Dr. HALES.

Hail, holy sage! whose comprehensive mind,
Not to this narrow spot of earth confin'd,
Thro' num'rous worlds can nature's laws explore,
Where none but Newton ever trod before;
And, guided by philosophy divine,
See thro' his works th'Almighty Maker shine:
Whether you trace him thro' yon rolling spheres,
Where, crown'd with boundless glory, he appears;
Or in the orient sun's resplendent rays,
His setting lustre, or his noon-tide blaze,
New wonders still thy curious search attend,
Begun on earth, in highest Heav'n to end.
O! while thou dost those God-like works pursue,
What thanks, from human-kind to thee are due!
Whose error, doubt, and darkness, you remove,
And charm down knowledge from her throne above.
Nature to thee her choicest secrets yields,
Unlocks her springs, and opens all her fields;
Shews the rich treasure that her breast contains,
In azure fountains, or enamell'd plains;
Each healing stream, each plant of virtuous use,
To thee their medicinal pow'rs produce.
Pining disease and anguish wing their flight,
And rosy health renews us to delight.

When you, with art, the animal dissect,
And, with the microscopic aid, inspect
[Transcriber's note: 'microsopic' in
original]
Where, from the heart, unnumbered rivers glide,
And faithful back return their purple tide;
How fine the mechanism, by thee display'd!
How wonderful is ev'ry creature made!
Vessels, too small for sight, the fluids strain,
Concoct, digest, assimilate, sustain;
In deep attention, and surprize, we gaze,
And to life's author, raptur'd, pour out praise.

What beauties dost thou open to the sight,
Untwisting all the golden threads of light!
Each parent colour tracing to its source,
Distinct they live, obedient to thy force!
Nought from thy penetration is conceal'd,
And light, himself, shines to thy soul reveal'd.

So when the sacred writings you display,
And on the mental eye shed purer day;
In radiant colours truth array'd we see,
Confess her charms, and guided up by thee;
Soaring sublime, on contemplation's wings,
The fountain seek, whence truth eternal springs.
Fain would I wake the consecrated lyre,
And sing the sentiments thou didst inspire!
But find my strength unequal to a theme,
Which asks a Milton's, or a Seraph's flame!
If, thro' weak words, one ray of reason shine,
Thine was the thought, the errors only mine.
Yet may these numbers to thy soul impart
The humble incense of a grateful heart.
Trifles, with God himself, acceptance find,
If offer'd with sincerity of mind;
Then, like the Deity, indulgence shew,
Thou, most like him, of all his works below.

FOOTNOTES:
[1] An extravagant compliment; for Mrs. Pilkington was far from being a
beauty.

[2] Of which, she says, she received only 15 l.

* * * * *

Mr. THOMAS SOUTHERN.

This eminent poet was born in Dublin, on the year of the Restoration of
Charles the IId. and received his early education at the university
there. In the 18th year of his age, he quitted Ireland, and as his
intention was to pursue a lucrative profession, he entered himself in
the Middle-Temple. But the natural vivacity of his mind overcoming
considerations of advantage, he quitted that state of life, and entered
into the more agreeable service of the Muses[1].

The first dramatic performance of Mr. Southern, his Persian Prince, or
Loyal Brother, was acted in the year 1682. The story is taken from
Thamas Prince of Persia, a Novel; and the scene is laid in Ispahan in
Persia. This play was introduced at a time when the Tory interest was
triumphant in England, and the character of the Loyal brother was no
doubt intended to compliment James Duke of York, who afterwards rewarded
the poet for his service. To this Tragedy Mr. Dryden wrote the Prologue
and Epilogue, which furnished Mr. Southern with an opportunity of saying
in his dedication, 'That the Laureat's own pen secured me, maintaining
the out-works, while I lay safe entrenched within his lines; and malice,
ill-nature, and censure were forced to grin at a distance.'

The Prologue is a continued invective against the Whigs, and whether
considered as a party libel, or an induction to a new play, is in every
respect unworthy of the great hand that wrote it. His next play was a
Comedy, called the Disappointment, or the Mother in Fashion, performed
in the year 1684.--After the accession of king James the IId to the
throne, when the duke of Monmouth made an unfortunate attempt upon his
uncle's crown, Mr. Southern went into the army, in the regiment of foot
raised by the lord Ferrers, afterwards commanded by the duke of Berwick;
and he had three commissions, viz. ensign, lieutenant, and captain,
under King James, in that regiment.

During the reign of this prince, in the year before the Revolution, he
wrote a Tragedy called the Spartan Dame, which however was not acted
till the year 1721. The subject is taken from the Life of Agis in
Plutarch, where the character of Chelonis, between the duties of a wife
and daughter was thought to have a near resemblance to that of King
William's Queen Mary. 'I began this play, says Mr. Southern, a year
before the Revolution, and near four acts written without any view. Many
things interfering with those times, I laid by what I had written for
seventeen years: I shewed it then to the late duke of Devonshire, who
was in every regard a judge; he told me he saw no reason why it might
not have been acted the year of the Revolution: I then finished it, and
as I thought cut out the exceptionable parts, but could not get it
acted, not being able to persuade myself to the cutting off those limbs,
which I thought essential to the strength and life of it. But since I
found it must pine in obscurity without it, I consented to the
operation, and after the amputation of every line, very near to the
number of 400, it stands on its own legs still, and by the favour of the
town, and indulging assistance of friends, has come successfully forward
on the stage.' This play was inimitably acted. Mr. Booth, Mr. Wilks, Mr.
Cibber, Mr. Mills, sen. Mrs. Oldfield, and Mrs. Porter, all performed in
it, in their heighth of reputation, and the full vigour of their powers.

Mr. Southern acknowledges in his preface to this play, that the last
scene of the third Act, was almost all written by the honourable John
Stafford, father to the earl of Stafford. Mr. Southern has likewise
acknowledged, that he received from the bookseller, as a price for this
play, 150 l. which at that time was very extraordinary. He was the first
who raised the advantage of play writing to a second and third night,
which Mr. Pope mentions in the following manner,

--Southern born to raise,
The price of Prologues and of Plays.

The reputation which Mr. Dryden gained by the many Prologues he wrote,
induced the players to be sollicitous to have one of his to speak, which
were generally well received by the public. Mr. Dryden's price for a
Prologue had usually been five guineas, with which sum Mr. Southern
presented him when he received from him a Prologue for one of his plays.
Mr. Dryden returned the money, and said to him; 'Young man this is too
little, I must have ten guineas.' Mr. Southern on this observ'd, that
his usual price was five guineas. Yes answered Dryden, it has been so,
but the players have hitherto had my labours too cheap; for the future I
must have ten guineas [2].

Mr. Southern was industrious to draw all imaginable profits from his
poetical labours. Mr. Dryden once took occasion to ask him how much he
got by one of his plays; to which he answered, that he was really
ashamed to inform him. But Mr. Dryden being a little importunate to
know, he plainly told him, that by his last play he cleared seven
hundred pounds; which appeared astonishing to Mr. Dryden, as he himself
had never been able to acquire more than one hundred by any of his most
successful pieces. The secret is, Mr. Southern was not beneath the
drudgery of sollicitation, and often sold his tickets at a very high
price, by making applications to persons of distinction: a degree of
servility which perhaps Mr. Dryden thought was much beneath the dignity
of a poet; and too much in the character of an under-player.

That Mr. Dryden entertained a very high opinion of our author's
abilities, appears from his many expressions of kindness towards him. He
has prefixed a copy of verses to a Comedy of his, called the Wife's
Excuse, acted in the year 1692, with very indifferent success: Of this
Comedy, Mr. Dryden had so high an opinion, that he bequeathed to our
poet, the care of writing half the last act of his Tragedy of Cleomenes,
'Which, says Mr. Southern, when it comes into the world will appear to
be so considerable a trust, that all the town will pardon me for
defending this play, that preferred me to it.'

Our author continued from time to time to entertain the public with his
dramatic pieces, the greatest part of which met with the success they
deserved. The night on which his Innocent Adultery was first acted,
which is perhaps the most moving play in any language; a gentleman took
occasion to ask Mr. Dryden, what was his opinion of Southern's genius?
to which that great poet replied, 'That he thought him such another poet
as Otway.' When this reply was communicated to Mr. Southern, he
considered it as a very great compliment, having no ambition to be
thought a more considerable poet than Otway was.

Of our author's Comedies, none are in possession of the stage, nor
perhaps deserve to be so; for in that province he is less excellent than
in Tragedy. The present Laureat, who is perhaps one of the best judges
of Comedy now living, being asked his opinion by a gentleman, of
Southern's comic dialogue, answered, That it might be denominated
Whip-Syllabub, that is, flashy and light, but indurable; and as it is
without the Sal Atticum of wit, can never much delight the intelligent
part of the audience.

The most finished, and the most pathetic of Mr. Southern's plays, in the
opinion of the critics, is his Oroonoko, or the Royal Slave. This drama
is built upon a true story, related by Mrs. Behn, in a Novel; and has so
much the greater influence on the audience, as they are sensible that
the representation is no fiction. In this piece, Mr. Southern has
touched the tender passions with so much skill, that it will perhaps be
injurious to his memory to say of him, that he is second to Otway.
Besides the tender and delicate strokes of passion, there are many
shining and manly sentiments in Oroonoko; and one of the greatest
genius's of the present age, has often observed, that in the most
celebrated play of Shakespear, so many striking thoughts, and such a
glow of animated poetry cannot be furnished. This play is so often
acted, and admired, that any illustration of its beauties here, would be
entirely superfluous. His play of The Fatal Marriage, or The Innocent
Adultery, met with deserved success; the affecting incidents, and
interesting tale in the tragic part, sufficiently compensate for the
low, trifling, comic part; and when the character of Isabella is acted,
as we have seen it, by Mrs. Porter, and Mrs. Woffington, the ladies
seldom fail to sympathise in grief.

Mr. Southern died on the 26th of May, in the year 1746, in the 86th year
of his age; the latter part of which he spent in a peaceful serenity,
having by his commission as a soldier, and the profits of his dramatic
works, acquired a handsome fortune; and being an exact oeconomist, he
improved what fortune he gained, to the best advantage: He enjoyed the
longest life of all our poets, and died the richest of them, a very few
excepted.

A gentleman whose authority we have already quoted, had likewise
informed us, that Mr. Southern lived for the last ten years of his life
in Westminster, and attended very constant at divine service in the
Abbey, being particularly fond of church music. He never staid within
doors while in health, two days together, having such a circle of
acquaintance of the best rank, that he constantly dined with one or
other, by a kind of rotation.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Jacob.

[2] From the information of a gentleman personally acquainted
with Mr. Southern, who desires to have his name conceal'd.

* * * * *

The Revd. Mr. JAMES MILLER.

This gentleman was born in the year 1703. He was the son of a clergyman,
who possessed two considerable livings in Dorsetshire[1]. He received
his education at Wadham-College in Oxford, and while he was resident in
that university he composed part of his famous Comedy called the Humours
of Oxford, acted in the year 1729, by the particular recommendation of
Mrs. Oldfield.

This piece, as it was a lively representation of the follies and vices
of the students of that place, procured the author many enemies.

Mr. Miller was designed by his relations to be bred to business, which
he declined, not being able to endure the servile drudgery it demanded.
He no sooner quitted the university than he entered into holy orders,
and was immediately preferred to be lecturer in Trinity-College in
Conduit-Street, and preacher of Roehampton-Chapel. These livings were
too inconsiderable to afford a genteel subsistence, and therefore it may
be supposed he had recourse to dramatic writing to encrease his
finances. This kind of composition, however, being reckoned by some very
foreign to his profession, if not inconsistent with it, was thought to
have retarded his preferment in the church. Mr. Miller was likewise
attached to the High-Church interest, a circumstance in the times in
which he lived, not very favourable to preferment. He was so honest
however in these principles, that upon a large offer being made him by
the agents for the ministry in the time of a general opposition, he had
virtue sufficient to withstand the temptation, though his circumstances
at that time were far from being easy. Mr. Miller often confessed to
some of his friends, that this was the fiery trial of his constancy. He
had received by his wife a very genteel fortune, and a tenderness for
her had almost overcome his resolutions; but he recovered again to his
former firmness, when upon hinting to his wife, the terms upon which
preferment might be procured, she rejected them with indignation; and he
became ashamed of his own wavering. This was an instance of honour, few
of which are to be met with in the Lives of the Poets, who have been too
generally of a time-serving temper, and too pliant to all the follies
and vices of their age. But though Mr. Miller would not purchase
preferment upon the terms of writing for the ministry, he was content to
stipulate, never to write against them, which proposal they rejected in
their turn.

About a year before Mr. Miller's death, which happened in 1743, he was
presented by Mr. Cary of Dorsetshire, to the profitable living of Upsun,
his father had before possess'd, but which this worthy man lived not
long to enjoy; nor had he ever an opportunity of making that provision
for his family he so much sollicited; and which he even disdained to do
at the expence of his honour.

Mr. Miller's dramatic works are,

I. Humours of Oxford, which we have already mentioned.

II. The Mother-in-Law, or the Doctor the Disease; a Comedy, 1733.

III. The Man of Taste, a Comedy; acted in the year 1736, which had a run
of 30 nights[2].

IV. Universal Passion, a Comedy, 1736.

V. Art and Nature, a Comedy, 1737.

VI. The Coffee-House, a Farce, 1737.

VII. An Hospital for Fools, a Farce, 1739.

VIII. The Picture, or Cuckold in Conceit.

IX. Mahomet the Impostor, a Tragedy; during the run of this play the
author died.

X. Joseph and his Brethren; a sacred Drama.

Mr. Miller was author of many occasional pieces in poetry, of which his
Harlequin Horace is the most considerable. This Satire is dedicated to
Mr. Rich, the present manager of Covent-Garden Theatre, in which with an
ironical severity he lashes that gentleman, in consequence of some
offence Mr. Rich had given him.

Mr. Miller likewise published a volume of Sermons, all written with a
distinguished air of piety, and a becoming zeal for the interest of true
religion; and was principally concerned in the translation of Moliere's
comedies, published by Watts.

Our author left behind him a son, whose profession is that of a sea
surgeon. Proposals for publishing his Poems have been inserted in the
Gentleman's Magazine, with a specimen, which does him honour. The
profits of this subscription, are to be appropriated to his mother, whom
he chiefly supported, an amiable instance of filial piety.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The account of this gentleman is taken from the information of his
widow.

[2] These two pieces were brought on the stage, without the author's
name being known; which, probably, not a little contributed to their
success; the care of the rehearsals being left to Mr. Theo. Cibber,
who played the characters of the Man of Taste, and Squire
Headpiece.

* * * * *

Mr. NICHOLAS AMHURST.

This gentleman, well known to the world, by the share he had in the
celebrated anti-court paper called The Craftsman, was born in Marden in
Kent, but in what year we cannot be certain. Mr. Amhurst's grandfather
was a clergyman, under whose protection and care he received his
education at Merchant-Taylors school. Having received there the
rudiments of learning, he was removed to St. John's College, Oxford,
from which, on account of the libertinism of his principles, and some
offence he gave to the head of that college, it appears, he was ejected.
We can give no other account of this affair, than what is drawn from Mr.
Amhurst's dedication of his poems to Dr. Delaune, President of St.
John's College in Oxford. This dedication abounds with mirth and
pleasantry, in which he rallies the Dr. with very pungent irony, and
hints at the causes of his disgrace in that famous college. In page 10,
of his dedication, he says,

'You'll pardon me, good sir, if I think it necessary for your honour to
mention the many heinous crimes for which I was brought to shame. None
were indeed publicly alledged against me at that time, because it might
as well be done afterwards; sure old Englishmen can never forget that
there is such a thing as hanging a man for it, and trying him
afterwards: so fared it with me; my prosecutors first proved me, by an
undeniable argument, to be no fellow of St. John's College, and then to
be--the Lord knows what.

'My indictment may be collected out of the faithful annals of common
fame, which run thus,

'Advices from Oxford say, that on the 29th of June, 1719, one Nicholas
Amhurst of St. John's College was expelled for the following reasons;

'Imprimis, For loving foreign turnips and Presbyterian bishops.

'Item, For ingratitude to his benefactor, that spotless martyr, Sir
William Laud.

'Item, For believing that steeples and organs are not necessary to
salvation.

'Item, For preaching without orders, and praying without a commission.

'Item, For lampooning priestcraft and petticoatcraft.

'Item, For not lampooning the government and the revolution.

'Item, For prying into secret history.

'My natural modesty will not permit me, like other apologists, to
Vindicate myself in any one particular, the whole charge is so artfully
drawn up, that no reasonable person would ever think the better of me,
should I justify myself 'till doomsday.' Towards the close of the
dedication, he takes occasion to complain of some severities used
against him, at the time of his being excluded the college. 'But I must
complain of one thing, whether reasonable or not, let the world judge.
When I was voted out of your college, and the nusance was thereby
removed, I thought the resentments of the holy ones would have proceeded
no further; I am sure the cause of virtue and sound religion I was
thought to offend, required no more; nor could it be of any possible
advantage to the church, to descend to my private affairs, and stir up
my creditors in the university to take hold of me at a disadvantage,
before I could get any money returned; but there are some persons in the
world, who think nothing unjust or inhuman in the prosecution of their
implacable revenge.'

It is probable, that upon this misfortune happening to our author, he
repaired to the capital, there to retrieve his ruined affairs. We find
him engaged deeply in the Craftsman, when that paper was in its
meridian, and when it was more read and attended to than any political
paper ever published in England, on account of the assistance given to
it by some of the most illustrious and important characters of the
nation. It is said, that ten thousand of that paper have been sold in
one day.

The Miscellanies of Mr. Amhurst, the greatest part of which were written
at the university, consist chiefly of poems sacred and profane,
original, paraphrased, imitated, and translated; tales, epigrams,
epistles, love-verses, elegies, and satires. The Miscellany begins with
a beautiful paraphrase on the Mosaic Account of the Creation; and ends
with a very humorous tale upon the discovery of that useful utensil, A
Bottle-Screw.

Mr. Amhurst died of a fever at Twickenham, April 27, 1742. Our poet had
a great enmity to the exorbitant demands, and domineering spirit of the
High-Church clergy, which he discovers by a poem of his, called, The
convocation, in five cantos; a kind of satire against all the writers,
who shewed themselves enemies of the bishop of Bangor. He translated The
Resurrection, and some other of Mr. Addison's Latin pieces.

He wrote an epistle (with a petition in it) to Sir John Blount, Bart.
one of the directors of the South-Sea Company, 1726.

Oculus Britanniæ, an Heroi-panegyrical Poem, on the University of
Oxford, 8vo. 1724.

In a poem of Mr. Amhurst's, called, An Epistle from the Princess
Sobiesky to the Chevalier de St. George, he has the following nervous
lines, strongly expressive of the passion of love.

Relentless walls and bolts obstruct my way,
And, guards as careless, and as deaf as they;
Or to my James thro' whirlwinds I would, go,
Thro' burning deserts, and o'er alps of snow,
Pass spacious roaring, oceans undismay'd,
And think the mighty dangers well repaid.

* * * * *

Mr. GEORGE LILLO.

Was by profession a jeweller. He was born in London, on the 4th of Feb.
1693. He lived, as we are informed, near Moorgate, in the same
neighbourhood where he received his birth, and where he was always
esteemed as a person of unblemished character. 'Tis said, he was
educated in the principles of the dissenters: be that as it will, his
morals brought no disgrace on any sect or party. Indeed his principal
attachment was to the muses.

His first piece, brought on the stage, was a Ballad Opera, called
Sylvia; or, The Country Burial; performed at the Theatre Royal in
Lincoln's-Inn Fields, but with no extraordinary success, in the year
1730. The year following he brought his play, called The London
Merchant; or, The True Story of George Barnwell, to Mr. Cibber junior;
(then manager of the summer company, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane)
who originally played the part of Barnwell.--The author was not then
known. As this was almost a new species of tragedy, wrote on a very
uncommon subject, he rather chose it should take its fate in the summer,
than run the more hazardous fate of encountering the winter criticks.
The old ballad of George Barnwell (on which the story was founded) was
on this occasion reprinted, and many thousands sold in one day. Many
gaily-disposed spirits brought the ballad with them to the play,
intending to make their pleasant remarks (as some afterwards owned) and
ludicrous comparisons between the antient ditty and the modern drama.
But the play was very carefully got up, and universally allowed to be
well performed. The piece was thought to be well conducted, and the
subject well managed, and the diction proper and natural; never low, and
very rarely swelling above the characters that spoke. Mr. Pope, among
other persons, distinguished by their rank, or particular publick merit,
had the curiosity to attend the performance, and commended the actors,
and the author; and remarked, if the latter had erred through the whole
play, it was only in a few places, where he had unawares led himself
into a poetical luxuriancy, affecting to be too elevated for the
simplicity of the subject. But the play, in general, spoke so much to
the heart, that the gay persons before mentioned confessed, they were
drawn in to drop their ballads, and pull out their handkerchiefs. It met
with uncommon success; for it was acted above twenty times in the summer
season to great audiences; was frequently bespoke by some eminent
merchants and citizens, who much approved its moral tendency: and, in
the winter following, was acted often to crowded houses: And all the
royal family, at several different times, honoured it with their
appearance. It gained reputation, and brought money to the poet, the
managers, and the performers. Mr. Cibber, jun. not only gave the author
his usual profits of his third days, &c. but procured him a
benefit-night in the winter season, which turned out greatly to his
advantage; so that he had four benefit-nights in all for that piece; by
the profits whereof, and his copy-money, he gained several hundred
pounds. It continued a stock-play in Drury-Lane Theatre till Mr. Cibber
left that house, and went to the Theatre in Covent-Garden. It was often
acted in the Christmas and Easter holidays, and judged a proper
entertainment for the apprentices, &c. as being a more instructive,
moral, and cautionary drama, than many pieces that had been usually
exhibited on those days, with little but farce and ribaldry to
recommend them.

A few years after, he brought out his play of The Christian Hero at the
Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane.

And another Tragedy called Elmerick.

His tragedy of three acts, called Fatal Curiosity, founded on an old
English story, was acted with success at the Hay-Market, in 1737.

He wrote another tragedy, never yet acted, called Arden of Feversham.

He was a man of strict morals, great good-nature, and sound sense, with
an uncommon share of modesty.

He died Sept. 3. 1739. and was buried in the vault of Shoreditch church.

* * * * *

Mr. CHARLES JOHNSON.

Mr. Charles Johnson was designed for the law; but being an admirer of
the muses, turned his thoughts to dramatic writing; and luckily being an
intimate of Mr. Wilks, by the assistance of his friendship, Mr. Johnson
had several plays acted, some of which met with success. He was a
constant attendant at Will's and Button's coffee houses, which were the
resort of most of the men of taste and literature, during the reigns of
queen Anne and king George the first. Among these he contracted intimacy
enough to intitle him to their patronage, &c on his benefit-nights; by
which means he lived (with oeconomy) genteelly. At last he married a
young widow, with a tolerable fortune, and set up a tavern in
Bow-street, which he quitted on his wife's dying, and lived privately on
the small remainder of his fortune.

He died about the year 1744. His parts were not very brilliant; but his
behaviour was generally thought inoffensive; yet he escaped not the
satire of Mr. Pope, who has been pleased to immortalize him in his
Dunciad.

His dramatic pieces are,

1. The Gentleman Cully, a Comedy: acted at the Theatre-Royal,
Covent-Garden, 1702.

2. Fortune in her Wits, a Comedy; 1705. It is a very indifferent
translation of Mr. Cowley's Naufragium Joculare.

3. The Force of Friendship, a Tragedy, 1710.

4. Love in a Chest, a Farce, 1710.

5. The Wife's Relief; or, the Husband's Cure; a Comedy. It is chiefly
borrowed from Shirley's Gamester, 1711.

6. The Successful Pirate, a Tragi-Comedy, 1712.

7. The Generous Husband; or, the Coffee-house Politician; a Comedy,
1713.

8. The Country Lasses; or, the Custom of the Manor; a Comedy, 1714.

9. Love and Liberty; a Tragedy, 1715.

10. The Victim; a Tragedy, 1715.

11. The Sultaness; a Tragedy, 1717.

12. The Cobler of Preston; a Farce of two Acts, 1717.

13. Love in a Forest; a Comedy, 1721. Taken from Shakespear's Comedy, As
you like it.

14. The Masquerade; a Comedy, 1723.

15. The Village Opera, 1728.

16. The Ephesian Matron; a Farce of one Act, 1730.

17. Celia; or, the Perjured Lovers; a Tragedy, 1732.

* * * * *

PHILIP FROWDE, Esq;

This elegant poet was the son of a gentleman who had been
post-master-general in the reign of queen Anne. Where our author
received his earliest instructions in literature we cannot ascertain;
but, at a proper time of life, he was sent to the university of Oxford,
where he had the honour of being particularly distinguished by Mr.
Addison, who took him under his immediate protection. While he remained
at that university, he became author of several poetical performances;
some of which, in Latin, were sufficiently elegant and pure, to intitle
them to a place in the Musæ Anglicanæ, published by Mr. Addison; an
honour so much the more distinguished, as the purity of the Latin poems
contained in that collection, furnished the first hint to Boileau of the
greatness of the British genius. That celebrated critick of France
entertained a mean opinion of the English poets, till he occasionally
read the Musæ Anglicanæ; and then he was persuaded that they who could
write with so much elegance in a dead language, must greatly excel in
that which was native to them.

Mr. Frowde has likewise obliged the publick with two tragedies; the Fall
of Saguntum, dedicated to sir Robert Walpole; and Philotas, addressed to
the earl of Chesterfield. The first of these performances, so far as we
are able to judge, has higher merit than the last. The story is more
important, being the destruction of a powerful city, than the fall of a
single hero; the incidents rising out of this great event are likewise
of a very interesting nature, and the scenes in many places are not
without passion, though justly subject to a very general criticism, that
they are written with too little. Mr. Frowde has been industrious in
this play to conclude his acts with similes, which however exceptionable
for being too long and tedious for the situations of the characters who
utter them, yet are generally just and beautiful. At the end of the
first act he has the following simile upon sedition:

Sedition, thou art up; and, in the ferment,
To what may not the madding populace,
Gathered together for they scarce know what,
Now loud proclaiming their late, whisper'd grief,
Be wrought at length? Perhaps to yield the city.
Thus where the Alps their airy ridge extend,
Gently at first the melting snows descend;
From the broad slopes, with murm'ring lapse they glide
In soft meanders, down the mountain's side;
But lower fall'n streams, with each other crost,
From rock to rock impetuously are tost,
'Till in the Rhone's capacious bed they're lost.
United there, roll rapidly away,
And roaring, reach, o'er rugged rocks, the sea.

In the third act, the poet, by the mouth of a Roman hero, gives the
following concise definition of true courage.

True courage is not, where fermenting spirits
Mount in a troubled and unruly stream;
The soul's its proper seat; and reason there
Presiding, guides its cool or warmer motions.

The representation of besiegers driven back by the impetuosity of the
inhabitants, after they had entered a gate of the city, is strongly
pictured by the following simile.

Imagine to thyself a swarm of bees
Driv'n to their hive by some impending storm,
Which, at its little pest, in clustering heaps,
And climbing o'er each other's backs they enter.
Such was the people's flight, and such their haste
To gain the gate.

We have observed, that Mr. Frowde's other tragedy, called Philotas, was
addressed to the earl of Chesterfield; and in the dedication he takes
care to inform his lordship, that it had obtained his private
approbation, before it appeared on the stage. At the time of its being
acted, lord Chesterfield was then embassador to the states-general, and
consequently he was deprived of his patron's countenance during the
representation. As to the fate of this play, he informs his lordship, it
was very particular: "And I hope (says he) it will not be imputed as
vanity to me, when I explain my meaning in an expression of Juvenal,
Laudatur & al-get." But from what cause this misfortune attended it, we
cannot take upon us to say.

Mr. Frowde died at his lodgings in Cecil-street in the Strand, on the
19th of Dec. 1738. In the London Daily Post 22d December, the following
amiable character is given of our poet:

"But though the elegance of Mr. Frowde's writings has recommended him to
the general publick esteem, the politeness of his genius is the least
amiable part of his character; for he esteemed the talents of wit and
learning, only as they were, conducive to the excitement and practice of
honour and humanity. Therefore,

"with a soul chearful, benevolent, and virtuous, he was in conversation
genteelly delightful; in friendship punctually sincere; in death
christianly resigned. No man could live more beloved; no private man
could die more lamented."

* * * * *

Mrs. MARY CHANDLER,

Was born at Malmsbury in Wiltshire, in the year 1687, of worthy and
reputable parents; her father, Mr. Henry Chandler, being minister, many
years, of the congregation of protestant dissenters in Bath, whose
integrity, candour, and catholick spirit, gained him the esteem and
friendship of all ranks and parties. She was his eldest daughter, and
trained up carefully in the principles of religion and virtue. But as
the circumstances of the family rendered it necessary that she should be
brought up to business, she was very early employed in it, and incapable
of receiving that polite and learned education which she often regretted
the loss of, and which she afterwards endeavoured to repair by
diligently reading, and carefully studying the best modern writers, and
as many as she could of the antient ones, especially the poets, as far
as the best translations could assist her.

Amongst these, Horace was her favourite; and how just her sentiments
were of that elegant writer, will fully appear from her own words, in a
letter to an intimate friend, relating to him, in which she thus
expresses herself: "I have been reading Horace this month past, in the
best translation I could procure of him. O could I read his fine
sentiments cloathed in his own dress, what would I, what would I not
give! He is more my favorite than Virgil or Homer. I like his subjects,
his easy manner. It is nature within my view. He doth not lose me in
fable, or in the clouds amidst gods and goddesses, who, more brutish
than myself, demand my homage, nor hurry me into the noise and confusion
of battles, nor carry me into inchanted circles, to conjure with witches
in an unknown land, but places me with persons like myself, and in
countries where every object is familiar to me. In short, his precepts
are plain, and morals intelligible, though not always so perfect as one
could have wished them. But as to this, I consider when and where he
lived."

The hurries of life into which her circumstances at Bath threw her, sat
frequently extremely heavy upon a mind so intirely devoted to books and
contemplation as hers was; and as that city, especially in the seasons,
but too often furnished her with characters in her own sex that were
extremely displeasing to her, she often, in the most passionate manner,
lamented her fate, that tied her down to so disagreeable a situation;
for she was of so extremely delicate and generous a soul, that the
imprudences and faults of others gave her a very sensible pain, though
she had no other connexion with, or interest in them, but what arose
from the common ties of human nature. This made her occasional
retirements from that place to the country-seats of some of her
peculiarly intimate and honoured friends, doubly delightful to her, as
she there enjoyed the solitude she loved, and could converse, without
interruption, with those objects of nature, that never failed to inspire
her with the most exquisite satisfaction. One of her friends, whom she
highly honoured and loved, and of whose hospitable house, and pleasant
gardens, she was allowed the freest use, was the late excellent Mrs.
Stephens, of Sodbury in Gloucestershire, whose feat she celebrated in a
poem inscribed to her, inserted in the collection she published. A lady,
that was worthy of the highest commendation her muse could bestow upon
her. The fine use she made of solitude, the few following lines me wrote
on it, will be an honourable testimony to her.

Sweet solitude, the Muses dear delight,
Serene thy day, and peaceful is thy night!
Thou nurse of innocence, fair virtue's friend,
Silent, tho' rapturous, pleasures thee attend.
Earth's verdant scenes, the all surrounding skies
Employ my wondring thoughts, and feast my eyes,
Nature in ev'ry object points the road,
Whence contemplation wings my soul to God.
He's all in all. His wisdom, goodness, pow'r,
Spring in each blade, and bloom in ev'ry flow'r,
Smile o'er the meads, and bend in ev'ry hill,
Glide in the stream, and murmur in the rill
All nature moves obedient to his will.
Heav'n shakes, earth trembles, and the forests nod,
When awful thunders speak the voice of God.

However, notwithstanding her love of retirement, and the happy
improvement she knew how to make of it, yet her firm belief that her
station was the appointment of providence, and her earnest desire of
being useful to her relations, whom she regarded with the warmest
affection, brought her to submit to the fatigues of her business, to
which, during thirty-five years, she applied herself with, the utmost
diligence and care.

Amidst such perpetual avocations, and constant attention to business,
her improvements in knowledge, and her extensive acquaintance with the
best writers, are truly surprising. But she well knew the worth of time,
and eagerly laid hold of all her leisure hours, not to lavish them away
in fashionable unmeaning amusements; but in the pursuit of what she
valued infinitely more, those substantial acquisitions of true wisdom
and goodness, which she knew were the noblest ornaments of the
reasonable mind, and the only sources of real and permanent happiness:
and she was the more desirous of this kind of accomplishments, as she
had nothing in her shape to recommend her, being grown, by an accident
in her childhood, very irregular in her body, which she had resolution
enough often to make the subject of her own pleasantry, drawing this
wise inference from it, "That as her person would not recommend her, she
must endeavour to cultivate her mind, to make herself agreeable."

And indeed this she did with the greatest care; and she had so many
excellent qualities in her, that though her first appearance could never
create any prejudice in her favour, yet it was impossible to know her
without valuing and esteeming her.

Wherever she professed friendship, it was sincere and cordial to the
objects of it; and though she admired whatever was excellent in them,
and gave it the commendations it deserved, yet she was not blind to
their faults, especially if such as she apprehended to be inconsistent
with the character of integrity and virtue. As she thought one of the
noblest advantages of real friendship, was the rendering it serviceable
mutually to correct, polish, and perfect the characters of those who
professed it, and as she was not displeased to be kindly admonished
herself for what her friends thought any little disadvantage to her
character, so she took the same liberty with others; but used that
liberty with such a remarkable propriety, tenderness, and politeness, as
made those more sincerely esteem her, with whom she used the greatest
freedom, and has lost her no intimacy but with one person, with whom,
for particular reasons, she thought herself obliged to break off all
correspondence.

Nor could one, who had so perfect a veneration and love for religion and
virtue, fail to make her own advantage of the admonitions and reproofs
she gave to others: and she often expressed a very great pleasure, that
the care she had of those young persons, that were frequently committed
to her friendship, put her upon her guard, as to her own temper and
conduct, and on a review of her own actions, lest she should any way
give them a wrong example, or omit any thing that was really for their
good. And if she at any time reflected, that her behaviour to others had
been wrong, she, with the greatest ease and frankness, asked the pardon
of those she had offended; as not daring to leave to their wrong
construction any action of hers, lest they should imagine that she
indulged to those faults for which she took the liberty of reproving
them. Agreeable to this happy disposition of mind, she gave, in an
off-hand manner, the following advice to an intimate friend, who had
several children, whom she deservedly honoured, and whom she could not
esteem and love beyond his real merits.

To virtue strict, to merit kind,
With temper calm, to trifles blind,
Win them to mend the faults they see,
And copy prudent rules from thee.
Point to examples in their sight,
T'avoid, and scorn, and to delight.
Then love of excellence inspire,
By hope their emulation fire,
You'll gain in time your own desire.

She used frequently to complain of herself, as naturally eager, anxious,
and peevish. But, by a constant cultivation of that benevolent
disposition, that was never inwrought in any heart in a stronger and
more prevailing manner than in hers, she, in a good measure, dispossest
herself of those inward sources of uneasiness, and was pleased with the
victory she had gained over herself, and continually striving to render
it more absolute and complete.

Her religion was rational and prevalent. She had, in the former part of
her life, great doubts about christianity, during which state of
uncertainty, she was one of the most uneasy and unhappy persons living.
But her own good sense, her inviolable attachment to religion and
virtue, her impartial inquiries, her converse with her believing
friends, her study of the best writers in defence of christianity, and
the observations she made on the temper and conduct, the fall and ruin
of some that had discarded their principles, and the irregularities of
others, who never attended to them, fully at last released her from all
her doubts, and made her a firm and established christian. The immediate
consequence of this was, the return of her peace, the possession of
herself, the enjoyment of her friends, and an intire freedom from the
terror of any thing that could befall her in the future part of her
existence. Thus she lived a pleasure to all who knew her, and being, at
length, resolved to disengage herself from the hurries of life, and wrap
herself up in that retirement she was so fond of, after having gained
what she thought a sufficient competency for one of her moderate
desires, and in that station that was allotted her, and settled her
affairs to her own mind, she finally quitted the world, and in a manner
agreeable to her own wishes, without being suffered to lie long in
weakness and pain, a burthen to herself, or those who attended her:
dying after about two days illness, in the 58th year of her age, Sept.
11, 1745.

She thought the disadvantages of her shape were such, as gave her no
reasonable prospect of being happy in a married state, and therefore
chose to continue single. She had, however, an honourable offer from a
country gentleman of worth and large fortune, who, attracted merely by
the goodness of her character, took a journey of an hundred miles to
visit her at Bath, where he made his addresses to her. But she convinced
him that such a match could neither be for his happiness, or her own.
She had, however, something extremely agreeable and pleasing in her
face, and no one could enter into any intimacy of conversation with her,
but he immediately lost every disgust towards her, that the first
appearance of her person tended to excite in him.

She had the misfortune of a very valetudinary constitution, owing, in
some measure, probably to the irregularity of her form. At last, after
many years illness, she entered, by the late ingenious Dr. Cheney's
advice, into the vegetable diet, and indeed the utmost extremes of it,
living frequently on bread and water; in which she continued so long, as
rendered her incapable of taking any more substantial food when she
afterwards needed it; for want of which she was so weak as not to be
able to support the attack of her last disorder, and which, I doubt not,
hastened on her death. But it must be added, in justice to her
character, that the ill state of her health was not the only or
principal reason that brought her to, and kept her fixed in her
resolution, of attempting, and persevering in this mortifying diet. The
conquest of herself, and subjecting her own heart more intirely to the
command of her reason and principles, was the object she had in especial
view in this change of her manner of living; as being firmly persuaded,
that the perpetual free use of animal food, and rich wines, tends so to
excite and inflame the passions, as scarce to leave any hope or chance,
for that conquest of them which she thought not only religion requires,
but the care of our own happiness, renders necessary. And the effect of
the trial, in her own case, was answerable to her wishes; and what she
says of herself in her own humorous epitaph,

_That time and much thought had all passion extinguish'd_,

was well known to be true, by those who were most nearly acquainted with
her. Those admirable lines on _Temperance_, in her Bath poem, she penned
from a very feeling experience of what she found by her own regard to
it, and can never be read too often, as the sense is equal to the
goodness of the poetry.

Fatal effects of luxury and ease!
We drink our poison, and we eat disease,
Indulge our senses at our reason's cost,
Till sense is pain, and reason hurt, or lost.
Not so, O temperance bland! when rul'd by thee,
The brute's obedient, and the man is free.
Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest,
His veins not boiling from the midnight feast.
Touch'd by Aurora's rosy hand, he wakes
Peaceful and calm, and with the world partakes
The joyful dawnings of returning day,
For which their grateful thanks the whole creation pay,
All but the human brute. 'Tis he alone,
Whose works of darkness fly the rising sun.
'Tis to thy rules, O temperance, that we owe
All pleasures, which from health and strength can flow,
Vigour of body, purity of mind,
Unclouded reason, sentiments refin'd,
Unmixt, untainted joys, without remorse,
Th' intemperate sinner's never-failing curse.

She was observed, from her childhood, to have a fondness for poetry,
often entertaining her companions, in a winter's evening, with riddles
in verse, and was extremely fond, at that time of life, of Herbert's
poems. And this disposition grew up with her, and made her apply, in her
riper years, to the study of the best of our English poets; and before
she attempted any thing considerable, sent many small copies of verses,
on particular characters and occasions, to her peculiar friends. Her
poem on the Bath had the full approbation of the publick; and what sets
it above censure, had the commendation of Mr. Pope, and many others of
the first rank, for good sense and politeness. And indeed there are many
lines in it admirably penn'd, and that the finest genius need not to be
ashamed of. It hath ran through several editions; and, when first
published, procured her the personal acknowledgments of several of the
brightest quality, and of many others, greatly distinguished as the best
judges of poetical performances.

She was meditating a nobler work, a large poem on the Being and
Attributes of God, which was her favourite subject; and, if one may
judge by the imperfect pieces of it, which she left behind her in her
papers, would have drawn the publick attention, had she liv'd to finish
it.

She was peculiarly happy in her acquaintance, as she had good sense
enough to discern that worth in others she justly thought was the
foundation of all real friendship, and was so happy as to be honoured
and loved as a friend, by those whom she would have wished to be
connected with in that sacred character. She had the esteem of that most
excellent lady, who was superior to all commendation, the late dutchess
of Somerset, then countess of Hertford, who hath done her the honour of
several visits, and allowed her to return them at the Mount of
Marlborough. Mr. Pope favoured her with his at Bath, and complimented
her for her poem on that place. Mrs. Rowe, of Froom, was one of her
particular friends. 'Twould be endless to name all the persons of
reputation and fortune whom she had the pleasure of being intimately
acquainted with. She was a good woman, a kind relation, and a faithful
friend. She had a real genius for poetry, was a most agreeable
correspondent, had a large fund of good sense, was unblemished in her
character, lived highly esteemed, and died greatly lamented,

_FINIS_.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Volume V." ***

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