10459	----	for this text and significant contributor to its preparation for PG. THE CELTIC TWILIGHT by W. B. YEATS Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away. THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE The host is riding from Knocknarea, And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare; Caolte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling, "Away, come away; Empty your heart of its mortal dream. The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart, And if any gaze on our rushing band, We come between him and the deed of his hand, We come between him and the hope of his heart." The host is rushing 'twixt night and day; And where is there hope or deed as fair? Caolte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling, "Away, come away." THIS BOOK I I have desired, like every artist, to create a little world out of the beautiful, pleasant, and significant things of this marred and clumsy world, and to show in a vision something of the face of Ireland to any of my own people who would look where I bid them. I have therefore written down accurately and candidly much that I have heard and seen, and, except by way of commentary, nothing that I have merely imagined. I have, however, been at no pains to separate my own beliefs from those of the peasantry, but have rather let my men and women, dhouls and faeries, go their way unoffended or defended by any argument of mine. The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me. Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a little. 1893. II I have added a few more chapters in the manner of the old ones, and would have added others, but one loses, as one grows older, something of the lightness of one's dreams; one begins to take life up in both hands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is no great loss per haps. In these new chapters, as in the old ones, I have invented nothing but my comments and one or two deceitful sentences that may keep some poor story-teller's commerce with the devil and his angels, or the like, from being known among his neighbours. I shall publish in a little while a big book about the commonwealth of faery, and shall try to make it systematical and learned enough to buy pardon for this handful of dreams. 1902. W. B. YEATS. A TELLER OF TALES Many of the tales in this book were told me by one Paddy Flynn, a little bright-eyed old man, who lived in a leaky and one-roomed cabin in the village of Ballisodare, which is, he was wont to say, "the most gentle"--whereby he meant faery--"place in the whole of County Sligo." Others hold it, however, but second to Drumcliff and Drumahair. The first time I saw him he was cooking mushrooms for himself; the next time he was asleep under a hedge, smiling in his sleep. He was indeed always cheerful, though I thought I could see in his eyes (swift as the eyes of a rabbit, when they peered out of their wrinkled holes) a melancholy which was well-nigh a portion of their joy; the visionary melancholy of purely instinctive natures and of all animals. And yet there was much in his life to depress him, for in the triple solitude of age, eccentricity, and deafness, he went about much pestered by children. It was for this very reason perhaps that he ever recommended mirth and hopefulness. He was fond, for instance, of telling how Collumcille cheered up his mother. "How are you to-day, mother?" said the saint. "Worse," replied the mother. "May you be worse to-morrow," said the saint. The next day Collumcille came again, and exactly the same conversation took place, but the third day the mother said, "Better, thank God." And the saint replied, "May you be better to-morrow." He was fond too of telling how the Judge smiles at the last day alike when he rewards the good and condemns the lost to unceasing flames. He had many strange sights to keep him cheerful or to make him sad. I asked him had he ever seen the faeries, and got the reply, "Am I not annoyed with them?" I asked too if he had ever seen the banshee. "I have seen it," he said, "down there by the water, batting the river with its hands." I have copied this account of Paddy Flynn, with a few verbal alterations, from a note-book which I almost filled with his tales and sayings, shortly after seeing him. I look now at the note-book regretfully, for the blank pages at the end will never be filled up. Paddy Flynn is dead; a friend of mine gave him a large bottle of whiskey, and though a sober man at most times, the sight of so much liquor filled him with a great enthusiasm, and he lived upon it for some days and then died. His body, worn out with old age and hard times, could not bear the drink as in his young days. He was a great teller of tales, and unlike our common romancers, knew how to empty heaven, hell, and purgatory, faeryland and earth, to people his stories. He did not live in a shrunken world, but knew of no less ample circumstance than did Homer himself. Perhaps the Gaelic people shall by his like bring back again the ancient simplicity and amplitude of imagination. What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident? And are there not moods which need heaven, hell, purgatory, and faeryland for their expression, no less than this dilapidated earth? Nay, are there not moods which shall find no expression unless there be men who dare to mix heaven, hell, purgatory, and faeryland together, or even to set the heads of beasts to the bodies of men, or to thrust the souls of men into the heart of rocks? Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet. BELIEF AND UNBELIEF There are some doubters even in the western villages. One woman told me last Christmas that she did not believe either in hell or in ghosts. Hell she thought was merely an invention got up by the priest to keep people good; and ghosts would not be permitted, she held, to go "trapsin about the earth" at their own free will; "but there are faeries," she added, "and little leprechauns, and water-horses, and fallen angels." I have met also a man with a mohawk Indian tattooed upon his arm, who held exactly similar beliefs and unbeliefs. No matter what one doubts one never doubts the faeries, for, as the man with the mohawk Indian on his arm said to me, "they stand to reason." Even the official mind does not escape this faith. A little girl who was at service in the village of Grange, close under the seaward slopes of Ben Bulben, suddenly disappeared one night about three years ago. There was at once great excitement in the neighbourhood, because it was rumoured that the faeries had taken her. A villager was said to have long struggled to hold her from them, but at last they prevailed, and he found nothing in his hands but a broomstick. The local constable was applied to, and he at once instituted a house-to-house search, and at the same time advised the people to burn all the bucalauns (ragweed) on the field she vanished from, because bucalauns are sacred to the faeries. They spent the whole night burning them, the constable repeating spells the while. In the morning the little girl was found, the story goes, wandering in the field. She said the faeries had taken her away a great distance, riding on a faery horse. At last she saw a big river, and the man who had tried to keep her from being carried off was drifting down it--such are the topsy-turvydoms of faery glamour--in a cockleshell. On the way her companions had mentioned the names of several people who were about to die shortly in the village. Perhaps the constable was right. It is better doubtless to believe much unreason and a little truth than to deny for denial's sake truth and unreason alike, for when we do this we have not even a rush candle to guide our steps, not even a poor sowlth to dance before us on the marsh, and must needs fumble our way into the great emptiness where dwell the mis-shapen dhouls. And after all, can we come to so great evil if we keep a little fire on our hearths and in our souls, and welcome with open hand whatever of excellent come to warm itself, whether it be man or phantom, and do not say too fiercely, even to the dhouls themselves, "Be ye gone"? When all is said and done, how do we not know but that our own unreason may be better than another's truth? for it has been warmed on our hearths and in our souls, and is ready for the wild bees of truth to hive in it, and make their sweet honey. Come into the world again, wild bees, wild bees! MORTAL HELP One hears in the old poems of men taken away to help the gods in a battle, and Cuchullan won the goddess Fand for a while, by helping her married sister and her sister's husband to overthrow another nation of the Land of Promise. I have been told, too, that the people of faery cannot even play at hurley unless they have on either side some mortal, whose body, or whatever has been put in its place, as the story-teller would say, is asleep at home. Without mortal help they are shadowy and cannot even strike the balls. One day I was walking over some marshy land in Galway with a friend when we found an old, hard-featured man digging a ditch. My friend had heard that this man had seen a wonderful sight of some kind, and at last we got the story out of him. When he was a boy he was working one day with about thirty men and women and boys. They were beyond Tuam and not far from Knock-na-gur. Presently they saw, all thirty of them, and at a distance of about half-a-mile, some hundred and fifty of the people of faery. There were two of them, he said, in dark clothes like people of our own time, who stood about a hundred yards from one another, but the others wore clothes of all colours, "bracket" or chequered, and some with red waistcoats. He could not see what they were doing, but all might have been playing hurley, for "they looked as if it was that." Sometimes they would vanish, and then he would almost swear they came back out of the bodies of the two men in dark clothes. These two men were of the size of living men, but the others were small. He saw them for about half-an- hour, and then the old man he and those about him were working for took up a whip and said, "Get on, get on, or we will have no work done!" I asked if he saw the faeries too, "Oh, yes, but he did not want work he was paying wages for to be neglected." He made every body work so hard that nobody saw what happened to the faeries. 1902. A VISIONARY A young man came to see me at my lodgings the other night, and began to talk of the making of the earth and the heavens and much else. I questioned him about his life and his doings. He had written many poems and painted many mystical designs since we met last, but latterly had neither written nor painted, for his whole heart was set upon making his mind strong, vigorous, and calm, and the emotional life of the artist was bad for him, he feared. He recited his poems readily, however. He had them all in his memory. Some indeed had never been written down. They, with their wild music as of winds blowing in the reeds,[FN#1] seemed to me the very inmost voice of Celtic sadness, and of Celtic longing for infinite things the world has never seen. Suddenly it seemed to me that he was peering about him a little eagerly. "Do you see anything, X-----?" I said. "A shining, winged woman, covered by her long hair, is standing near the doorway," he answered, or some such words. "Is it the influence of some living person who thinks of us, and whose thoughts appear to us in that symbolic form?" I said; for I am well instructed in the ways of the visionaries and in the fashion of their speech. "No," he replied; "for if it were the thoughts of a person who is alive I should feel the living influence in my living body, and my heart would beat and my breath would fail. It is a spirit. It is some one who is dead or who has never lived." [FN#1] I wrote this sentence long ago. This sadness now seems to me a part of all peoples who preserve the moods of the ancient peoples of the world. I am not so pre-occupied with the mystery of Race as I used to be, but leave this sentence and other sentences like it unchanged. We once believed them, and have, it may be, not grown wiser. I asked what he was doing, and found he was clerk in a large shop. His pleasure, however, was to wander about upon the hills, talking to half- mad and visionary peasants, or to persuade queer and conscience- stricken persons to deliver up the keeping of their troubles into his care. Another night, when I was with him in his own lodging, more than one turned up to talk over their beliefs and disbeliefs, and sun them as it were in the subtle light of his mind. Sometimes visions come to him as he talks with them, and he is rumoured to have told divers people true matters of their past days and distant friends, and left them hushed with dread of their strange teacher, who seems scarce more than a boy, and is so much more subtle than the oldest among them. The poetry he recited me was full of his nature and his visions. Sometimes it told of other lives he believes himself to have lived in other centuries, sometimes of people he had talked to, revealing them to their own minds. I told him I would write an article upon him and it, and was told in turn that I might do so if I did not mention his name, for he wished to be always "unknown, obscure, impersonal." Next day a bundle of his poems arrived, and with them a note in these words: "Here are copies of verses you said you liked. I do not think I could ever write or paint any more. I prepare myself for a cycle of other activities in some other life. I will make rigid my roots and branches. It is not now my turn to burst into leaves and flowers." The poems were all endeavours to capture some high, impalpable mood in a net of obscure images. There were fine passages in all, but these were often embedded in thoughts which have evidently a special value to his mind, but are to other men the counters of an unknown coinage. To them they seem merely so much brass or copper or tarnished silver at the best. At other times the beauty of the thought was obscured by careless writing as though he had suddenly doubted if writing was not a foolish labour. He had frequently illustrated his verses with drawings, in which an unperfect anatomy did not altogether hide extreme beauty of feeling. The faeries in whom he believes have given him many subjects, notably Thomas of Ercildoune sitting motionless in the twilight while a young and beautiful creature leans softly out of the shadow and whispers in his ear. He had delighted above all in strong effects of colour: spirits who have upon their heads instead of hair the feathers of peacocks; a phantom reaching from a swirl of flame towards a star; a spirit passing with a globe of iridescent crystal-symbol of the soul- half shut within his hand. But always under this largess of colour lay some tender homily addressed to man's fragile hopes. This spiritual eagerness draws to him all those who, like himself, seek for illumination or else mourn for a joy that has gone. One of these especially comes to mind. A winter or two ago he spent much of the night walking up and down upon the mountain talking to an old peasant who, dumb to most men, poured out his cares for him. Both were unhappy: X----- because he had then first decided that art and poetry were not for him, and the old peasant because his life was ebbing out with no achievement remaining and no hope left him. Both how Celtic! how full of striving after a something never to be completely expressed in word or deed. The peasant was wandering in his mind with prolonged sorrow. Once he burst out with "God possesses the heavens--God possesses the heavens--but He covets the world"; and once he lamented that his old neighbours were gone, and that all had forgotten him: they used to draw a chair to the fire for him in every cabin, and now they said, "Who is that old fellow there?" "The fret [Irish for doom] is over me," he repeated, and then went on to talk once more of God and heaven. More than once also he said, waving his arm towards the mountain, "Only myself knows what happened under the thorn-tree forty years ago"; and as he said it the tears upon his face glistened in the moonlight. This old man always rises before me when I think of X-----. Both seek --one in wandering sentences, the other in symbolic pictures and subtle allegoric poetry-to express a something that lies beyond the range of expression; and both, if X----- will forgive me, have within them the vast and vague extravagance that lies at the bottom of the Celtic heart. The peasant visionaries that are, the landlord duelists that were, and the whole hurly-burly of legends--Cuchulain fighting the sea for two days until the waves pass over him and he dies, Caolte storming the palace of the gods, Oisin seeking in vain for three hundred years to appease his insatiable heart with all the pleasures of faeryland, these two mystics walking up and down upon the mountains uttering the central dreams of their souls in no less dream-laden sentences, and this mind that finds them so interesting--all are a portion of that great Celtic phantasmagoria whose meaning no man has discovered, nor any angel revealed. VILLAGE GHOSTS In the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities; people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce. Every man is himself a class; every hour carries its new challenge. When you pass the inn at the end of the village you leave your favourite whimsy behind you; for you will meet no one who can share it. We listen to eloquent speaking, read books and write them, settle all the affairs of the universe. The dumb village multitudes pass on unchanging; the feel of the spade in the hand is no different for all our talk: good seasons and bad follow each other as of old. The dumb multitudes are no more concerned with us than is the old horse peering through the rusty gate of the village pound. The ancient map-makers wrote across unexplored regions, "Here are lions." Across the villages of fishermen and turners of the earth, so different are these from us, we can write but one line that is certain, "Here are ghosts." My ghosts inhabit the village of H-----, in Leinster. History has in no manner been burdened by this ancient village, with its crooked lanes, its old abbey churchyard full of long grass, its green background of small fir-trees, and its quay, where lie a few tarry fishing-luggers. In the annals of entomology it is well known. For a small bay lies westward a little, where he who watches night after night may see a certain rare moth fluttering along the edge of the tide, just at the end of evening or the beginning of dawn. A hundred years ago it was carried here from Italy by smugglers in a cargo of silks and laces. If the moth-hunter would throw down his net, and go hunting for ghost tales or tales of the faeries and such-like children of Lillith, he would have need for far less patience. To approach the village at night a timid man requires great strategy. A man was once heard complaining, "By the cross of Jesus! how shall I go? If I pass by the hill of Dunboy old Captain Burney may look out on me. If I go round by the water, and up by the steps, there is the headless one and another on the quays, and a new one under the old churchyard wall. If I go right round the other way, Mrs. Stewart is appearing at Hillside Gate, and the devil himself is in the Hospital Lane." I never heard which spirit he braved, but feel sure it was not the one in the Hospital Lane. In cholera times a shed had been there set up to receive patients. When the need had gone by, it was pulled down, but ever since the ground where it stood has broken out in ghosts and demons and faeries. There is a farmer at H-----, Paddy B----- by name-a man of great strength, and a teetotaller. His wife and sister-in-law, musing on his great strength, often wonder what he would do if he drank. One night when passing through the Hospital Lane, he saw what he supposed at first to be a tame rabbit; after a little he found that it was a white cat. When he came near, the creature slowly began to swell larger and larger, and as it grew he felt his own strength ebbing away, as though it were sucked out of him. He turned and ran. By the Hospital Lane goes the "Faeries Path." Every evening they travel from the hill to the sea, from the sea to the hill. At the sea end of their path stands a cottage. One night Mrs. Arbunathy, who lived there, left her door open, as she was expecting her son. Her husband was asleep by the fire; a tall man came in and sat beside him. After he had been sitting there for a while, the woman said, "In the name of God, who are you?" He got up and went out, saying, "Never leave the door open at this hour, or evil may come to you." She woke her husband and told him. "One of the good people has been with us," said he. Probably the man braved Mrs. Stewart at Hillside Gate. When she lived she was the wife of the Protestant clergyman. "Her ghost was never known to harm any one," say the village people; "it is only doing a penance upon the earth." Not far from Hillside Gate, where she haunted, appeared for a short time a much more remarkable spirit. Its haunt was the bogeen, a green lane leading from the western end of the village. I quote its history at length: a typical village tragedy. In a cottage at the village end of the bogeen lived a house-painter, Jim Montgomery, and his wife. They had several children. He was a little dandy, and came of a higher class than his neighbours. His wife was a very big woman. Her husband, who had been expelled from the village choir for drink, gave her a beating one day. Her sister heard of it, and came and took down one of the window shutters--Montgomery was neat about everything, and had shutters on the outside of every window--and beat him with it, being big and strong like her sister. He threatened to prosecute her; she answered that she would break every bone in his body if he did. She never spoke to her sister again, because she had allowed herself to be beaten by so small a man. Jim Montgomery grew worse and worse: his wife soon began to have not enough to eat. She told no one, for she was very proud. Often, too, she would have no fire on a cold night. If any neighbours came in she would say she had let the fire out because she was just going to bed. The people about often heard her husband beating her, but she never told any one. She got very thin. At last one Saturday there was no food in the house for herself and the children. She could bear it no longer, and went to the priest and asked him for some money. He gave her thirty shillings. Her husband met her, and took the money, and beat her. On the following Monday she got very W, and sent for a Mrs. Kelly. Mrs. Kelly, as soon as she saw her, said, "My woman, you are dying," and sent for the priest and the doctor. She died in an hour. After her death, as Montgomery neglected the children, the landlord had them taken to the workhouse. A few nights after they had gone, Mrs. Kelly was going home through the bogeen when the ghost of Mrs. Montgomery appeared and followed her. It did not leave her until she reached her own house. She told the priest, Father R, a noted antiquarian, and could not get him to believe her. A few nights afterwards Mrs. Kelly again met the spirit in the same place. She was in too great terror to go the whole way, but stopped at a neighbour's cottage midway, and asked them to let her in. They answered they were going to bed. She cried out, "In the name of God let me in, or I will break open the door." They opened, and so she escaped from the ghost. Next day she told the priest again. This time he believed, and said it would follow her until she spoke to it. She met the spirit a third time in the bogeen. She asked what kept it from its rest. The spirit said that its children must be taken from the workhouse, for none of its relations were ever there before, and that three masses were to be said for the repose of its soul. "If my husband does not believe you," she said, "show him that," and touched Mrs. Kelly's wrist with three fingers. The places where they touched swelled up and blackened. She then vanished. For a time Montgomery would not believe that his wife had appeared: "she would not show herself to Mrs. Kelly," he said--"she with respectable people to appear to." He was convinced by the three marks, and the children were taken from the workhouse. The priest said the masses, and the shade must have been at rest, for it has not since appeared. Some time afterwards Jim Montgomery died in the workhouse, having come to great poverty through drink. I know some who believe they have seen the headless ghost upon the quay, and one who, when he passes the old cemetery wall at night, sees a woman with white borders to her cap[FN#2] creep out and follow him. The apparition only leaves him at his own door. The villagers imagine that she follows him to avenge some wrong. "I will haunt you when I die" is a favourite threat. His wife was once half-scared to death by what she considers a demon in the shape of a dog. [FN#2] I wonder why she had white borders to her cap. The old Mayo woman, who has told me so many tales, has told me that her brother-in- law saw "a woman with white borders to her cap going around the stacks in a field, and soon after he got a hurt, and he died in six months." These are a few of the open-air spirits; the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves. One night a Mrs. Nolan was watching by her dying child in Fluddy's Lane. Suddenly there was a sound of knocking heard at the door. She did not open, fearing it was some unhuman thing that knocked. The knocking ceased. After a little the front-door and then the back-door were burst open, and closed again. Her husband went to see what was wrong. He found both doors bolted. The child died. The doors were again opened and closed as before. Then Mrs. Nolan remembered that she had forgotten to leave window or door open, as the custom is, for the departure of the soul. These strange openings and closings and knockings were warnings and reminders from the spirits who attend the dying. The house ghost is usually a harmless and well-meaning creature. It is put up with as long as possible. It brings good luck to those who live with it. I remember two children who slept with their mother and sisters and brothers in one small room. In the room was also a ghost. They sold herrings in the Dublin streets, and did not mind the ghost much, because they knew they would always sell their fish easily while they slept in the "ha'nted" room. I have some acquaintance among the ghost-seers of western villages. The Connaught tales are very different from those of Leinster. These H----- spirits have a gloomy, matter-of-fact way with them. They come to announce a death, to fulfil some obligation, to revenge a wrong, to pay their bills even--as did a fisherman's daughter the other day--and then hasten to their rest. All things they do decently and in order. It is demons, and not ghosts, that transform themselves into white cats or black dogs. The people who tell the tales are poor, serious-minded fishing people, who find in the doings of the ghosts the fascination of fear. In the western tales is a whimsical grace, a curious extravagance. The people who recount them live in the most wild and beautiful scenery, under a sky ever loaded and fantastic with flying clouds. They are farmers and labourers, who do a little fishing now and then. They do not fear the spirits too much to feel an artistic and humorous pleasure in their doings. The ghosts themselves share in their quaint hilarity. In one western town, on whose deserted wharf the grass grows, these spirits have so much vigour that, when a misbeliever ventured to sleep in a haunted house, I have been told they flung him through the window, and his bed after him. In the surrounding villages the creatures use the most strange disguises. A dead old gentleman robs the cabbages of his own garden in the shape of a large rabbit. A wicked sea-captain stayed for years inside the plaster of a cottage wall, in the shape of a snipe, making the most horrible noises. He was only dislodged when the wall was broken down; then out of the solid plaster the snipe rushed away whistling. "DUST HATH CLOSED HELEN'S EYE" I I have been lately to a little group of houses, not many enough to be called a village, in the barony of Kiltartan in County Galway, whose name, Ballylee, is known through all the west of Ireland. There is the old square castle, Ballylee, inhabited by a farmer and his wife, and a cottage where their daughter and their son-in-law live, and a little mill with an old miller, and old ash-trees throwing green shadows upon a little river and great stepping-stones. I went there two or three times last year to talk to the miller about Biddy Early, a wise woman that lived in Clare some years ago, and about her saying, "There is a cure for all evil between the two mill-wheels of Ballylee," and to find out from him or another whether she meant the moss between the running waters or some other herb. I have been there this summer, and I shall be there again before it is autumn, because Mary Hynes, a beautiful woman whose name is still a wonder by turf fires, died there sixty years ago; for our feet would linger where beauty has lived its life of sorrow to make us understand that it is not of the world. An old man brought me a little way from the mill and the castle, and down a long, narrow boreen that was nearly lost in brambles and sloe bushes, and he said, "That is the little old foundation of the house, but the most of it is taken for building walls, and the goats have ate those bushes that are growing over it till they've got cranky, and they won't grow any more. They say she was the handsomest girl in Ireland, her skin was like dribbled snow"--he meant driven snow, perhaps,--"and she had blushes in her cheeks. She had five handsome brothers, but all are gone now!" I talked to him about a poem in Irish, Raftery, a famous poet, made about her, and how it said, "there is a strong cellar in Ballylee." He said the strong cellar was the great hole where the river sank underground, and he brought me to a deep pool, where an otter hurried away under a grey boulder, and told me that many fish came up out of the dark water at early morning "to taste the fresh water coming down from the hills." I first heard of the poem from an old woman who fives about two miles further up the river, and who remembers Raftery and Mary Hynes. She says, "I never saw anybody so handsome as she was, and I never will till I die," and that he was nearly blind, and had "no way of living but to go round and to mark some house to go to, and then all the neighbours would gather to hear. If you treated him well he'd praise you, but if you did not, he'd fault you in Irish. He was the greatest poet in Ireland, and he'd make a song about that bush if he chanced to stand under it. There was a bush he stood under from the rain, and he made verses praising it, and then when the water came through he made verses dispraising it." She sang the poem to a friend and to myself in Irish, and every word was audible and expressive, as the words in a song were always, as I think, before music grew too proud to be the garment of words, flowing and changing with the flowing and changing of their energies. The poem is not as natural as the best Irish poetry of the last century, for the thoughts are arranged in a too obviously traditional form, so the old poor half-blind man who made it has to speak as if he were a rich farmer offering the best of everything to the woman he loves, but it has naive and tender phrases. The friend that was with me has made some of the translation, but some of it has been made by the country people themselves. I think it has more of the simplicity of the Irish verses than one finds in most translations. Going to Mass by the will of God, The day came wet and the wind rose; I met Mary Hynes at the cross of Kiltartan, And I fell in love with her then and there. I spoke to her kind and mannerly, As by report was her own way; And she said, "Raftery, my mind is easy, You may come to-day to Ballylee." When I heard her offer I did not linger, When her talk went to my heart my heart rose. We had only to go across the three fields, We had daylight with us to Ballylee. The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure, She had fair hair, and she sitting beside me; And she said, "Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes, There is a strong cellar in Ballylee." O star of light and O sun in harvest, O amber hair, O my share of the world, Will you come with me upon Sunday Till we agree together before all the people? I would not grudge you a song every Sunday evening, Punch on the table, or wine if you would drink it, But, O King of Glory, dry the roads before me, Till I find the way to Ballylee. There is sweet air on the side of the hill When you are looking down upon Ballylee; When you are walking in the valley picking nuts and blackberries, There is music of the birds in it and music of the Sidhe. What is the worth of greatness till you have the light Of the flower of the branch that is by your side? There is no god to deny it or to try and hide it, She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart. There was no part of Ireland I did not travel, From the rivers to the tops of the mountains, To the edge of Lough Greine whose mouth is hidden, And I saw no beauty but was behind hers. Her hair was shining, and her brows were shining too; Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet. She is the pride, and I give her the branch, She is the shining flower of Ballylee. It is Mary Hynes, this calm and easy woman, Has beauty in her mind and in her face. If a hundred clerks were gathered together, They could not write down a half of her ways. An old weaver, whose son is supposed to go away among the Sidhe (the faeries) at night, says, "Mary Hynes was the most beautiful thing ever made. My mother used to tell me about her, for she'd be at every hurling, and wherever she was she was dressed in white. As many as eleven men asked her in marriage in one day, but she wouldn't have any of them. There was a lot of men up beyond Kilbecanty one night, sitting together drinking, and talking of her, and one of them got up and set out to go to Ballylee and see her; but Cloon Bog was open then, and when he came to it he fell into the water, and they found him dead there in the morning. She died of the fever that was before the famine." Another old man says he was only a child when he saw her, but he remembered that "the strongest man that was among us, one John Madden, got his death of the head of her, cold he got crossing rivers in the night-time to get to Ballylee." This is perhaps the man the other remembered, for tradition gives the one thing many shapes. There is an old woman who remembers her, at Derrybrien among the Echtge hills, a vast desolate place, which has changed little since the old poem said, "the stag upon the cold summit of Echtge hears the cry of the wolves," but still mindful of many poems and of the dignity of ancient speech. She says, "The sun and the moon never shone on anybody so handsome, and her skin was so white that it looked blue, and she had two little blushes on her cheeks." And an old wrinkled woman who lives close by Ballylee, and has told me many tales of the Sidhe, says, "I often saw Mary Hynes, she was handsome indeed. She had two bunches of curls beside her cheeks, and they were the colour of silver. I saw Mary Molloy that was drowned in the river beyond, and Mary Guthrie that was in Ardrahan, but she took the sway of them both, a very comely creature. I was at her wake too--she had seen too much of the world. She was a kind creature. One day I was coming home through that field beyond, and I was tired, and who should come out but the Poisin Glegeal (the shining flower), and she gave me a glass of new milk." This old woman meant no more than some beautiful bright colour by the colour of silver, for though I knew an old man--he is dead now--who thought she might know "the cure for all the evils in the world," that the Sidhe knew, she has seen too little gold to know its colour. But a man by the shore at Kinvara, who is too young to remember Mary Hynes, says, "Everybody says there is no one at all to be seen now so handsome; it is said she had beautiful hair, the colour of gold. She was poor, but her clothes every day were the same as Sunday, she had such neatness. And if she went to any kind of a meeting, they would all be killing one another for a sight of her, and there was a great many in love with her, but she died young. It is said that no one that has a song made about them will ever live long." Those who are much admired are, it is held, taken by the Sidhe, who can use ungoverned feeling for their own ends, so that a father, as an old herb doctor told me once, may give his child into their hands, or a husband his wife. The admired and desired are only safe if one says "God bless them" when one's eyes are upon them. The old woman that sang the song thinks, too, that Mary Hynes was "taken," as the phrase is, "for they have taken many that are not handsome, and why would they not take her? And people came from all parts to look at her, and maybe there were some that did not say 'God bless her.'" An old man who lives by the sea at Duras has as little doubt that she was taken, "for there are some living yet can remember her coming to the pattern[FN#3] there beyond, and she was said to be the handsomest girl in Ireland." She died young because the gods loved her, for the Sidhe are the gods, and it may be that the old saying, which we forget to understand literally, meant her manner of death in old times. These poor countrymen and countrywomen in their beliefs, and in their emotions, are many years nearer to that old Greek world, that set beauty beside the fountain of things, than are our men of learning. She "had seen too much of the world"; but these old men and women, when they tell of her, blame another and not her, and though they can be hard, they grow gentle as the old men of Troy grew gentle when Helen passed by on the walls. [FN#3] A "pattern," or "patron," is a festival in honour of a saint. The poet who helped her to so much fame has himself a great fame throughout the west of Ireland. Some think that Raftery was half blind, and say, "I saw Raftery, a dark man, but he had sight enough to see her," or the like, but some think he was wholly blind, as he may have been at the end of his life. Fable makes all things perfect in their kind, and her blind people must never look on the world and the sun. I asked a man I met one day, when I was looking for a pool na mna Sidhe where women of faery have been seen, bow Raftery could have admired Mary Hynes so much f he had been altogether blind? He said, "I think Raftery was altogether blind, but those that are blind have a way of seeing things, and have the power to know more, and to feel more, and to do more, and to guess more than those that have their sight, and a certain wit and a certain wisdom is given to them." Everybody, indeed, will tell you that he was very wise, for was he not only blind but a poet? The weaver whose words about Mary Hynes I have already given, says, "His poetry was the gift of the Almighty, for there are three things that are the gift of the Almighty--poetry and dancing and principles. That is why in the old times an ignorant man coming down from the hillside would be better behaved and have better learning than a man with education you'd meet now, for they got it from God"; and a man at Coole says, "When he put his finger to one part of his head, everything would come to him as if it was written in a book"; and an old pensioner at Kiltartan says, "He was standing under a bush one time, and he talked to it, and it answered him back in Irish. Some say it was the bush that spoke, but it must have been an enchanted voice in it, and it gave him the knowledge of all the things of the world. The bush withered up afterwards, and it is to be seen on the roadside now between this and Rahasine." There is a poem of his about a bush, which I have never seen, and it may have come out of the cauldron of fable in this shape. A friend of mine met a man once who had been with him when he died, but the people say that he died alone, and one Maurteen Gillane told Dr. Hyde that all night long a light was seen streaming up to heaven from the roof of the house where he lay, and "that was the angels who were with him"; and all night long there was a great light in the hovel, "and that was the angels who were waking him. They gave that honour to him because he was so good a poet, and sang such religious songs." It may be that in a few years Fable, who changes mortalities to immortalities in her cauldron, will have changed Mary Hynes and Raftery to perfect symbols of the sorrow of beauty and of the magnificence and penury of dreams. 1900. II When I was in a northern town awhile ago, I had a long talk with a man who had lived in a neighbouring country district when he was a boy. He told me that when a very beautiful girl was born in a family that had not been noted for good looks, her beauty was thought to have come from the Sidhe, and to bring misfortune with it. He went over the names of several beautiful girls that he had known, and said that beauty had never brought happiness to anybody. It was a thing, he said, to be proud of and afraid of. I wish I had written out his words at the time, for they were more picturesque than my memory of them. 1902. A KNIGHT OF THE SHEEP Away to the north of Ben Bulben and Cope's mountain lives "a strong farmer," a knight of the sheep they would have called him in the Gaelic days. Proud of his descent from one of the most fighting clans of the Middle Ages, he is a man of force alike in his words and in his deeds. There is but one man that swears like him, and this man lives far away upon the mountain. "Father in Heaven, what have I done to deserve this?" he says when he has lost his pipe; and no man but he who lives on the mountain can rival his language on a fair day over a bargain. He is passionate and abrupt in his movements, and when angry tosses his white beard about with his left hand. One day I was dining with him when the servant-maid announced a certain Mr. O'Donnell. A sudden silence fell upon the old man and upon his two daughters. At last the eldest daughter said somewhat severely to her father, "Go and ask him to come in and dine." The old man went out, and then came in looking greatly relieved, and said, "He says he will not dine with us." "Go out," said the daughter, "and ask him into the back parlour, and give him some whiskey." Her father, who had just finished his dinner, obeyed sullenly, and I heard the door of the back parlour--a little room where the daughters sat and sewed during the evening--shut to behind the men. The daughter then turned to me and said, "Mr. O'Donnell is the tax-gatherer, and last year he raised our taxes, and my father was very angry, and when he came, brought him into the dairy, and sent the dairy-woman away on a message, and then swore at him a great deal. 'I will teach you, sir,' O'Donnell replied, 'that the law can protect its officers'; but my father reminded him that he had no witness. At last my father got tired, and sorry too, and said he would show him a short way home. When they were half-way to the main road they came on a man of my father's who was ploughing, and this somehow brought back remembrance of the wrong. He sent the man away on a message, and began to swear at the tax-gatherer again. When I heard of it I was disgusted that he should have made such a fuss over a miserable creature like O'Donnell; and when I heard a few weeks ago that O'Donnell's only son had died and left him heart-broken, I resolved to make my father be kind to him next time he came." She then went out to see a neighbour, and I sauntered towards the back parlour. When I came to the door I heard angry voices inside. The two men were evidently getting on to the tax again, for I could hear them bandying figures to and fro. I opened the door; at sight of my face the farmer was reminded of his peaceful intentions, and asked me if I knew where the whiskey was. I had seen him put it into the cupboard, and was able therefore to find it and get it out, looking at the thin, grief- struck face of the tax-gatherer. He was rather older than my friend, and very much more feeble and worn, and of a very different type. He was not like him, a robust, successful man, but rather one of those whose feet find no resting-place upon the earth. I recognized one of the children of reverie, and said, "You are doubtless of the stock of the old O'Donnells. I know well the hole in the river where their treasure lies buried under the guard of a serpent with many heads." "Yes, sur," he replied, "I am the last of a line of princes." We then fell to talking of many commonplace things, and my friend did not once toss up his beard, but was very friendly. At last the gaunt old tax-gatherer got up to go, and my friend said, "I hope we will have a glass together next year." "No, no," was the answer, "I shall be dead next year." "I too have lost sons," said the other in quite a gentle voice. "But your sons were not like my son." And then the two men parted, with an angry flush and bitter hearts, and had I not cast between them some common words or other, might not have parted, but have fallen rather into an angry discussion of the value of their dead sons. If I had not pity for all the children of reverie I should have let them fight it out, and would now have many a wonderful oath to record. The knight of the sheep would have had the victory, for no soul that wears this garment of blood and clay can surpass him. He was but once beaten; and this is his tale of how it was. He and some farm hands were playing at cards in a small cabin that stood against the end of a big barn. A wicked woman had once lived in this cabin. Suddenly one of the players threw down an ace and began to swear without any cause. His swearing was so dreadful that the others stood up, and my friend said, "All is not right here; there is a spirit in him." They ran to the door that led into the barn to get away as quickly as possible. The wooden bolt would not move, so the knight of the sheep took a saw which stood against the wall near at hand, and sawed through the bolt, and at once the door flew open with a bang, as though some one had been holding it, and they fled through. AN ENDURING HEART One day a friend of mine was making a sketch of my Knight of the Sheep. The old man's daughter was sitting by, and, when the conversation drifted to love and lovemaking, she said, "Oh, father, tell him about your love affair." The old man took his pipe out of his mouth, and said, "Nobody ever marries the woman he loves," and then, with a chuckle, "There were fifteen of them I liked better than the woman I married," and he repeated many women's names. He went on to tell how when he was a lad he had worked for his grandfather, his mother's father, and was called (my friend has forgotten why) by his grandfather's name, which we will say was Doran. He had a great friend, whom I shall call John Byrne; and one day he and his friend went to Queenstown to await an emigrant ship, that was to take John Byrne to America. When they were walking along the quay, they saw a girl sitting on a seat, crying miserably, and two men standing up in front of her quarrelling with one another. Doran said, "I think I know what is wrong. That man will be her brother, and that man will be her lover, and the brother is sending her to America to get her away from the lover. How she is crying! but I think I could console her myself." Presently the lover and brother went away, and Doran began to walk up and down before her, saying, "Mild weather, Miss," or the like. She answered him in a little while, and the three began to talk together. The emigrant ship did not arrive for some days; and the three drove about on outside cars very innocently and happily, seeing everything that was to be seen. When at last the ship came, and Doran had to break it to her that he was not going to America, she cried more after him than after the first lover. Doran whispered to Byrne as he went aboard ship, "Now, Byrne, I don't grudge her to you, but don't marry young." When the story got to this, the farmer's daughter joined In mockingly with, "I suppose you said that for Byrne's good, father." But the old man insisted that he had said it for Byrne's good; and went on to tell how, when he got a letter telling of Byrne's engagement to the girl, he wrote him the same advice. Years passed by, and he heard nothing; and though he was now married, he could not keep from wondering what she was doing. At last he went to America to find out, and though he asked many people for tidings, he could get none. More years went by, and his wife was dead, and he well on in years, and a rich farmer with not a few great matters on his hands. He found an excuse in some vague business to go out to America again, and to begin his search again. One day he fell into talk with an Irishman in a railway carriage, and asked him, as his way was, about emigrants from this place and that, and at last, "Did you ever hear of the miller's daughter from Innis Rath?" and he named the woman he was looking for. "Oh yes," said the other, "she is married to a friend of mine, John MacEwing. She lives at such-and- such a street in Chicago." Doran went to Chicago and knocked at her door. She opened the door herself, and was "not a bit changed." He gave her his real name, which he had taken again after his grandfather's death, and the name of the man he had met in the train. She did not recognize him, but asked him to stay to dinner, saying that her husband would be glad to meet anybody who knew that old friend of his. They talked of many things, but for all their talk, I do not know why, and perhaps he did not know why, he never told her who he was. At dinner he asked her about Byrne, and she put her head down on the table and began to cry, and she cried so he was afraid her husband might be angry. He was afraid to ask what had happened to Byrne, and left soon after, never to see her again. When the old man had finished the story, he said, "Tell that to Mr. Yeats, he will make a poem about it, perhaps." But the daughter said, "Oh no, father. Nobody could make a poem about a woman like that." Alas! I have never made the poem, perhaps because my own heart, which has loved Helen and all the lovely and fickle women of the world, would be too sore. There are things it is well not to ponder over too much, things that bare words are the best suited for. 1902. THE SORCERERS In Ireland we hear but little of the darker powers,[FN#4] and come across any who have seen them even more rarely, for the imagination of the people dwells rather upon the fantastic and capricious, and fantasy and caprice would lose the freedom which is their breath of life, were they to unite them either with evil or with good. And yet the wise are of opinion that wherever man is, the dark powers who would feed his rapacities are there too, no less than the bright beings who store their honey in the cells of his heart, and the twilight beings who flit hither and thither, and that they encompass him with a passionate and melancholy multitude. They hold, too, that he who by long desire or through accident of birth possesses the power of piercing into their hidden abode can see them there, those who were once men or women full of a terrible vehemence, and those who have never lived upon the earth, moving slowly and with a subtler malice. The dark powers cling about us, it is said, day and night, like bats upon an old tree; and that we do not hear more of them is merely because the darker kinds of magic have been but little practised. I have indeed come across very few persons in Ireland who try to communicate with evil powers, and the few I have met keep their purpose and practice wholly hidden from those among whom they live. They are mainly small clerks and the like, and meet for the purpose of their art in a room hung with black hangings. They would not admit me into this room, but finding me not altogether ignorant of the arcane science, showed gladly elsewhere what they would do. "Come to us," said their leader, a clerk in a large flour-mill, "and we will show you spirits who will talk to you face to face, and in shapes as solid and heavy as our own." [FN#4] I know better now. We have the dark powers much more than I thought, but not as much as the Scottish, and yet I think the imagination of the people does dwell chiefly upon the fantastic and capricious. I had been talking of the power of communicating in states of trance with the angelical and faery beings,--the children of the day and of the twilight--and he had been contending that we should only believe in what we can see and feel when in our ordinary everyday state of mind. "Yes," I said, "I will come to you," or some such words; "but I will not permit myself to become entranced, and will therefore know whether these shapes you talk of are any the more to be touched and felt by the ordinary senses than are those I talk of." I was not denying the power of other beings to take upon themselves a clothing of mortal substance, but only that simple invocations, such as he spoke of, seemed unlikely to do more than cast the mind into trance, and thereby bring it into the presence of the powers of day, twilight, and darkness. "But," he said, "we have seen them move the furniture hither and thither, and they go at our bidding, and help or harm people who know nothing of them." I am not giving the exact words, but as accurately as I can the substance of our talk. On the night arranged I turned up about eight, and found the leader sitting alone in almost total darkness in a small back room. He was dressed in a black gown, like an inquisitor's dress in an old drawing, that left nothing of him visible: except his eyes, which peered out through two small round holes. Upon the table in front of him was a brass dish of burning herbs, a large bowl, a skull covered with painted symbols, two crossed daggers, and certain implements shaped like quern stones, which were used to control the elemental powers in some fashion I did not discover. I also put on a black gown, and remember that it did not fit perfectly, and that it interfered with my movements considerably. The sorcerer then took a black cock out of a basket, and cut its throat with one of the daggers, letting the blood fall into the large bowl. He opened a book and began an invocation, which was certainly not English, and had a deep guttural sound. Before he had finished, another of the sorcerers, a man of about twenty-five, came in, and having put on a black gown also, seated himself at my left band. I had the invoker directly in front of me, and soon began to find his eyes, which glittered through the small holes in his hood, affecting me in a curious way. I struggled hard against their influence, and my head began to ache. The invocation continued, and nothing happened for the first few minutes. Then the invoker got up and extinguished the light in the hall, so that no glimmer might come through the slit under the door. There was now no light except from the herbs on the brass dish, and no sound except from the deep guttural murmur of the invocation. Presently the man at my left swayed himself about, and cried out, "O god! O god!" I asked him what ailed him, but he did not know he had spoken. A moment after he said he could see a great serpent moving about the room, and became considerably excited. I saw nothing with any definite shape, but thought that black clouds were forming about me. I felt I must fall into a trance if I did not struggle against it, and that the influence which was causing this trance was out of harmony with itself, in other words, evil. After a struggle I got rid of the black clouds, and was able to observe with my ordinary senses again. The two sorcerers now began to see black and white columns moving about the room, and finally a man in a monk's habit, and they became greatly puzzled because I did not see these things also, for to them they were as solid as the table before them. The invoker appeared to be gradually increasing in power, and I began to feel as if a tide of darkness was pouring from him and concentrating itself about me; and now too I noticed that the man on my left hand had passed into a death-like trance. With a last great effort I drove off the black clouds; but feeling them to be the only shapes I should see without passing into a trance, and having no great love for them, I asked for lights, and after the needful exorcism returned to the ordinary world. I said to the more powerful of the two sorcerers--"What would happen if one of your spirits had overpowered me?" "You would go out of this room," he answered, "with his character added to your own." I asked about the origin of his sorcery, but got little of importance, except that he had learned it from his father. He would not tell me more, for he had, it appeared, taken a vow of secrecy. For some days I could not get over the feeling of having a number of deformed and grotesque figures lingering about me. The Bright Powers are always beautiful and desirable, and the Dim Powers are now beautiful, now quaintly grotesque, but the Dark Powers express their unbalanced natures in shapes of ugliness and horror. THE DEVIL My old Mayo woman told me one day that something very bad had come down the road and gone into the house opposite, and though she would not say what it was, I knew quite well. Another day she told me of two friends of hers who had been made love to by one whom they believed to be the devil. One of them was standing by the road-side when he came by on horseback, and asked her to mount up behind him, and go riding. When she would not he vanished. The other was out on the road late at night waiting for her young man, when something came flapping and rolling along the road up to her feet. It had the likeness of a newspaper, and presently it flapped up into her face, and she knew by the size of it that it was the Irish Times. All of a sudden it changed into a young man, who asked her to go walking with him. She would not, and he vanished. I know of an old man too, on the slopes of Ben Bulben, who found the devil ringing a bell under his bed, and he went off and stole the chapel bell and rang him out. It may be that this, like the others, was not the devil at all, but some poor wood spirit whose cloven feet had got him into trouble. HAPPY AND UNHAPPY THEOLOGIANS I A mayo woman once said to me, "I knew a servant girl who hung herself for the love of God. She was lonely for the priest and her society,[FN#5] and hung herself to the banisters with a scarf. She was no sooner dead than she became white as a lily, and if it had been murder or suicide she would have become black as black. They gave her Christian burial, and the priest said she was no sooner dead than she was with the Lord. So nothing matters that you do for the love of God." I do not wonder at the pleasure she has in telling this story, for she herself loves all holy things with an ardour that brings them quickly to her lips. She told me once that she never hears anything described in a sermon that she does not afterwards see with her eyes. She has described to me the gates of Purgatory as they showed themselves to her eyes, but I remember nothing of the description except that she could not see the souls in trouble but only the gates. Her mind continually dwells on what is pleasant and beautiful. One day she asked me what month and what flower were the most beautiful. When I answered that I did not know, she said, "the month of May, because of the Virgin, and the lily of the valley, because it never sinned, but came pure out of the rocks," and then she asked, "what is the cause of the three cold months of winter?" I did not know even that, and so she said, "the sin of man and the vengeance of God." Christ Himself was not only blessed, but perfect in all manly proportions in her eyes, so much do beauty and holiness go together in her thoughts. He alone of all men was exactly six feet high, all others are a little more or a little less. [FN#5] The religious society she had belonged to. Her thoughts and her sights of the people of faery are pleasant and beautiful too, and I have never heard her call them the Fallen Angels. They are people like ourselves, only better-looking, and many and many a time she has gone to the window to watch them drive their waggons through the sky, waggon behind waggon in long line, or to the door to hear them singing and dancing in the Forth. They sing chiefly, it seems, a song called "The Distant Waterfall," and though they once knocked her down she never thinks badly of them. She saw them most easily when she was in service in King's County, and one morning a little while ago she said to me, "Last night I was waiting up for the master and it was a quarter-past eleven. I heard a bang right down on the table. 'King's County all over,' says I, and I laughed till I was near dead. It was a warning I was staying too long. They wanted the place to themselves." I told her once of somebody who saw a faery and fainted, and she said, "It could not have been a faery, but some bad thing, nobody could faint at a faery. It was a demon. I was not afraid when they near put me, and the bed under me, out through the roof. I wasn't afraid either when you were at some work and I heard a thing coming flop-flop up the stairs like an eel, and squealing. It went to all the doors. It could not get in where I was. I would have sent it through the universe like a flash of fire. There was a man in my place, a tearing fellow, and he put one of them down. He went out to meet it on the road, but he must have been told the words. But the faeries are the best neighbours. If you do good to them they will do good to you, but they don't like you to be on their path." Another time she said to me, "They are always good to the poor." II There is, however, a man in a Galway village who can see nothing but wickedness. Some think him very holy, and others think him a little crazed, but some of his talk reminds one of those old Irish visions of the Three Worlds, which are supposed to have given Dante the plan of the Divine Comedy. But I could not imagine this man seeing Paradise. He is especially angry with the people of faery, and describes the faun- like feet that are so common among them, who are indeed children of Pan, to prove them children of Satan. He will not grant that "they carry away women, though there are many that say so," but he is certain that they are "as thick as the sands of the sea about us, and they tempt poor mortals." He says, "There is a priest I know of was looking along the ground like as if he was hunting for something, and a voice said to him, 'If you want to see them you'll see enough of them,' and his eyes were opened and he saw the ground thick with them. Singing they do be sometimes, and dancing, but all the time they have cloven feet." Yet he was so scornful of unchristian things for all their dancing and singing that he thinks that "you have only to bid them begone and they will go. It was one night," he says, "after walking back from Kinvara and down by the wood beyond I felt one coming beside me, and I could feel the horse he was riding on and the way he lifted his legs, but they do not make a sound like the hoofs of a horse. So I stopped and turned around and said, very loud, 'Be off!' and he went and never troubled me after. And I knew a man who was dying, and one came on his bed, and he cried out to it, 'Get out of that, you unnatural animal!' and it left him. Fallen angels they are, and after the fall God said, 'Let there be Hell,' and there it was in a moment." An old woman who was sitting by the fire joined in as he said this with "God save us, it's a pity He said the word, and there might have been no Hell the day," but the seer did not notice her words. He went on, "And then he asked the devil what would he take for the souls of all the people. And the devil said nothing would satisfy him but the blood of a virgin's son, so he got that, and then the gates of Hell were opened." He understood the story, it seems, as if it were some riddling old folk tale. "I have seen Hell myself. I had a sight of it one time in a vision. It had a very high wall around it, all of metal, and an archway, and a straight walk into it, just like what 'ud be leading into a gentleman's orchard, but the edges were not trimmed with box, but with red-hot metal. And inside the wall there were cross-walks, and I'm not sure what there was to the right, but to the left there were five great furnaces, and they full of souls kept there with great chains. So I turned short and went away, and in turning I looked again at the wall, and I could see no end to it. "And another time I saw Purgatory. It seemed to be in a level place, and no walls around it, but it all one bright blaze, and the souls standing in it. And they suffer near as much as in Hell, only there are no devils with them there, and they have the hope of Heaven. "And I heard a call to me from there, 'Help me to come out o' this!' And when I looked it was a man I used to know in the army, an Irishman, and from this county, and I believe him to be a descendant of King O'Connor of Athenry. "So I stretched out my hand first, but then I called out, 'I'd be burned in the flames before I could get within three yards of you.' So then he said, 'Well, help me with your prayers,' and so I do. "And Father Connellan says the same thing, to help the dead with your prayers, and he's a very clever man to make a sermon, and has a great deal of cures made with the Holy Water he brought back from Lourdes." 1902. THE LAST GLEEMAN Michael Moran was born about 1794 off Black Pitts, in the Liberties of Dublin, in Faddle Alley. A fortnight after birth he went stone blind from illness, and became thereby a blessing to his parents, who were soon able to send him to rhyme and beg at street corners and at the bridges over the Liffey. They may well have wished that their quiver were full of such as he, for, free from the interruption of sight, his mind became a perfect echoing chamber, where every movement of the day and every change of public passion whispered itself into rhyme or quaint saying. By the time he had grown to manhood he was the admitted rector of all the ballad-mongers of the Liberties. Madden, the weaver, Kearney, the blind fiddler from Wicklow, Martin from Meath, M'Bride from heaven knows where, and that M'Grane, who in after days, when the true Moran was no more, strutted in borrowed plumes, or rather in borrowed rags, and gave out that there had never been any Moran but himself, and many another, did homage before him, and held him chief of all their tribe. Nor despite his blindness did he find any difficulty in getting a wife, but rather was able to pick and choose, for he was just that mixture of ragamuffin and of genius which is dear to the heart of woman, who, perhaps because she is wholly conventional herself, loves the unexpected, the crooked, the bewildering. Nor did he lack, despite his rags, many excellent things, for it is remembered that he ever loved caper sauce, going so far indeed in his honest indignation at its absence upon one occasion as to fling a leg of mutton at his wife. He was not, however, much to look at, with his coarse frieze coat with its cape and scalloped edge, his old corduroy trousers and great brogues, and his stout stick made fast to his wrist by a thong of leather: and he would have been a woeful shock to the gleeman MacConglinne, could that friend of kings have beheld him in prophetic vision from the pillar stone at Cork. And yet though the short cloak and the leather wallet were no more, he was a true gleeman, being alike poet, jester, and newsman of the people. In the morning when he had finished his breakfast, his wife or some neighbour would read the newspaper to him, and read on and on until he interrupted with, "That'll do--I have me meditations"; and from these meditations would come the day's store of jest and rhyme. He had the whole Middle Ages under his frieze coat. He had not, however, MacConglinne's hatred of the Church and clergy, for when the fruit of his meditations did not ripen well, or when the crowd called for something more solid, he would recite or sing a metrical tale or ballad of saint or martyr or of Biblical adventure. He would stand at a street comer, and when a crowd had gathered would begin in some such fashion as follows (I copy the record of one who knew him)--"Gather round me, boys, gather round me. Boys, am I standin' in puddle? am I standin' in wet?" Thereon several boys would cry, "Ali, no! yez not! yer in a nice dry place. Go on with St. Mary; go on with Moses"--each calling for his favourite tale. Then Moran, with a suspicious wriggle of his body and a clutch at his rags, would burst out with "All me buzzim friends are turned backbiters"; and after a final "If yez don't drop your coddin' and diversion I'll lave some of yez a case," by way of warning to the boys, begin his recitation, or perhaps still delay, to ask, "Is there a crowd round me now? Any blackguard heretic around me?" The best-known of his religious tales was St. Mary of Egypt, a long poem of exceeding solemnity, condensed from the much longer work of a certain Bishop Coyle. It told how a fast woman of Egypt, Mary by name, followed pilgrims to Jerusalem for no good purpose, and then, turning penitent on finding herself withheld from entering the Temple by supernatural interference, fled to the desert and spent the remainder of her life in solitary penance. When at last she was at the point of death, God sent Bishop Zozimus to hear her confession, give her the last sacrament, and with the help of a lion, whom He sent also, dig her grave. The poem has the intolerable cadence of the eighteenth century, but was so popular and so often called for that Moran was soon nicknamed Zozimus, and by that name is he remembered. He had also a poem of his own called Moses, which went a little nearer poetry without going very near. But he could ill brook solemnity, and before long parodied his own verses in the following ragamuffin fashion: In Egypt's land, contagious to the Nile, King Pharaoh's daughter went to bathe in style. She tuk her dip, then walked unto the land, To dry her royal pelt she ran along the strand. A bulrush tripped her, whereupon she saw A smiling babby in a wad o' straw. She tuk it up, and said with accents mild, "'Tare-and-agers, girls, which av yez owns the child?" His humorous rhymes were, however, more often quips and cranks at the expense of his contemporaries. It was his delight, for instance, to remind a certain shoemaker, noted alike for display of wealth and for personal uncleanness, of his inconsiderable origin in a song of which but the first stanza has come down to us: At the dirty end of Dirty Lane, Liv'd a dirty cobbler, Dick Maclane; His wife was in the old king's reign A stout brave orange-woman. On Essex Bridge she strained her throat, And six-a-penny was her note. But Dickey wore a bran-new coat, He got among the yeomen. He was a bigot, like his clan, And in the streets he wildly sang, O Roly, toly, toly raid, with his old jade. He had troubles of divers kinds, and numerous interlopers to face and put down. Once an officious peeler arrested him as a vagabond, but was triumphantly routed amid the laughter of the court, when Moran reminded his worship of the precedent set by Homer, who was also, he declared, a poet, and a blind man, and a beggarman. He had to face a more serious difficulty as his fame grew. Various imitators started up upon all sides. A certain actor, for instance, made as many guineas as Moran did shillings by mimicking his sayings and his songs and his getup upon the stage. One night this actor was at supper with some friends, when dispute arose as to whether his mimicry was overdone or not. It was agreed to settle it by an appeal to the mob. A forty-shilling supper at a famous coffeehouse was to be the wager. The actor took up his station at Essex Bridge, a great haunt of Moran's, and soon gathered a small crowd. He had scarce got through "In Egypt's land, contagious to the Nile," when Moran himself came up, followed by another crowd. The crowds met in great excitement and laughter. "Good Christians," cried the pretender, "is it possible that any man would mock the poor dark man like that?" "Who's that? It's some imposhterer," replied Moran. "Begone, you wretch! it's you'ze the imposhterer. Don't you fear the light of heaven being struck from your eyes for mocking the poor dark man?" "Saints and angels, is there no protection against this? You're a most inhuman-blaguard to try to deprive me of my honest bread this way," replied poor Moran. "And you, you wretch, won't let me go on with the beautiful poem. Christian people, in your charity won't you beat this man away? he's taking advantage of my darkness." The pretender, seeing that he was having the best of it, thanked the people for their sympathy and protection, and went on with the poem, Moran listening for a time in bewildered silence. After a while Moran protested again with: "Is it possible that none of yez can know me? Don't yez see it's myself; and that's some one else?" "Before I can proceed any further in this lovely story," interrupted the pretender, "I call on yez to contribute your charitable donations to help me to go on." "Have you no sowl to be saved, you mocker of heaven?" cried Moran, Put completely beside himself by this last injury--"Would you rob the poor as well as desave the world? O, was ever such wickedness known?" "I leave it to yourselves, my friends," said the pretender, "to give to the real dark man, that you all know so well, and save me from that schemer," and with that he collected some pennies and half-pence. While he was doing so, Moran started his Mary of Egypt, but the indignant crowd seizing his stick were about to belabour him, when they fell back bewildered anew by his close resemblance to himself. The pretender now called to them to "just give him a grip of that villain, and he'd soon let him know who the imposhterer was!" They led him over to Moran, but instead of closing with him he thrust a few shillings into his hand, and turning to the crowd explained to them he was indeed but an actor, and that he had just gained a wager, and so departed amid much enthusiasm, to eat the supper he had won. In April 1846 word was sent to the priest that Michael Moran was dying. He found him at 15 (now 14 1/2) Patrick Street, on a straw bed, in a room full of ragged ballad-singers come to cheer his last moments. After his death the ballad-singers, with many fiddles and the like, came again and gave him a fine wake, each adding to the merriment whatever he knew in the way of rann, tale, old saw, or quaint rhyme. He had had his day, had said his prayers and made his confession, and why should they not give him a hearty send-off? The funeral took place the next day. A good party of his admirers and friends got into the hearse with the coffin, for the day was wet and nasty. They had not gone far when one of them burst out with "It's cruel cowld, isn't it?" "Garra'," replied another, "we'll all be as stiff as the corpse when we get to the berrin-ground." "Bad cess to him," said a third; "I wish he'd held out another month until the weather got dacent." A man called Carroll thereupon produced a half-pint of whiskey, and they all drank to the soul of the departed. Unhappily, however, the hearse was over-weighted, and they had not reached the cemetery before the spring broke, and the bottle with it. Moran must have felt strange and out of place in that other kingdom he was entering, perhaps while his friends were drinking in his honour. Let us hope that some kindly middle region was found for him, where he can call dishevelled angels about him with some new and more rhythmical form of his old Gather round me, boys, will yez Gather round me? And hear what I have to say Before ould Salley brings me My bread and jug of tay; and fling outrageous quips and cranks at cherubim and seraphim. Perhaps he may have found and gathered, ragamuffin though he be, the Lily of High Truth, the Rose of Far-sought Beauty, for whose lack so many of the writers of Ireland, whether famous or forgotten, have been futile as the blown froth upon the shore. REGINA, REGINA PIGMEORUM, VENI One night a middle-aged man, who had lived all his life far from the noise of cab-wheels, a young girl, a relation of his, who was reported to be enough of a seer to catch a glimpse of unaccountable lights moving over the fields among the cattle, and myself, were walking along a far western sandy shore. We talked of the Forgetful People as the faery people are sometimes called, and came in the midst of our talk to a notable haunt of theirs, a shallow cave amidst black rocks, with its reflection under it in the wet sea sand. I asked the young girl if she could see anything, for I had quite a number of things to ask the Forgetful People. She stood still for a few minutes, and I saw that she was passing into a kind of waking trance, in which the cold sea breeze no longer troubled her, nor the dull boom of the sea distracted her attention. I then called aloud the names of the great faeries, and in a moment or two she said that she could hear music far inside the rocks, and then a sound of confused talking, and of people stamping their feet as if to applaud some unseen performer. Up to this my other friend had been walking to and fro some yards off, but now he passed close to us, and as he did so said suddenly that we were going to be interrupted, for he heard the laughter of children somewhere beyond the rocks. We were, however, quite alone. The spirits of the place had begun to cast their influence over him also. In a moment he was corroborated by the girl, who said that bursts of laughter had begun to mingle with the music, the confused talking, and the noise of feet. She next saw a bright light streaming out of the cave, which seemed to have grown much deeper, and a quantity of little people,[FN#6] in various coloured dresses, red predominating, dancing to a tune which she did not recognize. [FN#6] The people and faeries in Ireland are sometimes as big as we are, sometimes bigger, and sometimes, as I have been told, about three feet high. The Old Mayo woman I so often quote, thinks that it is something in our eyes that makes them seem big or little. I then bade her call out to the queen of the little people to come and talk with us. There was, however, no answer to her command. I therefore repeated the words aloud myself, and in a moment a very beautiful tall woman came out of the cave. I too had by this time fallen into a kind of trance, in which what we call the unreal had begun to take upon itself a masterful reality, and was able to see the faint gleam of golden ornaments, the shadowy blossom of dim hair. I then bade the girl tell this tall queen to marshal her followers according to their natural divisions, that we might see them. I found as before that I had to repeat the command myself. The creatures then came out of the cave, and drew themselves up, if I remember rightly, in four bands. One of these bands carried quicken boughs in their hands, and another had necklaces made apparently of serpents' scales, but their dress I cannot remember, for I was quite absorbed in that gleaming woman. I asked her to tell the seer whether these caves were the greatest faery haunts in the neighbourhood. Her lips moved, but the answer was inaudible. I bade the seer lay her hand upon the breast of the queen, and after that she heard every word quite distinctly. No, this was not the greatest faery haunt, for there was a greater one a little further ahead. I then asked her whether it was true that she and her people carried away mortals, and if so, whether they put another soul in the place of the one they had taken? "We change the bodies," was her answer. "Are any of you ever born into mortal life?" "Yes." "Do I know any who were among your people before birth?" "You do." "Who are they?" "It would not be lawful for you to know." I then asked whether she and her people were not "dramatizations of our moods"? "She does not understand," said my friend, "but says that her people are much like human beings, and do most of the things human beings do." I asked her other questions, as to her nature, and her purpose in the universe, but only seemed to puzzle her. At last she appeared to lose patience, for she wrote this message for me upon the sands--the sands of vision, not the grating sands under our feet--"Be careful, and do not seek to know too much about us." Seeing that I had offended her, I thanked her for what she had shown and told, and let her depart again into her cave. In a little while the young girl awoke out of her trance, and felt again the cold wind of the world, and began to shiver. I tell these things as accurately as I can, and with no theories to blur the history. Theories are poor things at the best, and the bulk of mine have perished long ago. I love better than any theory the sound of the Gate of Ivory, turning upon its hinges, and hold that he alone who has passed the rose-strewn threshold can catch the far glimmer of the Gate of Horn. It were perhaps well for us all if we would but raise the cry Lilly the astrologer raised in Windsor Forest, "Regina, Regina Pigmeorum, Veni," and remember with him, that God visiteth His children in dreams. Tall, glimmering queen, come near, and let me see again the shadowy blossom of thy dim hair. "AND FAIR, FIERCE WOMEN" One day a woman that I know came face to face with heroic beauty, that highest beauty which Blake says changes least from youth to age, a beauty which has been fading out of the arts, since that decadence we call progress, set voluptuous beauty in its place. She was standing at the window, looking over to Knocknarea where Queen Maive is thought to be buried, when she saw, as she has told me, "the finest woman you ever saw travelling right across from the mountain and straight to her." The woman had a sword by her side and a dagger lifted up in her hand, and was dressed in white, with bare arms and feet. She looked "very strong, but not wicked," that is, not cruel. The old woman had seen the Irish giant, and "though he was a fine man," he was nothing to this woman, "for he was round, and could not have stepped out so soldierly"; "she was like Mrs.-----" a stately lady of the neighbourhood, "but she had no stomach on her, and was slight and broad in the shoulders, and was handsomer than any one you ever saw; she looked about thirty." The old woman covered her eyes with her hands, and when she uncovered them the apparition had vanished. The neighbours were "wild with her," she told me, because she did not wait to find out if there was a message, for they were sure it was Queen Maive, who often shows herself to the pilots. I asked the old woman if she had seen others like Queen Maive, and she said, "Some of them have their hair down, but they look quite different, like the sleepy-looking ladies one sees in the papers. Those with their hair up are like this one. The others have long white dresses, but those with their hair up have short dresses, so that you can see their legs right up to the calf." After some careful questioning I found that they wore what might very well be a kind of buskin; she went on, "They are fine and dashing looking, like the men one sees riding their horses in twos and threes on the slopes of the mountains with their swords swinging." She repeated over and over, "There is no such race living now, none so finely proportioned," or the like, and then said, "The present Queen[FN#7] is a nice, pleasant- looking woman, but she is not like her. What makes me think so little of the ladies is that I see none as they be," meaning as the spirits. "When I think of her and of the ladies now, they are like little children running about without knowing how to put their clothes on right. Is it the ladies? Why, I would not call them women at all." The other day a friend of mine questioned an old woman in a Galway workhouse about Queen Maive, and was told that "Queen Maive was handsome, and overcame all her enemies with a bawl stick, for the hazel is blessed, and the best weapon that can be got. You might walk the world with it," but she grew "very disagreeable in the end--oh very disagreeable. Best not to be talking about it. Best leave it between the book and the hearer." My friend thought the old woman had got some scandal about Fergus son of Roy and Maive in her head. [FN#7] Queen Victoria. And I myself met once with a young man in the Burren Hills who remembered an old poet who made his poems in Irish and had met when he was young, the young man said, one who called herself Maive, and said she was a queen "among them," and asked him if he would have money or pleasure. He said he would have pleasure, and she gave him her love for a time, and then went from him, and ever after he was very mournful. The young man had often heard him sing the poem of lamentation that he made, but could only remember that it was "very mournful," and that he called her "beauty of all beauties." 1902. ENCHANTED WOODS I Last summer, whenever I had finished my day's work, I used to go wandering in certain roomy woods, and there I would often meet an old countryman, and talk to him about his work and about the woods, and once or twice a friend came with me to whom he would open his heart more readily than to me, He had spent all his life lopping away the witch elm and the hazel and the privet and the hornbeam from the paths, and had thought much about the natural and supernatural creatures of the wood. He has heard the hedgehog--"grainne oge," he calls him-- "grunting like a Christian," and is certain that he steals apples by rolling about under an apple tree until there is an apple sticking to every quill. He is certain too that the cats, of whom there are many in the woods, have a language of their own--some kind of old Irish. He says, "Cats were serpents, and they were made into cats at the time of some great change in the world. That is why they are hard to kill, and why it is dangerous to meddle with them. If you annoy a cat it might claw or bite you in a way that would put poison in you, and that would be the serpent's tooth." Sometimes he thinks they change into wild cats, and then a nail grows on the end of their tails; but these wild cats are not the same as the marten cats, who have been always in the woods. The foxes were once tame, as the cats are now, but they ran away and became wild. He talks of all wild creatures except squirrels--whom he hates--with what seems an affectionate interest, though at times his eyes will twinkle with pleasure as he remembers how he made hedgehogs unroll themselves when he was a boy, by putting a wisp of burning straw under them. I am not certain that he distinguishes between the natural and supernatural very clearly. He told me the other day that foxes and cats like, above all, to be in the "forths" and lisses after nightfall; and he will certainly pass from some story about a fox to a story about a spirit with less change of voice than when he is going to speak about a marten cat--a rare beast now-a-days. Many years ago he used to work in the garden, and once they put him to sleep in a garden-house where there was a loft full of apples, and all night he could hear people rattling plates and knives and forks over his head in the loft. Once, at any rate, be has seen an unearthly sight in the woods. He says, "One time I was out cutting timber over in Inchy, and about eight o'clock one morning when I got there I saw a girl picking nuts, with her hair hanging down over her shoulders, brown hair, and she had a good, clean face, and she was tall and nothing on her head, and her dress no way gaudy but simple, and when she felt me coming she gathered herself up and was gone as if the earth had swallowed her up. And I followed her and looked for her, but I never could see her again from that day to this, never again." He used the word clean as we would use words like fresh or comely. Others too have seen spirits in the Enchanted Woods. A labourer told us of what a friend of his had seen in a part of the woods that is called Shanwalla, from some old village that was before the weed. He said, "One evening I parted from Lawrence Mangan in the yard, and he went away through the path in Shanwalla, an' bid me goodnight. And two hours after, there he was back again in the yard, an' bid me light a candle that was in the stable. An' he told me that when he got into Shanwalla, a little fellow about as high as his knee, but having a head as big as a man's body, came beside him and led him out of the path an' round about, and at last it brought him to the lime-kiln, and then it vanished and left him." A woman told me of a sight that she and others had seen by a certain deep pool in the river. She said, "I came over the stile from the chapel, and others along with me; and a great blast of wind came and two trees were bent and broken and fell into the river, and the splash of water out of it went up to the skies. And those that were with me saw many figures, but myself I only saw one, sitting there by the bank where the trees fell. Dark clothes he had on, and he was headless." A man told me that one day, when he was a boy, he and another boy went to catch a horse in a certain field, full of boulders and bushes of hazel and creeping juniper and rock-roses, that is where the lake side is for a little clear of the woods. He said to the boy that was with him, "I bet a button that if I fling a pebble on to that bush it will stay on it," meaning that the bush was so matted the pebble would not be able to go through it. So he took up "a pebble of cow-dung, and as soon as it hit the bush there came out of it the most beautiful music that ever was heard." They ran away, and when they had gone about two hundred yards they looked back and saw a woman dressed in white, walking round and round the bush. "First it had the form of a woman, and then of a man, and it was going round the bush." II I often entangle myself in argument more complicated than even those paths of Inchy as to what is the true nature of apparitions, but at other times I say as Socrates said when they told him a learned opinion about a nymph of the Illissus, "The common opinion is enough for me." I believe when I am in the mood that all nature is full of people whom we cannot see, and that some of these are ugly or grotesque, and some wicked or foolish, but very many beautiful beyond any one we have ever seen, and that these are not far away when we are walking in pleasant and quiet places. Even when I was a boy I could never walk in a wood without feeling that at any moment I might find before me somebody or something I had long looked for without knowing what I looked for. And now I will at times explore every little nook of some poor coppice with almost anxious footsteps, so deep a hold has this imagination upon me. You too meet with a like imagination, doubtless, somewhere, wherever your ruling stars will have it, Saturn driving you to the woods, or the Moon, it may be, to the edges of the sea. I will not of a certainty believe that there is nothing in the sunset, where our forefathers imagined the dead following their shepherd the sun, or nothing but some vague presence as little moving as nothing. If beauty is not a gateway out of the net we were taken in at our birth, it will not long be beauty, and we will find it better to sit at home by the fire and fatten a lazy body or to run hither and thither in some foolish sport than to look at the finest show that light and shadow ever made among green leaves. I say to myself, when I am well out of that thicket of argument, that they are surely there, the divine people, for only we who have neither simplicity nor wisdom have denied them, and the simple of all times and the wise men of ancient times have seen them and even spoken to them. They live out their passionate lives not far off, as I think, and we shall be among them when we die if we but keep our natures simple and passionate. May it not even be that death shall unite us to all romance, and that some day we shall fight dragons among blue hills, or come to that whereof all romance is but Foreshadowings mingled with the images Of man's misdeeds in greater days than these, as the old men thought in The Earthly Paradise when they were in good spirits. 1902 MIRACULOUS CREATURES There are marten cats and badgers and foxes in the Enchanted Woods, but there are of a certainty mightier creatures, and the lake hides what neither net nor fine can take. These creatures are of the race of the white stag that flits in and out of the tales of Arthur, and of the evil pig that slew Diarmuid where Ben Bulben mixes with the sea wind. They are the wizard creatures of hope and fear, they are of them that fly and of them that follow among the thickets that are about the Gates of Death. A man I know remembers that his father was one night in the wood Of Inchy, "where the lads of Gort used to be stealing rods. He was sitting by the wall, and the dog beside him, and he heard something come running from Owbawn Weir, and he could see nothing, but the sound of its feet on the ground was like the sound of the feet of a deer. And when it passed him, the dog got between him and the wall and scratched at it there as if it was afraid, but still he could see nothing but only hear the sound of hoofs. So when it was passed he turned and came away home. Another time," the man says, "my father told me he was in a boat out on the lake with two or three men from Gort, and one of them had an eel-spear, and he thrust it into the water, and it hit something, and the man fainted and they had to carry him out of the boat to land, and when he came to himself he said that what he struck was like a calf, but whatever it was, it was not fish!" A friend of mine is convinced that these terrible creatures, so common in lakes, were set there in old times by subtle enchanters to watch over the gates of wisdom. He thinks that if we sent our spirits down into the water we would make them of one substance with strange moods Of ecstasy and power, and go out it may be to the conquest of the world. We would, however, he believes, have first to outface and perhaps overthrow strange images full of a more powerful life than if they were really alive. It may be that we shall look at them without fear when we have endured the last adventure, that is death. 1902. ARISTOTLE OF THE BOOKS The friend who can get the wood-cutter to talk more readily than he will to anybody else went lately to see his old wife. She lives in a cottage not far from the edge of the woods, and is as full of old talk as her husband. This time she began to talk of Goban, the legendary mason, and his wisdom, but said presently, "Aristotle of the Books, too, was very wise, and he had a great deal of experience, but did not the bees get the better of him in the end? He wanted to know how they packed the comb, and he wasted the better part of a fortnight watching them, and he could not see them doing it. Then he made a hive with a glass cover on it and put it over them, and he thought to see. But when he went and put his eyes to the glass, they had it all covered with wax so that it was as black as the pot; and he was as blind as before. He said he was never rightly kilt till then. They had him that time surely!" 1902. THE SWINE OF THE GODS A few years ago a friend of mine told me of something that happened to him when he was a. young man and out drilling with some Connaught Fenians. They were but a car-full, and drove along a hillside until they came to a quiet place. They left the car and went further up the hill with their rifles, and drilled for a while. As they were coming down again they saw a very thin, long-legged pig of the old Irish sort, and the pig began to follow them. One of them cried out as a joke that it was a fairy pig, and they all began to run to keep up the joke. The pig ran too, and presently, how nobody knew, this mock terror became real terror, and they ran as for their lives. When they got to the car they made the horse gallop as fast as possible, but the pig still followed. Then one of them put up his rifle to fire, but when he looked along the barrel he could see nothing. Presently they turned a corner and came to a village. They told the people of the village what had happened, and the people of the village took pitchforks and spades and the like, and went along the road with them to drive the pig away. When they turned the comer they could not find anything. 1902. A VOICE One day I was walking over a bit of marshy ground close to Inchy Wood when I felt, all of a sudden, and only for a second, an emotion which I said to myself was the root of Christian mysticism. There had swept over me a sense of weakness, of dependence on a great personal Being somewhere far off yet near at hand. No thought of mine had prepared me for this emotion, for I had been pre-occupied with Aengus and Edain, and with Mannanan, son of the sea. That night I awoke lying upon my back and hearing a voice speaking above me and saying, "No human soul is like any other human soul, and therefore the love of God for any human soul is infinite, for no other soul can satisfy the same need in God." A few nights after this I awoke to see the loveliest people I have ever seen. A young man and a young girl dressed in olive-green raiment, cut like old Greek raiment, were standing at my bedside. I looked at the girl and noticed that her dress was gathered about her neck into a kind of chain, or perhaps into some kind of stiff embroidery which represented ivy-leaves. But what filled me with wonder was the miraculous mildness of her face. There are no such faces now. It was beautiful, as few faces are beautiful, but it had neither, one would think, the light that is in desire or in hope or in fear or in speculation. It was peaceful like the faces of animals, or like mountain pools at evening, so peaceful that it was a little sad. I thought for a moment that she might be the beloved of Aengus, but how could that hunted, alluring, happy, immortal wretch have a face like this? Doubtless she was from among the children of the Moon, but who among them I shall never know. 1902. KIDNAPPERS A little north of the town of Sligo, on the southern side of Ben Bulben, some hundreds of feet above the plain, is a small white square in the limestone. No mortal has ever touched it with his hand; no sheep or goat has ever browsed grass beside it. There is no more inaccessible place upon the earth, and few more encircled by awe to the deep considering. It is the door of faery-land. In the middle of night it swings open, and the unearthly troop rushes out. All night the gay rabble sweep to and fro across the land, invisible to all, unless perhaps where, in some more than commonly "gentle" place--Drumcliff or Drum-a-hair--the nightcapped heads of faery-doctors may be thrust from their doors to see what mischief the "gentry" are doing. To their trained eyes and ears the fields are covered by red-hatted riders, and the air is full of shrill voices--a sound like whistling, as an ancient Scottish seer has recorded, and wholly different from the talk of the angels, who "speak much in the throat, like the Irish," as Lilly, the astrologer, has wisely said. If there be a new-born baby or new-wed bride in the neighbourhood, the nightcapped "doctors" will peer with more than common care, for the unearthly troop do not always return empty-handed. Sometimes a new-wed bride or a new-born baby goes with them into their mountains; the door swings to behind, and the new-born or the new-wed moves henceforth in the bloodless land of Faery; happy enough, but doomed to melt out at the last judgment like bright vapour, for the soul cannot live without sorrow. Through this door of white stone, and the other doors of that land where geabheadh tu an sonas aer pighin ("you can buy joy for a penny"), have gone kings, queens, and princes, but so greatly has the power of Faery dwindled, that there are none but peasants in these sad chronicles of mine. Somewhere about the beginning of last century appeared at the western corner of Market Street, Sligo, where the butcher's shop now is, not a palace, as in Keats's Lamia, but an apothecary's shop, ruled over by a certain unaccountable Dr. Opendon. Where he came from, none ever knew. There also was in Sligo, in those days, a woman, Ormsby by name, whose husband had fallen mysteriously sick. The doctors could make nothing of him. Nothing seemed wrong with him, yet weaker and weaker he grew. Away went the wife to Dr. Opendon. She was shown into the shop parlour. A black cat was sitting straight up before the fire. She had just time to see that the side-board was covered with fruit, and to say to herself, "Fruit must be wholesome when the doctor has so much," before Dr. Opendon came in. He was dressed all in black, the same as the cat, and his wife walked behind him dressed in black likewise. She gave him a guinea, and got a little bottle in return. Her husband recovered that time. Meanwhile the black doctor cured many people; but one day a rich patient died, and cat, wife, and doctor all vanished the night after. In a year the man Ormsby fell sick once more. Now he was a goodlooking man, and his wife felt sure the "gentry" were coveting him. She went and called on the "faery-doctor" at Cairnsfoot. As soon as he had heard her tale, he went behind the back door and began muttering, muttering, muttering-making spells. Her husband got well this time also. But after a while he sickened again, the fatal third time, and away went she once more to Cairnsfoot, and out went the faery-doctor behind his back door and began muttering, but soon he came in and told her it was no use-- her husband would die; and sure enough the man died, and ever after when she spoke of him Mrs. Ormsby shook her head saying she knew well where he was, and it wasn't in heaven or hell or purgatory either. She probably believed that a log of wood was left behind in his place, but so bewitched that it seemed the dead body of her husband. She is dead now herself, but many still living remember her. She was, I believe, for a time a servant or else a kind of pensioner of some relations of my own. Sometimes those who are carried off are allowed after many years-- seven usually--a final glimpse of their friends. Many years ago a woman vanished suddenly from a Sligo garden where she was walking with her husband. When her son, who was then a baby, had grown up he received word in some way, not handed down, that his mother was glamoured by faeries, and imprisoned for the time in a house in Glasgow and longing to see him. Glasgow in those days of sailing-ships seemed to the peasant mind almost over the edge of the known world, yet he, being a dutiful son, started away. For a long time he walked the streets of Glasgow; at last down in a cellar he saw his mother working. She was happy, she said, and had the best of good eating, and would he not eat? and therewith laid all kinds of food on the table; but he, knowing well that she was trying to cast on him the glamour by giving him faery food, that she might keep him with her, refused and came home to his people in Sligo. Some five miles southward of Sligo is a gloomy and tree-bordered pond, a great gathering-place of water-fowl, called, because of its form, the Heart Lake. It is haunted by stranger things than heron, snipe, or wild duck. Out of this lake, as from the white square stone in Ben Bulben, issues an unearthly troop. Once men began to drain it; suddenly one of them raised a cry that he saw his house in flames. They turned round, and every man there saw his own cottage burning. They hurried home to find it was but faery glamour. To this hour on the border of the lake is shown a half-dug trench--the signet of their impiety. A little way from this lake I heard a beautiful and mournful history of faery kidnapping. I heard it from a little old woman in a white cap, who sings to herself in Gaelic, and moves from one foot to the other as though she remembered the dancing of her youth. A young man going at nightfall to the house of his just married bride, met in the way a jolly company, and with them his bride. They were faeries, and had stolen her as a wife for the chief of their band. To him they seemed only a company of merry mortals. His bride, when she saw her old love, bade him welcome, but was most fearful lest be should eat the faery food, and so be glamoured out of the earth into that bloodless dim nation, wherefore she set him down to play cards with three of the cavalcade; and he played on, realizing nothing until he saw the chief of the band carrying his bride away in his arms. Immediately he started up, and knew that they were faeries; for slowly all that jolly company melted into shadow and night. He hurried to the house of his beloved. As he drew near came to him the cry of the keeners. She had died some time before he came. Some noteless Gaelic poet had made this into a forgotten ballad, some odd verses of which my white-capped friend remembered and sang for me. Sometimes one hears of stolen people acting as good genii to the living, as in this tale, heard also close by the haunted pond, of John Kirwan of Castle Hacket. The Kirwans[FN#8] are a family much rumoured of in peasant stories, and believed to be the descendants of a man and a spirit. They have ever been famous for beauty, and I have read that the mother of the present Lord Cloncurry was of their tribe. [FN#8] I have since heard that it was not the Kirwans, but their predecessors at Castle Hacket, the Hackets themselves, I think, who were descended from a man and a spirit, and were notable for beauty. I imagine that the mother of Lord Cloncurry was descended from the Hackets. It may well be that all through these stories the name of Kirwan has taken the place of the older name. Legend mixes everything together in her cauldron. John Kirwan was a great horse-racing man, and once landed in Liverpool with a fine horse, going racing somewhere in middle England. That evening, as he walked by the docks, a slip of a boy came up and asked where he was stabling his horse. In such and such a place, he answered. "Don't put him there," said the slip of a boy; "that stable will be burnt to-night." He took his horse elsewhere, and sure enough the stable was burnt down. Next day the boy came and asked as reward to ride as his jockey in the coming race, and then was gone. The race-time came round. At the last moment the boy ran forward and mounted, saying, "If I strike him with the whip in my left hand I will lose, but if in my right hand bet all you are worth." For, said Paddy Flynn, who told me the tale, "the left arm is good for nothing. I might go on making the sign of the cross with it, and all that, come Christmas, and a Banshee, or such like, would no more mind than if it was that broom." Well, the slip of a boy struck the horse with his right hand, and John Kirwan cleared the field out. When the race was over, "What can I do for you now?" said he. "Nothing but this," said the boy: "my mother has a cottage on your land-they stole me from the cradle. Be good to her, John Kirwan, and wherever your horses go I will watch that no ill follows them; but you will never see me more." With that he made himself air, and vanished. Sometimes animals are carried off--apparently drowned animals more than others. In Claremorris, Galway, Paddy Flynn told me, lived a poor widow with one cow and its calf. The cow fell into the river, and was washed away. There was a man thereabouts who went to a red-haired woman --for such are supposed to be wise in these things--and she told him to take the calf down to the edge of the river, and hide himself and watch. He did as she had told him, and as evening came on the calf began to low, and after a while the cow came along the edge of the river and commenced suckling it. Then, as he had been told, he caught the cow's tail. Away they went at a great pace across hedges and ditches, till they came to a royalty (a name for the little circular ditches, commonly called raths or forts, that Ireland is covered with since Pagan times). Therein he saw walking or sitting all the people who had died out of his village in his time. A woman was sitting on the edge with a child on her knees, and she called out to him to mind what the red-haired woman had told him, and he remembered she had said, Bleed the cow. So he stuck his knife into the cow and drew blood. That broke the spell, and he was able to turn her homeward. "Do not forget the spancel," said the woman with the child on her knees; "take the inside one." There were three spancels on a bush; he took one, and the cow was driven safely home to the widow. There is hardly a valley or mountainside where folk cannot tell you of some one pillaged from amongst them. Two or three miles from the Heart Lake lives an old woman who was stolen away in her youth. After seven years she was brought home again for some reason or other, but she had no toes left. She had danced them off. Many near the white stone door in Ben Bulben have been stolen away. It is far easier to be sensible in cities than in many country places I could tell you of. When one walks on those grey roads at evening by the scented elder-bushes of the white cottages, watching the faint mountains gathering the clouds upon their heads, one all too readily discovers, beyond the thin cobweb veil of the senses, those creatures, the goblins, hurrying from the white square stone door to the north, or from the Heart Lake in the south. THE UNTIRING ONES It is one of the great troubles of life that we cannot have any unmixed emotions. There is always something in our enemy that we like, and something in our sweetheart that we dislike. It is this entanglement of moods which makes us old, and puckers our brows and deepens the furrows about our eyes. If we could love and hate with as good heart as the faeries do, we might grow to be long-lived like them. But until that day their untiring joys and sorrows must ever be one- half of their fascination. Love with them never grows weary, nor can the circles of the stars tire out their dancing feet. The Donegal peasants remember this when they bend over the spade, or sit full of the heaviness of the fields beside the griddle at nightfall, and they tell stories about it that it may not be forgotten. A short while ago, they say, two faeries, little creatures, one like a young man, one like a young woman, came to a farmer's house, and spent the night sweeping the hearth and setting all tidy. The next night they came again, and while the farmer was away, brought all the furniture up-stairs into one room, and having arranged it round the walls, for the greater grandeur it seems, they began to dance. They danced on and on, and days and days went by, and all the country-side came to look at them, but still their feet never tired. The farmer did not dare to live at home the while; and after three months he made up his mind to stand it no more, and went and told them that the priest was coming. The little creatures when they heard this went back to their own country, and there their joy shall last as long as the points of the rushes are brown, the people say, and that is until God shall burn up the world with a kiss. But it is not merely faeries who know untiring days, for there have been men and women who, falling under their enchantment, have attained, perhaps by the right of their God-given spirits, an even more than faery abundance of life and feeling. It seems that when mortals have gone amid those poor happy leaves of the Imperishable Rose of Beauty, blown hither and thither by the winds that awakened the stars, the dim kingdom has acknowledged their birthright, perhaps a little sadly, and given them of its best. Such a mortal was born long ago at a village in the south of Ireland. She lay asleep in a cradle, and her mother sat by rocking her, when a woman of the Sidhe (the faeries) came in, and said that the child was chosen to be the bride of the prince of the dim kingdom, but that as it would never do for his wife to grow old and die while he was still in the first ardour of his love, she would be gifted with a faery life. The mother was to take the glowing log out of the fire and bury it in the garden, and her child would live as long as it remained unconsumed. The mother buried the log, and the child grew up, became a beauty, and married the prince of the faeries, who came to her at nightfall. After seven hundred years the prince died, and another prince ruled in his stead and married the beautiful peasant girl in his turn; and after another seven hundred years he died also, and another prince and another husband came in his stead, and so on until she had had seven husbands. At last one day the priest of the parish called upon her, and told her that she was a scandal to the whole neighbourhood with her seven husbands and her long life. She was very sorry, she said, but she was not to blame, and then she told him about the log, and he went straight out and dug until he found it, and then they burned it, and she died, and was buried like a Christian, and everybody was pleased. Such a mortal too was Clooth-na-bare,[FN#9] who went all over the world seeking a lake deep enough to drown her faery life, of which she had grown weary, leaping from hill to lake and lake to hill, and setting up a cairn of stones wherever her feet lighted, until at last she found the deepest water in the world in little Lough Ia, on the top of the Birds' Mountain at Sligo. [FN#9] Doubtless Clooth-na-bare should be Cailleac Bare, which would mean the old Woman Bare. Bare or Bere or Verah or Dera or Dhera was a very famous person, perhaps the mother of the Gods herself. A friend of mine found her, as he thinks frequenting Lough Leath, or the Grey Lake on a mountain of the Fews. Perhaps Lough Ia is my mishearing, or the storyteller's mispronunciation of Lough Leath, for there are many Lough Leaths. The two little creatures may well dance on, and the woman of the log and Clooth-na-bare sleep in peace, for they have known untrammelled hate and unmixed love, and have never wearied themselves with "yes" and "no," or entangled their feet with the sorry net of "maybe" and "perhaps." The great winds came and took them up into themselves. EARTH, FIRE AND WATER Some French writer that I read when I was a boy, said that the desert went into the heart of the Jews in their wanderings and made them what they are. I cannot remember by what argument he proved them to be even yet the indestructible children of earth, but it may well be that the elements have their children. If we knew the Fire Worshippers better we might find that their centuries of pious observance have been rewarded, and that the fire has given them a little of its nature; and I am certain that the water, the water of the seas and of lakes and of mist and rain, has all but made the Irish after its image. Images form themselves in our minds perpetually as if they were reflected in some pool. We gave ourselves up in old times to mythology, and saw the Gods everywhere. We talked to them face to face, and the stories of that communion are so many that I think they outnumber all the like stories of all the rest of Europe. Even to-day our country people speak with the dead and with some who perhaps have never died as we understand death; and even our educated people pass without great difficulty into the condition of quiet that is the condition of vision. We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet. Did not the wise Porphyry think that all souls come to be born because of water, and that "even the generation of images in the mind is from water"? 1902. THE OLD TOWN I fell, one night some fifteen years ago, into what seemed the power of faery. I had gone with a young man and his sister--friends and relations of my own--to pick stories out of an old countryman; and we were coming home talking over what he had told us. It was dark, and our imaginations were excited by his stories of apparitions, and this may have brought us, unknown to us, to the threshold, between sleeping and waking, where Sphinxes and Chimaeras sit open-eyed and where there are always murmurings and whisperings. I cannot think that what we saw was an imagination of the waking mind. We had come under some trees that made the road very dark, when the girl saw a bright light moving slowly across the road. Her brother and myself saw nothing, and did not see anything until we had walked for about half-an-hour along the edge of the river and down a narrow lane to some fields where there was a ruined church covered with ivy, and the foundations of what was called "the Old Town," which had been burned down, it was said, in Cromwell's day. We had stood for some few minutes, so far as I can recollect, looking over the fields full of stones and brambles and elder-bushes, when I saw a small bright light on the horizon, as it seemed, mounting up slowly towards the sky; then we saw other faint lights for a minute or two, and at last a bright flame like the flame of a torch moving rapidly over the river. We saw it all in such a dream, and it seems all so unreal, that I have never written of it until now, and hardly ever spoken of it, and even when thinking, because of some unreasoning impulse, I have avoided giving it weight in the argument. Perhaps I have felt that my recollections of things seen when the sense of reality was weakened must be untrustworthy. A few months ago, however, I talked it over with my two friends, and compared their somewhat meagre recollections with my own. That sense of unreality was all the more wonderful because the next day I heard sounds as unaccountable as were those lights, and without any emotion of unreality, and I remember them with perfect distinctness and confidence. The girl was sitting reading under a large old-fashioned mirror, and I was reading and writing a couple of yards away, when I heard a sound as if a shower of peas had been thrown against the mirror, and while I was looking at it I heard the sound again, and presently, while I was alone in the room, I heard a sound as if something much bigger than a pea had struck the wainscoting beside my head. And after that for some days came other sights and sounds, not to me but to the girl, her brother, and the servants. Now it was a bright light, now it was letters of fire that vanished before they could be read, now it was a heavy foot moving about in the seemingly empty house. One wonders whether creatures who live, the country people believe, wherever men and women have lived in earlier times, followed us from the ruins of the old town? or did they come from the banks of the river by the trees where the first light had shone for a moment? 1902. THE MAN AND HIS BOOTS There was a doubter in Donegal, and he would not hear of ghosts or sheogues, and there was a house in Donegal that had been haunted as long as man could remember, and this is the story of how the house got the better of the man. The man came into the house and lighted a fire in the room under the haunted one, and took off his boots and set them On the hearth, and stretched out his feet and warmed him self. For a time he prospered in his unbelief; but a little while after the night had fallen, and everything had got very dark, one of his boots began to move. It got up off the floor and gave a kind of slow jump towards the door, and then the other boot did the same, and after that the first boot jumped again. And thereupon it struck the man that an invisible being had got into his boots, and was now going away in them. When the boots reached the door they went up-stairs slowly, and then the man heard them go tramp, tramp round the haunted room over his head. A few minutes passed, and he could hear them again upon the stairs, and after that in the passage outside, and then one of them came in at the door, and the other gave a jump past it and came in too. They jumped along towards him, and then one got up and hit him, and afterwards the other hit him, and then again the first hit him, and so on, until they drove him out of the room, and finally out of the house. In this way he was kicked out by his own boots, and Donegal was avenged upon its doubter. It is not recorded whether the invisible being was a ghost or one of the Sidhe, but the fantastic nature of the vengeance is like the work of the Sidhe who live in the heart of fantasy. A COWARD One day I was at the house of my friend the strong farmer, who lives beyond Ben Bulben and Cope's mountain, and met there a young lad who seemed to be disliked by the two daughters. I asked why they disliked him, and was; told he was a coward. This interested me, for some whom robust children of nature take to be cowards are but men and women with a nervous system too finely made for their life and work. I looked at the lad; but no, that pink-and-white face and strong body had nothing of undue sensibility. After a little he told me his story. He had lived a wild and reckless life, until one day, two years before, he was coming home late at night, and suddenly fell himself sinking in, as it were, upon the ghostly world. For a moment he saw the face of a dead brother rise up before him, and then he turned and ran. He did not stop till he came to a cottage nearly a mile down the road. He flung himself against the door with so much of violence that he broke the thick wooden bolt and fell upon the floor. From that day he gave up his wild life, but was a hopeless coward. Nothing could ever bring him to look, either by day or night, upon the spot where he had seen the face, and he often went two miles round to avoid it; nor could, he said, "the prettiest girl in the country" persuade him to see her home after a party if he were alone. He feared everything, for he had looked at the face no man can see unchanged-the imponderable face of a spirit. THE THREE O'BYRNES AND THE EVIL FAERIES In the dim kingdom there is a great abundance of all excellent things. There is more love there than upon the earth; there is more dancing there than upon the earth; and there is more treasure there than upon the earth. In the beginning the earth was perhaps made to fulfil the desire of man, but now it has got old and fallen into decay. What wonder if we try and pilfer the treasures of that other kingdom! A friend was once at a village near Sleive League. One day he was straying about a rath called "Cashel Nore." A man with a haggard face and unkempt hair, and clothes falling in pieces, came into the rath and began digging. My friend turned to a peasant who was working near and asked who the man was. "That is the third O'Byrne," was the answer. A few days after he learned this story: A great quantity of treasure had been buried in the rath in pagan times, and a number of evil faeries set to guard it; but some day it was to be found and belong to the family of the O'Byrnes. Before that day three O'Byrnes must find it and die. Two had already done so. The first had dug and dug until at last he had got a glimpse of the stone coffin that contained it, but immediately a thing like a huge hairy dog came down the mountain and tore him to pieces. The next morning the treasure had again vanished deep into the earth. The second O'Byrne came and dug and dug until he found the coffer, and lifted the lid and saw the gold shining within. He saw some horrible sight the next moment, and went raving mad and soon died. The treasure again sank out of sight. The third O'Byrne is now digging. He believes that he will die in some terrible way the moment he finds the treasure, but that the spell will be broken, and the O'Byrne family made rich for ever, as they were of old. A peasant of the neighbourhood once saw the treasure. He found the shin-bone of a hare lying on the grass. He took it up; there was a hole in it; he looked through the hole, and saw the gold heaped up under the ground. He hurried home to bring a spade, but when he got to the rath again he could not find the spot where he had seen it. DRUMCLIFF AND ROSSES Drumcliff and Rosses were, are, and ever shall be, please Heaven! places of unearthly resort. I have lived near by them and in them, time after time, and have gathered thus many a crumb of faery lore. Drumcliff is a wide green valley, lying at the foot of Ben Bulben, the mountain in whose side the square white door swings open at nightfall to loose the faery riders on the world. The great St. Columba himself, the builder of many of the old ruins in the valley, climbed the mountains on one notable day to get near heaven with his prayers. Rosses is a little sea-dividing, sandy plain, covered with short grass, like a green tablecloth, and lying in the foam midway between the round cairn-headed Knocknarea and "Ben Bulben, famous for hawks": But for Benbulben and Knocknarea Many a poor sailor'd be cast away, as the rhyme goes. At the northern corner of Rosses is a little promontory of sand and rocks and grass: a mournful, haunted place. No wise peasant would fall asleep under its low cliff, for he who sleeps here may wake "silly," the "good people" having carried off his soul. There is no more ready shortcut to the dim kingdom than this plovery headland, for, covered and smothered now from sight by mounds of sand, a long cave goes thither "full of gold and silver, and the most beautiful parlours and drawing-rooms." Once, before the sand covered it, a dog strayed in, and was heard yelping helplessly deep underground in a fort far inland. These forts or raths, made before modern history had begun, cover all Rosses and all Columkille. The one where the dog yelped has, like most others, an underground beehive chamber in the midst. Once when I was poking about there, an unusually intelligent and "reading" peasant who had come with me, and waited outside, knelt down by the opening, and whispered in a timid voice, "Are you all right, sir?" I had been some little while underground, and he feared I had been carried off like the dog. No wonder he was afraid, for the fort has long been circled by ill- boding rumours. It is on the ridge of a small hill, on whose northern slope lie a few stray cottages. One night a farmer's young son came from one of them and saw the fort all flaming, and ran towards it, but the "glamour" fell on him, and he sprang on to a fence, cross-legged, and commenced beating it with a stick, for he imagined the fence was a horse, and that all night long he went on the most wonderful ride through the country. In the morning he was still beating his fence, and they carried him home, where he remained a simpleton for three years before he came to himself again. A little later a farmer tried to level the fort. His cows and horses died, and an manner of trouble overtook him, and finally he himself was led home, and left useless with "his head on his knees by the fire to the day of his death." A few hundred yards southwards of the northern angle of Rosses is another angle having also its cave, though this one is not covered with sand. About twenty years ago a brig was wrecked near by, and three or four fishermen were put to watch the deserted hulk through the darkness. At midnight they saw sitting on a stone at the cave's mouth two red-capped fiddlers fiddling with all their might. The men fled. A great crowd of villagers rushed down to the cave to see the fiddlers, but the creatures had gone. To the wise peasant the green hills and woods round him are full of never-fading mystery. When the aged countrywoman stands at her door in the evening, and, in her own words, "looks at the mountains and thinks of the goodness of God," God is all the nearer, because the pagan powers are not far: because northward in Ben Bulben, famous for hawks, the white square door swings open at sundown, and those wild unchristian riders rush forth upon the fields, while southward the White Lady, who is doubtless Maive herself, wanders under the broad cloud nightcap of Knocknarea. How may she doubt these things, even though the priest shakes his head at her? Did not a herd-boy, no long while since, see the White Lady? She passed so close that the skirt of her dress touched him. "He fell down, and was dead three days." But this is merely the small gossip of faerydom--the little stitches that join this world and the other. One night as I sat eating Mrs. H-----'s soda-bread, her husband told me a longish story, much the best of all I heard in Rosses. Many a poor man from Fin M'Cool to our own days has had some such adventure to tell of, for those creatures, the "good people," love to repeat themselves. At any rate the story-tellers do. "In the times when we used to travel by the canal," he said, "I was coming down from Dublin. When we came to Mullingar the canal ended, and I began to walk, and stiff and fatigued I was after the slowness. I had some friends with me, and now and then we walked, now and then we rode in a cart. So on till we saw some girls milking cows, and stopped to joke with them. After a while we asked them for a drink of milk. 'We have nothing to put it in here,' they said, 'but come to the house with us.' We went home with them, and sat round the fire talking. After a while the others went, and left me, loath to stir from the good fire. I asked the girls for something to eat. There was a pot on the fire, and they took the meat out and put it on a plate, and told me to eat only the meat that came off the head. When I had eaten, the girls went out, and I did not see them again. It grew darker and darker, and there I still sat, loath as ever to leave the good fire, and after a while two men came in, carrying between them a corpse. When I saw them, coming I hid behind the door. Says one to the other, putting the corpse on the spit, 'Who'll turn the spit? Says the other, 'Michael H-----, come out of that and turn the meat.' I came out all of a tremble, and began turning the spit. 'Michael H------,' says the one who spoke first, 'if you let it burn we'll have to put you on the spit instead'; and on that they went out. I sat there trembling and turning the corpse till towards midnight. The men came again, and the one said it was burnt, and the other said it was done right. But having fallen out over it, they both said they would do me no harm that time; and, sitting by the fire, one of them cried out: 'Michael H-----, can you tell me a story?' 'Divil a one,' said I. On which he caught me by the shoulder, and put me out like a shot. It was a wild blowing night. Never in all my born days did I see such a night-the darkest night that ever came out of the heavens. I did not know where I was for the life of me. So when one of the men came after me and touched me on the shoulder, with a 'Michael H----, can you tell a story now?' 'I can,' says I. In he brought me; and putting me by the fire, says: 'Begin.' 'I have no story but the one,' says I, 'that I was sitting here, and you two men brought in a corpse and put it on the spit, and set me turning it.' 'That will do,' says he; 'ye may go in there and lie down on the bed.' And I went, nothing loath; and in the morning where was I but in the middle of a green field!" "Drumcliff" is a great place for omens. Before a prosperous fishing season a herring-barrel appears in the midst of a storm-cloud; and at a place called Columkille's Strand, a place of marsh and mire, an ancient boat, with St. Columba himself, comes floating in from sea on a moonlight night: a portent of a brave harvesting. They have their dread portents too. Some few seasons ago a fisherman saw, far on the horizon, renowned Hy Brazel, where he who touches shall find no more labour or care, nor cynic laughter, but shall go walking about under shadiest boscage, and enjoy the conversation of Cuchullin and his heroes. A vision of Hy Brazel forebodes national troubles. Drumcliff and Rosses are chokeful of ghosts. By bog, road, rath, hillside, sea-border they gather in all shapes: headless women, men in armour, shadow hares, fire-tongued hounds, whistling seals, and so on. A whistling seal sank a ship the other day. At Drumcliff there is a very ancient graveyard. The Annals of the Four Masters have this verse about a soldier named Denadhach, who died in 871: "A pious soldier of the race of Con lies under hazel crosses at Drumcliff." Not very long ago an old woman, turning to go into the churchyard at night to pray, saw standing before her a man in armour, who asked her where she was going. It was the "pious soldier of the race of Con," says local wisdom, still keeping watch, with his ancient piety, over the graveyard. Again, the custom is still common hereabouts of sprinkling the doorstep with the blood of a chicken on the death of a very young child, thus (as belief is) drawing into the blood the evil spirits from the too weak soul. Blood is a great gatherer of evil spirits. To cut your hand on a stone on going into a fort is said to be very dangerous. There is no more curious ghost in Drumcliff or Rosses than the snipe- ghost. There is a bush behind a house in a village that I know well: for excellent reasons I do not say whether in Drumcliff or Rosses or on the slope of Ben Bulben, or even on the plain round Knocknarea. There is a history concerning the house and the bush. A man once lived there who found on the quay of Sligo a package containing three hundred pounds in notes. It was dropped by a foreign sea captain. This my man knew, but said nothing. It was money for freight, and the sea captain, not daring to face his owners, committed suicide in mid-ocean. Shortly afterwards my man died. His soul could not rest. At any rate, strange sounds were heard round his house, though that had grown and prospered since the freight money. The wife was often seen by those still alive out in the garden praying at the bush I have spoken of, for the shade of the dead man appeared there at times. The bush remains to this day: once portion of a hedge, it now stands by itself, for no one dare put spade or pruning-knife about it. As to the strange sounds and voices, they did not cease till a few years ago, when, during some repairs, a snipe flew out of the solid plaster and away; the troubled ghost, say the neighbours, of the note-finder was at last dislodged. My forebears and relations have lived near Rosses and Drumcliff these many years. A few miles northward I am wholly a stranger, and can find nothing. When I ask for stories of the faeries, my answer is some such as was given me by a woman who lives near a white stone fort--one of the few stone ones in Ireland--under the seaward angle of Ben Bulben: "They always mind their own affairs and I always mind mine": for it is dangerous to talk of the creatures. Only friendship for yourself or knowledge of your forebears will loosen these cautious tongues. My friend, "the sweet Harp-String" (I give no more than his Irish name for fear of gaugers), has the science of unpacking the stubbornest heart, but then he supplies the potheen-makers with grain from his own fields. Besides, he is descended from a noted Gaelic magician who raised the "dhoul" in Great Eliza's century, and he has a kind of prescriptive right to hear tell of all kind of other-world creatures. They are almost relations of his, if all people say concerning the parentage of magicians be true. THE THICK SKULL OF THE FORTUNATE I Once a number of Icelandic peasantry found a very thick skull in the cemetery where the poet Egil was buried. Its great thickness made them feel certain it was the skull of a great man, doubtless of Egil himself. To be doubly sure they put it on a wall and hit it hard blows with a hammer. It got white where the blows fell but did not break, and they were convinced that it was in truth the skull of the poet, and worthy of every honour. In Ireland we have much kinship with the Icelanders, or "Danes" as we call them and all other dwellers in the Scandinavian countries. In some of our mountainous and barren places, and in our seaboard villages, we still test each other in much the same way the Icelanders tested the head of Egil. We may have acquired the custom from those ancient Danish pirates, whose descendants the people of Rosses tell me still remember every field and hillock in Ireland which once belonged to their forebears, and are able to describe Rosses itself as well as any native. There is one seaboard district known as Roughley, where the men are never known to shave or trim their wild red beards, and where there is a fight ever on foot. I have seen them at a boat-race fall foul of each other, and after much loud Gaelic, strike each other with oars. The first boat had gone aground, and by dint of hitting out with the long oars kept the second boat from passing, only to give the victory to the third. One day the Sligo people say a man from Roughley was tried in Sligo for breaking a skull in a row, and made the defence not unknown in Ireland, that some heads are so thin you cannot be responsible for them. Having turned with a look of passionate contempt towards the solicitor who was prosecuting, and cried, "that little fellow's skull if ye were to hit it would go like an egg-shell," he beamed upon the judge, and said in a wheedling voice, "but a man might wallop away at your lordship's for a fortnight." II I wrote all this years ago, out of what were even then old memories. I was in Roughley the other day, and found it much like other desolate places. I may have been thinking of Moughorow, a much wilder place, for the memories of one's childhood are brittle things to lean upon. 1902. THE RELIGION OF A SAILOR A sea captain when he stands upon the bridge, or looks out from his deck-house, thinks much about God and about the world. Away in the valley yonder among the corn and the poppies men may well forget all things except the warmth of the sun upon the face, and the kind shadow under the hedge; but he who journeys through storm and darkness must needs think and think. One July a couple of years ago I took my supper with a Captain Moran on board the S.S. Margaret, that had put into a western river from I know not where. I found him a man of many notions all flavoured with his personality, as is the way with sailors. He talked in his queer sea manner of God and the world, and up through all his words broke the hard energy of his calling. "Sur," said he, "did you ever hear tell of the sea captain's prayer?" "No," said I; "what is it?" "It is," he replied, "'O Lord, give me a stiff upper lip.'" "And what does that mean?" "It means," he said, "that when they come to me some night and wake me up, and say, 'Captain, we're going down,' that I won't make a fool o' meself. Why, sur, we war in mid Atlantic, and I standin' on the bridge, when the third mate comes up to me looking mortial bad. Says he, 'Captain, all's up with us.' Says I, 'Didn't you know when you joined that a certain percentage go down every year?' 'Yes, sur,' says he; and says I, 'Arn't you paid to go down?' 'Yes, sur,' says he; and says I, 'Then go down like a man, and be damned to you!"' CONCERNING THE NEARNESS TOGETHER OF HEAVEN, EARTH, AND PURGATORY In Ireland this world and the world we go to after death are not far apart. I have heard of a ghost that was many years in a tree and many years in the archway of a bridge, and my old Mayo woman says, "There is a bush up at my own place, and the people do be saying that there are two souls doing their penance under it. When the wind blows one way the one has shelter, and when it blows from the north the other has the shelter. It is twisted over with the way they be rooting under it for shelter. I don't believe it, but there is many a one would not pass by it at night." Indeed there are times when the worlds are so near together that it seems as if our earthly chattels were no more than the shadows of things beyond. A lady I knew once saw a village child running about with a long trailing petticoat upon her, and asked the creature why she did not have it cut short. "It was my grandmother's," said the child; "would you have her going about yonder with her petticoat up to her knees, and she dead but four days?" I have read a story of a woman whose ghost haunted her people because they had made her grave-clothes so short that the fires of purgatory burned her knees. The peasantry expect to have beyond the grave houses much like their earthly homes, only there the thatch will never grow leaky, nor the white walls lose their lustre, nor shall the dairy be at any time empty of good milk and butter. But now and then a landlord or an agent or a gauger will go by begging his bread, to show how God divides the righteous from the unrighteous. 1892 and 1902. THE EATERS OF PRECIOUS STONES Sometimes when I have been shut off from common interests, and have for a little forgotten to be restless, I get waking dreams, now faint and shadow-like, now vivid and solid-looking, like the material world under my feet. Whether they be faint or vivid, they are ever beyond the power of my will to alter in any way. They have their own will, and sweep hither and thither, and change according to its commands. One day I saw faintly an immense pit of blackness, round which went a circular parapet, and on this parapet sat innumerable apes eating precious stones out of the palms of their hands. The stones glittered green and crimson, and the apes devoured them with an insatiable hunger. I knew that I saw the Celtic Hell, and my own Hell, the Hell of the artist, and that all who sought after beautiful and wonderful things with too avid a thirst, lost peace and form and became shapeless and common. I have seen into other people's hells also, and saw in one an infernal Peter, who had a black face and white lips, and who weighed on a curious double scales not only the evil deeds committed, but the good deeds left undone, of certain invisible shades. I could see the scales go up and down, but I could not see the shades who were, I knew, crowding about him. I saw on another occasion a quantity of demons of all kinds of shapes--fish-like, serpent-like, ape-like, and dog-like --sitting about a black pit such as that in my own Hell, and looking at a moon--like reflection of the Heavens which shone up from the depths of the pit. OUR LADY OF THE HILLS When we were children we did not say at such a distance from the post- office, or so far from the butcher's or the grocer's, but measured things by the covered well in the wood, or by the burrow of the fox in the hill. We belonged then to God and to His works, and to things come down from the ancient days. We would not have been greatly surprised had we met the shining feet of an angel among the white mushrooms upon the mountains, for we knew in those days immense despair, unfathomed love--every eternal mood,--but now the draw-net is about our feet. A few miles eastward of Lough Gill, a young Protestant girl, who was both pretty herself and prettily dressed in blue and white, wandered up among those mountain mushrooms, and I have a letter of hers telling how she met a troop of children, and became a portion of their dream. When they first saw her they threw themselves face down in a bed of rushes, as if in a great fear; but after a little other children came about them, and they got up and followed her almost bravely. She noticed their fear, and presently stood still and held out her arms. A little girl threw herself into them with the cry, "Ah, you are the Virgin out o' the picture!" "No," said another, coming near also, "she is a sky faery, for she has the colour of the sky." "No," said a third, "she is the faery out of the foxglove grown big." The other children, however, would have it that she was indeed the Virgin, for she wore the Virgin's colours. Her good Protestant heart was greatly troubled, and she got the children to sit down about her, and tried to explain who she was, but they would have none of her explanation. Finding explanation of no avail, she asked had they ever heard of Christ? "Yes," said one; "but we do not like Him, for He would kill us if it were not for the Virgin." "Tell Him to be good to me," whispered another into her ear. "We would not let me near Him, for dad says I am a divil," burst out a third. She talked to them a long time about Christ and the apostles, but was finally interrupted by an elderly woman with a stick, who, taking her to be some adventurous hunter for converts, drove the children away, despite their explanation that here was the great Queen of Heaven come to walk upon the mountain and be kind to them. When the children had gone she went on her way, and had walked about half-a-mile, when the child who was called "a divil" jumped down from the high ditch by the lane, and said she would believe her "an ordinary lady" if she had "two skirts," for "ladies always had two skirts." The "two skirts" were shown, and the child went away crestfallen, but a few minutes later jumped down again from the ditch, and cried angrily, "Dad's a divil, mum's a divil, and I'm a divil, and you are only an ordinary lady," and having flung a handful of mud and pebbles ran away sobbing. When my pretty Protestant had come to her own home she found that she had dropped the tassels of her parasol. A year later she was by chance upon the mountain, but wearing now a plain black dress, and met the child who had first called her the Virgin out o' the picture, and saw the tassels hanging about the child's neck, and said, "I am the lady you met last year, who told you about Christ." "No, you are not! no, you are not! no, you are not!" was the passionate reply. And after all, it was not my pretty Protestant, but Mary, Star of the Sea, still walking in sadness and in beauty upon many a mountain and by many a shore, who cast those tassels at the feet of the child. It is indeed fitting that man pray to her who is the mother of peace, the mother of dreams, and the mother of purity, to leave them yet a little hour to do good and evil in, and to watch old Time telling the rosary of the stars. THE GOLDEN AGE A while ago I was in the train, and getting near Sligo. The last time I had been there something was troubling me, and I had longed for a message from those beings or bodiless moods, or whatever they be, who inhabit the world of spirits. The message came, for one night I saw with blinding distinctness a black animal, half weasel, half dog, moving along the top of a stone wall, and presently the black animal vanished, and from the other side came a white weasel-like dog, his pink flesh shining through his white hair and all in a blaze of light; and I remembered a pleasant belief about two faery dogs who go about representing day and night, good and evil, and was comforted by the excellent omen. But now I longed for a message of another kind, and chance, if chance there is, brought it, for a man got into the carriage and began to play on a fiddle made apparently of an old blacking-box, and though I am quite unmusical the sounds filled me with the strangest emotions. I seemed to hear a voice of lamentation out of the Golden Age. It told me that we are imperfect, incomplete, and no more like a beautiful woven web, but like a bundle of cords knotted together and flung into a comer. It said that the world was once all perfect and kindly, and that still the kindly and perfect world existed, but buried like a mass of roses under many spadefuls of earth. The faeries and the more innocent of the spirits dwelt within it, and lamented over our fallen world in the lamentation of the wind-tossed reeds, in the song of the birds, in the moan of the waves, and in the sweet cry of the fiddle. It said that with us the beautiful are not clever and the clever are not beautiful, and that the best of our moments are marred by a little vulgarity, or by a pin-prick out of sad recollection, and that the fiddle must ever lament about it all. It said that if only they who live in the Golden Age could die we might be happy, for the sad voices would be still; but alas! alas! they must sing and we must weep until the Eternal gates swing open. We were now getting into the big glass-roofed terminus, and the fiddler put away his old blacking-box and held out his hat for a copper, and then opened the door and was gone. A REMONSTRANCE WITH SCOTSMEN FOR HAVING SOURED THE DISPOSITION OF THEIR GHOSTS AND FAERIES Not only in Ireland is faery belief still extant. It was only the other day I heard of a Scottish farmer who believed that the lake in front of his house was haunted by a water-horse. He was afraid of it, and dragged the lake with nets, and then tried to pump it empty. It would have been a bad thing for the water-horse had he found him. An Irish peasant would have long since come to terms with the creature. For in Ireland there is something of timid affection between men and spirits. They only ill-treat each other in reason. Each admits the other side to have feelings. There are points beyond which neither will go. No Irish peasant would treat a captured faery as did the man Campbell tells of. He caught a kelpie, and tied her behind him on his horse. She was fierce, but he kept her quiet by driving an awl and a needle into her. They came to a river, and she grew very restless, fearing to cross the water. Again he drove the awl and needle into her. She cried out, "Pierce me with the awl, but keep that slender, hair- like slave (the needle) out of me." They came to an inn. He turned the light of a lantern on her; immediately she dropped down like a falling star, and changed into a lump of jelly. She was dead. Nor would they treat the faeries as one is treated in an old Highland poem. A faery loved a little child who used to cut turf at the side of a faery hill. Every day the faery put out his hand from the hill with an enchanted knife. The child used to cut the turf with the knife. It did not take long, the knife being charmed. Her brothers wondered why she was done so quickly. At last they resolved to watch, and find out who helped her. They saw the small hand come out of the earth, and the little child take from it the knife. When the turf was all cut, they saw her make three taps on the ground with the handle. The small hand came out of the hill. Snatching the knife from the child, they cut the hand off with a blow. The faery was never again seen. He drew his bleeding arm into the earth, thinking, as it is recorded, he had lost his hand through the treachery of the child. In Scotland you are too theological, too gloomy. You have made even the Devil religious. "Where do you live, good-wyf, and how is the minister?" he said to the witch when he met her on the high-road, as it came out in the trial. You have burnt all the witches. In Ireland we have left them alone. To be sure, the "loyal minority" knocked out the eye of one with a cabbage-stump on the 31st of March, 1711, in the town of Carrickfergus. But then the "loyal minority" is half Scottish. You have discovered the faeries to be pagan and wicked. You would like to have them all up before the magistrate. In Ireland warlike mortals have gone amongst them, and helped them in their battles, and they in turn have taught men great skill with herbs, and permitted some few to hear their tunes. Carolan slept upon a faery rath. Ever after their tunes ran in his head, and made him the great musician he was. In Scotland you have denounced them from the pulpit. In Ireland they have been permitted by the priests to consult them on the state of their souls. Unhappily the priests have decided that they have no souls, that they will dry up like so much bright vapour at the last day; but more in sadness than in anger they have said it. The Catholic religion likes to keep on good terms with its neighbours. These two different ways of looking at things have influenced in each country the whole world of sprites and goblins. For their gay and graceful doings you must go to Ireland; for their deeds of terror to Scotland. Our Irish faery terrors have about them something of make- believe. When a peasant strays into an enchanted hovel, and is made to turn a corpse all night on a spit before the fire, we do not feel anxious; we know he will wake in the midst of a green field, the dew on his old coat. In Scotland it is altogether different. You have soured the naturally excellent disposition of ghosts and goblins. The piper M'Crimmon, of the Hebrides, shouldered his pipes, and marched into a sea cavern, playing loudly, and followed by his dog. For a long time the people could hear the pipes. He must have gone nearly a mile, when they heard the sound of a struggle. Then the piping ceased suddenly. Some time went by, and then his dog came out of the cavern completely flayed, too weak even to howl. Nothing else ever came out of the cavern. Then there is the tale of the man who dived into a lake where treasure was thought to be. He saw a great coffer of iron. Close to the coffer lay a monster, who warned him to return whence he came. He rose to the surface; but the bystanders, when they heard he had seen the treasure, persuaded him to dive again. He dived. In a little while his heart and liver floated up, reddening the water. No man ever saw the rest of his body. These water-goblins and water-monsters are common in Scottish folk- lore. We have them too, but take them much less dreadfully. Our tales turn all their doings to favour and to prettiness, or hopelessly humorize the creatures. A hole in the Sligo river is haunted by one of these monsters. He is ardently believed in by many, but that does not prevent the peasantry playing with the subject, and surrounding it with conscious fantasies. When I was a small boy I fished one day for congers in the monster hole. Returning home, a great eel on my shoulder, his head flapping down in front, his tail sweeping the ground behind, I met a fisherman of my acquaintance. I began a tale of an immense conger, three times larger than the one I carried, that had broken my line and escaped. "That was him," said the fisherman. "Did you ever hear how he made my brother emigrate? My brother was a diver, you know, and grubbed stones for the Harbour Board. One day the beast comes up to him, and says, 'What are you after?' 'Stones, sur,' says he. 'Don't you think you had better be going?' 'Yes, sur,' says he. And that's why my brother emigrated. The people said it was because he got poor, but that's not true." You--you will make no terms with the spirits of fire and earth and air and water. You have made the Darkness your enemy. We--we exchange civilities with the world beyond. WAR When there was a rumour of war with France a while ago, I met a poor Sligo woman, a soldier's widow, that I know, and I read her a sentence out of a letter I had just had from London: "The people here are mad for war, but France seems inclined to take things peacefully," or some like sentence. Her mind ran a good deal on war, which she imagined partly from what she had heard from soldiers, and partly from tradition of the rebellion of '98, but the word London doubled her interest, for she knew there were a great many people in London, and she herself had once lived in "a congested district." "There are too many over one another in London. They are getting tired of the world. It is killed they want to be. It will be no matter; but sure the French want nothing but peace and quietness. The people here don't mind the war coming. They could not be worse than they are. They may as well die soldierly before God. Sure they will get quarters in heaven." Then she began to say that it would be a hard thing to see children tossed about on bayonets, and I knew her mind was running on traditions of the great rebellion. She said presently, "I never knew a man that was in a battle that liked to speak of it after. They'd sooner be throwing hay down from a hayrick." She told me how she and her neighbours used to be sitting over the fire when she was a girl, talking of the war that was coming, and now she was afraid it was coming again, for she had dreamed that all the bay was "stranded and covered with seaweed." I asked her if it was in the Fenian times that she had been so much afraid of war coming. But she cried out, "Never had I such fun and pleasure as in the Fenian times. I was in a house where some of the officers used to be staying, and in the daytime I would be walking after the soldiers' band, and at night I'd be going down to the end of the garden watching a soldier, with his red coat on him, drilling the Fenians in the field behind the house. One night the boys tied the liver of an old horse, that had been dead three weeks, to the knocker, and I found it when I opened the door in the morning." And presently our talk of war shifted, as it had a way of doing, to the battle of the Black Pig, which seems to her a battle between Ireland and England, but to me an Armageddon which shall quench all things in the Ancestral Darkness again, and from this to sayings about war and vengeance. "Do you know," she said, "what the curse of the Four Fathers is? They put the man-child on the spear, and somebody said to them, 'You will be cursed in the fourth generation after you,' and that is why disease or anything always comes in the fourth generation." 1902. THE QUEEN AND THE FOOL I have heard one Hearne, a witch-doctor, who is on the border of Clare and Galway, say that in "every household" of faery "there is a queen and a fool," and that if you are "touched" by either you never recover, though you may from the touch of any other in faery. He said of the fool that he was "maybe the wisest of all," and spoke of him as dressed like one of the "mummers that used to be going about the country." Since then a friend has gathered me some few stories of him, and I have heard that he is known, too, in the highlands. I remember seeing a long, lank, ragged man sitting by the hearth in the cottage of an old miller not far from where I am now writing, and being told that he was a fool; and I find from the stories that my friend has gathered that he is believed to go to faery in his sleep; but whether he becomes an Amadan-na-Breena, a fool of the forth, and is attached to a household there, I cannot tell. It was an old woman that I know well, and who has been in faery herself, that spoke of him. She said, "There are fools amongst them, and the fools we see, like that Amadan of Ballylee, go away with them at night, and so do the woman fools that we call Oinseachs (apes)." A woman who is related to the witch-doctor on the border of Clare, and who can Cure people and cattle by spells, said, "There are some cures I can't do. I can't help any one that has got a stroke from the queen or the fool of the forth. I knew of a woman that saw the queen one time, and she looked like any Christian. I never heard of any that saw the fool but one woman that was walking near Gort, and she called out, 'There's the fool of the forth coming after me.' So her friends that were with her called out, though they could see nothing, and I suppose he went away at that, for she got no harm. He was like a big strong man, she said, and half naked, and that is all she said about him. I have never seen any myself, but I am a cousin of Hearne, and my uncle was away twenty-one years." The wife of the old miller said, "It is said they are mostly good neighbours, but the stroke of the fool is what there is no cure for; any one that gets that is gone. The Amadan-na-Breena we call him!" And an old woman who lives in the Bog of Kiltartan, and is very poor, said, "It is true enough, there is no cure for the stroke of the Amadan-na-Breena. There was an old man I knew long ago, he had a tape, and he could tell what diseases you had with measuring you; and he knew many things. And he said to me one time, 'What month of the year is the worst?' and I said, 'The month of May, of course.' 'It is not,' he said; 'but the month of June, for that's the month that the Amadan gives his stroke!' They say he looks like any other man, but he's leathan (wide), and not smart. I knew a boy one time got a great fright, for a lamb looked over the wall at him with a beard on it, and he knew it was the Amadan, for it was the month of June. And they brought him to that man I was telling about, that had the tape, and when he saw him he said, 'Send for the priest, and get a Mass said over him.' And so they did, and what would you say but he's living yet and has a family! A certain Regan said, 'They, the other sort of people, might be passing you close here and they might touch you. But any that gets the touch of the Amadan-na-Breena is done for.' It's true enough that it's in the month of June he's most likely to give the touch. I knew one that got it, and he told me about it himself. He was a boy I knew well, and he told me that one night a gentleman came to him, that had been his land-lord, and that was dead. And he told him to come along with him, for he wanted him to fight another man. And when he went he found two great troops of them, and the other troop had a living man with them too, and he was put to fight him. And they had a great fight, and he got the better of the other man, and then the troop on his side gave a great shout, and he was left home again. But about three years after that he was cutting bushes in a wood and he saw the Amadan coming at him. He had a big vessel in his arms, and it was shining, so that the boy could see nothing else; but he put it behind his back then and came running, and the boy said he looked wild and wide, like the side of the hill. And the boy ran, and he threw the vessel after him, and it broke with a great noise, and whatever came out of it, his head was gone there and then. He lived for a while after, and used to tell us many things, but his wits were gone. He thought they mightn't have liked him to beat the other man, and he used to be afraid something would come on him." And an old woman in a Galway workhouse, who had some little knowledge of Queen Maive, said the other day, "The Amadan-na-Breena changes his shape every two days. Sometimes he comes like a youngster, and then he'll come like the worst of beasts, trying to give the touch he used to be. I heard it said of late he was shot, but I think myself it would be hard to shoot him." I knew a man who was trying to bring before his mind's eye an image of Aengus, the old Irish god of love and poetry and ecstasy, who changed four of his kisses into birds, and suddenly the image of a man with a cap and bells rushed before his mind's eye, and grew vivid and spoke and called itself "Aengus' messenger." And I knew another man, a truly great seer, who saw a white fool in a visionary garden, where there was a tree with peacocks' feathers instead of leaves, and flowers that opened to show little human faces when the white fool had touched them with his coxcomb, and he saw at another time a white fool sitting by a pool and smiling and watching the images of many fair women floating up from the pool. What else can death be but the beginning of wisdom and power and beauty? and foolishness may be a kind of death. I cannot think it wonderful that many should see a fool with a shining vessel of some enchantment or wisdom or dream too powerful for mortal brains in "every household of them." It is natural, too, that there should be a queen to every household of them, and that one should hear little of their kings, for women come more easily than men to that wisdom which ancient peoples, and all wild peoples even now, think the only wisdom. The self, which is the foundation of our knowledge, is broken in pieces by foolishness, and is forgotten in the sudden emotions of women, and therefore fools may get, and women do get of a certainty, glimpses of much that sanctity finds at the end of its painful journey. The man who saw the white fool said of a certain woman, not a peasant woman, "If I had her power of vision I would know all the wisdom of the gods, and her visions do not interest her." And I know of another woman, also not a peasant woman, who would pass in sleep into countries of an unearthly beauty, and who never cared for anything but to be busy about her house and her children; and presently an herb doctor cured her, as he called it. Wisdom and beauty and power may sometimes, as I think, come to those who die every day they live, though their dying may not be like the dying Shakespeare spoke of. There is a war between the living and the dead, and the Irish stories keep harping upon it. They will have it that when the potatoes or the wheat or any other of the fruits of the earth decay, they ripen in faery, and that our dreams lose their wisdom when the sap rises in the trees, and that our dreams can make the trees wither, and that one hears the bleating of the lambs of faery in November, and that blind eyes can see more than other eyes. Because the soul always believes in these, or in like things, the cell and the wilderness shall never be long empty, or lovers come into the world who will not understand the verse-- Heardst thou not sweet words among That heaven-resounding minstrelsy? Heardst thou not that those who die Awake in a world of ecstasy? How love, when limbs are interwoven, And sleep, when the night of life is cloven, And thought to the world's dim boundaries clinging, And music when one's beloved is singing, Is death? 1901. THE FRIENDS OF THE PEOPLE OF FAERY Those that see the people of faery most often, and so have the most of their wisdom, are often very poor, but often, too, they are thought to have a strength beyond that of man, as though one came, when one has passed the threshold of trance, to those sweet waters where Maeldun saw the dishevelled eagles bathe and become young again. There was an old Martin Roland, who lived near a bog a little out of Gort, who saw them often from his young days, and always towards the end of his life, though I would hardly call him their friend. He told me a few months before his death that "they" would not let him sleep at night with crying things at him in Irish, and with playing their pipes. He had asked a friend of his what he should do, and the friend had told him to buy a flute, and play on it when they began to shout or to play on their pipes, and maybe they would give up annoying him; and he did, and they always went out into the field when he began to play. He showed me the pipe, and blew through it, and made a noise, but he did not know how to play; and then he showed me where he had pulled his chimney down, because one of them used to sit up on it and play on the pipes. A friend of his and mine went to see him a little time ago, for she heard that "three of them" had told him he was to die. He said they had gone away after warning him, and that the children (children they had "taken," I suppose) who used to come with them, and play about the house with them, had "gone to some other place," because "they found the house too cold for them, maybe"; and he died a week after he had said these things. His neighbours were not certain that he really saw anything in his old age, but they were all certain that he saw things when he was a young man. His brother said, "Old he is, and it's all in his brain the things he sees. If he was a young man we might believe in him." But he was improvident, and never got on with his brothers. A neighbour said, "The poor man, they say they are mostly in his head now, but sure he was a fine fresh man twenty years ago the night he saw them linked in two lots, like young slips of girls walking together. It was the night they took away Fallon's little girl." And she told how Fallon's little girl had met a woman "with red hair that was as bright as silver," who took her away. Another neighbour, who was herself "clouted over the ear" by one of them for going into a fort where they were, said, "I believe it's mostly in his head they are; and when he stood in the door last night I said, 'The wind does be always in my ears, and the sound of it never stops,' to make him think it was the same with him; but he says, 'I hear them singing and making music all the time, and one of them is after bringing out a little flute, and it's on it he's playing to them.' And this I know, that when he pulled down the chimney where he said the piper used to be sitting and playing, he lifted up stones, and he an old man, that I could not have lifted when I was young and strong." A friend has sent me from Ulster an account of one who was on terms of true friendship with the people of faery. It has been taken down accurately, for my friend, who had heard the old woman's story some time before I heard of it, got her to tell it over again, and wrote it out at once. She began by telling the old woman that she did not like being in the house alone because of the ghosts and fairies; and the old woman said, "There's nothing to be frightened about in faeries, miss. Many's the time I talked to a woman myself that was a faery, or something of the sort, and no less and more than mortal anyhow. She used to come about your grandfather's house--your mother's grandfather, that is--in my young days. But you'll have heard all about her." My friend said that she had heard about her, but a long time before, and she wanted to hear about her again; and the old woman went on, "Well dear, the very first time ever I heard word of her coming about was when your uncle--that is, your mother's uncle--Joseph married, and building a house for his wife, for he brought her first to his father's, up at the house by the Lough. My father and us were living nigh hand to where the new house was to be built, to overlook the men at their work. My father was a weaver, and brought his looms and all there into a cottage that was close by. The foundations were marked out, and the building stones lying about, but the masons had not come yet; and one day I was standing with my mother foment the house, when we sees a smart wee woman coming up the field over the burn to us. I was a bit of a girl at the time, playing about and sporting myself, but I mind her as well as if I saw her there now!" My friend asked how the woman was dressed, and the old woman said, "It was a gray cloak she had on, with a green cashmere skirt and a black silk handkercher tied round her head, like the country women did use to wear in them times." My friend asked, "How wee was she?" And the old woman said, "Well now, she wasn't wee at all when I think of it, for all we called her the Wee Woman. She was bigger than many a one, and yet not tall as you would say. She was like a woman about thirty, brown-haired and round in the face. She was like Miss Betty, your grandmother's sister, and Betty was like none of the rest, not like your grandmother, nor any of them. She was round and fresh in the face, and she never was married, and she never would take any man; and we used to say that the Wee Woman--her being like Betty--was, maybe, one of their own people that had been took off before she grew to her full height, and for that she was always following us and warning and foretelling. This time she walks straight over to where my mother was standing. 'Go over to the Lough this minute!'--ordering her like that--'Go over to the Lough, and tell Joseph that he must change the foundation of this house to where I'll show you fornent the thornbush. That is where it is to be built, if he is to have luck and prosperity, so do what I'm telling ye this minute.' The house was being built on 'the path' I suppose--the path used by the people of faery in their journeys, and my mother brings Joseph down and shows him, and he changes the foundations, the way he was bid, but didn't bring it exactly to where was pointed, and the end of that was, when he come to the house, his own wife lost her life with an accident that come to a horse that hadn't room to turn right with a harrow between the bush and the wall. The Wee Woman was queer and angry when next she come, and says to us, 'He didn't do as I bid him, but he'll see what he'll see."' My friend asked where the woman came from this time, and if she was dressed as before, and the woman said, "Always the same way, up the field beyant the burn. It was a thin sort of shawl she had about her in summer, and a cloak about her in winter; and many and many a time she came, and always it was good advice she was giving to my mother, and warning her what not to do if she would have good luck. There was none of the other children of us ever seen her unless me; but I used to be glad when I seen her coming up the bum, and would run out and catch her by the hand and the cloak, and call to my mother, 'Here's the Wee Woman!' No man body ever seen her. My father used to be wanting to, and was angry with my mother and me, thinking we were telling lies and talking foolish like. And so one day when she had come, and was sitting by the fireside talking to my mother, I slips out to the field where he was digging. 'Come up,' says I, 'if ye want to see her. She's sitting at the fireside now, talking to mother.' So in he comes with me and looks round angry like and sees nothing, and he up with a broom that was near hand and hits me a crig with it. 'Take that now!' says he, 'for making a fool of me!' and away with him as fast as he could, and queer and angry with me. The Wee Woman says to me then, 'Ye got that now for bringing people to see me. No man body ever seen me, and none ever will.' "There was one day, though, she gave him a queer fright anyway, whether he had seen her or not. He was in among the cattle when it happened, and he comes up to the house all trembling like. 'Don't let me hear you say another word of your Wee Woman. I have got enough of her this time.' Another time, all the same, he was up Gortin to sell horses, and before he went off, in steps the Wee Woman and says she to my mother, holding out a sort of a weed, 'Your man is gone up by Gortin, and there's a bad fright waiting him coming home, but take this and sew it in his coat, and he'll get no harm by it.' My mother takes the herb, but thinks to herself, 'Sure there's nothing in it,' and throws it on the floor, and lo and behold, and sure enough! coming home from Gortin, my father got as bad a fright as ever he got in his life. What it was I don't right mind, but anyway he was badly damaged by it. My mother was in a queer way, frightened of the Wee Woman, after what she done, and sure enough the next time she was angry. 'Ye didn't believe me,' she said, 'and ye threw the herb I gave ye in the fire, and I went far enough for it.' There was another time she came and told how William Hearne was dead in America. 'Go over,' she says, 'to the Lough, and say that William is dead, and he died happy, and this was the last Bible chapter ever he read,' and with that she gave the verse and chapter. 'Go,' she says, 'and tell them to read them at the next class meeting, and that I held his head while he died.' And sure enough word came after that how William had died on the day she named. And, doing as she did about the chapter and hymn, they never had such a prayer-meeting as that. One day she and me and my mother was standing talking, and she was warning her about something, when she says of a sudden, 'Here comes Miss Letty in all her finery, and it's time for me to be off.' And with that she gave a swirl round on her feet, and raises up in the air, and round and round she goes, and up and up, as if it was a winding stairs she went up, only far swifter. She went up and up, till she was no bigger than a bird up against the clouds, singing and singing the whole time the loveliest music I ever heard in my life from that day to this. It wasn't a hymn she was singing, but poetry, lovely poetry, and me and my mother stands gaping up, and all of a tremble. 'What is she at all, mother?' says I. 'Is it an angel she is, or a faery woman, or what?' With that up come Miss Letty, that was your grandmother, dear, but Miss Letty she was then, and no word of her being anything else, and she wondered to see us gaping up that way, till me and my mother told her of it. She went on gay-dressed then, and was lovely looking. She was up the lane where none of us could see her coming forward when the Wee Woman rose up in that queer way, saying, 'Here comes Miss Letty in all her finery.' Who knows to what far country she went, or to see whom dying? "It was never after dark she came, but daylight always, as far as I mind, but wanst, and that was on a Hallow Eve night. My mother was by the fire, making ready the supper; she had a duck down and some apples. In slips the Wee Woman, 'I'm come to pass my Hallow Eve with you,' says she. 'That's right,' says my mother, and thinks to herself, 'I can give her her supper nicely.' Down she sits by the fire a while. 'Now I'll tell you where you'll bring my supper,' says she. 'In the room beyond there beside the loom--set a chair in and a plate.' 'When ye're spending the night, mayn't ye as well sit by the table and eat with the rest of us?' 'Do what you're bid, and set whatever you give me in the room beyant. I'll eat there and nowhere else.' So my mother sets her a plate of duck and some apples, whatever was going, in where she bid, and we got to our supper and she to hers; and when we rose I went in, and there, lo and behold ye, was her supper-plate a bit ate of each portion, and she clean gone!" 1897. DREAMS THAT HAVE NO MORAL The friend who heard about Maive and the hazel-stick went to the workhouse another day. She found the old people cold and wretched, "like flies in winter," she said; but they forgot the cold when they began to talk. A man had just left them who had played cards in a rath with the people of faery, who had played "very fair"; and one old man had seen an enchanted black pig one night, and there were two old people my friend had heard quarrelling as to whether Raftery or Callanan was the better poet. One had said of Raftery, "He was a big man, and his songs have gone through the whole world. I remember him well. He had a voice like the wind"; but the other was certain "that you would stand in the snow to listen to Callanan." Presently an old man began to tell my friend a story, and all listened delightedly, bursting into laughter now and then. The story, which I am going to tell just as it was told, was one of those old rambling moralless tales, which are the delight of the poor and the hard driven, wherever life is left in its natural simplicity. They tell of a time when nothing had consequences, when even if you were killed, if only you had a good heart, somebody would bring you to life again with a touch of a rod, and when if you were a prince and happened to look exactly like your brother, you might go to bed with his queen, and have only a little quarrel afterwards. We too, if we were so weak and poor that everything threatened us with misfortune, would remember, if foolish people left us alone, every old dream that has been strong enough to fling the weight of the world from its shoulders. There was a king one time who was very much put out because he had no son, and he went at last to consult his chief adviser. And the chief adviser said, "It's easy enough managed if you do as I tell you. Let you send some one," says he, "to such a place to catch a fish. And when the fish is brought in, give it to the queen, your wife, to eat." So the king sent as he was told, and the fish was caught and brought in, and he gave it to the cook, and bade her put it before the fire, but to be careful with it, and not to let any blob or blister rise on it. But it is impossible to cook a fish before the fire without the skin of it rising in some place or other, and so there came a blob on the skin, and the cook put her finger on it to smooth it down, and then she put her finger into her mouth to cool it, and so she got a taste of the fish. And then it was sent up to the queen, and she ate it, and what was left of it was thrown out into the yard, and there was a mare in the yard and a greyhound, and they ate the bits that were thrown out. And before a year was out, the queen had a young son, and the cook had a young son, and the mare had two foals, and the greyhound had two pups. And the two young sons were sent out for a while to some place to be cared, and when they came back they adviser and said, "Tell me some way that I can know were so much like one another no person could know which was the queen's son and which was the cook's. And the queen was vexed at that, and she went to the chief which is my own son, for I don't like to be giving the same eating and drinking to the cook's son as to my own." "It is easy to know that," said the chief adviser, "if you will do as I tell you. Go you outside, and stand at the door they will be coming in by, and when they see you, your own son will bow his head, but the cook's son will only laugh." So she did that, and when her own son bowed his head, her servants put a mark on him that she would know him again. And when they were all sitting at their dinner after that, she said to Jack, that was the cook's son, "It is time for you to go away out of this, for you are not my son." And her own son, that we will call Bill, said, "Do not send him away, are we not brothers?" But Jack said, "I would have been long ago out of this house if I knew it was not my own father and mother owned it." And for all Bill could say to him, he would not stop. But before he went, they were by the well that was in the garden, and he said to Bill, "If harm ever happens to me, that water on the top of the well will be blood, and the water below will be honey." Then he took one of the pups, and one of the two horses, that was foaled after the mare eating the fish, and the wind that was after him could not catch him, and he caught the wind that was before him. And he went on till he came to a weaver's house, and he asked him for a lodging, and he gave it to him. And then he went on till he came to a king's house, and he sent in at the door to ask, "Did he want a servant?" "All I want," said the king, "is a boy that will drive out the cows to the field every morning, and bring them in at night to be milked." "I will do that for you," said Jack; so the king engaged him. In the morning Jack was sent out with the four-and-twenty cows, and the place he was told to drive them to had not a blade of grass in it for them, but was full of stones. So Jack looked about for some place where there would be better grass, and after a while he saw a field with good green grass in it, and it belonging to a giant. So he knocked down a bit of the wall and drove them in, and he went up himself into an apple-tree and began to eat the apples. Then the giant came into the field. "Fee-faw-fum," says he, "I smell the blood of an Irishman. I see you where you are, up in the tree," he said; "you are too big for one mouthful, and too small for two mouthfuls, and I don't know what I'll do with you if I don't grind you up and make snuff for my nose." "As you are strong, be merciful," says Jack up in the tree. "Come down out of that, you little dwarf," said the giant, "or I'll tear you and the tree asunder." So Jack came down. "Would you sooner be driving red-hot knives into one another's hearts," said the giant, "or would you sooner be fighting one another on red-hot flags?" "Fighting on red-hot flags is what I'm used to at home," said Jack, "and your dirty feet will be sinking in them and my feet will be rising." So then they began the fight. The ground that was hard they made soft, and the ground that was soft they made hard, and they made spring wells come up through the green flags. They were like that all through the day, no one getting the upper hand of the other, and at last a little bird came and sat on the bush and said to Jack, "If you don't make an end of him by sunset, he'll make an end of you." Then Jack put out his strength, and he brought the giant down on his knees. "Give me my life," says the giant, "and I'll give you the three best gifts." "What are those?" said Jack. "A sword that nothing can stand against, and a suit that when you put it on, you will see everybody, and nobody will see you, and a pair of shoes that will make you ran faster than the wind blows." "Where are they to be found?" said Jack. "In that red door you see there in the hill." So Jack went and got them out. "Where will I try the sword?" says he. "Try it on that ugly black stump of a tree," says the giant. "I see nothing blacker or uglier than your own head," says Jack. And with that he made one stroke, and cut off the giant's head that it went into the air, and he caught it on the sword as it was coming down, and made two halves of it. "It is well for you I did not join the body again," said the head, "or you would have never been able to strike it off again." "I did not give you the chance of that," said Jack. And he brought away the great suit with him. So he brought the cows home at evening, and every one wondered at all the milk they gave that night. And when the king was sitting at dinner with the princess, his daughter, and the rest, he said, "I think I only hear two roars from beyond to-night in place of three." The next morning Jack went out again with the cows, and he saw another field full of grass, and he knocked down the wall and let the cows in. All happened the same as the day before, but the giant that came this time had two heads, and they fought together, and the little bird came and spoke to Jack as before. And when Jack had brought the giant down, he said, "Give me my life, and I'll give you the best thing I have." "What is that?" says Jack. "It's a suit that you can put on, and you will see every one but no one can see you." "Where is it?" said Jack. "It's inside that little red door at the side of the hill." So Jack went and brought out the suit. And then he cut off the giant's two heads, and caught them coming down and made four halves of them. And they said it was well for him he had not given them time to join the body. That night when the cows came home they gave so much milk that all the vessels that could be found were filled up. The next morning Jack went out again, and all happened as before, and the giant this time had four heads, and Jack made eight halves of them. And the giant had told him to go to a little blue door in the side of the hill, and there he got a pair of shoes that when you put them on would go faster than the wind. That night the cows gave so much milk that there were not vessels enough to hold it, and it was given to tenants and to poor people passing the road, and the rest was thrown out at the windows. I was passing that way myself, and I got a drink of it. That night the king said to Jack, "Why is it the cows are giving so much milk these days? Are you bringing them to any other grass?" "I am not," said Jack, "but I have a good stick, and whenever they would stop still or lie down, I give them blows of it, that they jump and leap over walls and stones and ditches; that's the way to make cows give plenty of milk." And that night at the dinner, the king said, "I hear no roars at all." The next morning, the king and the princess were watching at the window to see what would Jack do when he got to the field. And Jack knew they were there, and he got a stick, and began to batter the cows, that they went leaping and jumping over stones, and walls, and ditches. "There is no lie in what Jack said," said the king then. Now there was a great serpent at that time used to come every seven years, and he had to get a kines daughter to eat, unless she would have some good man to fight for her. And it was the princess at the place Jack was had to be given to it that time, and the king had been feeding a bully underground for seven years, and you may believe he got the best of everything, to be ready to fight it. And when the time came, the princess went out, and the bully with her down to the shore, and when they got there what did he do, but to tie the princess to a tree, the way the serpent would be able to swallow her easy with no delay, and he himself went and hid up in an ivy-tree. And Jack knew what was going on, for the princess had told him about it, and had asked would he help her, but he said he would not. But he came out now, and he put on the suit he had taken from the first giant, and he came by the place the princess was, but she didn't know him. "Is that right for a princess to be tied to a tree?" said Jack. "It is not, indeed," said she, and she told him what had happened, and how the serpent was coming to take her. "If you will let me sleep for awhile with my head in your lap," said Jack, "you could wake me when it is coming." So he did that, and she awakened him when she saw the serpent coming, and Jack got up and fought with it, and drove it back into the sea. And then he cut the rope that fastened her, and he went away. The bully came down then out of the tree, and he brought the princess to where the king was, and he said, "I got a friend of mine to come and fight the serpent to-day, where I was a little timorous after being so long shut up underground, but I'll do the fighting myself to-morrow." The next day they went out again, and the same thing happened, the bully tied up the princess where the serpent could come at her fair and easy, and went up himself to hide in the ivy-tree. Then Jack put on the suit he had taken from the second giant, and he walked out, and the princess did not know him, but she told him all that had happened yesterday, and how some young gentleman she did not know had come and saved her. So Jack asked might he lie down and take a sleep with his head in her lap, the way she could awake him. And an happened the same way as the day before. And the bully gave her up to the king, and said he had brought another of his friends to fight for her that day. The next day she was brought down to the shore as before, and a great many people gathered to see the serpent that was coming to bring the king's daughter away. And Jack brought out the suit of clothes he had brought away from the third giant, and she did not know him, and they talked as before. But when he was asleep this time, she thought she would make sure of being able to find him again, and she took out her scissors and cut off a piece of his hair, and made a little packet of it and put it away. And she did another thing, she took off one of the shoes that was on his feet. And when she saw the serpent coming she woke him, and he said, "This time I will put the serpent in a way that he will eat no more king's daughters." So he took out the sword he had got from the giant, and he put it in at the back of the serpent's neck, the way blood and water came spouting out that went for fifty miles inland, and made an end of him. And then he made off, and no one saw what way he went, and the bully brought the princess to the king, and claimed to have saved her, and it is he who was made much of, and was the right-hand man after that. But when the feast was made ready for the wedding, the princess took out the bit of hair she had, and she said she would marry no one but the man whose hair would match that, and she showed the shoe and said that she would marry no one whose foot would not fit that shoe as well. And the bully tried to put on the shoe, but so much as his toe would not go into it, and as to his hair, it didn't match at all to the bit of hair she had cut from the man that saved her. So then the king gave a great ball, to bring all the chief men of the country together to try would the shoe fit any of them. And they were all going to carpenters and joiners getting bits of their feet cut off to try could they wear the shoe, but it was no use, not one of them could get it on. Then the king went to his chief adviser and asked what could he do. And the chief adviser bade him to give another ball, and this time he said, "Give it to poor as well as rich." So the ball was given, and many came flocking to it, but the shoe would not fit any one of them. And the chief adviser said, "Is every one here that belongs to the house?" "They are all here," said the king, "except the boy that minds the cows, and I would not like him to be coming up here." Jack was below in the yard at the time, and he heard what the king said, and he was very angry, and he went and got his sword and came running up the stairs to strike off the king's head, but the man that kept the gate met him on the stairs before he could get to the king, and quieted him down, and when he got to the top of the stairs and the princess saw him, she gave a cry and ran into his arms. And they tried the shoe and it fitted him, and his hair matched to the piece that had been cut off. So then they were married, and a great feast was given for three days and three nights. And at the end of that time, one morning there came a deer outside the window, with bells on it, and they ringing. And it called out, "Here is the hunt, where is the huntsman and the hound?" So when Jack heard that he got up and took his horse and his hound and went hunting the deer. When it was in the hollow he was on the hill, and when it was on the hill he was in the hollow, and that went on all through the day, and when night fell it went into a wood. And Jack went into the wood after it, and all he could see was a mud-wall cabin, and he went in, and there he saw an old woman, about two hundred years old, and she sitting over the fire. "Did you see a deer pass this way?" says Jack. "I did not," says she, "but it's too late now for you to be following a deer, let you stop the night here." "What will I do with my horse and my hound?" said Jack. "Here are two ribs of hair," says she, "and let you tie them up with them." So Jack went out and tied up the horse and the hound, and when he came in again the old woman said, "You killed my three sons, and I'm going to kill you now," and she put on a pair of boxing-gloves, each one of them nine stone weight, and the nails in them fifteen inches long. Then they began to fight, and Jack was getting the worst of it. "Help, hound!" he cried out, then "Squeeze hair," cried out the old woman, and the rib of hair that was about the hound's neck squeezed him to death. "Help, horse!" Jack called out, then, "Squeeze hair," called out the old woman, and the rib of hair that was about the horse's neck began to tighten and squeeze him to death. Then the old woman made an end of Jack and threw him outside the door. To go back now to Bill. He was out in the garden one day, and he took a look at the well, and what did he see but the water at the top was blood, and what was underneath was honey. So he went into the house again, and he said to his mother, "I will never eat a second meal at the same table, or sleep a second night in the same bed, till I know what is happening to Jack." So he took the other horse and hound then, and set off, over the hills where cock never crows and horn never sounds, and the devil never blows his bugle. And at last he came to the weaver's house, and when he went in, the weaver says, "You are welcome, and I can give you better treatment than I did the last time you came in to me," for she thought it was Jack who was there, they were so much like one another. "That is good," said Bill to himself, "my brother has been here." And he gave the weaver the full of a basin of gold in the morning before he left. Then he went on till he came to the king's house, and when he was at the door the princess came running down the stairs, and said, "Welcome to you back again." And all the people said, "It is a wonder you have gone hunting three days after your marriage, and to stop so long away." So he stopped that night with the princess, and she thought it was her own husband all the time. And in the morning the deer came, and bells ringing on her, under the windows, and called out, "The hunt is here, where are the huntsmen and the hounds?" Then Bill got up and got his horse and his hound, and followed her over hills and hollows till they came to the wood, and there he saw nothing but the mud-wall cabin and the old woman sitting by the fire, and she bade him stop the night there, and gave him two ribs of hair to tie his horse and his hound with. But Bill was wittier than Jack was, and before he went out, he threw the ribs of hair into the fire secretly. When he came in the old woman said, "Your brother killed my three sons, and I killed him, and I'll kill you along with him." And she put her gloves on, and they began the fight, and then Bill called out, "Help, horse." "Squeeze hair," called the old woman; "I can't squeeze, I'm in the fire," said the hair. And the horse came in and gave her a blow of his hoof. "Help, hound," said Bill then. "Squeeze, hair," said the old woman; "I can't, I'm in the fire," said the second hair. Then the bound put his teeth in her, and Bill brought her down, and she cried for mercy. "Give me my life," she said, "and I'll tell you where you'll get your brother again, and his hound and horse." "Where's that?" said Bill. "Do you see that rod over the fire?" said she; "take it down and go outside the door where you'll see three green stones, and strike them with the rod, for they are your brother, and his horse and hound, and they'll come to life again." "I will, but I'll make a green stone of you first," said Bill, and he cut off her head with his sword. Then he went out and struck the stones, and sure enough there were Jack, and his horse and hound, alive and well. And they began striking other stones around, and men came from them, that had been turned to stones, hundreds and thousands of them. Then they set out for home, but on the way they had some dispute or some argument together, for Jack was not well pleased to hear he had spent the night with his wife, and Bill got angry, and he struck Jack with the rod, and turned him to a green stone. And he went home, but the princess saw he had something on his mind, and he said then, "I have killed my brother." And he went back then and brought him to life, and they lived happy ever after, and they had children by the basketful, and threw them out by the shovelful. I was passing one time myself, and they called me in and gave me a cup of tea. 1902. BY THE ROADSIDE Last night I went to a wide place on the Kiltartan road to listen to some Irish songs. While I waited for the singers an old man sang about that country beauty who died so many years ago, and spoke of a singer he had known who sang so beautifully that no horse would pass him, but must turn its head and cock its ears to listen. Presently a score of men and boys and girls, with shawls over their beads, gathered under the trees to listen. Somebody sang Sa Muirnin Diles, and then somebody else Jimmy Mo Milestor, mournful songs of separation, of death, and of exile. Then some of the men stood up and began to dance, while another lilted the measure they danced to, and then somebody sang Eiblin a Ruin, that glad song of meeting which has always moved me more than other songs, because the lover who made it sang it to his sweetheart under the shadow of a mountain I looked at every day through my childhood. The voices melted into the twilight and were mixed into the trees, and when I thought of the words they too melted away, and were mixed with the generations of men. Now it was a phrase, now it was an attitude of mind, an emotional form, that had carried my memory to older verses, or even to forgotten mythologies. I was carried so far that it was as though I came to one of the four rivers, and followed it under the wall of Paradise to the roots of the trees of knowledge and of life. There is no song or story handed down among the cottages that has not words and thoughts to carry one as far, for though one can know but a little of their ascent, one knows that they ascend like medieval genealogies through unbroken dignities to the beginning of the world. Folk art is, indeed, the oldest of the aristocracies of thought, and because it refuses what is passing and trivial, the merely clever and pretty, as certainly as the vulgar and insincere, and because it has gathered into itself the simplest and most unforgetable thoughts of the generations, it is the soil where all great art is rooted. Wherever it is spoken by the fireside, or sung by the roadside, or carved upon the lintel, appreciation of the arts that a single mind gives unity and design to, spreads quickly when its hour is come. In a society that has cast out imaginative tradition, only a few people--three or four thousand out of millions--favoured by their own characters and by happy circumstance, and only then after much labour, have understanding of imaginative things, and yet "the imagination is the man himself." The churches in the Middle Age won all the arts into their service because men understood that when imagination is impoverished, a principal voice--some would say the only voice--for the awakening of wise hope and durable faith, and understanding charity, can speak but in broken words, if it does not fall silent. And so it has always seemed to me that we, who would re-awaken imaginative tradition by making old songs live again, or by gathering old stories into books, take part in the quarrel of Galilee. Those who are Irish and would spread foreign ways, which, for all but a few, are ways of spiritual poverty, take part also. Their part is with those who were of Jewry, and yet cried out, "If thou let this man go thou art not Caesar's friend." 1901. INTO THE TWILIGHT Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight; Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn. Thy mother Eire is always young, Dew ever shining and twilight gray, Though hope fall from thee or love decay Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue. Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill, For there the mystical brotherhood Of hollow wood and the hilly wood And the changing moon work out their will. And God stands winding his lonely horn; And Time and World are ever in flight, And love is less kind than the gray twilight, And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn. 
6865	----	Haines. FOUR YEARS BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS. FOUR YEARS 1887-1891. At the end of the eighties my father and mother, my brother and sisters and myself, all newly arrived from Dublin, were settled in Bedford Park in a red-brick house with several wood mantlepieces copied from marble mantlepieces by the brothers Adam, a balcony, and a little garden shadowed by a great horse-chestnut tree. Years before we had lived there, when the crooked, ostentatiously picturesque streets, with great trees casting great shadows, had been anew enthusiasm: the Pre-Raphaelite movement at last affecting life. But now exaggerated criticism had taken the place of enthusiasm; the tiled roofs, the first in modern London, were said to leak, which they did not, & the drains to be bad, though that was no longer true; and I imagine that houses were cheap. I remember feeling disappointed because the co-operative stores, with their little seventeenth century panes, were so like any common shop; and because the public house, called 'The Tabard' after Chaucer's Inn, was so plainly a common public house; and because the great sign of a trumpeter designed by Rooke, the Pre-Raphaelite artist, had been freshened by some inferior hand. The big red-brick church had never pleased me, and I was accustomed, when I saw the wooden balustrade that ran along the slanting edge of the roof, where nobody ever walked or could walk, to remember the opinion of some architect friend of my father's, that it had been put there to keep the birds from falling off. Still, however, it had some village characters and helped us to feel not wholly lost in the metropolis. I no longer went to church as a regular habit, but go I sometimes did, for one Sunday morning I saw these words painted on a board in the porch: 'The congregation are requested to kneel during prayers; the kneelers are afterwards to be hung upon pegs provided for the purpose.' In front of every seat hung a little cushion, and these cushions were called 'kneelers.' Presently the joke ran through the community, where there were many artists, who considered religion at best an unimportant accessory to good architecture and who disliked that particular church. II I could not understand where the charm had gone that I had felt, when as a school-boy of twelve or thirteen, I had played among the unfinished houses, once leaving the marks of my two hands, blacked by a fall among some paint, upon a white balustrade. Sometimes I thought it was because these were real houses, while my play had been among toy-houses some day to be inhabited by imaginary people full of the happiness that one can see in picture books. I was in all things Pre-Raphaelite. When I was fifteen or sixteen, my father had told me about Rossetti and Blake and given me their poetry to read; & once in Liverpool on my way to Sligo, "I had seen 'Dante's Dream' in the gallery there--a picture painted when Rossetti had lost his dramatic power, and to-day not very pleasing to me--and its colour, its people, its romantic architecture had blotted all other pictures away." It was a perpetual bewilderment that my father, who had begun life as a Pre-Raphaelite painter, now painted portraits of the first comer, children selling newspapers, or a consumptive girl with a basket offish upon her head, and that when, moved perhaps by memory of his youth, he chose some theme from poetic tradition, he would soon weary and leave it unfinished. I had seen the change coming bit by bit and its defence elaborated by young men fresh from the Paris art-schools. 'We must paint what is in front of us,' or 'A man must be of his own time,' they would say, and if I spoke of Blake or Rossetti they would point out his bad drawing and tell me to admire Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage. Then, too, they were very ignorant men; they read nothing, for nothing mattered but 'Knowing how to paint,' being in reaction against a generation that seemed to have wasted its time upon so many things. I thought myself alone in hating these young men, now indeed getting towards middle life, their contempt for the past, their monopoly of the future, but in a few months I was to discover others of my own age, who thought as I did, for it is not true that youth looks before it with the mechanical gaze of a well-drilled soldier. Its quarrel is not with the past, but with the present, where its elders are so obviously powerful, and no cause seems lost if it seem to threaten that power. Does cultivated youth ever really love the future, where the eye can discover no persecuted Royalty hidden among oak leaves, though from it certainly does come so much proletarian rhetoric? I was unlike others of my generation in one thing only. I am very religious, and deprived by Huxley and Tyndall, whom I detested, of the simple-minded religion of my childhood, I had made a new religion, almost an infallible church, out of poetic tradition: a fardel of stories, and of personages, and of emotions, a bundle of images and of masks passed on from generation to generation by poets & painters with some help from philosophers and theologians. I wished for a world where I could discover this tradition perpetually, and not in pictures and in poems only, but in tiles round the chimney-piece and in the hangings that kept out the draught. I had even created a dogma: 'Because those imaginary people are created out of the deepest instinct of man, to be his measure and his norm, whatever I can imagine those mouths speaking may be the nearest I can go to truth.' When I listened they seemed always to speak of one thing only: they, their loves, every incident of their lives, were steeped in the supernatural. Could even Titian's 'Ariosto' that I loved beyond other portraits, have its grave look, as if waiting for some perfect final event, if the painters, before Titian, had not learned portraiture, while painting into the corner of compositions, full of saints and Madonnas, their kneeling patrons? At seventeen years old I was already an old-fashioned brass cannon full of shot, and nothing kept me from going off but a doubt as to my capacity to shoot straight. III I was not an industrious student and knew only what I had found by accident, and I had found "nothing I cared for after Titian--and Titian I knew chiefly from a copy of 'the supper of Emmaus' in Dublin--till Blake and the Pre-Raphaelites;" and among my father's friends were no Pre-Raphaelites. Some indeed had come to Bedford Park in the enthusiasm of the first building, and others to be near those that had. There was Todhunter, a well-off man who had bought my father's pictures while my father was still Pre-Raphaelite. Once a Dublin doctor he was a poet and a writer of poetical plays: a tall, sallow, lank, melancholy man, a good scholar and a good intellect; and with him my father carried on a warm exasperated friendship, fed I think by old memories and wasted by quarrels over matters of opinion. Of all the survivors he was the most dejected, and the least estranged, and I remember encouraging him, with a sense of worship shared, to buy a very expensive carpet designed by Morris. He displayed it without strong liking and would have agreed had there been any to find fault. If he had liked anything strongly he might have been a famous man, for a few years later he was to write, under some casual patriotic impulse, certain excellent verses now in all Irish anthologies; but with him every book was a new planting and not a new bud on an old bough. He had I think no peace in himself. But my father's chief friend was York Powell, a famous Oxford Professor of history, a broad-built, broad-headed, brown-bearded man, clothed in heavy blue cloth and looking, but for his glasses and the dim sight of a student, like some captain in the merchant service. One often passed with pleasure from Todhunter's company to that of one who was almost ostentatiously at peace. He cared nothing for philosophy, nothing for economics, nothing for the policy of nations, for history, as he saw it, was a memory of men who were amusing or exciting to think about. He impressed all who met him & seemed to some a man of genius, but he had not enough ambition to shape his thought, or conviction to give rhythm to his style, and remained always a poor writer. I was too full of unfinished speculations and premature convictions to value rightly his conversation, in-formed by a vast erudition, which would give itself to every casual association of speech and company precisely because he had neither cause nor design. My father, however, found Powell's concrete narrative manner a necessary completion of his own; and when I asked him, in a letter many years later, where he got his philosophy, replied 'From York Powell' and thereon added, no doubt remembering that Powell was without ideas, 'By looking at him.' Then there was a good listener, a painter in whose hall hung a big picture, painted in his student days, of Ulysses sailing home from the Phaeacian court, an orange and a skin of wine at his side, blue mountains towering behind; but who lived by drawing domestic scenes and lovers' meetings for a weekly magazine that had an immense circulation among the imperfectly educated. To escape the boredom of work, which he never turned to but under pressure of necessity, and usually late at night with the publisher's messenger in the hall, he had half filled his studio with mechanical toys of his own invention, and perpetually increased their number. A model railway train at intervals puffed its way along the walls, passing several railway stations and signal boxes; and on the floor lay a camp with attacking and defending soldiers and a fortification that blew up when the attackers fired a pea through a certain window; while a large model of a Thames barge hung from the ceiling. Opposite our house lived an old artist who worked also for the illustrated papers for a living, but painted landscapes for his pleasure, and of him I remember nothing except that he had outlived ambition, was a good listener, and that my father explained his gaunt appearance by his descent from Pocahontas. If all these men were a little like becalmed ships, there was certainly one man whose sails were full. Three or four doors off, on our side of the road, lived a decorative artist in all the naive confidence of popular ideals and the public approval. He was our daily comedy. 'I myself and Sir Frederick Leighton are the greatest decorative artists of the age,' was among his sayings, & a great lych-gate, bought from some country church-yard, reared its thatched roof, meant to shelter bearers and coffin, above the entrance to his front garden, to show that he at any rate knew nothing of discouragement. In this fairly numerous company--there were others though no other face rises before me--my father and York Powell found listeners for a conversation that had no special loyalties, or antagonisms; while I could only talk upon set topics, being in the heat of my youth, and the topics that filled me with excitement were never spoken of. IV Some quarter of an hour's walk from Bedford Park, out on the high road to Richmond, lived W. E. Henley, and I, like many others, began under him my education. His portrait, a lithograph by Rothenstein, hangs over my mantlepiece among portraits of other friends. He is drawn standing, but, because doubtless of his crippled legs, he leans forward, resting his elbows upon some slightly suggested object--a table or a window-sill. His heavy figure and powerful head, the disordered hair standing upright, his short irregular beard and moustache, his lined and wrinkled face, his eyes steadily fixed upon some object, in complete confidence and self-possession, and yet as in half-broken reverie, all are exactly as I remember him. I have seen other portraits and they too show him exactly as I remember him, as though he had but one appearance and that seen fully at the first glance and by all alike. He was most human--human, I used to say, like one of Shakespeare's characters--and yet pressed and pummelled, as it were, into a single attitude, almost into a gesture and a speech, as by some overwhelming situation. I disagreed with him about everything, but I admired him beyond words. With the exception of some early poems founded upon old French models, I disliked his poetry, mainly because he wrote _Vers Libre_, which I associated with Tyndall and Huxley and Bastien-Lepage's clownish peasant staring with vacant eyes at her great boots; and filled it with unimpassioned description of an hospital ward where his leg had been amputated. I wanted the strongest passions, passions that had nothing to do with observation, and metrical forms that seemed old enough to be sung by men half-asleep or riding upon a journey. Furthermore, Pre-Raphaelitism affected him as some people are affected by a cat in the room, and though he professed himself at our first meeting without political interests or convictions, he soon grew into a violent unionist and imperialist. I used to say when I spoke of his poems: 'He is like a great actor with a bad part; yet who would look at Hamlet in the grave scene if Salvini played the grave-digger?' and I might so have explained much that he said and did. I meant that he was like a great actor of passion--character-acting meant nothing to me for many years--and an actor of passion will display some one quality of soul, personified again and again, just as a great poetical painter, Titian, Botticelli, Rossetti may depend for his greatness upon a type of beauty which presently we call by his name. Irving, the last of the sort on the English stage, and in modern England and France it is the rarest sort, never moved me but in the expression of intellectual pride; and though I saw Salvini but once, I am convinced that his genius was a kind of animal nobility. Henley, half inarticulate--'I am very costive,' he would say--beset with personal quarrels, built up an image of power and magnanimity till it became, at moments, when seen as it were by lightning, his true self. Half his opinions were the contrivance of a sub-consciousness that sought always to bring life to the dramatic crisis, and expression to that point of artifice where the true self could find its tongue. Without opponents there had been no drama, and in his youth Ruskinism and Pre-Raphaelitism, for he was of my father's generation, were the only possible opponents. How could one resent his prejudice when, that he himself might play a worthy part, he must find beyond the common rout, whom he derided and flouted daily, opponents he could imagine moulded like himself? Once he said to me in the height of his imperial propaganda, 'Tell those young men in Ireland that this great thing must go on. They say Ireland is not fit for self-government but that is nonsense. It is as fit as any other European country but we cannot grant it.' And then he spoke of his desire to found and edit a Dublin newspaper. It would have expounded the Gaelic propaganda then beginning, though Dr. Hyde had as yet no league, our old stories, our modern literature--everything that did not demand any shred or patch of government. He dreamed of a tyranny but it was that of Cosimo de Medici. V We gathered on Sunday evenings in two rooms, with folding doors between, & hung, I think, with photographs from Dutch masters, and in one room there was always, I think, a table with cold meat. I can recall but one elderly man--Dunn his name was--rather silent and full of good sense, an old friend of Henley's. We were young men, none as yet established in his own, or in the world's opinion, and Henley was our leader and our confidant. One evening I found him alone amused and exasperated. He cried: 'Young A... has just been round to ask my advice. Would I think it a wise thing if he bolted with Mrs. B...? "Have you quite determined to do it?" I asked him. "Quite." "Well," I said, "in that case I refuse to give you any advice."' Mrs. B... was a beautiful talented woman, who, as the Welsh triad said of Guinevere, 'was much given to being carried off.' I think we listened to him, and often obeyed him, partly because he was quite plainly not upon the side of our parents. We might have a different ground of quarrel, but the result seemed more important than the ground, and his confident manner and speech made us believe, perhaps for the first time, in victory. And besides, if he did denounce, and in my case he certainly did, what we held in secret reverence, he never failed to associate it with things, or persons, that did not move us to reverence. Once I found him just returned from some art congress in Liverpool or in Manchester. 'The Salvation Armyism of art,' he called it, & gave a grotesque description of some city councillor he had found admiring Turner. Henley, who hated all that Ruskin praised, thereupon derided Turner, and finding the city councillor the next day on the other side of the gallery, admiring some Pre-Raphaelite there, derided that Pre-Raphaelite. The third day Henley discovered the poor man on a chair in the middle of the room, staring disconsolately upon the floor. He terrified us also, and certainly I did not dare, and I think none of us dared, to speak our admiration for book or picture he condemned, but he made us feel always our importance, and no man among us could do good work, or show the promise of it, and lack his praise. I can remember meeting of a Sunday night Charles Whibley, Kenneth Grahame, author of 'The Golden Age,' Barry Pain, now a well known novelist, R. A. M. Stevenson, art critic and a famous talker, George Wyndham, later on a cabinet minister and Irish chief secretary, and Oscar Wilde, who was some eight years or ten older than the rest. But faces and names are vague to me and, while faces that I met but once may rise clearly before me, a face met on many a Sunday has perhaps vanished. Kipling came sometimes, I think, but I never met him; and Stepniak, the nihilist, whom I knew well elsewhere but not there, said 'I cannot go more than once a year, it is too exhausting.' Henley got the best out of us all, because he had made us accept him as our judge and we knew that his judgment could neither sleep, nor be softened, nor changed, nor turned aside. When I think of him, the antithesis that is the foundation of human nature being ever in my sight, I see his crippled legs as though he were some Vulcan perpetually forging swords for other men to use; and certainly I always thought of C..., a fine classical scholar, a pale and seemingly gentle man, as our chief swordsman and bravo. When Henley founded his weekly newspaper, first the 'Scots,' afterwards 'The National Observer,' this young man wrote articles and reviews notorious for savage wit; and years afterwards when 'The National Observer' was dead, Henley dying & our cavern of outlaws empty, I met him in Paris very sad and I think very poor. 'Nobody will employ me now,' he said. 'Your master is gone,' I answered, 'and you are like the spear in an old Irish story that had to be kept dipped in poppy-juice that it might not go about killing people on its own account.' I wrote my first good lyrics and tolerable essays for 'The National Observer' and as I always signed my work could go my own road in some measure. Henley often revised my lyrics, crossing out a line or a stanza and writing in one of his own, and I was comforted by my belief that he also re-wrote Kipling then in the first flood of popularity. At first, indeed, I was ashamed of being re-written and thought that others were not, and only began investigation when the editorial characteristics--epigrams, archaisms and all--appeared in the article upon Paris fashions and in that upon opium by an Egyptian Pasha. I was not compelled to full conformity for verse is plainly stubborn; and in prose, that I might avoid unacceptable opinions, I wrote nothing but ghost or fairy stories, picked up from my mother, or some pilot at Rosses Point, and Henley saw that I must needs mix a palette fitted to my subject matter. But if he had changed every 'has' into 'hath' I would have let him, for had not we sunned ourselves in his generosity? 'My young men out-dome and they write better than I,' he wrote in some letter praising Charles Whibley's work, and to another friend with a copy of my 'Man who dreamed of Fairyland:' 'See what a fine thing has been written by one of my lads.' VI My first meeting with Oscar Wilde was an astonishment. I never before heard a man talking with perfect sentences, as if he had written them all over night with labour and yet all spontaneous. There was present that night at Henley's, by right of propinquity or of accident, a man full of the secret spite of dullness, who interrupted from time to time and always to check or disorder thought; and I noticed with what mastery he was foiled and thrown. I noticed, too, that the impression of artificiality that I think all Wilde's listeners have recorded, came from the perfect rounding of the sentences and from the deliberation that made it possible. That very impression helped him as the effect of metre, or of the antithetical prose of the seventeenth century, which is itself a true metre, helps a writer, for he could pass without incongruity from some unforeseen swift stroke of wit to elaborate reverie. I heard him say a few nights later: 'Give me "The Winter's Tale," "Daffodils that come before the swallow dare" but not "King Lear." What is "King Lear" but poor life staggering in the fog?' and the slow cadence, modulated with so great precision, sounded natural to my ears. That first night he praised Walter Pater's 'Essays on the Renaissance:' 'It is my golden book; I never travel anywhere without it; but it is the very flower of decadence. The last trumpet should have sounded the moment it was written.' 'But,' said the dull man, 'would you not have given us time to read it?' 'Oh no,' was the retort, 'there would have been plenty of time afterwards--in either world.' I think he seemed to us, baffled as we were by youth, or by infirmity, a triumphant figure, and to some of us a figure from another age, an audacious Italian fifteenth century figure. A few weeks before I had heard one of my father's friends, an official in a publishing firm that had employed both Wilde and Henley as editors, blaming Henley who was 'no use except under control' and praising Wilde, 'so indolent but such a genius;' and now the firm became the topic of our talk. 'How often do you go to the office?' said Henley. 'I used to go three times a week,' said Wilde, 'for an hour a day but I have since struck off one of the days.' 'My God,' said Henley, 'I went five times a week for five hours a day and when I wanted to strike off a day they had a special committee meeting.' 'Furthermore,' was Wilde's answer, 'I never answered their letters. I have known men come to London full of bright prospects and seen them complete wrecks in a few months through a habit of answering letters.' He too knew how to keep our elders in their place, and his method was plainly the more successful for Henley had been dismissed. 'No he is not an aesthete,' Henley commented later, being somewhat embarrassed by Wilde's Pre-Raphaelite entanglement. 'One soon finds that he is a scholar and a gentleman.' And when I dined with Wilde a few days afterwards he began at once, 'I had to strain every nerve to equal that man at all;' and I was too loyal to speak my thought: 'You & not he' said all the brilliant things. He like the rest of us had felt the strain of an intensity that seemed to hold life at the point of drama. He had said, on that first meeting, 'The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl;' and for a few weeks Henley and he became close friends till, the astonishment of their meeting over, diversity of character and ambition pushed them apart, and, with half the cavern helping, Henley began mixing the poisoned bowl for Wilde. Yet Henley never wholly lost that first admiration, for after Wilde's downfall he said to me: 'Why did he do it? I told my lads to attack him and yet we might have fought under his banner.' VII It became the custom, both at Henley's and at Bedford Park, to say that R. A. M. Stevenson, who frequented both circles, was the better talker. Wilde had been trussed up like a turkey by undergraduates, dragged up and down a hill, his champagne emptied into the ice tub, hooted in the streets of various towns and I think stoned, and no newspaper named him but in scorn; his manner had hardened to meet opposition and at times he allowed one to see an unpardonable insolence. His charm was acquired and systematised, a mask which he wore only when it pleased him, while the charm of Stevenson belonged to him like the colour of his hair. If Stevenson's talk became monologue we did not know it, because our one object was to show by our attention that he need never leave off. If thought failed him we would not combat what he had said, or start some new theme, but would encourage him with a question; and one felt that it had been always so from childhood up. His mind was full of phantasy for phantasy's sake and he gave as good entertainment in monologue as his cousin Robert Louis in poem or story. He was always 'supposing:' 'Suppose you had two millions what would you do with it?' and 'Suppose you were in Spain and in love how would you propose?' I recall him one afternoon at our house at Bedford Park, surrounded by my brother and sisters and a little group of my father's friends, describing proposals in half a dozen countries. There your father did it, dressed in such and such a way with such and such words, and there a friend must wait for the lady outside the chapel door, sprinkle her with holy water and say 'My friend Jones is dying for love of you.' But when it was over, those quaint descriptions, so full of laughter and sympathy, faded or remained in the memory as something alien from one's own life like a dance I once saw in a great house, where beautifully dressed children wound a long ribbon in and out as they danced. I was not of Stevenson's party and mainly I think because he had written a book in praise of Velasquez, praise at that time universal wherever Pre-Raphaelitism was accurst, and to my mind, that had to pick its symbols where its ignorance permitted, Velasquez seemed the first bored celebrant of boredom. I was convinced, from some obscure meditation, that Stevenson's conversational method had joined him to my elders and to the indifferent world, as though it were right for old men, and unambitious men and all women, to be content with charm and humour. It was the prerogative of youth to take sides and when Wilde said: 'Mr. Bernard Shaw has no enemies but is intensely disliked by all his friends,' I knew it to be a phrase I should never forget, and felt revenged upon a notorious hater of romance, whose generosity and courage I could not fathom. VIII I saw a good deal of Wilde at that time--was it 1887 or 1888?--I have no way of fixing the date except that I had published my first book 'The Wanderings of Usheen' and that Wilde had not yet published his 'Decay of Lying.' He had, before our first meeting, reviewed my book and despite its vagueness of intention, and the inexactness of its speech, praised without qualification; and what was worth more than any review had talked about it, and now he asked me to eat my Xmas dinner with him, believing, I imagine, that I was alone in London. He had just renounced his velveteen, and even those cuffs turned backward over the sleeves, and had begun to dress very carefully in the fashion of the moment. He lived in a little house at Chelsea that the architect Godwin had decorated with an elegance that owed something to Whistler. There was nothing mediaeval, nor Pre-Raphaelite, no cupboard door with figures upon flat gold, no peacock blue, no dark background. I remember vaguely a white drawing room with Whistler etchings, 'let in' to white panels, and a dining room all white: chairs, walls, mantlepiece, carpet, except for a diamond-shaped piece of red cloth in the middle of the table under a terra cotta statuette, and I think a red shaded lamp hanging from the ceiling to a little above the statuette. It was perhaps too perfect in its unity, his past of a few years before had gone too completely, and I remember thinking that the perfect harmony of his life there, with his beautiful wife and his two young children, suggested some deliberate artistic composition. He commended, & dispraised himself, during dinner by attributing characteristics like his own to his country: 'We Irish are too poetical to be poets; we are a nation of brilliant failures, but we are the greatest talkers since the Greeks.' When dinner was over he read me from the proofs of 'The Decay of Lying' and when he came to the sentence: 'Schopenhauer has analysed the pessimism that characterises modern thought, but Hamlet invented it. The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy,' I said, 'Why do you change "sad" to "melancholy?"' He replied that he wanted a full sound at the close of his sentence, and I thought it no excuse and an example of the vague impressiveness that spoilt his writing for me. Only when he spoke, or when his writing was the mirror of his speech, or in some simple fairytale, had he words exact enough to hold a subtle ear. He alarmed me, though not as Henley did for I never left his house thinking myself fool or dunce. He flattered the intellect of every man he liked; he made me tell him long Irish stories and compared my art of story-telling to Homer's; and once when he had described himself as writing in the census paper 'age 19, profession genius, infirmity talent,' the other guest, a young journalist fresh from Oxford or Cambridge, said 'What should I have written?' and was told that it should have been 'profession talent, infirmity genius.' When, however, I called, wearing shoes a little too yellow--unblackened leather had just become fashionable--I understood their extravagence when I saw his eyes fixed upon them; an another day Wilde asked me to tell his little boy a fairy story, and I had but got as far as 'Once upon a time there was a giant' when the little boy screamed and ran out of the room. Wilde looked grave and I was plunged into the shame of clumsiness that afflicts the young. When I asked for some literary gossip for some provincial newspaper, that paid me a few shillings a month, he explained very explicitly that writing literary gossip was no job for a gentleman. Though to be compared to Homer passed the time pleasantly, I had not been greatly perturbed had he stopped me with 'Is it a long story?' as Henley would certainly have done. I was abashed before him as wit and man of the world alone. I remember that he deprecated the very general belief in his success or his efficiency, and I think with sincerity. One form of success had gone: he was no more the lion of the season, and he had not discovered his gift for writing comedy, yet I think I knew him at the happiest moment of his life. No scandal had darkened his fame, his fame as a talker was growing among his equals, & he seemed to live in the enjoyment of his own spontaneity. One day he began: 'I have been inventing a Christian heresy,' and he told a detailed story, in the style of some early father, of how Christ recovered after the Crucifixion and, escaping from the tomb, lived on for many years, the one man upon earth who knew the falsehood of Christianity. Once St. Paul visited his town and he alone in the carpenters' quarter did not go to hear him preach. The other carpenters noticed that henceforth, for some unknown reason, he kept his hands covered. A few days afterwards I found Wilde, with smock frocks in various colours spread out upon the floor in front of him, while a missionary explained that he did not object to the heathen going naked upon week days, but insisted upon clothes in church. He had brought the smock frocks in a cab that the only art-critic whose fame had reached Central Africa might select a colour; so Wilde sat there weighing all with a conscious ecclesiastic solemnity. VIII Of late years I have often explained Wilde to myself by his family history. His father, was a friend or acquaintance of my father's father and among my family traditions there is an old Dublin riddle: 'Why are Sir William Wilde's nails so black?' Answer, 'Because he has scratched himself.' And there is an old story still current in Dublin of Lady Wilde saying to a servant. 'Why do you put the plates on the coal-scuttle? What are the chairs meant for?' They were famous people and there are many like stories, and even a horrible folk story, the invention of some Connaught peasant, that tells how Sir William Wilde took out the eyes of some men, who had come to consult him as an oculist, and laid them upon a plate, intending to replace them in a moment, and how the eyes were eaten by a cat. As a certain friend of mine, who has made a prolonged study of the nature of cats, said when he first heard the tale, 'Catslove eyes.' The Wilde family was clearly of the sort that fed the imagination of Charles Lever, dirty, untidy, daring, and what Charles Lever, who loved more normal activities, might not have valued so highly, very imaginative and learned. Lady Wilde, who when I knew her received her friends with blinds drawn and shutters closed that none might see her withered face, longed always perhaps, though certainly amid much self mockery, for some impossible splendour of character and circumstance. She lived near her son in level Chelsea, but I have heard her say, 'I want to live on some high place, Primrose Hill or Highgate, because I was an eagle in my youth.' I think her son lived with no self mockery at all an imaginary life; perpetually performed a play which was in all things the opposite of all that he had known in childhood and early youth; never put off completely his wonder at opening his eyes every morning on his own beautiful house, and in remembering that he had dined yesterday with a duchess and that he delighted in Flaubert and Pater, read Homer in the original and not as a school-master reads him for the grammar. I think, too, that because of all that half-civilized blood in his veins, he could not endure the sedentary toil of creative art and so remained a man of action, exaggerating, for the sake of immediate effect, every trick learned from his masters, turning their easel painting into painted scenes. He was a parvenu, but a parvenu whose whole bearing proved that if he did dedicate every story in 'The House of Pomegranates' to a lady of title, it was but to show that he was Jack and the social ladder his pantomime beanstalk. "Did you ever hear him say 'Marquess of Dimmesdale'?" a friend of his once asked me. "He does not say 'the Duke of York' with any pleasure." He told me once that he had been offered a safe seat in Parliament and, had he accepted, he might have had a career like that of Beaconsfield, whose early style resembles his, being meant for crowds, for excitement, for hurried decisions, for immediate triumphs. Such men get their sincerity, if at all, from the contact of events; the dinner table was Wilde's event and made him the greatest talker of his time, and his plays and dialogues have what merit they possess from being now an imitation, now a record, of his talk. Even in those days I would often defend him by saying that his very admiration for his predecessors in poetry, for Browning, for Swinburne and Rossetti, in their first vogue while he was a very young man, made any success seem impossible that could satisfy his immense ambition: never but once before had the artist seemed so great, never had the work of art seemed so difficult. I would then compare him with Benvenuto Cellini who, coming after Michael Angelo, found nothing left to do so satisfactory as to turn bravo and assassinate the man who broke Michael Angelo's nose. IX I cannot remember who first brought me to the old stable beside Kelmscott House, William Morris' house at Hammersmith, & to the debates held there upon Sunday evenings by the socialist League. I was soon of the little group who had supper with Morris afterwards. I met at these suppers very constantly Walter Crane, Emery Walker presently, in association with Cobden Sanderson, the printer of many fine books, and less constantly Bernard Shaw and Cockerell, now of the museum of Cambridge, and perhaps but once or twice Hyndman the socialist and the anarchist Prince Krapotkin. There too one always met certain more or less educated workmen, rough of speech and manner, with a conviction to meet every turn. I was told by one of them, on a night when I had done perhaps more than my share of the talking, that I had talked more nonsense in one evening than he had heard in the whole course of his past life. I had merely preferred Parnell, then at the height of his career, to Michael Davitt who had wrecked his Irish influence by international politics. We sat round a long unpolished and unpainted trestle table of new wood in a room where hung Rossetti's 'Pomegranate,' a portrait of Mrs. Morris, and where one wall and part of the ceiling were covered by a great Persian carpet. Morris had said somewhere or other that carpets were meant for people who took their shoes off when they entered a house, and were most in place upon a tent floor. I was a little disappointed in the house, for Morris was an old man content at last to gather beautiful things rather than to arrange a beautiful house. I saw the drawing-room once or twice and there alone all my sense of decoration, founded upon the background of Rossetti's pictures, was satisfied by a big cupboard painted with a scene from Chaucer by Burne Jones, but even there were objects, perhaps a chair or a little table, that seemed accidental, bought hurriedly perhaps, and with little thought, to make wife or daughter comfortable. I had read as a boy in books belonging to my father, the third volume of 'The Earthly Paradise' and 'The Defence of Guinevere,' which pleased me less, but had not opened either for a long time. 'The man who never laughed again' had seemed the most wonderful of tales till my father had accused me of preferring Morris to Keats, got angry about it and put me altogether out of countenance. He had spoiled my pleasure, for now I questioned while I read and at last ceased to read; nor had Morris written as yet those prose romances that became, after his death, so great a joy that they were the only books I was ever to read slowly that I might not come too quickly to the end. It was now Morris himself that stirred my interest, and I took to him first because of some little tricks of speech and body that reminded me of my old grandfather in Sligo, but soon discovered his spontaneity and joy and made him my chief of men. To-day I do not set his poetry very high, but for an odd altogether wonderful line, or thought; and yet, if some angel offered me the choice, I would choose to live his life, poetry and all, rather than my own or any other man's. A reproduction of his portrait by Watts hangs over my mantlepiece with Henley's, and those of other friends. Its grave wide-open eyes, like the eyes of some dreaming beast, remind me of the open eyes of Titian's' Ariosto,' while the broad vigorous body suggests a mind that has no need of the intellect to remain sane, though it give itself to every phantasy, the dreamer of the middle ages. It is 'the fool of fairy ... wide and wild as a hill,' the resolute European image that yet half remembers Buddha's motionless meditation, and has no trait in common with the wavering, lean image of hungry speculation, that cannot but fill the mind's eye because of certain famous Hamlets of our stage. Shakespeare himself foreshadowed a symbolic change, that shows a change in the whole temperament of the world, for though he called his Hamlet 'fat, and scant of breath,' he thrust between his fingers agile rapier and dagger. The dream world of Morris was as much the antithesis of daily life as with other men of genius, but he was never conscious of the antithesis and so knew nothing of intellectual suffering. His intellect, unexhausted by speculation or casuistry, was wholly at the service of hand and eye, and whatever he pleased he did with an unheard of ease and simplicity, and if style and vocabulary were at times monotonous, he could not have made them otherwise without ceasing to be himself. Instead of the language of Chaucer and Shakespeare, its warp fresh from field and market, if the woof were learned, his age offered him a speech, exhausted from abstraction, that only returned to its full vitality when written learnedly and slowly. The roots of his antithetical dream were visible enough: a never idle man of great physical strength and extremely irascible--did he not fling a badly baked plum pudding through the window upon Xmas Day?--a man more joyous than any intellectual man of our world, called himself 'the idle singer of an empty day' created new forms of melancholy, and faint persons, like the knights & ladies of Burne Jones, who are never, no, not once in forty volumes, put out of temper. A blunderer, who had said to the only unconverted man at a socialist picnic in Dublin, to prove that equality came easy, 'I was brought up a gentleman and now, as you can see, associate with all sorts,' and left wounds thereby that rankled after twenty years, a man of whom I have heard it said 'He is always afraid that he is doing something wrong, and generally is,' wrote long stories with apparently no other object than that his persons might show one another, through situations of poignant difficulty, the most exquisite tact. He did not project, like Henley or like Wilde, an image of himself, because, having all his imagination set on making and doing, he had little self-knowledge. He imagined instead new conditions of making and doing; and, in the teeth of those scientific generalisations that cowed my boyhood, I can see some like imagining in every great change, believing that the first flying fish leaped, not because it sought 'adaptation' to the air, but out of horror of the sea. X Soon after I began to attend the lectures, a French class was started in the old coach-house for certain young socialists who planned a tour in France, and I joined it and was for a time a model student constantly encouraged by the compliments of the old French mistress. I told my father of the class, and he asked me to get my sisters admitted. I made difficulties and put off speaking of the matter, for I knew that the new and admirable self I was making would turn, under family eyes, into plain rag doll. How could I pretend to be industrious, and even carry dramatization to the point of learning my lessons, when my sisters were there and knew that I was nothing of the kind? But I had no argument I could use and my sisters were admitted. They said nothing unkind, so far as I can remember, but in a week or two I was my old procrastinating idle self and had soon left the class altogether. My elder sister stayed on and became an embroideress under Miss May Morris, and the hangings round Morris's big bed at Kelmscott House, Oxfordshire, with their verses about lying happily in bed when 'all birds sing in the town of the tree,' were from her needle though not from her design. She worked for the first few months at Kelmscott House, Hammersmith, and in my imagination I cannot always separate what I saw and heard from her report, or indeed from the report of that tribe or guild who looked up to Morris as to some worshipped mediaeval king. He had no need for other people. I doubt if their marriage or death made him sad or glad, and yet no man I have known was so well loved; you saw him producing everywhere organisation and beauty, seeming, almost in the same instant, helpless and triumphant; and people loved him as children are loved. People much in his neighbourhood became gradually occupied with him, or about his affairs, and without any wish on his part, as simple people become occupied with children. I remember a man who was proud and pleased because he had distracted Morris' thoughts from an attack of gout by leading the conversation delicately to the hated name of Milton. He began at Swinburne. 'Oh, Swinburne,' said Morris, 'is a rhetorician; my masters have been Keats and Chaucer for they make pictures.' 'Does not Milton make pictures?' asked my informant. 'No,' was the answer, 'Dante makes pictures, but Milton, though he had a great earnest mind, expressed himself as a rhetorician.' 'Great earnest mind,' sounded strange to me and I doubt not that were his questioner not a simple man, Morris had been more violent. Another day the same man started by praising Chaucer, but the gout was worse and Morris cursed Chaucer for destroying the English language with foreign words. He had few detachable phrases and I can remember little of his speech, which many thought the best of all good talk, except that it matched his burly body and seemed within definite boundaries inexhaustible in fact and expression. He alone of all the men I have known seemed guided by some beast-like instinct and never ate strange meat. 'Balzac! Balzac!' he said to me once, 'Oh, that was the man the French bourgeoisie read so much a few years ago.' I can remember him at supper praising wine: 'Why do people say it is prosaic to be inspired by wine? Has it not been made by the sunlight and the sap?' and his dispraising houses decorated by himself: 'Do you suppose I like that kind of house? I would like a house like a big barn, where one ate in one corner, cooked in another corner, slept in the third corner & in the fourth received one's friends'; and his complaining of Ruskin's objection to the underground railway: 'If you must have a railway the best thing you can do with it is to put it in a tube with a cork at each end.' I remember too that when I asked what led up to his movement, he replied, 'Oh, Ruskin and Carlyle, but somebody should have been beside Carlyle and punched his head every five minutes.' Though I remember little, I do not doubt that, had I continued going there on Sunday evenings, I should have caught fire from his words and turned my hand to some mediaeval work or other. Just before I had ceased to go there I had sent my 'Wanderings of Usheen' to his daughter, hoping of course that it might meet his eyes, & soon after sending it I came upon him by chance in Holborn. 'You write my sort of poetry,' he said and began to praise me and to promise to send his praise to 'The Commonwealth,' the League organ, and he would have said more of a certainty had he not caught sight of a new ornamental cast-iron lamp-post and got very heated upon that subject. I did not read economics, having turned socialist because of Morris's lectures and pamphlets, and I think it unlikely that Morris himself could read economics. That old dogma of mine seemed germane to the matter. If the men and women imagined by the poets were the norm, and if Morris had, in, let us say, 'News from Nowhere,' then running through 'The Commonwealth,' described such men and women living under their natural conditions or as they would desire to live, then those conditions themselves must be the norm, and could we but get rid of certain institutions the world would turn from eccentricity. Perhaps Morris himself justified himself in his own heart by as simple an argument, and was, as the socialist D... said to me one night walking home after some lecture, 'an anarchist without knowing it.' Certainly I and all about me, including D... himself, were for chopping up the old king for Medea's pot. Morris had told us to have nothing to do with the parliamentary socialists, represented for men in general by the Fabian Society and Hyndman's Socialist Democratic Federation and for us in particular by D... During the period of transition mistakes must be made, and the discredit of these mistakes must be left to 'the bourgeoisie;' and besides, when you begin to talk of this measure or that other you lose sight of the goal and see, to reverse Swinburne's description of Tiresias, 'light on the way but darkness on the goal.' By mistakes Morris meant vexatious restrictions and compromises--'If any man puts me into a labour squad, I will lie on my back and kick.' That phrase very much expresses our idea of revolutionary tactics: we all intended to lie upon our back and kick. D..., pale and sedentary, did not dislike labour squads and we all hated him with the left side of our heads, while admiring him immensely with the right. He alone was invited to entertain Mrs. Morris, having many tales of his Irish uncles, more especially of one particular uncle who had tried to commit suicide by shutting his head into a carpet bag. At that time he was an obscure man, known only for a witty speaker at street corners and in Park demonstrations. He had, with an assumed truculence and fury, cold logic, an universal gentleness, an unruffled courtesy, and yet could never close a speech without being denounced by a journeyman hatter with an Italian name. Converted to socialism by D..., and to anarchism by himself, with swinging arm and uplifted voice this man perhaps exaggerated our scruple about parliament. 'I lack,' said D..., 'the bump of reverence;' whereon the wild man shouted 'You 'ave a 'ole.' There are moments when looking back I somewhat confuse my own figure with that of the hatter, image of our hysteria, for I too became violent with the violent solemnity of a religious devotee. I can even remember sitting behind D... and saying some rude thing or other over his shoulder. I don't remember why I gave it up but I did quite suddenly; and I think the push may have come from a young workman who was educating himself between Morris and Karl Marx. He had planned a history of the navy and when I had spoken of the battleship of Nelson's day, had said: 'Oh, that was the decadence of the battleship,' but if his naval interests were mediaeval, his ideas about religion were pure Karl Marx, and we were soon in perpetual argument. Then gradually the attitude towards religion of almost everybody but Morris, who avoided the subject altogether, got upon my nerves, for I broke out after some lecture or other with all the arrogance of raging youth. They attacked religion, I said, or some such words, and yet there must be a change of heart and only religion could make it. What was the use of talking about some near revolution putting all things right, when the change must come, if come it did, with astronomical slowness, like the cooling of the sun or, it may have been, like the drying of the moon? Morris rang his chairman's bell, but I was too angry to listen, and he had to ring it a second time before I sat down. He said that night at supper: 'Of course I know there must be a change of heart, but it will not come as slowly as all that. I rang my bell because you were not being understood.' He did not show any vexation, but I never returned after that night; and yet I did not always believe what I had said and only gradually gave up thinking of and planning for some near sudden change for the better. XI I spent my days at the British Museum and must, I think, have been delicate, for I remember often putting off hour after hour consulting some necessary book because I shrank from lifting the heavy volumes of the catalogue; and yet to save money for my afternoon coffee and roll I often walked the whole way home to Bedford Park. I was compiling, for a series of shilling books, an anthology of Irish fairy stories and, for an American publisher, a two volume selection from the Irish novelists that would be somewhat dearer. I was not well paid, for each book cost me more than three months' reading; and I was paid for the first some twelve pounds, ('O Mr. E...' said publisher to editor, 'you must never again pay so much') and for the second, twenty; but I did not think myself badly paid, for I had chosen the work for my own purposes. Though I went to Sligo every summer, I was compelled to live out of Ireland the greater part of every year and was but keeping my mind upon what I knew must be the subject matter of my poetry. I believed that if Morris had set his stories amid the scenery of his own Wales (for I knew him to be of Welsh extraction and supposed wrongly that he had spent his childhood there) that if Shelley had nailed his Prometheus or some equal symbol upon some Welsh or Scottish rock, their art had entered more intimately, more microscopically, as it were, into our thought, and had given perhaps to modern poetry a breadth and stability like that of ancient poetry. The statues of Mausolus and Artemisia at the British Museum, private, half animal, half divine figures, all unlike the Grecian athletes and Egyptian kings in their near neighbourhood, that stand in the middle of the crowd's applause or sit above measuring it out unpersuadable justice, became to me, now or later, images of an unpremeditated joyous energy, that neither I nor any other man, racked by doubt and enquiry, can achieve; and that yet, if once achieved, might seem to men and women of Connemara or of Galway their very soul. In our study of that ruined tomb, raised by a queen to her dead lover, and finished by the unpaid labour of great sculptors after her death from grief, or so runs the tale, we cannot distinguish the handiworks of Scopas and Praxiteles; and I wanted to create once more an art, where the artist's handiwork would hide as under those half anonymous chisels, or as we find it in some old Scots ballads or in some twelfth or thirteenth century Arthurian romance. That handiwork assured, I had martyred no man for modelling his own image upon Pallas Athena's buckler; for I took great pleasure in certain allusions to the singer's life one finds in old romances and ballads, and thought his presence there all the more poignant because we discover it half lost, like portly Chaucer riding behind his Maunciple and his Pardoner. Wolfram von Eschenbach, singing his German Parsival, broke off some description of a famished city to remember that in his own house at home the very mice lacked food, and what old ballad singer was it who claimed to have fought by day in the very battle he sang by night? So masterful indeed was that instinct that when the minstrel knew not who his poet was he must needs make up a man: 'When any stranger asks who is the sweetest of singers, answer with one voice: "A blind man; he dwells upon rocky Chios; his songs shall be the most beautiful for ever."' Elaborate modern psychology sounds egotistical, I thought, when it speaks in the first person, but not those simple emotions which resemble the more, the more powerful they are, everybody's emotion, and I was soon to write many poems where an always personal emotion was woven into a general pattern of myth and symbol. When the Fenian poet says that his heart has grown cold and callous, 'For thy hapless fate, dear Ireland, and sorrows of my own,' he but follows tradition, and if he does not move us deeply, it is because he has no sensuous musical vocabulary that comes at need, without compelling him to sedentary toil and so driving him out from his fellows. I thought to create that sensuous, musical vocabulary, and not for myself only but that I might leave it to later Irish poets, much as a mediaeval Japanese painter left his style as an inheritance to his family, and was careful to use a traditional manner and matter; yet did something altogether different, changed by that toil, impelled by my share in Cain's curse, by all that sterile modern complication, by my 'originality' as the newspapers call it. Morris set out to make a revolution that the persons of his 'Well at the World's End' or his 'Waters of the Wondrous Isles,' always, to my mind, in the likeness of Artemisia and her man, might walk his native scenery; and I, that my native scenery might find imaginary inhabitants, half planned a new method and a new culture. My mind began drifting vaguely towards that doctrine of 'the mask' which has convinced me that every passionate man (I have nothing to do with mechanist, or philanthropist, or man whose eyes have no preference) is, as it were, linked with another age, historical or imaginary, where alone he finds images that rouse his energy. Napoleon was never of his own time, as the naturalistic writers and painters bid all men be, but had some Roman Emperor's image in his head and some condottiere's blood in his heart; and when he crowned that head at Rome with his own hands, he had covered, as may be seen from David's painting, his hesitation with that Emperor's old suit. XII I had various women friends on whom I would call towards five o'clock, mainly to discuss my thoughts that I could not bring to a man without meeting some competing thought, but partly because their tea & toast saved my pennies for the 'bus ride home; but with women, apart from their intimate exchanges of thought, I was timid and abashed. I was sitting on a seat in front of the British Museum feeding pigeons, when a couple of girls sat near and began enticing my pigeons away, laughing and whispering to one another, and I looked straight in front of me, very indignant, and presently went into the Museum without turning my head towards them. Since then I have often wondered if they were pretty or merely very young. Sometimes I told myself very adventurous love stories with myself for hero, and at other times I planned out a life of lonely austerity, and at other times mixed the ideals and planned a life of lonely austerity mitigated by periodical lapses. I had still the ambition, formed in Sligo in my teens, of living in imitation of Thoreau on Innisfree, a little island in Lough Gill, and when walking through Fleet Street very homesick I heard a little tinkle of water and saw a fountain in a shop window which balanced a little ball upon its jet and began to remember lake water. From the sudden remembrance came my poem 'Innisfree,' my first lyric with anything in its rhythm of my own music. I had begun to loosen rhythm as an escape from rhetoric, and from that emotion of the crowd that rhetoric brings, but I only understood vaguely and occasionally that I must, for my special purpose, use nothing but the common syntax. A couple of years later I would not have written that first line with its conventional archaism--'Arise and go'--nor the inversion in the last stanza. Passing another day by the new Law Courts, a building that I admired because it was Gothic,--'It is not very good,' Morris had said, 'but it is better than any thing else they have got and so they hate it.'--I grew suddenly oppressed by the great weight of stone, and thought, 'There are miles and miles of stone and brick all round me,' and presently added, 'If John the Baptist, or his like, were to come again and had his mind set upon it, he could make all these people go out into some wilderness leaving their buildings empty,' and that thought, which does not seem very valuable now, so enlightened the day that it is still vivid in the memory. I spent a few days at Oxford copying out a seventeenth century translation of _Poggio's Liber Facetiarum_ or the _Hypneroto-machia_ of _Poliphili_ for a publisher; I forget which, for I copied both; and returned very pale to my troubled family. I had lived upon bread and tea because I thought that if antiquity found locust and wild honey nutritive, my soul was strong enough to need no better. I was always planning some great gesture, putting the whole world into one scale of the balance and my soul into the other, and imagining that the whole world somehow kicked the beam. More than thirty years have passed and I have seen no forcible young man of letters brave the metropolis without some like stimulant; and all, after two or three, or twelve or fifteen years, according to obstinacy, have understood that we achieve, if we do achieve, in little diligent sedentary stitches as though we were making lace. I had one unmeasured advantage from my stimulant: I could ink my socks, that they might not show through my shoes, with a most haughty mind, imagining myself, and my torn tackle, somewhere else, in some far place 'under the canopy ... i' the city of kites and crows.' In London I saw nothing good, and constantly remembered that Ruskin had said to some friend of my father's--'As I go to my work at the British Museum I see the faces of the people become daily more corrupt.' I convinced myself for a time, that on the same journey I saw but what he saw. Certain old women's faces filled me with horror, faces that are no longer there, or if they are, pass before me unnoticed: the fat blotched faces, rising above double chins, of women who have drunk too much beer and eaten too much meat. In Dublin I had often seen old women walking with erect heads and gaunt bodies, talking to themselves in loud voices, mad with drink and poverty, but they were different, they belonged to romance: Da Vinci has drawn women who looked so and so carried their bodies. XIII I attempted to restore one old friend of my father's to the practice of his youth, but failed though he, unlike my father, had not changed his belief. My father brought me to dine with Jack Nettleship at Wigmore Street, once inventor of imaginative designs and now a painter of melodramatic lions. At dinner I had talked a great deal--too much, I imagine, for so young a man, or may be for any man--and on the way home my father, who had been plainly anxious that I should make a good impression, was very angry. He said I had talked for effect and that talking for effect was precisely what one must never do; he had always hated rhetoric and emphasis and had made me hate it; and his anger plunged me into great dejection. I called at Nettleship's studio the next day to apologise and Nettleship opened the door himself and received me with enthusiasm. He had explained to some woman guest that I would probably talk well, being an Irishman, but the reality had surpassed, etc., etc. I was not flattered, though relieved at not having to apologise, for I soon discovered that what he really admired was my volubility, for he himself was very silent. He seemed about sixty, had a bald head, a grey beard, and a nose, as one of my father's friends used to say, like an opera glass, and sipped cocoa all the afternoon and evening from an enormous tea cup that must have been designed for him alone, not caring how cold the cocoa grew. Years before he had been thrown from his horse while hunting and broken his arm and, because it had been badly set, suffered great pain for along time. A little whiskey would always stop the pain, and soon a little became a great deal and he found himself a drunkard, but having signed his liberty away for certain months he was completely cured. He had acquired, however, the need of some liquid which he could sip constantly. I brought him an admiration settled in early boyhood, for my father had always said, 'George Wilson was our born painter but Nettleship our genius,' and even had he shown me nothing I could care for, I had admired him still because my admiration was in my bones. He showed me his early designs and they, though often badly drawn, fulfilled my hopes. Something of Blake they certainly did show, but had in place of Blake's joyous intellectual energy a Saturnian passion and melancholy. 'God creating evil' the death-like head with a woman and a tiger coming from the forehead, which Rossetti--or was it Browning?--had described 'as the most sublime design of ancient or modern art' had been lost, but there was another version of the same thought and other designs never published or exhibited. They rise before me even now in meditation, especially a blind Titan-like ghost floating with groping hands above the treetops. I wrote a criticism, and arranged for reproductions with the editor of an art magazine, but after it was written and accepted the proprietor, lifting what I considered an obsequious caw in the Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, Bastien-Lepage rookery, insisted upon its rejection. Nettleship did not mind its rejection, saying, 'Who cares for such things now? Not ten people,' but he did mind my refusal to show him what I had written. Though what I had written was all eulogy, I dreaded his judgment for it was my first art criticism. I hated his big lion pictures, where he attempted an art too much concerned with the sense of touch, with the softness or roughness, the minutely observed irregularity of surfaces, for his genius; and I think he knew it. 'Rossetti used to call my pictures 'pot-boilers,' he said, 'but they are all--all,' and he waved his arms to the canvases, 'symbols.' When I wanted him to design gods and angels and lost spirits once more, he always came back to the point, 'Nobody would be pleased.' 'Everybody should have a _raison d'etre_' was one of his phrases. 'Mrs ----'s articles are not good but they are her _raison d'etre_.' I had but little knowledge of art, for there was little scholarship in the Dublin Art School, so I overrated the quality of anything that could be connected with my general beliefs about the world. If I had been able to give angelical, or diabolical names to his lions I might have liked them also and I think that Nettleship himself would have liked them better, and liking them better have become a better painter. We had the same kind of religious feeling, but I could give a crude philosophical expression to mine while he could only express his in action or with brush and pencil. He often told me of certain ascetic ambitions, very much like my own, for he had kept all the moral ambition of youth with a moral courage peculiar to himself, as for instance--'Yeats, the other night I was arrested by a policeman--was walking round Regent's Park barefooted to keep the flesh under--good sort of thing to do--I was carrying my boots in my hand and he thought I was a burglar; and even when I explained and gave him half a crown, he would not let me go till I had promised to put on my boots before I met the next policeman.' He was very proud and shy, and I could not imagine anybody asking him questions, and so I was content to take these stories as they came, confirmations of stories I had heard in boyhood. One story in particular had stirred my imagination, for, ashamed all my boyhood of my lack of physical courage, I admired what was beyond my imitation. He thought that any weakness, even a weakness of body, had the character of sin, and while at breakfast with his brother, with whom he shared a room on the third floor of a corner house, he said that his nerves were out of order. Presently he left the table, and got out through the window and on to a stone ledge that ran along the wall under the windowsills. He sidled along the ledge, and turning the corner with it, got in at a different window and returned to the table. 'My nerves,' he said, 'are better than I thought.' XIV Nettleship said to me: 'Has Edwin Ellis ever said anything about the effect of drink upon my genius?' 'No,' I answered. 'I ask,' he said, 'because I have always thought that Ellis has some strange medical insight.' Though I had answered 'no,' Ellis had only a few days before used these words: 'Nettleship drank his genius away.' Ellis, but lately returned from Perugia, where he had lived many years, was another old friend of my father's but some years younger than Nettleship or my father. Nettleship had found his simplifying image, but in his painting had turned away from it, while Ellis, the son of Alexander Ellis, a once famous man of science, who was perhaps the last man in England to run the circle of the sciences without superficiality, had never found that image at all. He was a painter and poet, but his painting, which did not interest me, showed no influence but that of Leighton. He had started perhaps a couple of years too late for Pre-Raphaelite influence, for no great Pre-Raphaelite picture was painted after 1870, and left England too soon for that of the French painters. He was, however, sometimes moving as a poet and still more often an astonishment. I have known him cast something just said into a dozen lines of musical verse, without apparently ceasing to talk; but the work once done he could not or would not amend it, and my father thought he lacked all ambition. Yet he had at times nobility of rhythm--an instinct for grandeur--and after thirty years I still repeat to myself his address to Mother Earth: O mother of the hills, forgive our towers; O mother of the clouds, forgive our dreams and there are certain whole poems that I read from time to time or try to make others read. There is that poem where the manner is unworthy of the matter, being loose and facile, describing Adam and Eve fleeing from Paradise. Adam asks Eve what she carries so carefully and Eve replies that it is a little of the apple core kept for their children. There is that vision of 'Christ the Less,' a too hurriedly written ballad, where the half of Christ, sacrificed to the divine half 'that fled to seek felicity,' wanders wailing through Golgotha; and there is 'The Saint and the Youth' in which I can discover no fault at all. He loved complexities--'seven silences like candles round her face' is a line of his--and whether he wrote well or ill had always a manner, which I would have known from that of any other poet. He would say to me, 'I am a mathematician with the mathematics left out'--his father was a great mathematician--or 'A woman once said to me, "Mr. Ellis why are your poems like sums?"' and certainly he loved symbols and abstractions. He said once, when I had asked him not to mention something or other, 'Surely you have discovered by this time that I know of no means whereby I can mention a fact in conversation.' He had a passion for Blake, picked up in Pre-Raphaelite studios, and early in our acquaintance put into my hands a scrap of note paper on which he had written some years before an interpretation of the poem that begins The fields from Islington to Marylebone To Primrose Hill and St. John's Wood Were builded over with pillars of gold And there Jerusalem's pillars stood. The four quarters of London represented Blake's four great mythological personages, the Zoas, and also the four elements. These few sentences were the foundation of all study of the philosophy of William Blake, that requires an exact knowledge for its pursuit and that traces the connection between his system and that of Swedenborg or of Boehme. I recognised certain attributions, from what is sometimes called the Christian Cabala, of which Ellis had never heard, and with this proof that his interpretation was more than phantasy, he and I began our four years' work upon the Prophetic Books of William Blake. We took it as almost a sign of Blake's personal help when we discovered that the spring of 1889, when we first joined our knowledge, was one hundred years from the publication of 'The Book of Thel,' the first published of the Prophetic Books, as though it were firmly established that the dead delight in anniversaries. After months of discussion and reading, we made a concordance of all Blake's mystical terms, and there was much copying to be done in the Museum & at Red Hill, where the descendants of Blake's friend and patron, the landscape painter, John Linnell, had many manuscripts. The Linnellswere narrow in their religious ideas & doubtful of Blake's orthodoxy, whom they held, however, in great honour, and I remember a timid old lady who had known Blake when a child saying: 'He had very wrong ideas, he did not believe in the historical Jesus.' One old man sat always beside us ostensibly to sharpen our pencils, but perhaps really to see that we did not steal the manuscripts, and they gave us very old port at lunch and I have upon my dining room walls their present of Blake's Dante engravings. Going thither and returning Ellis would entertain me by philosophical discussion, varied with improvised stories, at first folk tales which he professed to have picked up in Scotland; and though I had read and collected many folk tales, I did not see through the deceit. I have a partial memory of two more elaborate tales, one of an Italian conspirator flying barefoot from I forget what adventure through I forget what Italian city, in the early morning. Fearing to be recognised by his bare feet, he slipped past the sleepy porter at an hotel calling out 'number so and so' as if he were some belated guest. Then passing from bedroom door to door he tried on the boots, and just as he got a pair to fit a voice cried from the room 'Who is that?' 'Merely me, sir,' he called back, 'taking your boots.' The other was of a Martyr's Bible round which the cardinal virtues had taken personal form--this a fragment of Blake's philosophy. It was in the possession of an old clergyman when a certain jockey called upon him, and the cardinal virtues, confused between jockey and clergyman, devoted themselves to the jockey. As whenever he sinned a cardinal virtue interfered and turned him back to virtue, he lived in great credit and made, but for one sentence, a very holy death. As his wife and family knelt round in admiration and grief, he suddenly said 'Damn.' 'O my dear,' said his wife, 'what a dreadful expression.' He answered, 'I am going to heaven' and straightway died. It was a long tale, for there were all the jockey's vain attempts to sin, as well as all the adventures of the clergyman, who became very sinful indeed, but it ended happily, for when the jockey died the cardinal virtues returned to the clergyman. I think he would talk to any audience that offered, one audience being the same as another in his eyes, and it may have been for this reason that my father called him unambitious. When he was a young man he had befriended a reformed thief and had asked the grateful thief to take him round the thieves' quarters of London. The thief, however, hurried him away from the worst saying, 'Another minute and they would have found you out. If they were not the stupidest men in London, they had done so already.' Ellis had gone through a no doubt romantic and witty account of all the houses he had robbed, and all the throats he had cut in one short life. His conversation would often pass out of my comprehension, or indeed I think of any man's, into a labyrinth of abstraction and subtilty, and then suddenly return with some verbal conceit or turn of wit. The mind is known to attain, in certain conditions of trance, a quickness so extraordinary that we are compelled at times to imagine a condition of unendurable intellectual intensity, from which we are saved by the merciful stupidity of the body; & I think that the mind of Edwin Ellis was constantly upon the edge of trance. Once we were discussing the symbolism of sex, in the philosophy of Blake, and had been in disagreement all the afternoon. I began talking with a new sense of conviction, and after a moment Ellis, who was at his easel, threw down his brush and said that he had just seen the same explanation in a series of symbolic visions. 'In another moment,' he said, 'I should have been off.' We went into the open air and walked up and down to get rid of that feeling, but presently we came in again and I began again my explanation, Ellis lying upon the sofa. I had been talking some time when Mrs. Ellis came into the room and said: 'Why are you sitting in the dark?' Ellis answered, 'But we are not,' and then added in a voice of wonder, 'I thought the lamp was lit and that I was sitting up, and I find I am in the dark and lying down.' I had seen a flicker of light over the ceiling, but had thought it a reflection from some light outside the house, which may have been the case. XV I had already met most of the poets of my generation. I had said, soon after the publication of 'The Wanderings of Usheen,' to the editor of a series of shilling reprints, who had set me to compile tales of the Irish fairies, 'I am growing jealous of other poets, and we will all grow jealous of each other unless we know each other and so feel a share in each other's triumph.' He was a Welshman, lately a mining engineer, Ernest Rhys, a writer of Welsh translations and original poems that have often moved me greatly though I can think of no one else who has read them. He was seven or eight years older than myself and through his work as editor knew everybody who would compile a book for seven or eight pounds. Between us we founded 'The Rhymers' Club' which for some years was to meet every night in an upper room with a sanded floor in an ancient eating house in the Strand called 'The Cheshire Cheese.' Lionel Johnson, Ernest Dowson, Victor Plarr, Ernest Radford, John Davidson, Richard le Gallienne, T. W. Rolleston, Selwyn Image and two men of an older generation, Edwin Ellis and John Todhunter, came constantly for a time, Arthur Symons and Herbert Home less constantly, while William Watson joined but never came and Francis Thompson came once but never joined; and sometimes, if we met in a private house, which we did occasionally, Oscar Wilde came. It had been useless to invite him to the 'Cheshire Cheese' for he hated Bohemia. 'Olive Schreiner,' he said once to me, 'is staying in the East End because that is the only place where people do not wear masks upon their faces, but I have told her that I live in the West End because nothing in life interests me but the mask.' We read our poems to one another and talked criticism and drank a little wine. I sometimes say when I speak of the club, 'We had such and such ideas, such and such a quarrel with the great Victorians, we set before us such and such aims,' as though we had many philosophical ideas. I say this because I am ashamed to admit that I had these ideas and that whenever I began to talk of them a gloomy silence fell upon the room. A young Irish poet, who wrote excellently but had the worst manners, was to say a few years later, 'You do not talk like a poet, you talk like a man of letters;' and if all the rhymers had not been polite, if most of them had not been to Oxford or Cambridge, they would have said the same thing. I was full of thought, often very abstract thought, longing all the while to be full of images, because I had gone to the art school instead of a university. Yet even if I had gone to a university, and learned all the classical foundations of English literature and English culture, all that great erudition which, once accepted, frees the mind from restlessness, I should have had to give up my Irish subject matter, or attempt to found a new tradition. Lacking sufficient recognised precedent I must needs find out some reason for all I did. I knew almost from the start that to overflow with reasons was to be not quite well-born, and when I could I hid them, as men hide a disagreeable ancestry; and that there was no help for it, seeing that my country was not born at all. I was of those doomed to imperfect achievement, and under a curse, as it were, like some race of birds compelled to spend the time, needed for the making of the nest, in argument as to the convenience of moss and twig and lichen. Le Gallienne and Davidson, and even Symons, were provincial at their setting out, but their provincialism was curable, mine incurable; while the one conviction shared by all the younger men, but principally by Johnson and Horne, who imposed their personalities upon us, was an opposition to all ideas, all generalisations that can be explained and debated. E... fresh from Paris would sometimes say--'We are concerned with nothing but impressions,' but that itself was a generalisation and met but stony silence. Conversation constantly dwindled into 'Do you like so and so's last book?' 'No, I prefer the book before it,' and I think that but for its Irish members, who said whatever came into their heads, the club would not have survived its first difficult months. I knew--now ashamed that I thought 'like a man of letters,' now exasperated at their indifference to the fashion of their own river bed--that Swinburne in one way, Browning in another, and Tennyson in a third, had filled their work with what I called 'impurities,' curiosities about politics, about science, about history, about religion; and that we must create once more the pure work. Our clothes were for the most part unadventurous like our conversation, though I indeed wore a brown velveteen coat, a loose tie and a very old Inverness cape, discarded by my father twenty years before and preserved by my Sligo-born mother whose actions were unreasoning and habitual like the seasons. But no other member of the club, except Le Gallienne, who wore a loose tie, and Symons, who had an Inverness cape that was quite new & almost fashionable, would have shown himself for the world in any costume but 'that of an English gentleman.' 'One should be quite unnoticeable,' Johnson explained to me. Those who conformed most carefully to the fashion in their clothes generally departed furthest from it in their hand-writing, which was small, neat and studied, one poet--which I forget--having founded his upon the handwriting of George Herbert. Dowson and Symons I was to know better in later years when Symons became a very dear friend, and I never got behind John Davidson's Scottish roughness and exasperation, though I saw much of him, but from the first I devoted myself to Lionel Johnson. He and Horne and Image and one or two others shared a man-servant and an old house in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, typical figures of transition, doing as an achievement of learning and of exquisite taste what their predecessors did in careless abundance. All were Pre-Raphaelite, and sometimes one might meet in the rooms of one or other a ragged figure, as of some fallen dynasty, Simeon Solomon, the Pre-Raphaelite painter, once the friend of Rossetti and of Swinburne, but fresh now from some low public house. Condemned to a long term of imprisonment for a criminal offence, he had sunk into drunkenness and misery. Introduced one night, however, to some man who mistook him, in the dim candle light, for another Solomon, a successful academic painter and R. A., he started to his feet in a rage with 'Sir, do you dare to mistake me for that mountebank?' Though not one had harkened to the feeblest caw, or been spattered by the smallest dropping from any Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, Bastien-Lepage bundle of old twigs, I began by suspecting them of lukewarmness, and even backsliding, and I owe it to that suspicion that I never became intimate with Horne, who lived to become the greatest English authority upon Italian life in the fourteenth century and to write the one standard work on Botticelli. Connoisseur in several arts, he had designed a little church in the manner of Inigo Jones for a burial ground near the Marble Arch. Though I now think his little church a masterpiece, its style was more than a century too late to hit my fancy at two or three and twenty; and I accused him of leaning towards that eighteenth century That taught a school Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, Their verses tallied. Another fanaticism delayed my friendship with two men, who are now my friends and in certain matters my chief instructors. Somebody, probably Lionel Johnson, brought me to the studio of Charles Ricketts and Charles Shannon, certainly heirs of the great generation, and the first thing I saw was a Shannon picture of a lady and child arrayed in lace, silk and satin, suggesting that hated century. My eyes were full of some more mythological mother and child and I would have none of it, and I told Shannon that he had not painted a mother and child but elegant people expecting visitors and I thought that a great reproach. Somebody writing in 'The Germ' had said that a picture of a pheasant and an apple was merely a picture of something to eat, and I was so angry with the indifference to subject, which was the commonplace of all art criticism since Bastien-Lepage, that I could at times see nothing else but subject. I thought that, though it might not matter to the man himself whether he loved a white woman or a black, a female pickpocket or a regular communicant of the Church of England, if only he loved strongly, it certainly did matter to his relations and even under some circumstances to his whole neighbourhood. Sometimes indeed, like some father in Moliere, I ignored the lover's feelings altogether and even refused to admit that a trace of the devil, perhaps a trace of colour, may lend piquancy, especially if the connection be not permanent. Among these men, of whom so many of the greatest talents were to live such passionate lives and die such tragic deaths, one serene man, T. W. Rolleston, seemed always out of place. It was I brought him there, intending to set him to some work in Ireland later on. I have known young Dublin working men slip out of their workshop to see 'the second Thomas Davis' passing by, and even remember a conspiracy, by some three or four, to make him 'the leader of the Irish race at home & abroad,' and all because he had regular features; and when all is said, Alexander the Great & Alcibiades were personable men, and the Founder of the Christian religion was the only man who was neither a little too tall nor a little too short but exactly six feet high. We in Ireland thought as do the plays and ballads, not understanding that, from the first moment wherein nature foresaw the birth of Bastien-Lepage, she has only granted great creative power to men whose faces are contorted with extravagance or curiosity or dulled with some protecting stupidity. I had now met all those who were to make the nineties of the last century tragic in the history of literature, but as yet we were all seemingly equal, whether in talent or in luck, and scarce even personalities to one another. I remember saying one night at the Cheshire Cheese, when more poets than usual had come, 'None of us can say who will succeed, or even who has or has not talent. The only thing certain about us is that we are too many.' XVI I have described what image--always opposite to the natural self or the natural world--Wilde, Henley, Morris copied or tried to copy, but I have not said if I found an image for myself. I know very little about myself and much less of that anti-self: probably the woman who cooks my dinner or the woman who sweeps out my study knows more than I. It is perhaps because nature made me a gregarious man, going hither and thither looking for conversation, and ready to deny from fear or favour his dearest conviction, that I love proud and lonely images. When I was a child and went daily to the sexton's daughter for writing lessons, I found one poem in her School Reader that delighted me beyond all others: a fragment of some metrical translation from Aristophanes wherein the birds sing scorn upon mankind. In later years my mind gave itself to gregarious Shelley's dream of a young man, his hair blanched with sorrow studying philosophy in some lonely tower, or of his old man, master of all human knowledge, hidden from human sight in some shell-strewn cavern on the Mediterranean shore. One passage above all ran perpetually in my ears-- Some feign that he is Enoch: others dream He was pre-Adamite, and has survived Cycles of generation and of ruin. The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence, And conquering penance of the mutinous flesh, Deep contemplation and unwearied study, In years outstretched beyond the date of man, May have attained to sovereignty and science Over those strong and secret things and thoughts Which others fear and know not. MAHMUD I would talk With this old Jew. HASSAN Thy will is even now Made known to him where he dwells in a sea-cavern 'Mid the Demonesi, less accessible Than thou or God! He who would question him Must sail alone at sunset where the stream Of ocean sleeps around those foamless isles, When the young moon is westering as now, And evening airs wander upon the wave; And, when the pines of that bee-pasturing isle, Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery shadow Of his gilt prow within the sapphire water, Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud 'Ahasuerus!' and the caverns round Will answer 'Ahasuerus!' If his prayer Be granted, a faint meteor will arise, Lighting him over Marmora; and a wind Will rush out of the sighing pine-forest, And with the wind a storm of harmony Unutterably sweet, and pilot him Through the soft twilight to the Bosphorus: Thence, at the hour and place and circumstance Fit for the matter of their conference, The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who dare Win the desired communion. Already in Dublin, I had been attracted to the Theosophists because they had affirmed the real existence of the Jew, or of his like; and, apart from whatever might have been imagined by Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage, I saw nothing against his reality. Presently having heard that Madame Blavatsky had arrived from France, or from India, I thought it time to look the matter up. Certainly if wisdom existed anywhere in the world it must be in some such lonely mind admitting no duty to us, communing with God only, conceding nothing from fear or favour. Have not all peoples, while bound together in a single mind and taste, believed that such men existed and paid them that honour, or paid it to their mere shadow, which they have refused to philanthropists and to men of learning? I found Madame Blavatsky in a little house at Norwood, with but, as she said, three followers left--the Society of Psychical Research had just reported on her Indian phenomena--and as one of the three followers sat in an outer room to keep out undesirable visitors, I was kept a long time kicking my heels. Presently I was admitted and found an old woman in a plain loose dark dress: a sort of old Irish peasant woman with an air of humour and audacious power. I was still kept waiting, for she was deep in conversation with a woman visitor. I strayed through folding doors into the next room and stood, in sheer idleness of mind, looking at a cuckoo clock. It was certainly stopped, for the weights were off and lying upon the ground, and yet as I stood there the cuckoo came out and cuckooed at me. I interrupted Madame Blavatsky to say. 'Your clock has hooted me.' 'It often hoots at a stranger,' she replied. 'Is there a spirit in it?' I said. 'I do not know,' she said, 'I should have to be alone to know what is in it.' I went back to the clock and began examining it and heard her say 'Do not break my clock.' I wondered if there was some hidden mechanism, and I should have been put out, I suppose, had I found any, though Henley had said to me, 'Of course she gets up fraudulent miracles, but a person of genius has to do something; Sarah Bernhardt sleeps in her coffin.' Presently the visitor went away and Madame Blavatsky explained that she was a propagandist for women's rights who had called to find out 'why men were so bad.' 'What explanation did you give her?' I said. 'That men were born bad but women made themselves so,' and then she explained that I had been kept waiting because she had mistaken me for some man whose name resembled mine and who wanted to persuade her of the flatness of the earth. When I next saw her she had moved into a house at Holland Park, and some time must have passed--probably I had been in Sligo where I returned constantly for long visits--for she was surrounded by followers. She sat nightly before a little table covered with green baize and on this green baize she scribbled constantly with a piece of white chalk. She would scribble symbols, sometimes humorously applied, and sometimes unintelligible figures, but the chalk was intended to mark down her score when she played patience. One saw in the next room a large table where every night her followers and guests, often a great number, sat down to their vegetarian meal, while she encouraged or mocked through the folding doors. A great passionate nature, a sort of female Dr. Johnson, impressive, I think, to every man or woman who had themselves any richness, she seemed impatient of the formalism, of the shrill abstract idealism of those about her, and this impatience broke out in railing & many nicknames: 'O you are a flapdoodle, but then you are a theosophist and a brother. 'The most devout and learned of all her followers said to me, 'H.P.B. has just told me that there is another globe stuck on to this at the north pole, so that the earth has really a shape something like a dumb-bell.' I said, for I knew that her imagination contained all the folklore of the world, 'That must be some piece of Eastern mythology.' 'O no it is not,' he said, 'of that I am certain, and there must be something in it or she would not have said it.' Her mockery was not kept for her followers alone, and her voice would become harsh, and her mockery lose phantasy and humour, when she spoke of what seemed to her scientific materialism. Once I saw this antagonism, guided by some kind of telepathic divination, take a form of brutal phantasy. I brought a very able Dublin woman to see her and this woman had a brother, a physiologist whose reputation, though known to specialists alone, was European; and, because of this brother, a family pride in everything scientific and modern. The Dublin woman scarcely opened her mouth the whole evening and her name was certainly unknown to Madame Blavatsky, yet I saw at once in that wrinkled old face bent over the cards, and the only time I ever saw it there, a personal hostility, the dislike of one woman for another. Madame Blavatsky seemed to bundle herself up, becoming all primeval peasant, and began complaining of her ailments, more especially of her bad leg. But of late her master--her 'old Jew,' her 'Ahasuerus,' cured it, or set it on the way to be cured. 'I was sitting here in my chair,' she said, 'when the master came in and brought something with him which he put over my knee, something warm which enclosed my knee--it was a live dog which he had cut open.' I recognised a cure used sometimes in mediaeval medicine. She had two masters, and their portraits, ideal Indian heads, painted by some most incompetent artist, stood upon either side of the folding doors. One night, when talk was impersonal and general, I sat gazing through the folding doors into the dimly lighted dining-room beyond. I noticed a curious red light shining upon a picture and got up to see where the red light came from. It was the picture of an Indian and as I came near it slowly vanished. When I returned to my seat, Madame Blavatsky said, 'What did you see?' 'A picture,' I said. 'Tell it to go away.' 'It is already gone.' 'So much the better,' she said, 'I was afraid it was medium ship but it is only clairvoyance.' 'What is the difference?' 'If it had been medium ship, it would have stayed in spite of you. Beware of medium ship; it is a kind of madness; I know, for I have been through it.' I found her almost always full of gaiety that, unlike the occasional joking of those about her, was illogical and incalculable and yet always kindly and tolerant. I had called one evening to find her absent, but expected every moment. She had been somewhere at the seaside for her health and arrived with a little suite of followers. She sat down at once in her big chair, and began unfolding a brown paper parcel, while all looked on full of curiosity. It contained a large family Bible. 'This is a present for my maid,' she said. 'What! A Bible and not even anointed!' said some shocked voice. 'Well my children,' was the answer, 'what is the good of giving lemons to those who want oranges?' When I first began to frequent her house, as I soon did very constantly, I noticed a handsome clever woman of the world there, who seemed certainly very much out of place, penitent though she thought herself. Presently there was much scandal and gossip, for the penitent was plainly entangled with two young men, who were expected to grow into ascetic sages. The scandal was so great that Madame Blavatsky had to call the penitent before her and to speak after this fashion, 'We think that it is necessary to crush the animal nature; you should live in chastity in act and thought. Initiation is granted only to those who are entirely chaste,' and so to run on for some time. However, after some minutes in that vehement style, the penitent standing crushed and shamed before her, she had wound up, 'I cannot permit you more than one.' She was quite sincere, but thought that nothing mattered but what happened in the mind, and that if we could not master the mind, our actions were of little importance. One young man filled her with exasperation; for she thought that his settled gloom came from his chastity. I had known him in Dublin, where he had been accustomed to interrupt long periods of asceticism, in which he would eat vegetables and drink water, with brief outbreaks of what he considered the devil. After an outbreak he would for a few hours dazzle the imagination of the members of the local theosophical society with poetical rhapsodies about harlots and street lamps, and then sink into weeks of melancholy. A fellow theosophist once found him hanging from the window pole, but cut him down in the nick of time. I said to the man who cut him down, 'What did you say to one another?' He said, 'We spent the night telling comic stories and laughing a great deal.' This man, torn between sensuality and visionary ambition, was now the most devout of all, and told me that in the middle of the night he could often hear the ringing of the little 'astral bell' whereby Madame Blavatsky's master called her attention, and that, although it was a low silvery sound it made the whole house shake. Another night I found him waiting in the hall to show in those who had the right of entrance on some night when the discussion was private, and as I passed he whispered into my ear, 'Madame Blavatsky is perhaps not a real woman at all. They say that her dead body was found many years ago upon some Russian battlefield.' She had two dominant moods, both of extreme activity, but one calm and philosophic, and this was the mood always on that night in the week, when she answered questions upon her system; and as I look back after thirty years I often ask myself 'Was her speech automatic? Was she for one night, in every week, a trance medium, or in some similar state?' In the other mood she was full of phantasy and inconsequent raillery. 'That is the Greek church, a triangle like all true religion,' I recall her saying, as she chalked out a triangle on the green baize, and then, as she made it disappear in meaningless scribbles 'it spread out and became a bramble-bush like the Church of Rome.' Then rubbing it all out except one straight line, 'Now they have lopped off the branches and turned it into a broomstick arid that is Protestantism.' And so it was, night after night, always varied and unforseen. I have observed a like sudden extreme change in others, half whose thought was supernatural, and Laurence Oliphant records some where or other like observations. I can remember only once finding her in a mood of reverie; something had happened to damp her spirits, some attack upon her movement, or upon herself. She spoke of Balzac, whom she had seen but once, of Alfred de Musset, whom she had known well enough to dislike for his morbidity, and of George Sand whom she had known so well that they had dabbled in magic together of which 'neither knew anything at all' in those days; and she ran on, as if there was nobody there to overhear her, 'I used to wonder at and pity the people who sell their souls to the devil, but now I only pity them. They do it to have somebody on their sides,' and added to that, after some words I have forgotten, 'I write, write, write as the Wandering Jew walks, walks, walks.' Besides the devotees, who came to listen and to turn every doctrine into a new sanction for the puritanical convictions of their Victorian childhood, cranks came from half Europe and from all America, and they came that they might talk. One American said to me, 'She has become the most famous woman in the world by sitting in a big chair and permitting us to talk.' They talked and she played patience, and totted up her score on the green baize, and generally seemed to listen, but sometimes she would listen no more. There was a woman who talked perpetually of 'the divine spark' within her, until Madame Blavatsky stopped her with--'Yes, my dear, you have a divine spark within you, and if you are not very careful you will hear it snore.' A certain Salvation Army captain probably pleased her, for, if vociferous and loud of voice, he had much animation. He had known hardship and spoke of his visions while starving in the streets and he was still perhaps a little light in the head. I wondered what he could preach to ignorant men, his head ablaze with wild mysticism, till I met a man who had heard him talking near Covent Garden to some crowd in the street. 'My friends,' he was saying, 'you have the kingdom of heaven within you and it would take a pretty big pill to get that out.' XVII Meanwhile I had not got any nearer to proving that 'Ahasuerus dwells in a sea-cavern 'mid the Demonesi,' but one conclusion I certainly did come to, which I find written out in an old diary and dated 1887. Madame Blavatsky's 'masters' were 'trance' personalities, but by 'trance personalities' I meant something almost as exciting as 'Ahasuerus' himself. Years before I had found, on a table in the Royal Irish Academy, a pamphlet on Japanese art, and read there of an animal painter so remarkable that horses he had painted upon a temple wall had stepped down after and trampled the neighbouring fields of rice. Somebody had come to the temple in the early morning, been startled by a shower of water drops, looked up and seen a painted horse, still wet from the dew-covered fields, but now 'trembling into stillness.' I thought that her masters were imaginary forms created by suggestion, but whether that suggestion came from Madame Blavatsky's own mind or from some mind, perhaps at a great distance, I did not know; and I believed that these forms could pass from Madame Blavatsky's mind to the minds of others, and even acquire external reality, and that it was even possible that they talked and wrote. They were born in the imagination, where Blake had declared that all men live after death, and where 'every man is king or priest in his own house.' Certainly the house at Holland Park was a romantic place, where one heard of constant apparitions and exchanged speculations like those of the middle ages, and I did not separate myself from it by my own will. The Secretary, an intelligent and friendly man, asked me to come and see him, and when I did, complained that I was causing discussion and disturbance, a certain fanatical hungry face had been noticed red and tearful, & it was quite plain that I was not in full agreement with their method or their philosophy. 'I know,' he said, 'that all these people become dogmatic and fanatical because they believe what they can never prove; that their withdrawal from family life is to them a great misfortune; but what are we to do? We have been told that all spiritual influx into the society will come to an end in 1897 for exactly one hundred years. Before that date our fundamental ideas must be spread through the world.' I knew the doctrine and it had made me wonder why that old woman, or rather 'the trance personalities' who directed her and were her genius, insisted upon it, for influx of some kind there must always be. Did they dread heresy after the death of Madame Blavatsky, or had they no purpose but the greatest possible immediate effort? XVIII At the British Museum reading-room I often saw a man of thirty-six or thirty-seven, in a brown velveteen coat, with a gaunt resolute face, and an athletic body, who seemed before I heard his name, or knew the nature of his studies, a figure of romance. Presently I was introduced, where or by what man or woman I do not remember. He was Macgregor Mathers, the author of the 'Kabbalas Unveiled,' & his studies were two only--magic and the theory of war, for he believed himself a born commander and all but equal in wisdom and in power to that old Jew. He had copied many manuscripts on magic ceremonial and doctrine in the British Museum, and was to copy many more in continental libraries, and it was through him mainly that I began certain studies and experiences that were to convince me that images well up before the mind's eye from a deeper source than conscious or subconscious memory. I believe that his mind in those early days did not belie his face and body, though in later years it became unhinged, for he kept a proud head amid great poverty. One that boxed with him nightly has told me that for many weeks he could knock him down, though Macgregor was the stronger man, and only knew long after that during those weeks Macgregor starved. With him I met an old white-haired Oxfordshire clergyman, the most panic-stricken person I have ever known, though Macgregor's introduction had been 'He unites us to the great adepts of antiquity.' This old man took me aside that he might say--'I hope you never invoke spirits--that is a very dangerous thing to do. I am told that even the planetary spirits turn upon us in the end.' I said, 'Have you ever seen an apparition?' 'O yes, once,' he said. 'I have my alchemical laboratory in a cellar under my house where the Bishop cannot see it. One day I was walking up & down there when I heard another footstep walking up and down beside me. I turned and saw a girl I had been in love with when I was a young man, but she died long ago. She wanted me to kiss her. Oh no, I would not do that.' 'Why not?' I said. 'Oh, she might have got power over me.' 'Has your alchemical research had any success?' I said. 'Yes, I once made the elixir of life. A French alchemist said it had the right smell and the right colour,' (The alchemist may have been Elephas Levi, who visited England in the sixties, & would have said anything) 'but the first effect of the elixir is that your nails fall out and your hair falls off. I was afraid that I might have made a mistake and that nothing else might happen, so I put it away on a shelf. I meant to drink it when I was an old man, but when I got it down the other day it had all dried up.' XIX I generalized a great deal and was ashamed of it. I thought that it was my business in life to bean artist and a poet, and that there could be no business comparable to that. I refused to read books, and even to meet people who excited me to generalization, but all to no purpose. I said my prayers much as in childhood, though without the old regularity of hour and place, and I began to pray that my imagination might somehow be rescued from abstraction, and become as pre-occupied with life as had been the imagination of Chaucer. For ten or twelve years more I suffered continual remorse, and only became content when my abstractions had composed themselves into picture and dramatization. My very remorse helped to spoil my early poetry, giving it an element of sentimentality through my refusal to permit it any share of an intellect which I considered impure. Even in practical life I only very gradually began to use generalizations, that have since become the foundation of all I have done, or shall do, in Ireland. For all I know, all men may have been as timid; for I am persuaded that our intellects at twenty contain all the truths we shall ever find, but as yet we do not know truths that belong to us from opinions caught up in casual irritation or momentary phantasy. As life goes on we discover that certain thoughts sustain us in defeat, or give us victory, whether over ourselves or others, & it is these thoughts, tested by passion, that we call convictions. Among subjective men (in all those, that is, who must spin a web out of their own bowels) the victory is an intellectual daily recreation of all that exterior fate snatches away, and so that fate's antithesis; while what I have called 'The mask' is an emotional antithesis to all that comes out of their internal nature. We begin to live when we have conceived life as a tragedy. XX A conviction that the world was now but a bundle of fragments possessed me without ceasing. I had tried this conviction on 'The Rhymers,' thereby plunging into greater silence an already too silent evening. 'Johnson,' I was accustomed to say, 'you are the only man I know whose silence has beak & claw.' I had lectured on it to some London Irish society, and I was to lecture upon it later on in Dublin, but I never found but one interested man, an official of the Primrose League, who was also an active member of the Fenian Brotherhood. 'I am an extreme conservative apart from Ireland,' I have heard him explain; and I have no doubt that personal experience made him share the sight of any eye that saw the world in fragments. I had been put into a rage by the followers of Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage, who not only asserted the unimportance of subject, whether in art or literature, but the independence of the arts from one another. Upon the other hand I delighted in every age where poet and artist confined themselves gladly to some inherited subject matter known to the whole people, for I thought that in man and race alike there is something called 'unity of being,' using that term as Dante used it when he compared beauty in the _Convito_ to a perfectly proportioned human body. My father, from whom I had learned the term, preferred a comparison to a musical instrument so strong that if we touch a string all the strings murmur faintly. There is not more desire, he had said, in lust than in true love; but in true love desire awakens pity, hope, affection, admiration, and, given appropriate circumstance, every emotion possible to man. When I began, however, to apply this thought to the State and to argue for a law-made balance among trades and occupations, my father displayed at once the violent free-trader and propagandist of liberty. I thought that the enemy of this unity was abstraction, meaning by abstraction not the distinction but the isolation of occupation, or class or faculty-- 'Call down the hawk from the air Let him be hooded, or caged, Till the yellow eye has grown mild, For larder and spit are bare, The old cook enraged, The scullion gone wild.' I knew no mediaeval cathedral, and Westminster, being a part of abhorred London, did not interest me; but I thought constantly of Homer and Dante and the tombs of Mausolus and Artemisa, the great figures of King and Queen and the lesser figures of Greek and Amazon, Centaur and Greek. I thought that all art should be a Centaur finding in the popular lore its back and its strong legs. I got great pleasure too from remembering that Homer was sung, and from that tale of Dante hearing a common man sing some stanza from 'The Divine Comedy,' and from Don Quixote's meeting with some common man that sang Ariosto. Morris had never seemed to care for any poet later than Chaucer; and though I preferred Shakespeare to Chaucer I begrudged my own preference. Had not Europe shared one mind and heart, until both mind and heart began to break into fragments a little before Shakespeare's birth? Music and verse began to fall apart when Chaucer robbed verse of its speed that he might give it greater meditation, though for another generation or so minstrels were to sing his long elaborated 'Troilus and Cressida;' painting parted from religion in the later Renaissance that it might study effects of tangibility undisturbed; while, that it might characterise, where it had once personified, it renounced, in our own age, all that inherited subject matter which we have named poetry. Presently I was indeed to number character itself among the abstractions, encouraged by Congreve's saying that 'passions are too powerful in the fair sex to let humour,' or as we say character, 'have its course.' Nor have we fared better under the common daylight, for pure reason has notoriously made but light of practical reason, and has been made but light of in its turn, from that morning when Descartes discovered that he could think better in his bed than out of it; nor needed I original thought to discover, being so late of the school of Morris, that machinery had not separated from handicraft wholly for the world's good; nor to notice that the distinction of classes had become their isolation. If the London merchants of our day competed together in writing lyrics they would not, like the Tudor merchants, dance in the open street before the house of the victor; nor do the great ladies of London finish their balls on the pavement before their doors as did the great Venetian ladies even in the eighteenth century, conscious of an all enfolding sympathy. Doubtless because fragments broke into even smaller fragments we saw one another in a light of bitter comedy, and in the arts, where now one technical element reigned and now another, generation hated generation, and accomplished beauty was snatched away when it had most engaged our affections. One thing I did not foresee, not having the courage of my own thought--the growing murderousness of the world. Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. XXI The Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, Bastien-Lepage coven asserted that an artist or a poet must paint or write in the style of his own day, and this with 'The Fairy Queen,' and 'Lyrical Ballads,' and Blake's early poems in its ears, and plain to the eyes, in book or gallery, those great masterpieces of later Egypt, founded upon that work of the Ancient Kingdom already further in time from later Egypt than later Egypt is from us. I knew that I could choose my style where I pleased, that no man can deny to the human mind any power, that power once achieved; and yet I did not wish to recover the first simplicity. If I must be but a shepherd building his hut among the ruins of some fallen city, I might take porphyry or shaped marble, if it lay ready to my hand, instead of the baked clay of the first builders. If Chaucer's personages had disengaged themselves from Chaucer's crowd, forgotten their common goal and shrine, and after sundry magnifications become, each in his turn, the centre of some Elizabethan play, and a few years later split into their elements, and so given birth to romantic poetry, I need not reverse the cinematograph. I could take those separated elements, all that abstract love and melancholy, and give them a symbolical or mythological coherence. Not Chaucer's rough-tongued riders, but some procession of the Gods! a pilgrimage no more but perhaps a shrine! Might I not, with health and good luck to aid me, create some new 'Prometheus Unbound,' Patrick or Columbcille, Oisin or Fion, in Prometheus's stead, and, instead of Caucasus, Croagh-Patrick or Ben Bulben? Have not all races had their first unity from a polytheism that marries them to rock and hill? We had in Ireland imaginative stories, which the uneducated classes knew and even sang, and might we not make those stories current among the educated classes, re-discovering for the work's sake what I have called 'the applied arts of literature,' the association of literature, that is, with music, speech and dance; and at last, it might be, so deepen the political passion of the nation that all, artist and poet, craftsman and day labourer would accept a common design? Perhaps even these images, once created and associated with river and mountain, might move of themselves, and with some powerful even turbulent life, like those painted horses that trampled the rice fields of Japan. XXII I used to tell the few friends to whom I could speak these secret thoughts that I would make the attempt in Ireland but fail, for our civilisation, its elements multiplying by divisions like certain low forms of life, was all powerful; but in reality I had the wildest hopes. To-day I add to that first conviction, to that first desire for unity, this other conviction, long a mere opinion vaguely or intermittently apprehended: Nations, races and individual men are unified by an image, or bundle of related images, symbolical or evocative of the state of mind, which is of all states of mind not impossible, the most difficult to that man, race or nation; because only the greatest obstacle that can be contemplated without despair rouses the will to full intensity. A powerful class by terror, rhetoric, and organised sentimentality, may drive their people to war, but the day draws near when they cannot keep them there; and how shall they face the pure nations of the East when the day comes to do it with but equal arms? I had seen Ireland in my own time turn from the bragging rhetoric and gregarious humour of O'Connell's generation and school, and offer herself to the solitary and proud Parnell as to her anti-self, buskin following hard on sock; and I had begun to hope, or to half-hope, that we might be the first in Europe to seek unity as deliberately as it had been sought by theologian, poet, sculptor, architect from the eleventh to the thirteenth century. Doubtless we must seek it differently, no longer considering it convenient to epitomise all human knowledge, but find it we well might, could we first find philosophy and a little passion. XXIII It was the death of Parnell that convinced me that the moment had come for work in Ireland, for I knew that for a time the imagination of young men would turn from politics. There was a little Irish patriotic society of young people, clerks, shop-boys, shop-girls, and the like, called the Southwark Irish Literary Society. It had ceased to meet because each member of the committee had lectured so many times that the girls got the giggles whenever he stood up. I invited the committee to my father's house at Bedford Park and there proposed a new organisation. After a few months spent in founding, with the help of T. W. Rolleston, who came to that first meeting and had a knowledge of committee work I lacked, the Irish Literary Society, which soon included every London Irish author and journalist, I went to Dublin and founded there a similar society. W. B. Yeats. Here ends 'Four Years,' written by William Butler Yeats. Four hundred copies of this book have been printed and published by Elizabeth C. Yeats on paper made in Ireland, at the Cuala Press, Churchtown, Dundrum, in the County of Dublin, Ireland. Finished on All Hallows' Eve, in the year nineteen hundred and twenty one. 
33348	----	REVERIES OVER CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO REVERIES OVER CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK MCMXVI COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1916. Norwood Press J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. To those few people mainly personal friends who have read all that I have written. W. B. Y. Preface Sometimes when I remember a relative that I have been fond of, or a strange incident of the past, I wander here and there till I have somebody to talk to. Presently I notice that my listener is bored; but now that I have written it out, I may even begin to forget it all. In any case, because one can always close a book, my friend need not be bored. I have changed nothing to my knowledge, and yet it must be that I have changed many things without my knowledge, for I am writing after so many years, and have consulted neither friend nor letter nor old newspaper and describe what comes oftenest into my memory. I say this fearing that some surviving friend of my youth may remember something in a different shape and be offended with my book. Christmas Day, 1914. REVERIES OVER CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH My first memories are fragmentary and isolated and contemporaneous, as though one remembered vaguely some early day of the Seven Days. It seems as if time had not yet been created, for all are connected with emotion and place and without sequence. I remember sitting upon somebody's knee, looking out of a window at a wall covered with cracked and falling plaster, but what wall I do not remember, and being told that some relation once lived there. I am looking out of another window in London. It is at Fitzroy Road. Some boys are playing in the road and among them a boy in uniform, a telegraph boy perhaps. When I ask who the boy is, a servant tells me that he is going to blow the town up, and I go to sleep in terror. After that come memories of Sligo, where I live with my grandparents. I am sitting on the ground looking at a mastless toy boat, with the paint rubbed and scratched, and I say to myself in great melancholy, "it is further away than it used to be," and while I am saying it I am looking at a long scratch in the stern, for it is especially the scratch which is further away. Then one day at dinner my great-uncle William Middleton says, "we should not make light of the troubles of children. They are worse than ours, because we can see the end of our trouble and they can never see any end," and I feel grateful for I know that I am very unhappy and have often said to myself, "when you grow up, never talk as grown-up people do of the happiness of childhood." I may have already had the night of misery when, having prayed for several days that I might die, I had begun to be afraid that I was dying and prayed that I might live. There was no reason for my unhappiness. Nobody was unkind, and my grandmother has still after so many years my gratitude and my reverence. The house was so big that there was always a room to hide in, and I had a red pony and a garden where I could wander, and there were two dogs to follow at my heels, one white with some black spots on his head and the other with long black hair all over him. I used to think about God and fancy that I was very wicked, and one day when I threw a stone and hit a duck in the yard by mischance and broke its wing, I was full of wonder when I was told that the duck would be cooked for dinner and that I should not be punished. Some of my misery was loneliness and some of it fear of old William Pollexfen my grandfather. He was never unkind, and I cannot remember that he ever spoke harshly to me, but it was the custom to fear and admire him. He had won the freedom of some Spanish city for saving life, but was so silent that his wife never knew it till he was near eighty, and then from the chance visit of some old sailor. She asked him if it was true and he said it was true, but she knew him too well to question and his old shipmate had left the town. She too had the habit of fear. We knew that he had been in many parts of the world, for there was a great scar on his hand made by a whaling-hook, and in the dining-room was a cabinet with bits of coral in it and a jar of water from the Jordan for the baptising of his children and Chinese pictures upon rice-paper and an ivory walking-stick from India that came to me after his death. He had great physical strength and had the reputation of never ordering a man to do anything he would not do himself. He owned many sailing ships and once, when a captain just come to anchor at Rosses Point reported something wrong with the rudder, had sent a messenger to say "send a man down to find out what's wrong." "The crew all refuse" was the answer. "Go down yourself" was my grandfather's order, and when that was not obeyed, he dived from the main deck, all the neighbourhood lined along the pebbles of the shore. He came up with his skin torn but well informed about the rudder. He had a violent temper and kept a hatchet at his bedside for burglars and would knock a man down instead of going to law, and I once saw him hunt a group of men with a horsewhip. He had no relation for he was an only child, and being solitary and silent, he had few friends. He corresponded with Campbell of Islay who had befriended him and his crew after a shipwreck, and Captain Webb, the first man who had swum the Channel and who was drowned swimming the Niagara Rapids, had been a mate in his employ and became a close friend. That is all the friends I can remember and yet he was so looked up to and admired that when he returned from taking the waters at Bath his men would light bonfires along the railway line for miles, while his partner William Middleton whose father after the great famine had attended the sick for weeks, and taken cholera from a man he carried in his arms into his own house and died of it, and was himself civil to everybody and a cleverer man than my grandfather, came and went without notice. I think I confused my grandfather with God, for I remember in one of my attacks of melancholy praying that he might punish me for my sins, and I was shocked and astonished when a daring little girl--a cousin I think--having waited under a group of trees in the avenue, where she knew he would pass near four o'clock on the way to his dinner, said to him, "if I were you and you were a little girl, I would give you a doll." Yet for all my admiration and alarm, neither I nor anyone else thought it wrong to outwit his violence or his rigour; and his lack of suspicion and a certain helplessness made that easy while it stirred our affection. When I must have been still a very little boy, seven or eight years old perhaps, an uncle called me out of bed one night, to ride the five or six miles to Rosses Point to borrow a railway-pass from a cousin. My grandfather had one, but thought it dishonest to let another use it, but the cousin was not so particular. I was let out through a gate that opened upon a little lane beside the garden away from ear-shot of the house, and rode delighted through the moonlight, and awoke my cousin in the small hours by tapping on his window with a whip. I was home again by two or three in the morning and found the coachman waiting in the little lane. My grandfather would not have thought such an adventure possible, for every night at eight he believed that the stable-yard was locked, and he knew that he was brought the key. Some servant had once got into trouble at night and so he had arranged that they should all be locked in. He never knew, what everybody else in the house knew, that for all the ceremonious bringing of the key the gate was never locked. Even to-day when I read "King Lear" his image is always before me and I often wonder if the delight in passionate men in my plays and in my poetry is more than his memory. He must have been ignorant, though I could not judge him in my childhood, for he had run away to sea when a boy, "gone to sea through the hawse-hole" as he phrased it, and I can but remember him with two books--his Bible and Falconer's "Shipwreck," a little green-covered book that lay always upon his table; he belonged to some younger branch of an old Cornish family. His father had been in the Army, had retired to become an owner of sailing ships, and an engraving of some old family place my grandfather thought should have been his hung next a painted coat of arms in the little back parlour. His mother had been a Wexford woman, and there was a tradition that his family had been linked with Ireland for generations and once had their share in the old Spanish trade with Galway. He had a good deal of pride and disliked his neighbours, whereas his wife, a Middleton, was gentle and patient and did many charities in the little back parlour among frieze coats and shawled heads, and every night when she saw him asleep went the round of the house alone with a candle to make certain there was no burglar in danger of the hatchet. She was a true lover of her garden and before the care of her house had grown upon her, would choose some favourite among her flowers and copy it upon rice-paper. I saw some of her handiwork the other day and I wondered at the delicacy of form and colour and at a handling that may have needed a magnifying glass it was so minute. I can remember no other pictures but the Chinese paintings, and some coloured prints of battles in the Crimea upon the wall of a passage, and the painting of a ship at the passage end darkened by time. My grown-up uncles and aunts, my grandfather's many sons and daughters, came and went, and almost all they said or did has faded from my memory, except a few harsh words that convince me by a vividness out of proportion to their harshness that all were habitually kind and considerate. The youngest of my uncles was stout and humorous and had a tongue of leather over the keyhole of his door to keep the draught out, and another whose bedroom was at the end of a long stone passage had a model turret ship in a glass case. He was a clever man and had designed the Sligo quays, but was now going mad and inventing a vessel of war that could not be sunk, his pamphlet explained, because of a hull of solid wood. Only six months ago my sister awoke dreaming that she held a wingless sea-bird in her arms and presently she heard that he had died in his mad-house, for a sea-bird is the omen that announces the death or danger of a Pollexfen. An uncle, George Pollexfen, afterwards astrologer and mystic, and my dear friend, came but seldom from Ballina, once to a race meeting with two postillions dressed in green; and there was that younger uncle who had sent me for the railway-pass. He was my grandmother's favourite, and had, the servants told me, been sent away from school for taking a crowbar to a bully. I can only remember my grandmother punishing me once. I was playing in the kitchen and a servant in horseplay pulled my shirt out of my trousers in front just as my grandmother came in and I, accused of I knew not what childish indecency, was given my dinner in a room by myself. But I was always afraid of my uncles and aunts, and once the uncle who had taken the crowbar to the bully found me eating lunch which my grandmother had given me and reproved me for it and made me ashamed. We breakfasted at nine and dined at four and it was considered self-indulgent to eat anything between meals; and once an aunt told me that I had reined in my pony and struck it at the same moment that I might show it off as I rode through the town, and I, because I had been accused of what I thought a very dark crime, had a night of misery. Indeed I remember little of childhood but its pain. I have grown happier with every year of life as though gradually conquering something in myself, for certainly my miseries were not made by others but were a part of my own mind. II One day someone spoke to me of the voice of the conscience, and as I brooded over the phrase I came to think that my soul, because I did not hear an articulate voice, was lost. I had some wretched days until being alone with one of my aunts I heard a whisper in my ear, "what a tease you are!" At first I thought my aunt must have spoken, but when I found she had not, I concluded it was the voice of my conscience and was happy again. From that day the voice has come to me at moments of crisis, but now it is a voice in my head that is sudden and startling. It does not tell me what to do, but often reproves me. It will say perhaps, "that is unjust" of some thought; and once when I complained that a prayer had not been heard, it said, "you have been helped." I had a little flagstaff in front of the house and a red flag with the Union Jack in the corner. Every night I pulled my flag down and folded it up and laid it on a shelf in my bedroom, and one morning before breakfast I found it, though I knew I had folded it up the night before, knotted round the bottom of the flagstaff so that it was touching the grass. I must have heard the servants talking of the faeries for I concluded at once that a faery had tied those four knots and from that on believed that one had whispered in my ear. I have been told, though I do not remember it myself, that I saw, whether once or many times I do not know, a supernatural bird in the corner of the room. Once too I was driving with my grandmother a little after dark close to the Channel that runs for some five miles from Sligo to the sea, and my grandmother showed me the red light of an outward-bound steamer and told me that my grandfather was on board, and that night in my sleep I screamed out and described the steamer's wreck. The next morning my grandfather arrived on a blind horse found for him by grateful passengers. He had, as I remember the story, been asleep when the captain aroused him to say they were going on the rocks. He said, "have you tried sail on her?" and judging from some answer that the captain was demoralised took over the command and, when the ship could not be saved, got the crew and passengers into the boats. His own boat was upset and he saved himself and some others by swimming; some women had drifted ashore, buoyed up by their crinolines. "I was not so much afraid of the sea as of that terrible man with his oar," was the comment of a schoolmaster who was among the survivors. Eight men were, however, drowned and my grandfather suffered from that memory at intervals all his life, and if asked to read family prayers never read anything but the shipwreck of St. Paul. I remember the dogs more clearly than anyone except my grandfather and grandmother. The black hairy one had no tail because it had been sliced off, if I was told the truth, by a railway train. I think I followed at their heels more than they did at mine, and that their journeys ended at a rabbit-warren behind the garden; and sometimes they had savage fights, the black hairy dog, being well protected by its hair, suffering least. I can remember one so savage that the white dog would not take his teeth out of the black dog's hair till the coachman hung them over the side of a water-butt, one outside and one in the water. My grandmother once told the coachman to cut the hair like a lion's hair and, after a long consultation with the stable-boy, he cut it all over the head and shoulders and left it on the lower part of the body. The dog disappeared for a few days and I did not doubt that its heart was broken. There was a large garden behind the house full of apple-trees with flower-beds and grass-plots in the centre and two figure-heads of ships, one among the strawberry plants under a wall covered with fruit trees and one among the flowers. The one among the flowers was a white lady in flowing robes, while the other, a stalwart man in uniform, had been taken from a three-masted ship of my grandfather's called "The Russia," and there was a belief among the servants that the stalwart man represented the Tsar and had been presented by the Tsar himself. The avenue, or as they say in England the drive, that went from the hall door through a clump of big trees to an insignificant gate and a road bordered by broken and dirty cottages, was but two or three hundred yards, and I often thought it should have been made to wind more, for I judged people's social importance mainly by the length of their avenues. This idea may have come from the stable-boy, for he was my principal friend. He had a book of Orange rhymes, and the days when we read them together in the hay-loft gave me the pleasure of rhyme for the first time. Later on I can remember being told, when there was a rumour of a Fenian rising, that rifles had been served out to the Orangemen and presently, when I had begun to dream of my future life, I thought I would like to die fighting the Fenians. I was to build a very fast and beautiful ship and to have under my command a company of young men who were always to be in training like athletes and so become as brave and handsome as the young men in the story-books, and there was to be a big battle on the sea-shore near Rosses and I was to be killed. I collected little pieces of wood and piled them up in a corner of the yard, and there was an old rotten log in a distant field I often went to look at because I thought it would go a long way in the making of the ship. All my dreams were of ships; and one day a sea captain who had come to dine with my grandfather put a hand on each side of my head and lifted me up to show me Africa, and another day a sea captain pointed to the smoke from the Pern mill on the quays rising up beyond the trees of the lawn, as though it came from the mountain, and asked me if Ben Bulben was a burning mountain. Once every few months I used to go to Rosses Point or Ballisodare to see another little boy, who had a piebald pony that had once been in a circus and sometimes forgot where it was and went round and round. He was George Middleton, son of my great-uncle William Middleton. Old Middleton had bought land, then believed a safe investment, at Ballisodare and at Rosses, and spent the winter at Ballisodare and the summer at Rosses. The Middleton and Pollexfen flour mills were at Ballisodare, and a great salmon weir, rapids and a waterfall, but it was more often at Rosses that I saw my cousin. We rowed in the river mouth or were taken sailing in a heavy slow schooner yacht or in a big ship's boat that had been rigged and decked. There were great cellars under the house, for it had been a smuggler's house a hundred years before, and sometimes three loud raps would come upon the drawing room window at sun-down, setting all the dogs barking, some dead smuggler giving his accustomed signal. One night I heard them very distinctly and my cousins often heard them, and later on my sister. A pilot had told me that, after dreaming three times of a treasure buried in my uncle's garden, he had climbed the wall in the middle of the night and begun to dig but grew disheartened "because there was so much earth." I told somebody what he had said and was told that it was well he did not find it for it was guarded by a spirit that looked like a flat iron. At Ballisodare there was a cleft among the rocks that I passed with terror because I believed that a murderous monster lived there that made a buzzing sound like a bee. It was through the Middletons perhaps that I got my interest in country stories and certainly the first faery stories that I heard were in the cottages about their houses. The Middletons took the nearest for friends and were always in and out of the cottages of pilots and of tenants. They were practical, always doing something with their hands, making boats, feeding chickens, and without ambition. One of them had designed a steamer many years before my birth and long after I had grown to manhood one could hear it--it had some sort of obsolete engine--many miles off wheezing in the Channel like an asthmatic person. It had been built on the lake and dragged through the town by many horses, stopping before the windows where my mother was learning her lessons, and plunging the whole school into candle-light for five days, and was still patched and repatched mainly because it was believed to be a bringer of good luck. It had been called after the betrothed of its builder "Janet," long corrupted into the more familiar "Jennet," and the betrothed died in my youth having passed her eightieth year and been her husband's plague because of the violence of her temper. Another who was but a year or two older than myself used to shock me by running after hens to know by their feel if they were on the point of dropping an egg. They let their houses decay and the glass fall from the windows of their greenhouses, but one among them at any rate had the second sight. They were liked but had not the pride and reserve, the sense of decorum and order, the instinctive playing before themselves that belongs to those who strike the popular imagination. Sometimes my grandmother would bring me to see some old Sligo gentlewoman whose garden ran down to the river, ending there in a low wall full of wallflowers, and I would sit up upon my chair, very bored, while my elders ate their seed-cake and drank their sherry. My walks with the servants were more interesting; sometimes we would pass a little fat girl and a servant persuaded me to write her a love-letter, and the next time she passed she put her tongue out. But it was the servant's stories that interested me. At such and such a corner a man had got a shilling from a drill sergeant by standing in a barrel and had then rolled out of it and shown his crippled legs. And in such and such a house an old woman had hid herself under the bed of her guests, an officer and his wife, and on hearing them abuse her, beaten them with a broomstick. All the well-known families had their grotesque or tragic or romantic legends, and I often said to myself how terrible it would be to go away and die where nobody would know my story. Years afterwards, when I was ten or twelve years old and in London, I would remember Sligo with tears, and when I began to write, it was there I hoped to find my audience. Next to Merville where I lived, was another tree-surrounded house where I sometimes went to see a little boy who stayed there occasionally with his grandmother, whose name I forget and who seemed to me kind and friendly, though when I went to see her in my thirteenth or fourteenth year I discovered that she only cared for very little boys. When the visitors called I hid in the hay-loft and lay hidden behind the great heap of hay while a servant was calling my name in the yard. I do not know how old I was (for all these events seem at the same distance) when I was made drunk. I had been out yachting with an uncle and my cousins and it had come on very rough. I had lain on deck between the mast and the bowsprit and a wave had burst over me and I had seen green water over my head. I was very proud and very wet. When we got into Rosses again, I was dressed up in an older boy's clothes so that the trousers came down below my boots and a pilot gave me a little raw whiskey. I drove home with the uncle on an outside car and was so pleased with the strange state in which I found myself that for all my uncle could do, I cried to every passer-by that I was drunk, and went on crying it through the town and everywhere until I was put to bed by my grandmother and given something to drink that tasted of black currants and so fell asleep. III Some six miles off towards Ben Bulben and beyond the Channel, as we call the tidal river between Sligo and the Rosses, and on top of a hill there was a little square two-storeyed house covered with creepers and looking out upon a garden where the box borders were larger than any I had ever seen, and where I saw for the first time the crimson streak of the gladiolus and awaited its blossom with excitement. Under one gable a dark thicket of small trees made a shut-in mysterious place, where one played and believed that something was going to happen. My great-aunt Micky lived there. Micky was not her right name for she was Mary Yeats and her father had been my great-grandfather, John Yeats, who had been Rector of Drumcliffe, a few miles further off, and died in 1847. She was a spare, high-coloured, elderly woman and had the oldest looking cat I had ever seen, for its hair had grown into matted locks of yellowy white. She farmed and had one old man-servant, but could not have farmed at all, had not neighbouring farmers helped to gather in the crops, in return for the loan of her farm implements and "out of respect for the family," for as Johnny MacGurk, the Sligo barber said to me, "the Yeats's were always very respectable." She was full of family history; all her dinner knives were pointed like daggers through much cleaning, and there was a little James the First cream-jug with the Yeats motto and crest, and on her dining-room mantle-piece a beautiful silver cup that had belonged to my great-great-grandfather, who had married a certain Mary Butler. It had upon it the Butler crest and had been already old at the date 1534, when the initials of some bride and bridegroom were engraved under the lip. All its history for generations was rolled up inside it upon a piece of paper yellow with age, until some caller took the paper to light his pipe. Another family of Yeats, a widow and her two children on whom I called sometimes with my grandmother, lived near in a long low cottage, and owned a very fierce turkeycock that did battle with their visitors; and some miles away lived the secretary to the Grand Jury and Land Agent, my great-uncle Mat Yeats and his big family of boys and girls; but I think it was only in later years that I came to know them well. I do not think any of these liked the Pollexfens, who were well off and seemed to them purse-proud, whereas they themselves had come down in the world. I remember them as very well-bred and very religious in the Evangelical way and thinking a good deal of Aunt Micky's old histories. There had been among our ancestors a Kings County soldier, one of Marlborough's generals, and when his nephew came to dine he gave him boiled pork, and when the nephew said he disliked boiled pork he had asked him to dine again and promised him something he would like better. However, he gave him boiled pork again and the nephew took the hint in silence. The other day as I was coming home from America, I met one of his descendants whose family has not another discoverable link with ours, and he too knew the boiled pork story and nothing else. We have the General's portrait, and he looks very fine in his armour and his long curly wig, and underneath it, after his name, are many honours that have left no tradition among us. Were we country people, we could have summarised his life in a legend. Another ancestor or great-uncle had chased the United Irishmen for a fortnight, fallen into their hands and been hanged, and the notorious Major Sirr who betrayed the brothers Shears, taking their children upon his knees to question them, if the tale does not lie, had been god-father to several of my great-great-grandfather's children; while to make a balance, my great-grandfather had been Robert Emmett's friend and been suspected and imprisoned though but for a few hours. A great-uncle had been Governor of Penang, and led the forlorn hope at the taking of Rangoon, and an uncle of a still older generation had fallen at New Orleans in 1813, and even in the last generation there had been lives of some power and pleasure. An old man who had entertained many famous people, in his 18th century house, where battlement and tower showed the influence of Horace Walpole, had but lately, after losing all his money, drowned himself, first taking off his rings and chain and watch as became a collector of many beautiful things; and once to remind us of more passionate life, a gun-boat put into Rosses, commanded by the illegitimate son of some great-uncle or other. Now that I can look at their miniatures, turning them over to find the name of soldier, or lawyer, or Castle official, and wondering if they cared for good books or good music, I am delighted with all that joins my life to those who had power in Ireland or with those anywhere that were good servants and poor bargainers, but I cared nothing as a child for Micky's tales. I could see my grandfather's ships come up the bay or the river, and his sailors treated me with deference, and a ship's carpenter made and mended my toy boats and I thought that nobody could be so important as my grandfather. Perhaps, too, it is only now that I can value those more gentle natures so unlike his passion and violence. An old Sligo priest has told me how my great-grandfather John Yeats always went into his kitchen rattling the keys, so much did he fear finding some one doing wrong, and how when the agent of the great landowner of his parish brought him from cottage to cottage to bid the women send their children to the Protestant school and all had promised till they came to one who cried, "child of mine will never darken your door," he had said "thank you, my woman, you are the first honest woman I have met to-day." My uncle, Mat Yeats, the Land Agent, had once waited up every night for a week to catch some boys who stole his apples and when he caught them had given them sixpence and told them not to do it again. Perhaps it is only fancy or the softening touch of the miniaturist that makes me discover in their faces some courtesy and much gentleness. Two 18th century faces interest me the most, one that of a great-great-grandfather, for both have under their powdered curling wigs a half-feminine charm, and as I look at them I discover a something clumsy and heavy in myself. Yet it was a Yeats who spoke the only eulogy that turns my head. "We have ideas and no passions, but by marriage with a Pollexfen we have given a tongue to the sea cliffs." Among the miniatures there is a larger picture, an admirable drawing by I know not what master, that is too harsh and merry for its company. He was a connection and close friend of my great-grandmother Corbet, and though we spoke of him as "Uncle Beattie" in our childhood, no blood relation. My great-grandmother who died at ninety-three had many memories of him. He was the friend of Goldsmith & was accustomed to boast, clergyman though he was, that he belonged to a hunt-club of which every member but himself had been hanged or transported for treason, and that it was not possible to ask him a question he could not reply to with a perfectly appropriate blasphemy or indecency. IV Because I had found it hard to attend to anything less interesting than my thoughts, I was difficult to teach. Several of my uncles and aunts had tried to teach me to read, and because they could not, and because I was much older than children who read easily, had come to think, as I have learnt since, that I had not all my faculties. But for an accident they might have thought it for a long time. My father was staying in the house and never went to church, and that gave me the courage to refuse to set out one Sunday morning. I was often devout, my eyes filling with tears at the thought of God and of my own sins, but I hated church. My grandmother tried to teach me to put my toes first to the ground because I suppose I stumped on my heels and that took my pleasure out of the way there. Later on when I had learnt to read I took pleasure in the words of the hymn, but never understood why the choir took three times as long as I did in getting to the end; and the part of the service I liked, the sermon and passages of the Apocalypse and Ecclesiastes, were no compensation for all the repetitions and for the fatigue of so much standing. My father said if I would not go to church he would teach me to read. I think now that he wanted to make me go for my grandmother's sake and could think of no other way. He was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head, and next Sunday I decided to go to church. My father had, however, got interested in teaching me, and only shifted the lesson to a week-day till he had conquered my wandering mind. My first clear image of him was fixed on my imagination, I believe, but a few days before the first lesson. He had just arrived from London and was walking up and down the nursery floor. He had a very black beard and hair, and one cheek bulged out with a fig that was there to draw the pain out of a bad tooth. One of the nurses (a nurse had come from London with my brothers and sisters) said to the other that a live frog, she had heard, was best of all. Then I was sent to a dame school kept by an old woman who stood us in rows and had a long stick like a billiard cue to get at the back rows. My father was still at Sligo when I came back from my first lesson and asked me what I had been taught. I said I had been taught to sing, and he said, "sing then" and I sang "Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean, And the pleasant land" high up in my head. So my father wrote to the old woman that I was never to be taught to sing again, and afterwards other teachers were told the same thing. Presently my eldest sister came on a long visit and she and I went to a little two-storeyed house in a poor street where an old gentlewoman taught us spelling and grammar. When we had learned our lesson well, we were allowed to look at a sword presented to her father who had led troops in India or China and to spell out a long complimentary inscription on the silver scabbard. As we walked to her house or home again we held a large umbrella before us, both gripping the handle and guiding ourselves by looking out of a round hole gnawed in the cover by a mouse. When I had got beyond books of one syllable, I began to spend my time in a room called the Library, though there were no books in it that I can remember except some old novels I never opened and a many volumed encyclopaedia published towards the end of the 18th century. I read this encyclopaedia a great deal and can remember a long passage considering whether fossil wood despite its appearance might not be only a curiously shaped stone. My father's unbelief had set me thinking about the evidences of religion and I weighed the matter perpetually with great anxiety, for I did not think I could live without religion. All my religious emotions were, I think, connected with clouds and cloudy glimpses of luminous sky, perhaps because of some bible picture of God's speaking to Abraham or the like. At least I can remember the sight moving me to tears. One day I got a decisive argument for belief. A cow was about to calve, and I went to the field where the cow was with some farm-hands who carried a lantern, and next day I heard that the cow had calved in the early morning. I asked everybody how calves were born, and because nobody would tell me, made up my mind that nobody knew. They were the gift of God, that much was certain, but it was plain that nobody had ever dared to see them come, and children must come in the same way. I made up my mind that when I was a man I would wait up till calf or child had come. I was certain there would be a cloud and a burst of light and God would bring the calf in the cloud out of the light. That thought made me content until a boy of twelve or thirteen, who had come on a visit for the day, sat beside me in a hay-loft and explained all the mechanism of sex. He had learnt all about it from an elder boy whose pathic he was (to use a term he would not have understood) and his description, given, as I can see now, as if he were telling of any other fact of physical life, made me miserable for weeks. After the first impression wore off, I began to doubt if he had spoken truth, but one day I discovered a passage in the encyclopaedia, though I only partly understood its long words, that confirmed what he had said. I did not know enough to be shocked at his relation to the elder boy, but it was the first breaking of the dream of childhood. My realization of death came when my father and mother and my two brothers and my two sisters were on a visit. I was in the Library when I heard feet running past and heard somebody say in the passage that my younger brother, Robert, had died. He had been ill for some days. A little later my sister and I sat at the table, very happy, drawing ships with their flags half-mast high. We must have heard or seen that the ships in the harbour had their flags at half-mast. Next day at breakfast I heard people telling how my mother and the servant had heard the banshee crying the night before he died. It must have been after this that I told my grandmother I did not want to go with her when she went to see old bed-ridden people because they would soon die. V At length when I was eight or nine an aunt said to me, "you are going to London. Here you are somebody. There you will be nobody at all." I knew at the time that her words were a blow at my father, not at me, but it was some years before I knew her reason. She thought so able a man as my father could have found out some way of painting more popular pictures if he had set his mind to it and that it was wrong of him "to spend every evening at his club." She had mistaken, for what she would have considered a place of wantonness, Heatherley's Art School. My mother and brother and sister were at Sligo perhaps when I was sent to England, for my father and I and a group of landscape painters lodged at Burnham Beeches with an old Mr. and Mrs. Earle. My father was painting the first big pond you come to if you have driven from Slough through Farnham Royal. He began it in spring and painted all through the year, the picture changing with the seasons, and gave it up unfinished when he had painted the snow upon the heath-covered banks. He is never satisfied and can never make himself say that any picture is finished. In the evening he heard me my lessons or read me some novel of Fenimore Cooper's. I found delightful adventures in the woods--one day a blind worm and an adder fighting in a green hollow, and sometimes Mrs. Earle would be afraid to tidy the room because I had put a bottle full of newts on the mantle-piece. Now and then a boy from a farm on the other side of the road threw a pebble at my window at daybreak, and he and I went fishing in the big second pond. Now and then another farmer's boy and I shot sparrows with an old pepper box revolver and the boy would roast them on a string. There was an old horse one of the painters called the scaffolding, and sometimes a son of old Earle's drove with me to Slough and once to Windsor, and at Windsor we made our lunch of cold sausages bought from a public house. I did not know what it was to be alone, for I could wander in pleasant alarm through the enclosed parts, then very large, or round some pond imagining ships going in and out among the reeds and thinking of Sligo or of strange seafaring adventures in the fine ship I should launch when I grew up. I had always a lesson to learn before night and that was a continual misery, for I could very rarely, with so much to remember, set my thoughts upon it and then only in fear. One day my father told me that a painter had said I was very thick-skinned and did not mind what was said to me, and I could not understand how anybody could be so unjust. It made me wretched to be idle but one could not help it. I was once surprised and shocked. All but my father and myself had been to London, and Kennedy and Farrar and Page, I remember the names vaguely, arrived laughing and talking. One of them had carried off a card of texts from the waiting room of the station and hung it up on the wall. I thought "he has stolen it," but my father and all made it a theme of merry conversation. Then I returned to Sligo for a few weeks as I was to do once or twice in every year for years, and after that we settled in London. Perhaps my mother and the other children had been there all the time, for I remember my father now and again going to London. The first house we lived in was close to Burne Jones's house at North End, but we moved after a year or two to Bedford Park. At North End we had a pear tree in the garden and plenty of pears, but the pears used to be full of maggots, and almost opposite lived a school-master called O'Neill, and when a little boy told me that the school-master's great-grandfather had been a king I did not doubt it. I was sitting against the hedge and iron railing of some villa-garden there, when I heard one boy say to another it was something wrong with my liver that gave me such a dark complexion and that I could not live more than a year. I said to myself a year is a very long time, one can do such a lot of things in a year, and put it out of my head. When my father gave me a holiday and later when I had a holiday from school I took my schooner boat to the round pond, sailing it very commonly against the two cutter yachts of an old naval officer. He would sometimes look at the ducks and say, "I would like to take that fellow home for my dinner," and he sang me a sailor's song about a coffin ship which left Sligo after the great famine, that made me feel very important. The servants at Sligo had told me the story. When she was moved from the berth she had lain in, an unknown dead man's body had floated up, a very evil omen; and my grandfather, who was Lloyds' agent, had condemned her, but she slipped out in the night. The pond had its own legends; and a boy who had seen a certain model steamer "burned to the water's edge" was greatly valued as a friend. There was a little boy I was kind to because I knew his father had done something disgraceful, though I did not know what. It was years before I discovered that his father was but the maker of certain popular statues, many of which are now in public places. I had heard my father's friends speak of him. Sometimes my sister came with me, and we would look into all the sweet shops & toy shops on our way home, especially into one opposite Holland House because there was a cutter yacht made of sugar in the window, and we drank at all the fountains. Once a stranger spoke to us and bought us sweets and came with us almost to our door. We asked him to come in and told him our father's name. He would not come in, but laughed and said, "Oh, that is the painter who scrapes out every day what he painted the day before." A poignant memory came upon me the other day while I was passing the drinking-fountain near Holland Park, for there I and my sister had spoken together of our longing for Sligo and our hatred of London. I know we were both very close to tears and remember with wonder, for I had never known anyone that cared for such momentoes, that I longed for a sod of earth from some field I knew, something of Sligo to hold in my hand. It was some old race instinct like that of a savage, for we had been brought up to laugh at all display of emotion. Yet it was our mother, who would have thought its display a vulgarity, who kept alive that love. She would spend hours listening to stories or telling stories of the pilots and fishing people of Rosses Point, or of her own Sligo girlhood, and it was always assumed between her and us that Sligo was more beautiful than other places. I can see now that she had great depth of feeling, that she was her father's daughter. My memory of what she was like in those days has grown very dim, but I think her sense of personality, her desire of any life of her own, had disappeared in her care for us and in much anxiety about money. I always see her sewing or knitting in spectacles and wearing some plain dress. Yet ten years ago when I was in San Francisco, an old cripple came to see me who had left Sligo before her marriage; he came to tell me, he said, that my mother "had been the most beautiful girl in Sligo." [Illustration: _Mrs. Yeats from a drawing by J. B. Yeats made in 1867_] The only lessons I had ever learned were those my father taught me, for he terrified me by descriptions of my moral degradation and he humiliated me by my likeness to disagreeable people; but presently I was sent to school at Hammersmith. It was a Gothic building of yellow brick: a large hall full of desks, some small class-rooms and a separate house for boarders, all built perhaps in 1840 or 1850. I thought it an ancient building and that it had belonged to the founder of the school, Lord Godolphin, who was romantic to me because there was a novel about him. I never read the novel, but I thought only romantic people were put in books. On one side, there was a piano factory of yellow brick, upon two sides half finished rows of little shops and villas all yellow brick, and on the fourth side, outside the wall of our playing field, a brickfield of cinders and piles of half-burned yellow bricks. All the names and faces of my school-fellows have faded from me except one name without a face and the face and name of one friend, mainly no doubt because it was all so long ago, but partly because I only seem to remember things that have mixed themselves up with scenes that have some quality to bring them again and again before the memory. For some days, as I walked homeward along the Hammersmith Road, I told myself that whatever I most cared for had been taken away. I had found a small, green-covered book given to my father by a Dublin man of science; it gave an account of the strange sea creatures the man of science had discovered among the rocks at Howth or dredged out of Dublin Bay. It had long been my favourite book; and when I read it I believed that I was growing very wise, but now I should have no time for it nor for my own thoughts. Every moment would be taken up learning or saying lessons or walking between school and home four times a day, for I came home in the middle of the day for dinner. But presently I forgot my trouble, absorbed in two things I had never known, companionship and enmity. After my first day's lesson, a circle of boys had got around me in a playing field and asked me questions, "who's your father?" "what does he do?" "how much money has he?" Presently a boy said something insulting. I had never struck anybody or been struck, and now all in a minute, without any intention upon my side, but as if I had been a doll moved by a string, I was hitting at the boys within reach and being hit. After that I was called names for being Irish, and had many fights and never, for years, got the better of any one of them; for I was delicate and had no muscles. Sometimes, however, I found means of retaliation, even of aggression. There was a boy with a big stride, much feared by little boys, and finding him alone in the playing field, I went up to him and said, "rise upon Sugaun and sink upon Gad." "What does that mean?" he said. "Rise upon hay-leg and sink upon straw," I answered and told him that in Ireland the sergeant tied straw and hay to the ankles of a stupid recruit to show him the difference between his legs. My ears were boxed, and when I complained to my friends, they said I had brought it upon myself; and that I deserved all I got. I probably dared myself to other feats of a like sort, for I did not think English people intelligent or well-behaved unless they were artists. Everyone I knew well in Sligo despised Nationalists and Catholics, but all disliked England with a prejudice that had come down perhaps from the days of the Irish Parliament. I knew stories to the discredit of England, and took them all seriously. My mother had met some English woman who did not like Dublin because the legs of the men were too straight, and at Sligo, as everybody knew, an Englishman had once said to a car-driver, "if you people were not so lazy, you would pull down the mountain and spread it out over the sand and that would give you acres of good fields." At Sligo there is a wide river mouth and at ebb tide most of it is dry sand, but all Sligo knew that in some way I cannot remember it was the spreading of the tide over the sand that left the narrow channel fit for shipping. At any rate the carman had gone chuckling all over Sligo with his tale. People would tell it to prove that Englishmen were always grumbling. "They grumble about their dinners and everything--there was an Englishman who wanted to pull down Knock-na-Rea" and so on. My mother had shown them to me kissing at railway stations, and taught me to feel disgust at their lack of reserve, and my father told how my grandfather, William Yeats, who had died before I was born, when he came home to his Rectory in County Down from an English visit, spoke of some man he had met on a coach road who "Englishman-like" told him all his affairs. My father explained that an Englishman generally believed that his private affairs did him credit, while an Irishman, being poor and probably in debt, had no such confidence. I, however, did not believe in this explanation. My Sligo nurses, who had in all likelihood the Irish Catholic political hatred, had never spoken well of any Englishman. Once when walking in the town of Sligo I had turned to look after an English man and woman whose clothes attracted me. The man I remember had gray clothes and knee-breeches and the woman a gray dress, and my nurse had said contemptuously, "towrows." Perhaps before my time, there had been some English song with the burden "tow row row," and everybody had told me that English people ate skates and even dog-fish, and I myself had only just arrived in England when I saw an old man put marmalade in his porridge. I was divided from all those boys, not merely by the anecdotes that are everywhere perhaps a chief expression of the distrust of races, but because our mental images were different. I read their boys' books and they excited me, but if I read of some English victory, I did not believe that I read of my own people. They thought of Cressy and Agincourt and the Union Jack and were all very patriotic, and I, without those memories of Limerick and the Yellow Ford that would have strengthened an Irish Catholic, thought of mountain and lake, of my grandfather and of ships. Anti-Irish feeling was running high, for the Land League had been founded and landlords had been shot, and I, who had no politics, was yet full of pride, for it is romantic to live in a dangerous country. I daresay I thought the rough manners of a cheap school, as my grandfather Yeats had those of a chance companion, typical of all England. At any rate I had a harassed life & got many a black eye and had many outbursts of grief and rage. Once a boy, the son of a great Bohemian glass-maker, and who was older than the rest of us, and had been sent out of his country because of a love affair, beat a boy for me because we were "both foreigners." And a boy, who grew to be the school athlete and my chief friend, beat a great many. His are the face and name that I remember--his name was of Huguenot origin and his face like his gaunt and lithe body had something of the American Indian in colour and lineament. I was very much afraid of the other boys, and that made me doubt myself for the first time. When I had gathered pieces of wood in the corner for my great ship, I was confident that I could keep calm among the storms and die fighting when the great battle came. But now I was ashamed of my lack of courage; for I wanted to be like my grandfather who thought so little of danger that he had jumped overboard in the Bay of Biscay after an old hat. I was very much afraid of physical pain, and one day when I had made some noise in class, my friend the athlete was accused and I allowed him to get two strokes of the cane before I gave myself up. He had held out his hands without flinching and had not rubbed them on his sides afterwards. I was not caned, but was made to stand up for the rest of the lesson. I suffered very much afterwards when the thought came to me, but he did not reproach me. I had been some years at school before I had my last fight. My friend, the athlete, had given me many months of peace, but at last refused to beat any more and said I must learn to box, and not go near the other boys till I knew how. I went home with him every day and boxed in his room, and the bouts had always the same ending. My excitability gave me an advantage at first and I would drive him across the room, and then he would drive me across and it would end very commonly with my nose bleeding. One day his father, an elderly banker, brought us out into the garden and tried to make us box in a cold-blooded, courteous way, but it was no use. At last he said I might go near the boys again and I was no sooner inside the gate of the playing field than a boy flung a handful of mud and cried out "mad Irishman." I hit him several times on the face without being hit, till the boys round said we should make friends. I held out my hand in fear; for I knew if we went on I should be beaten, and he took it sullenly. I had so poor a reputation as a fighter that it was a great disgrace to him, and even the masters made fun of his swollen face; and though some little boys came in a deputation to ask me to lick a boy they named, I had never another fight with a school-fellow. We had a great many fights with the street boys and the boys of a neighbouring charity school. We had always the better because we were not allowed to fling stones, and that compelled us to close or do our best to close. The monitors had been told to report any boy who fought in the street, but they only reported those who flung stones. I always ran at the athlete's heels, but I never hit anyone. My father considered these fights absurd, and even that they were an English absurdity, and so I could not get angry enough to like hitting and being hit; and then too my friend drove the enemy before him. He had no doubts or speculations to lighten his fist upon an enemy, that, being of low behaviour, should be beaten as often as possible, and there were real wrongs to avenge: one of our boys had been killed by the blow of a stone hid in a snowball. Sometimes we on our side got into trouble with the parents of boys. There was a quarrel between the athlete and an old German who had a barber's shop we passed every day on our way home, and one day he spat through the window and hit the German on his bald head--the monitors had not forbidden spitting. The German ran after us, but when the athlete squared up he went away. Now, though I knew it was not right to spit at people, my admiration for my friend arose to a great height. I spread his fame over the school, and next day there was a fine stir when somebody saw the old German going up the gravel walk to the head-master's room. Presently there was such a noise in the passage that even the master had to listen. It was the head-master's red-haired brother turning the old German out and shouting to the man-servant "see that he doesn't steal the top-coats." We heard afterwards that he had asked the names of the two boys who passed his window every day and been told the names of the two head boys who passed also but were notoriously gentlemanly in their manners. Yet my friend was timid also and that restored my confidence in myself. He would often ask me to buy the sweets or the ginger-beer because he was afraid sometimes when speaking to a stranger. I had one reputation that I valued. At first when I went to the Hammersmith swimming-baths with the other boys, I was afraid to plunge in until I had gone so far down the ladder that the water came up to my thighs; but one day when I was alone I fell from the spring-board which was five or six feet above the water. After that I would dive from a greater height than the others and I practised swimming under water and pretending not to be out of breath when I came up. And then if I ran a race, I took care not to pant or show any sign of strain. And in this I had an advantage even over the athlete; for though he could run faster and was harder to tire than anybody else, he grew very pale and I was often paid compliments. I used to run with my friend when he was training to keep him in company. He would give me a long start and soon overtake me. I followed the career of a certain professional runner for months, buying papers that would tell me if he had won or lost. I had seen him described as "the bright particular star of American athletics," and the wonderful phrase had thrown enchantment over him. Had he been called the particular bright star, I should have cared nothing for him. I did not understand the symptom for years after. I was nursing my own dream, my form of the common school-boy dream, though I was no longer gathering the little pieces of broken and rotting wood. Often, instead of learning my lesson, I covered the white squares of the chessboard on my little table with pen and ink pictures of myself, doing all kinds of courageous things. One day my father said "there was a man in Nelson's ship at the battle of Trafalgar, a ship's purser, whose hair turned white; what a sensitive temperament; that man should have achieved something!" I was vexed and bewildered, and am still bewildered and still vexed, finding it a poor and crazy thing that we who have imagined so many noble persons cannot bring our flesh to heel. VI The head-master was a clergyman, a good-humoured, easy-going man, as temperate, one had no doubt, in his religious life as in all else, and if he ever lost sleep on our account, it was from a very proper anxiety as to our gentility. I was in disgrace once because I went to school in some brilliant blue homespun serge my mother had bought in Devonshire, and I was told I must never wear it again. He had tried several times, though he must have known it was hopeless, to persuade our parents to put us into Eton clothes, and on certain days we were compelled to wear gloves. After my first year, we were forbidden to play marbles because it was a form of gambling and was played by nasty little boys, and a few months later told not to cross our legs in class. It was a school for the sons of professional men who had failed or were at the outset of their career, and the boys held an indignation meeting when they discovered that a new boy was an apothecary's son (I think at first I was his only friend,) and we all pretended that our parents were richer than they were. I told a little boy who had often seen my mother knitting or mending my clothes that she only mended or knitted because she liked it, though I knew it was necessity. It was like, I suppose, most schools of its type, an obscene, bullying place, where a big boy would hit a small boy in the wind to see him double up, and where certain boys, too young for any emotion of sex, would sing the dirty songs of the street, but I daresay it suited me better than a better school. I have heard the head-master say, "how has so-and-so done in his Greek?" and the class-master reply, "very badly, but he is doing well in his cricket," and the head-master has gone away saying "Oh, leave him alone." I was unfitted for school work, and though I would often work well for weeks together, I had to give the whole evening to one lesson if I was to know it. My thoughts were a great excitement, but when I tried to do anything with them, it was like trying to pack a balloon into a shed in a high wind. I was always near the bottom of my class, and always making excuses that but added to my timidity; but no master was rough with me. I was known to collect moths and butterflies and to get into no worse mischief than hiding now and again an old tailless white rat in my coat-pocket or my desk. There was but one interruption of our quiet habits, the brief engagement of an Irish master, a fine Greek scholar and vehement teacher, but of fantastic speech. He would open the class by saying, "there he goes, there he goes," or some like words as the head-master passed by at the end of the hall. "Of course this school is no good. How could it be with a clergyman for head-master?" And then perhaps his eye would light on me, and he would make me stand up and tell me it was a scandal I was so idle when all the world knew that any Irish boy was cleverer than a whole class-room of English boys, a description I had to pay for afterwards. Sometimes he would call up a little boy who had a girl's face and kiss him upon both cheeks and talk of taking him to Greece in the holidays, and presently we heard he had written to the boy's parents about it, but long before the holidays he was dismissed. VII Two pictures come into my memory. I have climbed to the top of a tree by the edge of the playing field, and am looking at my school-fellows and am as proud of myself as a March cock when it crows to its first sunrise. I am saying to myself, "if when I grow up I am as clever among grown-up men as I am among these boys, I shall be a famous man." I remind myself how they think all the same things and cover the school walls at election times with the opinions their fathers find in the newspapers. I remind myself that I am an artist's son and must take some work as the whole end of life and not think as the others do of becoming well off and living pleasantly. The other picture is of a hotel sitting-room in the Strand, where a man is hunched up over the fire. He is a cousin who has speculated with another cousin's money and has fled from Ireland in danger of arrest. My father has brought us to spend the evening with him, to distract him from the remorse my father knows that he must be suffering. VIII For years Bedford Park was a romantic excitement. At North End my father had announced at breakfast that our glass chandelier was absurd and was to be taken down, and a little later he described the village Norman Shaw was building. I had thought he said, "there is to be a wall round and no newspapers to be allowed in." And when I had told him how put out I was at finding neither wall nor gate, he explained that he had merely described what ought to be. We were to see De Morgan tiles, peacock-blue doors and the pomegranate pattern and the tulip pattern of Morris, and to discover that we had always hated doors painted with imitation grain and the roses of mid-Victoria, and tiles covered with geometrical patterns that seemed to have been shaken out of a muddy kaleidoscope. We went to live in a house like those we had seen in pictures and even met people dressed like people in the storybooks. The streets were not straight and dull as at North End, but wound about where there was a big tree or for the mere pleasure of winding, and there were wood palings instead of iron railings. The newness of everything, the empty houses where we played at hide-and-seek, and the strangeness of it all, made us feel that we were living among toys. We could imagine people living happy lives as we thought people did long ago when the poor were picturesque and the master of a house would tell of strange adventures over the sea. Only the better houses had been built. The commercial builder had not begun to copy and to cheapen, and besides we only knew the most beautiful houses, the houses of artists. My two sisters and my brother and myself had dancing lessons in a low, red-brick and tiled house that drove away dreams, long cherished, of some day living in a house made exactly like a ship's cabin. The dining-room table, where Sinbad the sailor might have sat, was painted peacock-blue, and the woodwork was all peacock-blue and upstairs there was a window niche so big and high up, there was a flight of steps to go up and down by and a table in the niche. The two sisters of the master of the house, a well-known pre-Raphaelite painter, were our teachers, and they and their old mother were dressed in peacock-blue and in dresses so simply cut that they seemed a part of every story. Once when I had been looking with delight at the old woman, my father who had begun to be influenced by French art, muttered, "imagine dressing up your old mother like that." [Illustration: _John Butler Yeats from a watercolour drawing by himself_] My father's friends were painters who had been influenced by the pre-Raphaelite movement but had lost their confidence. Wilson, Page, Nettleship, Potter are the names I remember, and at North End, I remember them most clearly. I often heard one and another say that Rossetti had never mastered his materials, and though Nettleship had already turned lion-painter, my father talked constantly of the designs of his youth, especially of "God creating Evil," which Browning praised in a letter my father had seen "as the most sublime conception in ancient or modern Art." In those early days, that he might not be tempted from his work by society, he had made a rent in the tail of his coat; and I have heard my mother tell how she had once sewn it up, but before he came again he had pulled out all the stitches. Potter's exquisite "Dormouse," now in the Tate Gallery, hung in our house for years. His dearest friend was a pretty model who was, when my memory begins, working for some position in a board-school. I can remember her sitting at the side of the throne in the North End Studio, a book in her hand and my father hearing her say a Latin lesson. Her face was the typical mild, oval face of the painting of that time, and may indeed have helped in the moulding of an ideal of beauty. I found it the other day drawn in pencil on a blank leaf of a volume of the "Earthly Paradise." It was at Bedford Park that I had heard Farrar, whom I had first known at Burnham Beeches, tell of Potter's death and burial. Potter had been very poor and had died from the effects of semi-starvation. He had lived so long on bread and tea that his stomach withered--I am sure that was the word used, and when his relations found out and gave him good food, it was too late. Farrar had been at the funeral and had stood behind some well-to-do people who were close about the grave and saw one point to the model, who had followed the hearse on foot and was now crying at a distance, and say, "that is the woman who had all his money." She had often begged him to allow her to pay his debts, but he would not have it. Probably his rich friends blamed his poor friends, and they the rich, and I daresay, nobody had known enough to help him. Besides, he had a strange form of dissipation, I had heard someone say; he was devoted to children, and would become interested in some child--his "Dormouse" is a portrait of a child--and spend his money on its education. My sister remembers seeing him paint with a dark glove on his right hand, and his saying that he had used so much varnish the reflection of the hand would have teased him but for the glove. "I will soon have to paint my face some dark colour," he added. I have no memory, however, but of noticing that he sat at the easel, whereas my father always stands and walks up and down, and that there was dark blue, a colour that always affects me, in the background of his picture. There is a public gallery of Wilson's work in his native Aberdeen and my sisters have a number of his landscapes--wood-scenes for the most part--painted with phlegm and melancholy, the romantic movement drawing to its latest phase. IX My father read out to me, for the first time, when I was eight or nine years old. Between Sligo and Rosses Point, there is a tongue of land covered with coarse grass that runs out into the sea or the mud according to the state of the tide. It is the place where dead horses are buried. Sitting there, my father read me "The Lays of Ancient Rome." It was the first poetry that had moved me after the stable-boy's "Orange Rhymes." Later on he read me "Ivanhoe" and "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," and they are still vivid in the memory. I re-read "Ivanhoe" the other day, but it has all vanished except Gurth, the swineherd, at the outset and Friar Tuck and his venison pasty, the two scenes that laid hold of me in childhood. "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" gave me a wish to turn magician that competed for years with the dream of being killed upon the sea-shore. When I first went to school, he tried to keep me from reading boys' papers, because a paper, by its very nature, as he explained to me, had to be made for the average boy or man and so could not but thwart one's growth. He took away my paper and I had not courage to say that I was but reading and delighting in a prose re-telling of the Iliad. But after a few months, my father said he had been too anxious and became less urgent about my lessons and less violent if I had learnt them badly, and he ceased to notice what I read. From that on I shared the excitement which ran through all my fellows on Wednesday afternoons when the boys' papers were published, and I read endless stories I have forgotten as completely as Grimm's Fairy Tales that I read at Sligo, and all of Hans Andersen except the Ugly Duckling which my mother had read to me and to my sisters. I remember vaguely that I liked Hans Andersen better than Grimm because he was less homely, but even he never gave me the knights and dragons and beautiful ladies that I longed for. I have remembered nothing that I read, but only those things that I heard or saw. When I was ten or twelve my father took me to see Irving play Hamlet, and did not understand why I preferred Irving to Ellen Terry, who was, I can now see, the idol of himself and his friends. I could not think of her, as I could of Irving's Hamlet, as but myself, and I was not old enough to care for feminine charm and beauty. For many years Hamlet was an image of heroic self-possession for the poses of youth and childhood to copy, a combatant of the battle within myself. My father had read me the story of the little boy murdered by the Jews in Chaucer and the tale of Sir Topaz, explaining the hard words, and though both excited me, I had liked Sir Topaz best and been disappointed that it left off in the middle. As I grew older, he would tell me plots of Balzac's novels, using incident or character as an illustration for some profound criticism of life. Now that I have read all the Comédie Humaine, certain pages have an unnatural emphasis, straining and overbalancing the outline, and I remember how in some suburban street, he told me of Lucien de Rubempré, or of the duel after the betrayal of his master, and how the wounded Lucien had muttered "so much the worse" when he heard someone say that he was not dead. I now can but share with a friend my thoughts and my emotions, and there is a continual discovery of difference, but in those days, before I had found myself, we could share adventures. When friends plan and do together, their minds become one mind and the last secret disappears. I was useless at games. I cannot remember that I ever kicked a goal or made a run, but I was a mine of knowledge when I and the athlete and those two notoriously gentlemanly boys--theirs was the name that I remember without a face--set out for Richmond Park, for Coomb Wood or Twyford Abbey to look for butterflies and moths and beetles. Sometimes to-day I meet people at lunch or dinner whose address will sound familiar and I remember of a sudden how a game-keeper chased me from the plantation behind their house, and how I have turned over the cow-dung in their paddock in the search for some rare beetle believed to haunt the spot. The athlete was our watchman and our safety. He would suggest, should we meet a carriage on the drive, that we take off our hats and walk on as though about to pay a call. And once when we were sighted by a game-keeper at Coomb Wood, he persuaded the eldest of the brothers to pretend to be a school-master taking his boys for a walk, and the keeper, instead of swearing and threatening the law, was sad and argumentative. No matter how charming the place, (and there is a little stream in a hollow where Wimbledon Common flows into Coomb Wood that is pleasant in the memory,) I knew that those other boys saw something I did not see. I was a stranger there. There was something in their way of saying the names of places that made me feel this. X When I arrived at the Clarence Basin, Liverpool, (the dock Clarence Mangan had his first name from) on my way to Sligo for my holidays I was among Sligo people. When I was a little boy, an old woman who had come to Liverpool with crates of fowl, made me miserable by throwing her arms around me the moment I had alighted from my cab and telling the sailor who carried my luggage that she had held me in her arms when I was a baby. The sailor may have known me almost as well, for I was often at Sligo quay to sail my boat; and I came and went once or twice in every year upon the ss. _Sligo_ or the ss. _Liverpool_ which belonged to a company that had for directors my grandfather and his partner William Middleton. I was always pleased if it was the _Liverpool_, for she had been built to run the blockade during the war of North and South. I waited for this voyage always with excitement and boasted to other boys about it, and when I was a little boy had walked with my feet apart as I had seen sailors walk. I used to be sea-sick, but I must have hidden this from the other boys and partly even from myself; for, as I look back, I remember very little about it, while I remember stories I was told by the captain or by his first mate, and the look of the great cliffs of Donegal & Tory Island men coming alongside with lobsters, talking Irish and, if it was night, blowing on a burning sod to draw our attention. The captain, an old man with square shoulders and a fringe of grey hair round his face, would tell his first mate, a very admiring man, of fights he had had on shore at Liverpool; and perhaps it was of him I was thinking when I was very small and asked my grandmother if God was as strong as sailors. Once, at any rate, he had been nearly wrecked; the _Liverpool_ had been all but blown upon the Mull of Galloway with her shaft broken, and the captain had said to his mate, "mind and jump when she strikes, for we don't want to be killed by the falling spars;" and when the mate answered, "my God, I cannot swim," he had said, "who could keep afloat for five minutes in a sea like that?" He would often say his mate was the most timid of men and that "a girl along the quays could laugh him out of anything." My grandfather had more than once given the mate a ship of his own, but he had always thrown up his berth to sail with his old captain where he felt safe. Once he had been put in charge of a ship in a dry dock in Liverpool, but a boy was drowned in Sligo, and before the news could reach him he wired to his wife, "ghost, come at once, or I will throw up berth." He had been wrecked a number of times and maybe that had broken his nerve or maybe he had a sensitiveness that would in another class have given him taste & culture. I once forgot a copy of "Count Robert of Paris" on a deck-seat, and when I found it again, it was all covered with the prints of his dirty thumb. He had once seen the coach-a-baur or death coach. It came along the road, he said, till it was hidden by a cottage and it never came out on the other side of the cottage. Once I smelled new-mown hay when we were quite a long way from land, and once when I was watching the sea-parrots (as the sailors call the puffin) I noticed they had different ways of tucking their heads under their wings, or I fancied it and said to the captain "they have different characters." Sometimes my father came too, and the sailors when they saw him coming would say "there is John Yeats and we shall have a storm," for he was considered unlucky. I no longer cared for little shut-in-places, for a coppice against the stable-yard at Merville where my grandfather lived or against the gable at Seaview where Aunt Micky lived, and I began to climb the mountains, sometimes with the stable-boy for companion, and to look up their stories in the county history. I fished for trout with a worm in the mountain streams and went out herring-fishing at night: and because my grandfather had said the English were in the right to eat skates, I carried a large skate all the six miles or so from Rosses Point, but my grandfather did not eat it. One night just as the equinoctial gales were coming when I was sailing home in the coastguard's boat a boy told me a beetle of solid gold, strayed maybe from Poe's "gold bug," had been seen by somebody in Scotland and I do not think that either of us doubted his news. Indeed, so many stories did I hear from sailors along the wharf, or round the fo'castle fire of the little steamer that ran between Sligo and Rosses, or from boys out fishing that the world was full of monsters and marvels. The foreign sailors wearing ear-rings did not tell me stories, but like the fishing boys, I gazed at them in wonder and admiration. When I look at my brother's picture, "Memory Harbour," houses and anchored ship and distant lighthouse all set close together as in some old map, I recognize in the blue-coated man with the mass of white shirt the pilot I went fishing with, and I am full of disquiet and of excitement, and I am melancholy because I have not made more and better verses. I have walked on Sinbad's yellow shore and never shall another hit my fancy. I had still my red pony, and once my father came with me riding too, and was very exacting. He was indignant and threatening because he did not think I rode well. "You must do everything well," he said, "that the Pollexfens respect, though you must do other things also." He used to say the same about my lessons, and tell me to be good at mathematics. I can see now that he had a sense of inferiority among those energetic, successful people. He himself, some Pollexfen told me, though he rode very badly, would go hunting upon anything and take any ditch. His father, the County Down Rector, though a courtly man and a scholar, had been so dandified a horseman that I had heard of his splitting three riding breeches before he had settled into his saddle for a day's hunting, and of his first rector exclaiming, "I had hoped for a curate but they have sent me a jockey." Left to myself, I rode without ambition though getting many falls, and more often to Rathbroughan where my great-uncle Mat lived, than to any place else. His children and I used to sail our toy-boats in the river before his house, arming them with toy-cannon, touch-paper at all the touch-holes, always hoping but always in vain that they would not twist about in the eddies but fire their cannon at one another. I must have gone to Sligo sometimes in the Christmas holidays, for I can remember riding my red pony to a hunt. He balked at the first jump, to my relief, and when a crowd of boys began to beat him, I would not allow it. They all jeered at me for being afraid. I found a gap and when I was alone in a field tried another ditch, but the pony would not jump that either; so I tied him to a tree and lay down among the ferns and looked up into the sky. On my way home I met the hunt again and noticed that everybody avoided the dogs, and because I wanted to find out why they did so I rode to where the dogs had gathered in the middle of the lane and stood my pony amongst them, and everybody began to shout at me. Sometimes I would ride to Castle Dargan, where lived a brawling squireen, married to one of my Middleton cousins, and once I went thither on a visit with my cousin George Middleton. It was, I dare say, the last household where I could have found the reckless Ireland of a hundred years ago in final degradation. But I liked the place for the romance of its two ruined castles facing one another across a little lake, Castle Dargan and Castle Fury. The squireen lived in a small house whither his family had moved from their castle some time in the 18th century, and two old Miss Furys, who let lodgings in Sligo, were the last remnants of the breed of the other ruin. Once in every year he drove to Sligo for the two old women, that they might look upon the ancestral stones and remember their gentility, and he would put his wildest horses into the shafts to enjoy their terror. He himself, with a reeling imagination, knew not what he could be at to find a spur for the heavy hours. The first day I came there, he gave my cousin a revolver, (we were upon the high road,) and to show it off, or his own shooting, he shot a passing chicken; and half an hour later, when he had brought us to the lake's edge under his castle, now but the broken corner of a tower with a winding stair, he fired at or over an old countryman who was walking on the far edge of the lake. The next day I heard him settling the matter with the old countryman over a bottle of whiskey, and both were in good humour. Once he had asked a timid aunt of mine if she would like to see his last new pet, and thereupon had marched a race-horse in through the hall door and round the dining-room table. And once she came down to a bare table because he had thought it a good joke to open the window and let his harriers eat the breakfast. There was a current story, too, of his shooting, in the pride of his marksmanship, at his own door with a Martini-Henry rifle till he had shot the knocker off. At last he quarrelled with my great-uncle William Middleton, and to avenge himself gathered a rabble of wild country-lads and mounted them and himself upon the most broken-down rascally horses he could lay hands on and marched them through Sligo under a land-league banner. After that, having neither friends nor money, he made off to Australia or to Canada. I fished for pike at Castle Dargan and shot at birds with a muzzle-loading pistol until somebody shot a rabbit and I heard it squeal. From that on I would kill nothing but the dumb fish. XI We left Bedford Park for a long thatched house at Howth, Co. Dublin. The land war was now at its height and our Kildare land, that had been in the family for many generations, was slipping from us. Rents had fallen more and more, we had to sell to pay some charge or mortgage, but my father and his tenants parted without ill-will. During the worst times an old tenant had under his roof my father's shooting-dog and gave it better care than the annual payment earned. He had set apart for its comfort the best place at the fire; and if some man were in the place when the dog walked into the house, the man must needs make room for the dog. And a good while after the sale, I can remember my father being called upon to settle some dispute between this old man and his sons. I was now fifteen; and as he did not want to leave his painting my father told me to go to Harcourt Street and put myself to school. I found a bleak 18th century house and a small playing-field full of mud and pebbles, fenced by an iron railing from a wide 18th century street, but opposite a long hoarding and a squalid, ornamental railway station. Here, as I soon found, nobody gave a thought to decorum. We worked in a din of voices. We began the morning with prayers, but when class began the head-master, if he was in the humour, would laugh at Church and Clergy. "Let them say what they like," he would say, "but the earth does go round the sun." On the other hand there was no bullying and I had not thought it possible that boys could work so hard. Cricket and football, the collection of moths and butterflies, though not forbidden, were discouraged. They were for idle boys. I did not know, as I used to, the mass of my school-fellows; for we had little life in common outside the class-rooms. I had begun to think of my school-work as an interruption of my natural history studies, but even had I never opened a book not in the school course, I could not have learned a quarter of my night's work. I had always done Euclid easily, making the problems out while the other boys were blundering at the blackboard, and it had often carried me from the bottom to the top of my class; but these boys had the same natural gift and instead of being in the fourth or fifth book were in the modern books at the end of the primer; and in place of a dozen lines of Virgil with a dictionary, I was expected to learn with the help of a crib a hundred and fifty lines. The other boys were able to learn the translation off, and to remember what words of Latin and English corresponded with one another, but I, who it may be had tried to find out what happened in the parts we had not read, made ridiculous mistakes; and what could I, who never worked when I was not interested, do with a history lesson that was but a column of seventy dates? I was worst of all at literature, for we read Shakespeare for his grammar exclusively. One day I had a lucky thought. A great many lessons were run through in the last hour of the day, things we had learnt or should have learnt by heart over night, and after not having known one of them for weeks, I cut off that hour without anybody's leave. I asked the mathematical master to give me a sum to work and nobody said a word. My father often interfered, and always with disaster, to teach me my Latin lesson. "But I have also my geography," I would say. "Geography," he would reply, "should never be taught. It is not a training for the mind. You will pick up all that you need, in your general reading." And if it was a history lesson, he would say just the same, and "Euclid," he would say, "is too easy. It comes naturally to the literary imagination. The old idea, that it is a good training for the mind, was long ago refuted." I would know my Latin lesson so that it was a nine days' wonder, and for weeks after would be told it was scandalous to be so clever and so idle. No one knew that I had learnt it in the terror that alone could check my wandering mind. I must have told on him at some time or other for I remember the head-master saying, "I am going to give you an imposition because I cannot get at your father to give him one." Sometimes we had essays to write; & though I never got a prize, for the essays were judged by hand-writing and spelling I caused a measure of scandal. I would be called up before some master and asked if I really believed such things, and that would make me angry for I had written what I had believed all my life, what my father had told me, or a memory of the conversation of his friends. There were other beliefs, but they were held by people one did not know, people who were vulgar or stupid. I was asked to write an essay on "men may rise on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things." My father read the subject to my mother, who had no interest in such matters. "That is the way," he said, "boys are made insincere and false to themselves. Ideals make the blood thin, and take the human nature out of people." He walked up and down the room in eloquent indignation, and told me not to write on such a subject at all, but upon Shakespeare's lines "to thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day thou canst not then be false to any man." At another time, he would denounce the idea of duty, and "imagine," he would say, "how the right sort of woman would despise a dutiful husband;" and he would tell us how much my mother would scorn such a thing. Maybe there were people among whom such ideas were natural, but they were the people with whom one does not dine. All he said was, I now believe right, but he should have taken me away from school. He would have taught me nothing but Greek and Latin, and I would now be a properly educated man, and would not have to look in useless longing at books that have been, through the poor mechanism of translation, the builders of my soul, nor faced authority with the timidity born of excuse and evasion. Evasion and excuse were in the event as wise as the house-building instinct of the beaver. XII My London schoolfellow, the athlete, spent a summer with us, but the friendship of boyhood, founded upon action and adventure, was drawing to an end. He was still my superior in all physical activity and climbed to places among the rocks that even now are uncomfortable memories, but I had begun to criticize him. One morning I proposed a journey to Lambay Island, and was contemptuous because he said we should miss our mid-day meal. We hoisted a sail on our small boat and ran quickly over the nine miles and saw on the shore a tame sea-gull, while a couple of boys, the sons of a coastguard, ran into the water in their clothes to pull us to land, as we had read of savage people doing. We spent an hour upon the sunny shore and I said, "I would like to live here always, and perhaps some day I will." I was always discovering places where I would like to spend my whole life. We started to row home, and when dinner-time had passed for about an hour, the athlete lay down on the bottom of the boat doubled up with the gripes. I mocked at him and at his fellow-countrymen whose stomachs struck the hour as if they were clocks. Our natural history, too, began to pull us apart. I planned some day to write a book about the changes through a twelve-month among the creatures of some hole in the rock, and had some theory of my own, which I cannot remember, as to the colour of sea-anemones: and after much hesitation, trouble and bewilderment, was hot for argument in refutation of Adam and Noah and the Seven Days. I had read Darwin and Wallace, Huxley and Haeckel, and would spend hours on a holiday plaguing a pious geologist, who, when not at some job in Guinness's brewery, came with a hammer to look for fossils in the Howth Cliffs. "You know," I would say, "that such and such human remains cannot be less, because of the strata they were found in, than fifty thousand years old." "Oh!" he would answer, "they are an isolated instance." And once when I pressed hard my case against Ussher's chronology, he begged me not to speak of the subject again. "If I believed what you do," he said, "I could not live a moral life." But I could not even argue with the athlete who still collected his butterflies for the adventure's sake, and with no curiosity but for their names. I began to judge his intelligence, and to tell him that his natural history had as little to do with science as his collection of postage stamps. Even during my school days in London, influenced perhaps by my father, I had looked down upon the postage stamps. XIII Our house for the first year or so was on the top of a cliff, so that in stormy weather the spray would sometimes soak my bed at night, for I had taken the glass out of the window, sash and all. A literary passion for the open air was to last me for a few years. Then for another year or two, we had a house overlooking the harbour where the one great sight was the going and coming of the fishing fleet. We had one regular servant, a fisherman's wife, and the occasional help of a big, red-faced girl who ate a whole pot of jam while my mother was at church and accused me of it. Some such arrangement lasted until long after the time I write of, and until my father going into the kitchen by chance found a girl, who had been engaged during a passing need, in tears at the thought of leaving our other servant, and promised that they should never be parted. I have no doubt that we lived at the harbour for my mother's sake. She had, when we were children, refused to take us to a seaside place because she heard it possessed a bathing box, but she loved the activities of a fishing village. When I think of her, I almost always see her talking over a cup of tea in the kitchen with our servant, the fisherman's wife, on the only themes outside our house that seemed of interest--the fishing people of Howth, or the pilots and fishing people of Rosses Point. She read no books, but she and the fisherman's wife would tell each other stories that Homer might have told, pleased with any moment of sudden intensity and laughing together over any point of satire. There is an essay called "Village Ghosts" in my "Celtic Twilight" which is but a record of one such afternoon, and many a fine tale has been lost because it had not occurred to me soon enough to keep notes. My father was always praising her to my sisters and to me, because she pretended to nothing she did not feel. She would write him letters telling of her delight in the tumbling clouds, but she did not care for pictures, and never went to an exhibition even to see a picture of his, nor to his studio to see the day's work, neither now nor when they were first married. I remember all this very clearly and little after until her mind had gone in a stroke of paralysis and she had found, liberated at last from financial worry, perfect happiness feeding the birds at a London window. She had always, my father would say, intensity, and that was his chief word of praise; and once he added to the praise "no spendthrift ever had a poet for a son, though a miser might." XIV The great event of a boy's life is the awakening of sex. He will bathe many times a day, or get up at dawn and having stripped leap to and fro over a stick laid upon two chairs and hardly know, and never admit, that he had begun to take pleasure in his own nakedness, nor will he understand the change until some dream discovers it. He may never understand at all the greater change in his mind. It all came upon me when I was close upon seventeen like the bursting of a shell. Somnambulistic country-girls, when it is upon them, throw plates about or pull them with long hairs in simulation of the polter-geist, or become mediums for some genuine spirit-mischief, surrendering to their desire of the marvellous. As I look backward, I seem to discover that my passions, my loves and my despairs, instead of being my enemies, a disturbance and an attack, became so beautiful that I must be constantly alone to give them my whole attention. I notice that, for the first time as I run through my memory, what I saw when alone is more vivid than what I did or saw in company. A herd had shown me a cave some hundred and fifty feet below the cliff path and a couple of hundred above the sea, and told me how an evicted tenant called Macrom, dead some fifteen years, had lived there many years, and shown me a rusty nail in the rock which had served perhaps to hold up some wooden protection from wind and weather. Here I stored a tin of cocoa and some biscuits, and instead of going to my bed, would slip out on warm nights and sleep in the cave on the excuse of catching moths. One had to pass over a rocky ledge, safe enough for anyone with a fair head, yet seeming, if looked at from above, narrow and sloping; and a remonstrance from a stranger who had seen me climbing along it doubled my delight in the adventure. When however, upon a bank holiday, I found lovers in my cave, I was not content with it again till I heard of alarm among the fishing boats, because the ghost of Macrom had been seen a little before the dawn, stooping over his fire in the cave-mouth. I had been trying to cook eggs, as I had read in some book, by burying them in the earth under a fire of sticks. At other times, I would sleep among the rhododendrons and rocks in the wilder part of the grounds of Howth Castle. After a while my father said I must stay in-doors half the night, meaning that I should get some sleep in my bed; but I, knowing that I would be too sleepy and comfortable to get up again, used to sit over the kitchen fire till half the night was gone. Exaggerated accounts spread through the school, and sometimes when I did not know a lesson some master would banter me. My interest in science began to fade away, and presently I said to myself, "it has all been a misunderstanding." I remembered how soon I tired of my specimens, and how little I knew after all my years of collecting, and I came to believe that I had gone through so much labour because of a text, heard for the first time in St. John's Church in Sligo. I wanted to be certain of my own wisdom by copying Solomon, who had knowledge of hyssop and of tree. I still carried my green net but I began to play at being a sage, a magician or a poet. I had many idols, and now as I climbed along the narrow ledge I was Manfred on his glacier, and now I thought of Prince Athanase and his solitary lamp, but I soon chose Alastor for my chief of men and longed to share his melancholy, and maybe at last to disappear from everybody's sight as he disappeared drifting in a boat along some slow-moving river between great trees. When I thought of women they were modelled on those in my favourite poets and loved in brief tragedy, or, like the girl in "The Revolt of Islam," accompanied their lovers through all manner of wild places, lawless women without homes and without children. XV My father's influence upon my thoughts was at its height. We went to Dublin by train every morning, breakfasting in his studio. He had taken a large room with a beautiful 18th century mantle-piece in a York Street tenement house, and at breakfast he read passages from the poets, and always from the play or poem at its most passionate moment. He never read me a passage because of its speculative interest, and indeed did not care at all for poetry where there was generalisation or abstraction however impassioned. He would read out the first speeches of the Prometheus Unbound, but never the ecstatic lyricism of that famous fourth act; and another day the scene where Coriolanus comes to the house of Aufidius and tells the impudent servants that his home is under the canopy. I have seen Coriolanus played a number of times since then, and read it more than once, but that scene is more vivid than the rest, and it is my father's voice that I hear and not Irving's or Benson's. He did not care even for a fine lyric passage unless one felt some actual man behind its elaboration of beauty, and he was always looking for the lineaments of some desirable, familiar life. When the spirits sang their scorn of Manfred I was to judge by Manfred's answer "O sweet and melancholy voices" that they could not, even in anger, put off their spiritual sweetness. He thought Keats a greater poet than Shelley, because less abstract, but did not read him, caring little, I think, for any of that most beautiful poetry which has come in modern times from the influence of painting. All must be an idealisation of speech, and at some moment of passionate action or somnambulistic reverie. I remember his saying that all contemplative men were in a conspiracy to overrate their state of life, and that all writers were of them, excepting the great poets. Looking backwards, it seems to me that I saw his mind in fragments, which had always hidden connections I only now begin to discover. He disliked the Victorian poetry of ideas, and Wordsworth but for certain passages or whole poems. He described one morning over his breakfast how in the shape of the head of a Wordsworthian scholar, an old and greatly respected clergyman whose portrait he was painting, he had discovered all the animal instincts of a prizefighter. He despised the formal beauty of Raphael, that calm which is not an ordered passion but an hypocrisy, and attacked Raphael's life for its love of pleasure and its self-indulgence. In literature he was always pre-Raphaelite, and carried into literature principles that, while the Academy was still unbroken, had made the first attack upon academic form. He no longer read me anything for its story, and all our discussion was of style. XVI I began to make blunders when I paid calls or visits, and a woman I had known and liked as a child told me I had changed for the worse. I had wanted to be wise and eloquent, an essay on the younger Ampère had helped me to this ambition, and when I was alone I exaggerated my blunders and was miserable. I had begun to write poetry in imitation of Shelley and of Edmund Spenser, play after play--for my father exalted dramatic poetry above all other kinds--and I invented fantastic and incoherent plots. My lines but seldom scanned, for I could not understand the prosody in the books, although there were many lines that taken by themselves had music. I spoke them slowly as I wrote and only discovered when I read them to somebody else that there was no common music, no prosody. There were, however, moments of observation; for, even when I caught moths no longer, I still noticed all that passed; how the little moths came out at sunset, and how after that there were only a few big moths till dawn brought little moths again; and what birds cried out at night as if in their sleep. XVII At Sligo, where I still went for my holidays, I stayed with my uncle, George Pollexfen, who had come from Ballina to fill the place of my grandfather, who had retired. My grandfather had no longer his big house, his partner William Middleton was dead, and there had been legal trouble. He was no longer the rich man he had been, and his sons and daughters were married and scattered. He had a tall, bare house overlooking the harbour, and had nothing to do but work himself into a rage if he saw a mudlighter mismanaged or judged from the smoke of a steamer that she was burning cheap coal, and to superintend the making of his tomb. There was a Middleton tomb and a long list of Middletons on the wall, and an almost empty place for Pollexfen names, but he had said, because there was a Middleton there he did not like, "I am not going to lie with those old bones;" and already one saw his name in large gilt letters on the stone fence of the new tomb. He ended his walk at St. John's churchyard almost daily, for he liked everything neat and compendious as upon shipboard, and if he had not looked after the tomb himself the builder might have added some useless ornament. He had, however, all his old skill and nerve. I was going to Rosses Point on the little trading steamer and saw him take the wheel from the helmsman and steer her through a gap in the channel wall, and across the sand, an unheard-of-course, and at the journey's end bring her alongside her wharf at Rosses without the accustomed zigzagging or pulling on a rope but in a single movement. He took snuff when he had a cold, but had never smoked or taken alcohol; and when in his eightieth year his doctor advised a stimulant, he replied, "no, no, I am not going to form a bad habit." My brother had partly taken my place in my grandmother's affections. He had lived permanently in her house for some years now, and went to a Sligo school where he was always bottom of his class. My grandmother did not mind that, for she said, "he is too kind-hearted to pass the other boys." He spent his free hours going here and there with crowds of little boys, sons of pilots and sailors, as their well-liked leader, arranging donkey races or driving donkeys tandem, an occupation which requires all one's intellect because of their obstinacy. Besides he had begun to amuse everybody with his drawings; and in half the pictures he paints to-day I recognise faces that I have met at Rosses or the Sligo quays. It is long since he has lived there, but his memory seems as accurate as the sight of the eye. George Pollexfen was as patient as his father was impetuous, and did all by habit. A well-to-do, elderly man, he lived with no more comfort than when he had set out as a young man. He had a little house and one old general servant and a man to look after his horse, and every year he gave up some activity and found that there was one more food that disagreed with him. A hypochondriac, he passed from winter to summer through a series of woollens that had always to be weighed; for in April or May or whatever the date was he had to be sure he carried the exact number of ounces he had carried upon that date since boyhood. He lived in despondency, finding in the most cheerful news reasons of discouragement, and sighing every twenty-second of June over the shortening of the days. Once in later years, when I met him in Dublin sweating in a midsummer noon, I brought him into the hall of the Kildare Street Library, a cool and shady place, without lightening his spirits; for he but said in a melancholy voice, "how very cold this place must be in winter time." Sometimes when I had pitted my cheerfulness against his gloom over the breakfast table, maintaining that neither his talent nor his memory nor his health were running to the dregs, he would rout me with the sentence, "how very old I shall be in twenty years." Yet this inactive man, in whom the sap of life seemed to be dried away, had a mind full of pictures. Nothing had ever happened to him except a love affair, not I think very passionate, that had gone wrong, and a voyage when a young man. My grandfather had sent him in a schooner to a port in Spain where the shipping agents were two Spaniards called O'Neill, descendants of Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone, who had fled from Ireland in the reign of James I; and their Irish trade was a last remnant of the Spanish trade that had once made Galway wealthy. For some years he and they had corresponded, for they cherished the memory of their origin. In some Connaught burying ground, he had chanced upon the funeral of a child with but one mourner, a distinguished foreign-looking man. It was an Austrian count burying the last of an Irish family, long nobles of Austria, who were always carried to that half-ruined burying ground. My uncle had almost given up hunting and was soon to give it up altogether, and he had once ridden steeple-chases and been, his horse-trainer said, the best rider in Connaught. He had certainly great knowledge of horses, for I have been told, several counties away, that at Ballina he cured horses by conjuring. He had, however, merely great skill in diagnosis, for the day was still far off when he was to give his nights to astrology and ceremonial magic. His servant, Mary Battle, who had been with him since he was a young man, had the second sight and that, maybe, inclined him to strange studies. He would tell how more than once when he had brought home a guest without giving her notice he had found the dinner-table set for two, and one morning she was about to bring him a clean shirt, but stopped saying there was blood on the shirt-front and that she must bring him another. On his way to his office he fell, crossing over a little wall, and cut himself and bled on to the linen where she had seen the blood. In the evening, she told how surprised she had been to find when she looked again that the shirt she had thought bloody was quite clean. She could neither read nor write and her mind, which answered his gloom with its merriment, was rammed with every sort of old history and strange belief. Much of my "Celtic Twilight" is but her daily speech. My uncle had the respect of the common people as few Sligo men have had it; he would have thought a stronger emotion an intrusion on his privacy. He gave to all men the respect due to their station or their worth with an added measure of ceremony, and kept among his workmen a discipline that had about it something of a regiment or a ship, knowing nothing of any but personal authority. If a carter, let us say, was in fault, he would not dismiss him, but send for him and take his whip away and hang it upon the wall; and having reduced the offender, as it were, to the ranks for certain months, would restore him to his post and his whip. This man of diligence and of method, who had no enterprise but in contemplation, and claimed that his wealth, considerable for Ireland, came from a brother's or partner's talent, was the confidant of my boyish freaks and reveries. When I said to him, echoing some book I had read, that one never knew a countryside till one knew it at night, (though nothing would have kept him from his bed a moment beyond the hour) he was pleased; for he loved natural things and had learnt two cries of the lapwing, one that drew them to where he stood and one that made them fly away. And he approved, and arranged my meals conveniently, when I told him I was going to walk round Lough Gill and sleep in a wood. I did not tell him all my object, for I was nursing a new ambition. My father had read to me some passage out of "Walden," and I planned to live some day in a cottage on a little island called Innisfree, and Innisfree was opposite Slish Wood where I meant to sleep. I thought that having conquered bodily desire and the inclination of my mind towards women and love, I should live, as Thoreau lived, seeking wisdom. There was a story in the county history of a tree that had once grown upon that island guarded by some terrible monster and borne the food of the gods. A young girl pined for the fruit and told her lover to kill the monster and carry the fruit away. He did as he had been told, but tasted the fruit; and when he reached the mainland where she had waited for him, was dying of its powerful virtue. And from sorrow and from remorse she too ate of it and died. I do not remember whether I chose the island because of its beauty or for the story's sake, but I was twenty-two or three before I gave up the dream. I set out from Sligo about six in the evening, walking slowly, for it was an evening of great beauty; but though I was well into Slish Wood by bed-time, I could not sleep, not from the discomfort of the dry rock I had chosen for my bed, but from my fear of the wood-ranger. Somebody had told me, though I do not think it could have been true, that he went his round at some unknown hour. I kept going over what I should say if I was found and could not think of anything he would believe. However, I could watch my island in the early dawn and notice the order of the cries of the birds. I came home next day unimaginably tired & sleepy, having walked some thirty miles partly over rough and boggy ground. For months afterwards, if I alluded to my walk, my uncle's general servant (not Mary Battle, who was slowly recovering from an illness and would not have taken the liberty) would go into fits of laughter. She believed I had spend the night in a different fashion and had invented the excuse to deceive my uncle, and would say to my great embarrassment, for I was as prudish as an old maid, "and you had good right to be fatigued." Once when staying with my uncle at Rosses Point where he went for certain months of the year, I called upon a cousin towards midnight and asked him to get his yacht out, for I wanted to find what sea birds began to stir before dawn. He was indignant and refused; but his elder sister had overheard me and came to the head of the stairs and forbade him to stir, and that so vexed him that he shouted to the kitchen for his sea-boots. He came with me in great gloom for he had people's respect, he declared, and nobody so far had said that he was mad as they said I was, and we got a very sleepy boy out of his bed in the village and set up sail. We put a trawl out, as he thought it would restore his character if he caught some fish, but the wind fell and we were becalmed. I rolled myself in the main-sail and went to sleep for I could sleep anywhere in those days. I was awakened towards dawn to see my cousin and the boy turning out their pockets for money and to rummage in my own pockets. A boat was rowing in from Roughley with fish and they wanted to buy some and would pretend they had caught it, but all our pockets were empty. It was for the poem that became fifteen years afterwards "The Shadowy Waters" that I had wanted the birds' cries, and it had been full of observation had I been able to write it when I first planned it. I had found again the windy light that moved me when a child. I persuaded myself that I had a passion for the dawn, and this passion, though mainly histrionic like a child's play, an ambitious game, had moments of sincerity. Years afterwards when I had finished "The Wanderings of Oisin," dissatisfied with its yellow and its dull green, with all that overcharged colour inherited from the romantic movement, I deliberately reshaped my style, deliberately sought out an impression as of cold light and tumbling clouds. I cast off traditional metaphors and loosened my rhythm, and recognizing that all the criticism of life known to me was alien and English, became as emotional as possible but with an emotion which I described to myself as cold. It is a natural conviction for a painter's son to believe that there may be a landscape symbolical of some spiritual condition that awakens a hunger such as cats feel for valerian. XVIII I was writing a long play on a fable suggested by one of my father's early designs. A king's daughter loves a god seen in the luminous sky above her garden in childhood, and to be worthy of him and put away mortality, becomes without pity & commits crimes, and at last, having made her way to the throne by murder, awaits the hour among her courtiers. One by one they become chilly and drop dead, for, unseen by all but her, her god is walking through the hall. At last he is at her throne's foot and she, her mind in the garden once again, dies babbling like a child. XIX Once when I was sailing with my cousin, the boy who was our crew talked of a music-hall at a neighbouring seaport, and how the girls there gave themselves to men, and his language was as extravagant as though he praised that courtezan after whom they named a city or the queen of Sheba herself. Another day he wanted my cousin to sail some fifty miles along the coast and put in near some cottages where he had heard there were girls "and we would have a great welcome before us." He pleaded with excitement (I imagine that his eyes shone) but hardly hoped to persuade us, and perhaps but played with fabulous images of life and of sex. A young jockey and horse-trainer, who had trained some horses for my uncle, once talked to me of wicked England while we cooked a turkey for our Christmas dinner making it twist about on a string in front of his harness-room fire. He had met two lords in England where he had gone racing, who "always exchanged wives when they went to the Continent for a holiday." He himself had once been led into temptation and was going home with a woman, but having touched his scapular by chance, saw in a moment an angel waving white wings in the air. Presently I was to meet him no more and my uncle said he had done something disgraceful about a horse. XX I was climbing up a hill at Howth when I heard wheels behind me and a pony-carriage drew up beside me. A pretty girl was driving alone and without a hat. She told me her name and said we had friends in common and asked me to ride beside her. After that I saw a great deal of her and was soon in love. I did not tell her I was in love, however, because she was engaged. She had chosen me for her confidant and I learned all about her quarrels with her lover. Several times he broke the engagement off, and she would fall ill, and friends would make peace. Sometimes she would write to him three times a day, but she could not do without a confidant. She was a wild creature, a fine mimic and given to bursts of religion. I have known her to weep at a sermon, call herself a sinful woman, and mimic it after. I wrote her some bad poems and had more than one sleepless night through anger with her betrothed. XXI At Ballisodare an event happened that brought me back to the superstitions of my childhood. I do not know when it was, for the events of this period have as little sequence as those of childhood. I was staying with cousins at Avena house, a young man a few years older and a girl of my own age and perhaps her sister who was a good deal older. My girl cousin had often told me of strange sights she had seen at Ballisodare or Rosses. An old woman three or four feet in height and leaning on a stick had once come to the window and looked in at her, and sometimes she would meet people on the road who would say "how is so-and-so," naming some member of her family, and she would know, though she could not explain how, that they were not people of this world. Once she had lost her way in a familiar field, and when she found it again the silver mounting on a walking-stick belonging to her brother which she carried had vanished. An old woman in the village said afterwards "you have good friends amongst them, and the silver was taken instead of you." Though it was all years ago, what I am going to tell now must be accurate, for no great while ago she wrote out her unprompted memory of it all and it was the same as mine. She was sitting under an old-fashioned mirror reading and I was reading in another part of the room. Suddenly I heard a sound as if somebody was throwing a shower of peas at the mirror. I got her to go into the next room and rap with her knuckles on the other side of the wall to see if the sound could come from there, and while I was alone a great thump came close to my head upon the wainscot and on a different wall of the room. Later in the day a servant heard a heavy footstep going through the empty house, and that night, when I and my two cousins went for a walk, she saw the ground under some trees all in a blaze of light. I saw nothing, but presently we crossed the river and went along its edge where, they say, there was a village destroyed, I think in the wars of the 17th century, and near an old grave-yard. Suddenly we all saw light moving over the river where there is a great rush of waters. It was like a very brilliant torch. A moment later the girl saw a man coming towards us who disappeared in the water. I kept asking myself if I could be deceived. Perhaps after all, though it seemed impossible, somebody was walking in the water with a torch. But we could see a small light low down on Knock-na-rea seven miles off, and it began to move upward over the mountain slope. I timed it on my watch and in five minutes it reached the summit, and I, who had often climbed the mountain, knew that no human footstep was so speedy. From that on I wandered about raths and faery hills and questioned old women and old men and, when I was tired out or unhappy, began to long for some such end as True Thomas found. I did not believe with my intellect that you could be carried away body and soul, but I believed with my emotions and the belief of the country people made that easy. Once when I had crawled into the stone passage in some rath of the third Rosses, the pilot who had come with me called down the passage: "are you all right, sir?" And one night as I came near the village of Rosses on the road from Sligo, a fire blazed up on a green bank at my right side seven or eight feet above me, and another fire suddenly answered from Knock-na-rea. I hurried on doubting, and yet hardly doubting in my heart that I saw again the fires that I had seen by the river at Ballisodare. I began occasionally telling people that one should believe whatever had been believed in all countries and periods, and only reject any part of it after much evidence, instead of starting all over afresh and only believing what one could prove. But I was always ready to deny or turn into a joke what was for all that my secret fanaticism. When I had read Darwin and Huxley and believed as they did, I had wanted, because an established authority was upon my side, to argue with everybody. XXII I no longer went to the Harcourt Street school and we had moved from Howth to Rathgar. I was at the Arts schools in Kildare Street, but my father, who came to the school now and then, was my teacher. The masters left me alone, for they liked a very smooth surface and a very neat outline, and indeed understood nothing but neatness and smoothness. A drawing of the Discobolus, after my father had touched it, making the shoulder stand out with swift and broken lines, had no meaning for them; and for the most part I exaggerated all that my father did. Sometimes indeed, out of rivalry to some student near, I too would try to be smooth and neat. One day I helped the student next me, who certainly had no artistic gifts, to make a drawing of some plaster fruit. In his gratitude he told me his history. "I don't care for art," he said. "I am a good billiard player, one of the best in Dublin; but my guardian said I must take a profession, so I asked my friends to tell me where I would not have to pass an examination, and here I am." It may be that I myself was there for no better reason. My father had wanted me to go to Trinity College and, when I would not, had said, "my father and grandfather and great-grandfather have been there." I did not tell him my reason was that I did not believe my classics or my mathematics good enough for any examination. I had for fellow-student an unhappy "village genius" sent to Dublin by some charitable Connaught landlord. He painted religious pictures upon sheets nailed to the wall of his bedroom, a "Last Judgment" among the rest. Then there was a wild young man who would come to school of a morning with a daisy-chain hung round his neck; and George Russel, "Æ," the poet, and mystic. He did not paint the model as we tried to, for some other image rose always before his eyes (a St. John in the Desert I remember,) and already he spoke to us of his visions. His conversation, so lucid and vehement to-day, was all but incomprehensible, though now and again some phrase would be understood and repeated. One day he announced that he was leaving the Art schools because his will was weak and the arts or any other emotional pursuit could but weaken it further. Presently I went to the modelling class to be with certain elder students who had authority among us. Among these were John Hughes and Oliver Sheppard, well-known now as Irish sculptors. The day I first went into the studio where they worked, I stood still upon the threshold in amazement. A pretty gentle-looking girl was modelling in the middle of the room, and all the men were swearing at her for getting in their light with the most violent and fantastic oaths, and calling her every sort of name, and through it all she worked in undisturbed diligence. Presently the man nearest me saw my face and called out, "she is stone deaf, so we always swear at her and call her names when she gets in our light." In reality I soon found that everyone was kind to her, carrying her drawing-boards and the like, and putting her into the tram at the day's end. We had no scholarship, no critical knowledge of the history of painting, and no settled standards. A student would show his fellows some French illustrated paper that we might all admire, now some statue by Rodin or Dalou and now some declamatory Parisian monument, and if I did not happen to have discussed the matter with my father I would admire with no more discrimination than the rest. That pretentious monument to Gambetta made a great stir among us. No influence touched us but that of France, where one or two of the older students had been already and all hoped to go. Of England I alone knew anything. Our ablest student had learnt Italian to read Dante, but had never heard of Tennyson or Browning, and it was I who carried into the school some knowledge of English poetry, especially of Browning who had begun to move me by his air of wisdom. I do not believe that I worked well, for I wrote a great deal and that tired me, and the work I was set to bored me. When alone and uninfluenced, I longed for pattern, for pre-Raphaelitism, for an art allied to poetry, and returned again and again to our National Gallery to gaze at Turner's Golden Bough. Yet I was too timid, had I known how, to break away from my father's style and the style of those about me. I was always hoping that my father would return to the style of his youth, and make pictures out of certain designs now lost, that one could still find in his portfolios. There was one of an old hunchback in vague medieval dress, going through some underground place where there are beds with people in the beds; a girl half rising from one has seized his hand and is kissing it. I have forgotten its story, but the strange old man and the intensity in the girl's figure are vivid as in my childhood. There is some passage, I believe in the Bible, about a man who saved a city and went away and was never heard of again and here he was in another design, an old ragged beggar in the market-place laughing at his own statue. But my father would say: "I must paint what I see in front of me. Of course I shall really paint something different because my nature will come in unconsciously." Sometimes I would try to argue with him, for I had come to think the philosophy of his fellow-artists and himself a misunderstanding created by Victorian science, and science I had grown to hate with a monkish hate; but no good came of it, and in a moment I would unsay what I had said and pretend that I did not really believe it. My father was painting many fine portraits, Dublin leaders of the bar, college notabilities, or chance comers whom he would paint for nothing if he liked their heads; but all displeased me. In my heart I thought that only beautiful things should be painted, and that only ancient things and the stuff of dreams were beautiful. And I almost quarrelled with my father when he made a large water-colour, one of his finest pictures and now lost, of a consumptive beggar girl. And a picture at the Hibernian Academy of cocottes with yellow faces sitting before a café by some follower of Manet's made me miserable for days, but I was happy when partly through my father's planning some Whistlers were brought over and exhibited, and did not agree when my father said: "imagine making your old mother an arrangement in gray!" I did not care for mere reality and believed that creation should be conscious, and yet I could only imitate my father. I could not compose anything but a portrait and even to-day I constantly see people as a portrait painter, posing them in the mind's eye before such and such a background. Meanwhile I was still very much of a child, sometimes drawing with an elaborate frenzy, simulating what I believed of inspiration and sometimes walking with an artificial stride in memory of Hamlet and stopping at shop windows to look at my tie gathered into a loose sailor-knot and to regret that it could not be always blown out by the wind like Byron's tie in the picture. I had as many ideas as I have now, only I did not know how to choose from among them those that belonged to my life. XXIII We lived in a villa where the red bricks were made pretentious and vulgar with streaks of slate colour, and there seemed to be enemies everywhere. At one side indeed there was a friendly architect, but on the other some stupid stout woman and her family. I had a study with a window opposite some window of hers, & one night when I was writing I heard voices full of derision and saw the stout woman and her family standing in the window. I have a way of acting what I write and speaking it aloud without knowing what I am doing. Perhaps I was on my hands and knees, or looking down over the back of a chair talking into what I imagined an abyss. Another day a woman asked me to direct her on her way and while I was hesitating, being so suddenly called out of my thought, a woman from some neighbouring house came by. She said I was a poet and my questioner turned away contemptuously. Upon the other hand, the policeman and tramway conductor thought my absence of mind sufficiently explained when our servant told them I was a poet. "Oh well," said the policeman, who had been asking why I went indifferently through clean and muddy places, "if it is only the poetry that is working in his head!" I imagine I looked gaunt and emaciated, for the little boys at the neighbouring cross-road used to say when I passed by: "Oh, here is King Death again." One morning when my father was on the way to his studio, he met his landlord who had a big grocer's shop and they had this conversation: "will you tell me, sir, if you think Tennyson should have been given that peerage?" "one's only doubt is if he should have accepted it: it was a finer thing to be Alfred Tennyson." There was a silence, and then: "well, all the people I know think he should not have got it." Then, spitefully: "what's the good of poetry?" "Oh, it gives our minds a great deal of pleasure." "But wouldn't it have given your mind more pleasure if he had written an improving book?" "Oh, in that case I should not have read it." My father returned in the evening delighted with his story, but I could not understand how he could take such opinions lightly and not have seriously argued with the man. None of these people had ever seen any poet but an old white-haired man who had written volumes of easy, too-honied verse, and run through his money and gone clean out of his mind. He was a common figure in the streets and lived in some shabby neighbourhood of tenement houses where there were hens and chickens among the cobble stones. Every morning he carried home a loaf and gave half of it to the hens and chickens, the birds, or to some dog or starving cat. He was known to live in one room with a nail in the middle of the ceiling from which innumerable cords were stretched to other nails in the walls. In this way he kept up the illusion that he was living under canvas in some Arabian desert. I could not escape like this old man from house and neighbourhood, but hated both, hearing every whisper, noticing every passing glance. When my grandfather came for a few days to see a doctor, I was shocked to see him in our house. My father read out to him in the evening Clark Russell's "Wreck of the Grosvenor;" but the doctor forbade it, for my grandfather got up in the middle of the night and acted through the mutiny, as I acted my verse, saying the while, "yes, yes, that is the way it would all happen." XXIV From our first arrival in Dublin, my father had brought me from time to time to see Edward Dowden. He and my father had been college friends and were trying, perhaps, to take up again their old friendship. Sometimes we were asked to breakfast, and afterwards my father would tell me to read out one of my poems. Dowden was wise in his encouragement, never overpraising and never unsympathetic, and he would sometimes lend me books. The orderly, prosperous house where all was in good taste, where poetry was rightly valued, made Dublin tolerable for a while, and for perhaps a couple of years he was an image of romance. My father would not share my enthusiasm and soon, I noticed, grew impatient at these meetings. He would sometimes say that he had wanted Dowden when they were young to give himself to creative art, and would talk of what he considered Dowden's failure in life. I know now that he was finding in his friend what he himself had been saved from by the conversation of the pre-Raphaelites. "He will not trust his nature," he would say, or "he is too much influenced by his inferiors," or he would praise "Renunciants," one of Dowden's poems, to prove what Dowden might have written. I was not influenced for I had imagined a past worthy of that dark, romantic face. I took literally his verses, touched here and there with Swinburnian rhetoric, and believed that he had loved, unhappily and illicitly; and when through the practice of my art I discovered that certain images about the love of woman were the properties of a school, I but changed my fancy and thought of him as very wise. I was constantly troubled about philosophic questions. I would say to my fellow students at the Art school, "poetry and sculpture exist to keep our passions alive;" and somebody would say, "we would be much better without our passions." Or I would have a week's anxiety over the problem: do the arts make us happier, or more sensitive and therefore more unhappy. And I would say to Hughes or Sheppard, "if I cannot be certain they make us happier I will never write again." If I spoke of these things to Dowden he would put the question away with good-humoured irony: he seemed to condescend to everybody and everything and was now my sage. I was about to learn that if a man is to write lyric poetry he must be shaped by nature and art to some one out of half-a-dozen traditional poses, and be lover or saint, sage or sensualist, or mere mocker of all life; and that none but that stroke of luckless luck can open before him the accumulated expression of the world. And this thought before it could be knowledge was an instinct. I was vexed when my father called Dowden's irony timidity, but after many years his impression has not changed for he wrote to me but a few months ago, "it was like talking to a priest. One had to be careful not to remind him of his sacrifice." Once after breakfast Dowden read us some chapters of the unpublished "Life of Shelley," and I who had made the "Prometheus Unbound" my sacred book was delighted with all he read. I was chilled, however, when he explained that he had lost his liking for Shelley and would not have written it but for an old promise to the Shelley family. When it was published, Matthew Arnold made sport of certain conventionalities and extravagances that were, my father and I had come to see, the violence or clumsiness of a conscientious man hiding from himself a lack of sympathy. He had abandoned too, or was about to abandon, what was to have been his master-work, "The Life of Goethe," though in his youth a lecture course at Alexandra College that spoke too openly of Goethe's loves had brought upon him the displeasure of our Protestant Archbishop of Dublin. Only Wordsworth, he said, kept, more than all, his early love. Though my faith was shaken, it was only when he urged me to read George Eliot that I became angry and disillusioned & worked myself into a quarrel or half-quarrel. I had read all Victor Hugo's romances and a couple of Balzac's and was in no mind to like her. She seemed to have a distrust or a distaste for all in life that gives one a springing foot. Then too she knew so well how to enforce her distaste by the authority of her mid-Victorian science or by some habit of mind of its breeding, that I, who had not escaped the fascination of what I loathed, doubted while the book lay open whatsoever my instinct knew of splendour. She disturbed me and alarmed me, but when I spoke of her to my father, he threw her aside with a phrase, "Oh, she was an ugly woman who hated handsome men and handsome women;" and he began to praise "Wuthering Heights." Only the other day, when I got Dowden's letters, did I discover for how many years the friendship between Dowden and my father had been an antagonism. My father had written from Fitzroy Road in the sixties that the brotherhood, by which he meant the poet Edwin Ellis, Nettleship and himself, "abhorred Wordsworth;" and Dowden, not remembering that another week would bring a different mood and abhorrence, had written a pained and solemn letter. My father had answered that Dowden believed too much in the intellect and that all valuable education was but a stirring up of the emotions and had added that this did not mean excitability. "In the completely emotional man," he wrote, "the least awakening of feeling is a harmony in which every chord of every feeling vibrates. Excitement is the feature of an insufficiently emotional nature, the harsh vibrating discourse of but one or two chords." Living in a free world accustomed to the gay exaggeration of the talk of equals, of men who talk and write to discover truth and not for popular instruction, he had already, when both men were in their twenties, decided it is plain that Dowden was a Provincial. XXV It was only when I began to study psychical research and mystical philosophy that I broke away from my father's influence. He had been a follower of John Stuart Mill and had grown to manhood with the scientific movement. In this he had never been of Rossetti's party who said that it mattered to nobody whether the sun went round the earth or the earth round the sun. But through this new research, this reaction from popular science, I had begun to feel that I had allies for my secret thought. Once when I was in Dowden's drawing-room a servant announced my late head-master. I must have got pale or red, for Dowden, with some ironical, friendly remark, brought me into another room and there I stayed until the visitor was gone. A few months later, when I met the head-master again I had more courage. We chanced upon one another in the street and he said, "I want you to use your influence with so-and-so, for he is giving all his time to some sort of mysticism and he will fail in his examination." I was in great alarm, but I managed to say something about the children of this world being wiser than the children of light. He went off with a brusque "good morning." I do not think that even at that age I would have been so grandiloquent but for my alarm. He had, however, aroused all my indignation. My new allies and my old had alike sustained me. "Intermediate examinations," which I had always refused, meant money for pupil and for teacher, and that alone. My father had brought me up never when at school to think of the future or of any practical result. I have even known him to say, "when I was young, the definition of a gentleman was a man not wholly occupied in getting on." And yet this master wanted to withdraw my friend from the pursuit of the most important of all the truths. My friend, now in his last year at school, was a show boy, and had beaten all Ireland again and again, but now he and I were reading Baron Reichenbach on Odic Force and manuals published by the Theosophical Society. We spent a good deal of time in the Kildare Street Museum passing our hands over the glass cases, feeling or believing we felt the Odic Force flowing from the big crystals. We also found pins blindfolded and read papers on our discoveries to the Hermetic Society that met near the roof in York Street. I had, when we first made our society, proposed for our consideration that whatever the great poets had affirmed in their finest moments was the nearest we could come to an authoritative religion, and that their mythology, their spirits of water and wind were but literal truth. I had read "Prometheus Unbound" with this thought in mind and wanted help to carry my study through all literature. I was soon to vex my father by defining truth as "the dramatically appropriate utterance of the highest man." And if I had been asked to define the "highest" man, I would have said perhaps, "we can but find him as Homer found Odysseus when he was looking for a theme." My friend had written to some missionary society to send him to the South Seas, when I offered him Renan's "Life of Christ" and a copy of "Esoteric Buddhism." He refused both, but a few days later while reading for an examination in Kildare Street Library, he asked in an idle moment for "Esoteric Buddhism" and came out an esoteric Buddhist. He wrote to the missionaries withdrawing his letter and offered himself to the Theosophical Society as a _chela_. He was vexed now at my lack of zeal, for I had stayed somewhere between the books, held there perhaps by my father's scepticism. I said, and he thought it was a great joke though I was serious, that even if I were certain in my own mind, I did not know "a single person with a talent for conviction." For a time he made me ashamed of my world and its lack of zeal, and I wondered if his world (his father was a notorious Orange leader) where everything was a matter of belief was not better than mine. He himself proposed the immediate conversion of the other show boy, a clever little fellow, now a Dublin mathematician and still under five feet. I found him a day later in much depression. I said, "did he refuse to listen to you?" "Not at all," was the answer, "for I had only been talking for a quarter of an hour when he said he believed." Certainly those minds, parched by many examinations, were thirsty. Sometimes a professor of Oriental Languages at Trinity College, a Persian, came to our Society and talked of the magicians of the East. When he was a little boy, he had seen a vision in a pool of ink, a multitude of spirits singing in Arabic, "woe unto those that do not believe in us." And we persuaded a Brahmin philosopher to come from London and stay for a few days with the only one among us who had rooms of his own. It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless. Consciousness, he taught, does not merely spread out its surface but has, in vision and in contemplation, another motion and can change in height and in depth. A handsome young man with the typical face of Christ, he chaffed me good-humouredly because he said I came at breakfast and began some question that was interrupted by the first caller, waited in silence till ten or eleven at night when the last caller had gone, and finished my question. XXVI I thought a great deal about the system of education from which I had suffered, and believing that everybody had a philosophical defence for all they did, I desired greatly to meet some school-master that I might question him. For a moment it seemed as if I should have my desire. I had been invited to read out a poem called "The Island of Statues," an arcadian play in imitation of Edmund Spenser, to a gathering of critics who were to decide whether it was worthy of publication in the College magazine. The magazine had already published a lyric of mine, the first ever printed, and people began to know my name. We met in the rooms of Mr. C. H. Oldham, now professor of Political Economy at our new University; and though Professor Bury, then a very young man, was to be the deciding voice, Mr. Oldham had asked quite a large audience. When the reading was over and the poem had been approved I was left alone, why I cannot remember, with a young man who was, I had been told, a school-master. I was silent, gathering my courage, and he also was silent; and presently I said without anything to lead up to it, "I know you will defend the ordinary system of education by saying that it strengthens the will, but I am convinced that it only seems to do so because it weakens the impulses." Then I stopped, overtaken by shyness. He made no answer but smiled and looked surprised as though I had said, "you will say they are Persian attire; but let them be changed." XXVII I had begun to frequent a club founded by Mr. Oldham, and not from natural liking, but from a secret ambition. I wished to become self-possessed, to be able to play with hostile minds as Hamlet played, to look in the lion's face, as it were, with unquivering eyelash. In Ireland harsh argument which had gone out of fashion in England was still the manner of our conversation, and at this club Unionist and Nationalist could interrupt one another and insult one another without the formal and traditional restraint of public speech. Sometimes they would change the subject & discuss Socialism, or a philosophical question, merely to discover their old passions under a new shape. I spoke easily and I thought well till some one was rude and then I would become silent or exaggerate my opinion to absurdity, or hesitate and grow confused, or be carried away myself by some party passion. I would spend hours afterwards going over my words and putting the wrong ones right. Discovering that I was only self-possessed with people I knew intimately, I would often go to a strange house where I knew I would spend a wretched hour for schooling sake. I did not discover that Hamlet had his self-possession from no schooling but from indifference and passion conquering sweetness, and that less heroic minds can but hope it from old age. XXVIII I had very little money and one day the toll-taker at the metal bridge over the Liffey and a gossip of his laughed when I refused the halfpenny and said "no, I will go round by O'Connell Bridge." When I called for the first time at a house in Leinster Road several middle-aged women were playing cards and suggested my taking a hand and gave me a glass of sherry. The sherry went to my head and I was impoverished for days by the loss of sixpence. My hostess was Ellen O'Leary, who kept house for her brother John O'Leary the Fenian, the handsomest old man I had ever seen. He had been condemned to twenty years penal servitude but had been set free after five on condition that he did not return to Ireland for fifteen years. He had said to the government, "I will not return if Germany makes war on you, but I will return if France does." He and his old sister lived exactly opposite the Orange leader for whom he had a great respect. His sister stirred my affection at first for no better reason than her likeness of face and figure to the matron of my London school, a friendly person, but when I came to know her I found sister and brother alike were of Plutarch's people. She told me of her brother's life, how in his youth as now in his age, he would spend his afternoons searching for rare books among second-hand book-shops, how the Fenian organizer James Stephens had found him there and asked for his help. "I do not think you have any chance of success," he had said, "but if you never ask me to enroll anybody else I will join, it will be very good for the morals of the country." She told me how it grew to be a formidable movement, and of the arrests that followed (I believe that her own sweetheart had somehow fallen among the wreckage,) of sentences of death pronounced upon false evidence amid a public panic, and told it all without bitterness. No fanaticism could thrive amid such gentleness. She never found it hard to believe that an opponent had as high a motive as her own and needed upon her difficult road no spur of hate. Her brother seemed very unlike on a first hearing for he had some violent oaths, "Good God in Heaven" being one of them; and if he disliked anything one said or did, he spoke all his thought, but in a little one heard his justice match her charity. "Never has there been a cause so bad," he would say, "that it has not been defended by good men for good reasons." Nor would he overvalue any man because they shared opinions; and when he lent me the poems of Davis and the Young Irelanders, of whom I had known nothing, he did not, although the poems of Davis had made him a patriot, claim that they were very good poetry. His room was full of books, always second-hand copies that had often been ugly and badly printed when new and had not grown to my unhistoric mind more pleasing from the dirt of some old Dublin book-shop. Great numbers were Irish, and for the first time I began to read histories and verses that a Catholic Irishman knows from boyhood. He seemed to consider politics almost wholly as a moral discipline, and seldom said of any proposed course of action that it was practical or otherwise. When he spoke to me of his prison life he spoke of all with seeming freedom, but presently one noticed that he never spoke of hardship and if one asked him why, he would say, "I was in the hands of my enemies, why should I complain?" I have heard since that the governor of his jail found out that he had endured some unnecessary discomfort for months and had asked why he did not speak of it. "I did not come here to complain," was the answer. He had the moral genius that moves all young people and moves them the more if they are repelled by those who have strict opinions and yet have lived commonplace lives. I had begun, as would any other of my training, to say violent and paradoxical things to shock provincial sobriety, and Dowden's ironical calm had come to seem but a professional pose. But here was something as spontaneous as the life of an artist. Sometimes he would say things that would have sounded well in some heroic Elizabethan play. It became my delight to rouse him to these outbursts for I was the poet in the presence of his theme. Once when I was defending an Irish politician who had made a great outcry because he was treated as a common felon, by showing that he did it for the cause's sake, he said, "there are things that a man must not do even to save a nation." He would speak a sentence like that in ignorance of its passionate value, and would forget it the moment after. I met at his house friends of later life, Katharine Tynan who still lived upon her father's farm, and Dr. Hyde, still a college student who took snuff like those Mayo county people, whose stories and songs he was writing down. "Davitt wants followers by the thousand," O'Leary would say, "I only want half-a-dozen." One constant caller looked at me with much hostility, John F. Taylor, an obscure great orator. The other day in Dublin I overheard a man murmuring to another one of his speeches as I might some Elizabethan lyric that is in my very bones. It was delivered at some Dublin debate, some College society perhaps. The Lord Chancellor had spoken with balanced unemotional sentences now self-complacent, now in derision. Taylor began hesitating and stopping for words, but after speaking very badly for a little, straightened his figure and spoke as out of a dream: "I am carried to another age, a nobler court, and another Lord Chancellor is speaking. I am at the court of the first Pharaoh." Thereupon he put into the mouth of that Egyptian all his audience had listened to, but now it was spoken to the children of Israel. "If you have any spirituality as you boast, why not use our great empire to spread it through the world, why still cling to that beggarly nationality of yours? what are its history and its works weighed with those of Egypt." Then his voice changed and sank: "I see a man at the edge of the crowd; he is standing listening there, but he will not obey;" and then with his voice rising to a cry, "had he obeyed he would never have come down the mountain carrying in his arms the tables of the Law in the language of the outlaw." He had been in a linen-draper's shop for a while, had educated himself and put himself to college, and was now, as a lawyer, famous for hopeless cases where unsure judgment could not make things worse, and eloquence, power of cross-examination and learning might amend all. Conversation with him was always argument, and for an obstinate opponent he had such phrases as, "have you your head in a bag, sir?" and I seemed his particular aversion. As with many of the self-made men of that generation, Carlyle was his chief literary enthusiasm, supporting him, as he believed, in his contempt for the complexities and refinements he had not found in his hard life, and I belonged to a generation that had begun to call Carlyle rhetorician and demagogue. I had once seen what I had believed to be an enraged bull in a field and had walked up to it as a test of courage to discover, just as panic fell upon me, that it was merely an irritable cow. I braved Taylor again and again, but always found him worse than my expectation. I would say, quoting Mill, "oratory is heard, poetry is overheard." And he would answer, his voice full of contempt, that there was always an audience; and yet, in his moments of lofty speech, he himself was alone no matter what the crowd. At other times his science or his Catholic orthodoxy, I never could discover which, would become enraged with my supernaturalism. I can but once remember escaping him unabashed and unconquered. I said with deliberate exaggeration at some evening party at O'Leary's "five out of every six people have seen a ghost;" and Taylor fell into my net with "well, I will ask everybody here." I managed that the first answer should come from a man who had heard a voice he believed to be that of his dead brother, and the second from a doctor's wife who had lived in a haunted house and met a man with his throat cut, whose throat as he drifted along the garden-walk "had opened and closed like the mouth of a fish." Taylor threw up his head like an angry horse, but asked no further question, and did not return to the subject that evening. If he had gone on he would have heard from everybody some like story though not all at first hand, and Miss O'Leary would have told him what happened at the death of one of the MacManus brothers, well known in the politics of Young Ireland. One brother was watching by the bed where the other lay dying and saw a strange hawk-like bird fly through the open window and alight upon the breast of the dying man. He did not dare to drive it away and it remained there, as it seemed, looking into his brother's eyes until death came, and then it flew out of the window. I think, though I am not sure, that she had the story from the watcher himself. It was understood that Taylor's temper kept him from public life, though he may have been the greatest orator of his time, partly because no leader would accept him, and still more because, in the words of one of his Dublin enemies, "he had never joined any party and as soon as one joined him he seceded." With O'Leary he was always, even when they differed, as they often did, gentle and deferential, but once only, and that was years afterwards, did I think that he was about to include me among his friends. We met by chance in a London street and he stopped me with an abrupt movement: "Yeats," he said, "I have been thinking. If you and ... (naming another aversion,) were born in a small Italian principality in the Middle Ages, he would have friends at court and you would be in exile with a price on your head." He went off without another word, and the next time we met he was no less offensive than before. He, imprisoned in himself, and not the always unperturbed O'Leary, comes before me as the tragic figure of my youth. The same passion for all moral and physical splendour that drew him to O'Leary would make him beg leave to wear, for some few days, a friend's ring or pin, and gave him a heart that every pretty woman set on fire. I doubt if he was happy in his loves; for those his powerful intellect had fascinated were, I believe, repelled by his coarse red hair, his gaunt ungainly body, his stiff movements as of a Dutch doll, his badly rolled, shabby umbrella. And yet with women, as with O'Leary, he was gentle, deferential, almost diffident. A Young Ireland Society met in the lecture hall of a workman's club in York Street with O'Leary for president, and there four or five university students and myself and occasionally Taylor spoke on Irish history or literature. When Taylor spoke, it was a great event, and his delivery in the course of a speech or lecture of some political verse by Thomas Davis gave me a conviction of how great might be the effect of verse spoken by a man almost rhythm-drunk at some moment of intensity, the apex of long mounting thought. Verses that seemed when one saw them upon the page flat and empty caught from that voice, whose beauty was half in its harsh strangeness, nobility and style. My father had always read verse with an equal intensity and a greater subtlety, but this art was public and his private, and it is Taylor's voice that rings in my ears and awakens my longing when I have heard some player speak lines, "so naturally," as a famous player said to me, "that nobody can find out that it is verse at all." I made a good many speeches, more I believe as a training for self-possession than from desire of speech. Once our debates roused a passion that came to the newspapers and the streets. There was an excitable man who had fought for the Pope against the Italian patriots and who always rode a white horse in our Nationalist processions. He got on badly with O'Leary who had told him that "attempting to oppress others was a poor preparation for liberating your own country." O'Leary had written some letter to the press condemning the "Irish-American Dynamite Party" as it was called, and defining the limits of "honourable warfare." At the next meeting, the papal soldier rose in the middle of the discussion on some other matter and moved a vote of censure on O'Leary. "I myself" he said "do not approve of bombs, but I do not think that any Irishman should be discouraged." O'Leary ruled him out of order. He refused to obey and remained standing. Those round him began to threaten. He swung the chair he had been sitting on round his head and defied everybody. However he was seized from all sides and thrown out, and a special meeting called to expel him. He wrote letters to the papers and addressed a crowd somewhere. "No Young Ireland Society," he protested, "could expel a man whose grandfather had been hanged in 1798." When the night of the special meeting came his expulsion was moved, but before the vote could be taken an excited man announced that there was a crowd in the street, that the papal soldier was making a speech, that in a moment we should be attacked. Three or four of us ran and put our backs to the door while others carried on the debate. It was an inner door with narrow glass windows at each side and through these we could see the street-door and the crowd in the street. Presently a man asked us through the crack in the door if we would as a favour "leave the crowd to the workman's club upstairs." In a couple of minutes there was a great noise of sticks and broken glass, and after that our landlord came to find out who was to pay for the hall-lamp. XXIX From these debates, from O'Leary's conversation, and from the Irish books he lent or gave me has come all I have set my hand to since. I had begun to know a great deal about the Irish poets who had written in English. I read with excitement books I should find unreadable to-day, and found romance in lives that had neither wit nor adventure. I did not deceive myself, I knew how often they wrote a cold and abstract language, and yet I who had never wanted to see the houses where Keats and Shelley lived would ask everybody what sort of place Inchedony was, because Callanan had named after it a bad poem in the manner of "Childe Harold." Walking home from a debate, I remember saying to some college student "Ireland cannot put from her the habits learned from her old military civilization and from a church that prays in Latin. Those popular poets have not touched her heart, her poetry when it comes will be distinguished and lonely." O'Leary had once said to me, "neither Ireland nor England knows the good from the bad in any art, but Ireland unlike England does not hate the good when it is pointed out to her." I began to plot and scheme how one might seal with the right image the soft wax before it began to harden. I had noticed that Irish Catholics among whom had been born so many political martyrs had not the good taste, the household courtesy and decency of the Protestant Ireland I had known, and yet Protestant Ireland had begun to think of nothing but getting on. I thought we might bring the halves together if we had a national literature that made Ireland beautiful in the memory, and yet had been freed from provincialism by an exacting criticism, an European pose. It was because of this dream when we returned to London that I made with pastels upon the ceiling of my study a map of Sligo decorated like some old map with a ship and an elaborate compass and wrote, a little against the grain, a couple of Sligo stories, one a vague echo of "Grettir the Strong," which my father had read to me in childhood, and finished with better heart my "Wanderings of Oisin," and began after ridding my style of romantic colour "The Countess Cathleen." I saw that our people did not read, but that they listened patiently (how many long political speeches have they listened to?) and saw that there must be a theatre, and if I could find the right musicians, words set to music. I foresaw a great deal that we are doing now, though never the appetite of our new middle-class for "realism," nor the greatness of the opposition, nor the slowness of the victory. Davis had done so much in the four years of his working life, I had thought all needful pamphleteering and speech-making could be run through at the day's end, not knowing that taste is so much more deeply rooted than opinion that even if one had school and newspaper to help, one could scarcely stir it under two generations. Then too, bred up in a studio where all things are discussed and where I had even been told that indiscretion and energy are inseparable, I knew nothing of the conservatism or of the suspicions of piety. I had planned a drama like that of Greece, and romances that were, it may be, half Hugo and half de la Motte Fouqué, to bring into the town the memories and visions of the country and to spread everywhere the history and legends of mediaeval Ireland and to fill Ireland once more with sacred places. I even planned out, and in some detail, (for those mysterious lights and voices were never long forgotten,) another Samothrace, a new Eleusis. I believed, so great was my faith, or so deceptive the precedent of Young Ireland, that I should find men of genius everywhere. I had not the conviction, as it may seem, that a people can be compelled to write what one pleases, for that could but end in rhetoric or in some educational movement but believed I had divined the soul of the people and had set my shoes upon a road that would be crowded presently. XXX Someone at the Young Ireland Society gave me a newspaper that I might read some article or letter. I began idly reading verses describing the shore of Ireland as seen by a returning, dying emigrant. My eyes filled with tears and yet I knew the verses were badly written--vague, abstract words such as one finds in a newspaper. I looked at the end and saw the name of some political exile who had died but a few days after his return to Ireland. They had moved me because they contained the actual thoughts of a man at a passionate moment of life, and when I met my father I was full of the discovery. We should write out our own thoughts in as nearly as possible the language we thought them in, as though in a letter to an intimate friend. We should not disguise them in any way; for our lives give them force as the lives of people in plays give force to their words. Personal utterance, which had almost ceased in English literature, could be as fine an escape from rhetoric and abstraction as drama itself. My father was indignant, almost violent, and would hear of nothing but drama. "Personal utterance was only egotism." I knew it was not, but as yet did not know how to explain the difference. I tried from that on to write out of my emotions exactly as they came to me in life, not changing them to make them more beautiful, and to rid my syntax of all inversions and my vocabulary of literary words, and that made it hard to write at all. It meant rejecting the words or the constructions that had been used over and over because they flow most easily into rhyme and measure. Then, too, how hard it was to be sincere, not to make the emotion more beautiful and more violent or the circumstance more romantic. "If I can be sincere and make my language natural, and without becoming discursive, like a novelist, and so indiscreet and prosaic," I said to myself, "I shall, if good luck or bad luck make my life interesting, be a great poet; for it will be no longer a matter of literature at all." Yet when I re-read those early poems which gave me so much trouble, I find little but romantic convention, unconscious drama. It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is. XXXI Perhaps a year before we returned to London, a Catholic friend brought me to a spiritualistic seance at the house of a young man who had been lately arrested under a suspicion of Fenianism, but had been released for lack of evidence. He and his friends had been sitting weekly about a table in the hope of spiritual manifestation and one had developed mediumship. A drawer full of books had leaped out of the table when no one was touching it, a picture had moved upon the wall. There were some half dozen of us, and our host began by making passes until the medium fell asleep sitting upright in his chair. Then the lights were turned out, and we sat waiting in the dim light of a fire. Presently my shoulders began to twitch and my hands. I could easily have stopped them, but I had never heard of such a thing and I was curious. After a few minutes the movement became violent and I stopped it. I sat motionless for a while and then my whole body moved like a suddenly unrolled watch-spring, and I was thrown backward on the wall. I again stilled the movement and sat at the table. Everybody began to say I was a medium, and that if I would not resist some wonderful thing would happen. I remembered that my father had told me that Balzac had once desired to take opium for the experience sake, but would not because he dreaded the surrender of his will. We were now holding each other's hands and presently my right hand banged the knuckles of the woman next to me upon the table. She laughed, and the medium, speaking for the first time, and with difficulty, out of his mesmeric sleep, said, "tell her there is great danger." He stood up and began walking round me, making movements with his hands as though he were pushing something away. I was now struggling vainly with this force which compelled me to movements I had not willed, and my movements had become so violent that the table was broken. I tried to pray, and because I could not remember a prayer, repeated in a loud voice Of Man's first disobedience and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world and all our woe... Sing, heavenly muse. My Catholic friend had left the table and was saying a Pater Noster and Ave Maria in the corner. Presently all became still and so dark that I could not see anybody. I described it to somebody next day as like going out of a noisy political meeting on to a quiet country road. I said to myself, "I am now in a trance but I no longer have any desire to resist." But when I turned my eyes to the fireplace I could see a faint gleam of light, so I thought "no, I am not in a trance." Then I saw shapes faintly appearing in the darkness & thought, "they are spirits;" but they were only the spiritualists and my friend at her prayers. The medium said in a faint voice, "we are through the bad spirits." I said, "will they ever come again, do you think?" and he said, "no, never again, I think," and in my boyish vanity I thought it was I who had banished them. For years afterwards I would not go to a seance or turn a table and would often ask myself what was that violent impulse that had run through my nerves? was it a part of myself--something always to be a danger perhaps; or had it come from without, as it seemed? XXXII I had published my first book of poems by subscription, O'Leary finding many subscribers, and a book of stories, when I heard that my grandmother was dead and went to Sligo for the funeral. She had asked to see me but by some mistake I was not sent for. She had heard that I was much about with a beautiful, admired woman and feared that I did not speak of marriage because I was poor, and wanted to say to me "women care nothing about money." My grandfather was dying also and only survived her a few weeks. I went to see him and wondered at his handsome face now sickness had refined it, and noticed that he foretold the changes in the weather by indications of the light and of the temperature that could not have told me anything. As I sat there my old childish fear returned and I was glad to get away. I stayed with my uncle whose house was opposite where my grandfather lived, and walking home with him one day we met the doctor. The doctor said there was no hope and that my grandfather should be told, but my uncle would not allow it. He said "it would make a man mad to know he was dying." In vain the doctor pleaded that he had never known a man not made calmer by the knowledge. I listened sad and angry, but my uncle always took a low view of human nature, his very tolerance which was exceedingly great came from his hoping nothing of anybody. Before he had given way my grandfather lifted up his arms and cried out "there she is," and fell backward dead. Before he was dead, old servants of that house where there had never been noise or disorder began their small pilferings, and after his death there was a quarrel over the disposition of certain mantle-piece ornaments of no value. XXXIII For some months now I have lived with my own youth and childhood, not always writing indeed but thinking of it almost every day, and I am sorrowful and disturbed. It is not that I have accomplished too few of my plans, for I am not ambitious; but when I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens. Printed in the United States of America. 
33505	----	_THE TREMBLING OF THE VEIL_ PRIVATELY PRINTED BOOKS (_Uniform with this Volume_) THE STORY-TELLER'S HOLIDAY (_George Moore_) _July 1918_ AVOWALS (_George Moore_) _September 1919_ ESTHER WATERS (_George Moore_) _October 1920_ THE COMING OF GABRIELLE (_George Moore_) _December 1920_ HÉLOISE AND ABÉLARD (_George Moore_) _February 1921_ NINE TALES FROM "LES CONTES DROLATIQUES" OF BALZAC (_Translated by Robert Crawford_) _November 1921_ A PORTRAIT OF GEORGE MOORE IN A STUDY OF HIS WORK (_John Freeman_) _May 1922_ THE CAULDRON OF ANNWN (_Thomas Evelyn Ellis_) _June 1922_ [Illustration: _Emery Walker Ph.oc. From a picture by Charles Shannon_] THE TREMBLING OF THE VEIL By W. B. YEATS LONDON PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR SUBSCRIBERS ONLY BY T. WERNER LAURIE, LTD. 1922 _To_ JOHN QUINN _my friend and helper, and friend and helper of certain people mentioned in this book_. GIFT PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN THE TREMBLING OF THE VEIL _This edition consists of one thousand copies numbered and signed._ _This is No._ 24 PREFACE _I have found in an old diary a quotation from Stephane Mallarmé, saying that his epoch was troubled by the trembling of the veil of the Temple. As those words were still true, during the years of my life described in this book, I have chosen The Trembling of the Veil for its title._ _Except in one or two trivial details, where I have the warrant of old friendship, I have not, without permission, quoted conversation or described occurrence from the private life of named or recognisable persons. I have not felt my freedom abated, for most of the friends of my youth are dead and over the dead I have an historian's rights. They were artists and writers and certain among them men of genius, and the life of a man of genius, because of his greater sincerity, is often an experiment that needs analysis and record. At least my generation so valued personality that it thought so. I have said all the good I know and all the evil: I have kept nothing back necessary to understanding._ _W. B. YEATS._ _May, 1922. Thoor Ballylee._ CONTENTS PAGE BOOK I FOUR YEARS 1887-1891 3 BOOK II IRELAND AFTER THE FALL OF PARNELL 83 BOOK III HODOS CAMELIONIS 135 BOOK IV THE TRAGIC GENERATION 157 BOOK V THE STIRRING OF THE BONES 225 BOOK I FOUR YEARS--1887-1891 THE TREMBLING OF THE VEIL _FOUR YEARS_ 1887-1891 I At the end of the 'eighties my father and mother, my brother and sisters and myself, all newly arrived from Dublin, were settled in Bedford Park in a red-brick house with several mantelpieces of wood, copied from marble mantelpieces designed by the brothers Adam, a balcony and a little garden shadowed by a great horse-chestnut tree. Years before we had lived there, when the crooked ostentatiously picturesque streets with great trees casting great shadows had been a new enthusiasm: the Pre-Raphaelite movement at last affecting life. But now exaggerated criticism had taken the place of enthusiasm, the tiled roofs, the first in modern London, were said to leak, which they did not, and the drains to be bad, though that was no longer true; and I imagine that houses were cheap. I remember feeling disappointed because the co-operative stores, with their little seventeenth century panes, had lost the romance they had when I had passed them still unfinished on my way to school; and because the public house, called The Tabard after Chaucer's Inn, was so plainly a common public house; and because the great sign of a trumpeter designed by Rooke, the Pre-Raphaelite artist, had been freshened by some inferior hand. The big red-brick church had never pleased me, and I was accustomed, when I saw the wooden balustrade that ran along the slanting edge of the roof where nobody ever walked or could walk, to remember the opinion of some architect friend of my father's, that it had been put there to keep the birds from falling off. Still, however, it had some village characters and helped us to feel not wholly lost in the metropolis. I no longer went to church as a regular habit, but go I sometimes did, for one Sunday morning I saw these words painted on a board in the porch: "The congregation are requested to kneel during prayers; the kneelers are afterwards to be hung upon pegs provided for the purpose." In front of every seat hung a little cushion and these cushions were called "kneelers." Presently the joke ran through the community, where there were many artists who considered religion at best an unimportant accessory to good architecture and who disliked that particular church. II I could not understand where the charm had gone that I had felt, when as a school-boy of twelve or thirteen I had played among the unfinished houses, once leaving the marks of my two hands, blacked by a fall among some paint, upon a white balustrade. Sometimes I thought it was because these were real houses, while my play had been among toy-houses some day to be inhabited by imaginary people full of the happiness that one can see in picture books. I was in all things Pre-Raphaelite. When I was fifteen or sixteen my father had told me about Rossetti and Blake and given me their poetry to read; and once at Liverpool on my way to Sligo I had seen Dante's Dream in the gallery there, a picture painted when Rossetti had lost his dramatic power and to-day not very pleasing to me, and its colour, its people, its romantic architecture had blotted all other pictures away. It was a perpetual bewilderment that my father, who had begun life as a Pre-Raphaelite painter, now painted portraits of the first comer, children selling newspapers, or a consumptive girl with a basket of fish upon her head, and that when, moved perhaps by some memory of his youth, he chose some theme from poetic tradition, he would soon weary and leave it unfinished. I had seen the change coming bit by bit and its defence elaborated by young men fresh from the Paris art-schools. "We must paint what is in front of us," or "A man must be of his own time," they would say, and if I spoke of Blake or Rossetti they would point out his bad drawing and tell me to admire Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage. Then, too, they were very ignorant men; they read nothing, for nothing mattered but "knowing how to paint," being in reaction against a generation that seemed to have wasted its time upon so many things. I thought myself alone in hating these young men, now indeed getting towards middle life, their contempt for the past, their monopoly of the future, but in a few months I was to discover others of my own age, who thought as I did, for it is not true that youth looks before it with the mechanical gaze of a well-drilled soldier. Its quarrel is not with the past, but with the present, where its elders are so obviously powerful and no cause seems lost if it seem to threaten that power. Does cultivated youth ever really love the future, where the eye can discover no persecuted Royalty hidden among oak leaves, though from it certainly does come so much proletarian rhetoric? I was unlike others of my generation in one thing only. I am very religious, and deprived by Huxley and Tyndall, whom I detested, of the simple-minded religion of my childhood, I had made a new religion, almost an infallible church out of poetic tradition: a fardel of stories, and of personages, and of emotions, inseparable from their first expression, passed on from generation to generation by poets and painters with some help from philosophers and theologians. I wished for a world, where I could discover this tradition perpetually, and not in pictures and in poems only, but in tiles round the chimney-piece and in the hangings that kept out the draught. I had even created a dogma: "Because those imaginary people are created out of the deepest instinct of man, to be his measure and his norm, whatever I can imagine those mouths speaking may be the nearest I can go to truth." When I listened they seemed always to speak of one thing only: they, their loves, every incident of their lives, were steeped in the supernatural. Could even Titian's "Ariosto" that I loved beyond other portraits have its grave look, as if waiting for some perfect final event, if the painters before Titian had not learned portraiture, while painting into the corner of compositions full of saints and Madonnas, their kneeling patrons? At seventeen years old I was already an old-fashioned brass cannon full of shot, and nothing had kept me from going off but a doubt as to my capacity to shoot straight. III I was not an industrious student and knew only what I had found by accident and I found nothing I cared for after Titian, and Titian I knew from an imitation of his _Supper of Emmaus_ in Dublin, till Blake and the Pre-Raphaelites; and among my father's friends were no Pre-Raphaelites. Some indeed had come to Bedford Park in the enthusiasm of the first building and others to be near those that had. There was Todhunter, a well-off man who had bought my father's pictures while my father was still Pre-Raphaelite; once a Dublin doctor he was now a poet and a writer of poetical plays; a tall, sallow, lank, melancholy man, a good scholar and a good intellect; and with him my father carried on a warm exasperated friendship, fed I think by old memories and wasted by quarrels over matters of opinion. Of all the survivors he was the most dejected and the least estranged, and I remember encouraging him, with a sense of worship shared, to buy a very expensive carpet designed by Morris. He displayed it without strong liking and would have agreed had there been any to find fault. If he had liked anything strongly he might have been a famous man, for a few years later he was to write, under some casual patriotic impulse, certain excellent verses now in all Irish anthologies; but with him every book was a new planting, and not a new bud on an old bough. He had I think no peace in himself. But my father's chief friend was York Powell, a famous Oxford Professor of history, a broad-built, broad-headed, brown-bearded man clothed in heavy blue cloth and looking, but for his glasses and the dim sight of a student, like some captain in the merchant service. One often passed with pleasure from Todhunter's company to that of one who was almost ostentatiously at peace. He cared nothing for philosophy, nothing for economics, nothing for the policy of nations; for history, as he saw it, was a memory of men who were amusing or exciting to think about. He impressed all who met him, and seemed to some a man of genius, but he had not enough ambition to shape his thought, or conviction to give rhythm to his style and remained always a poor writer. I was too full of unfinished speculations and premature convictions to value rightly his conversation, informed by a vast erudition, which would give itself to every casual association of speech and company, precisely because he had neither cause nor design. My father, however, found Powell's concrete narrative manner in talk a necessary completion of his own, and when I asked him in a letter many years later where he got his philosophy replied "from York Powell" and thereon added, no doubt remembering that Powell was without ideas, "by looking at him." Then there was a good listener, a painter in whose hall hung a big picture painted in his student days of Ulysses sailing home from the Phaeacian court, an orange and a skin of wine at his side, blue mountains towering behind; but who lived by drawing domestic scenes and lovers' meetings for a weekly magazine that had an immense circulation among the imperfectly educated. To escape the boredom of work, which he never turned to but under pressure of necessity and usually late at night, with the publisher's messenger in the hall, he had half-filled his studio with mechanical toys, of his own invention, and perpetually increased their number. A model railway train at intervals puffed its way along the walls, passing several railway stations and signal boxes; and on the floor lay a camp with attacking and defending soldiers and a fortification that blew up when the attackers fired a pea through a certain window; while a large model of a Thames barge hung from the ceiling. Opposite our house lived an old artist who worked also for the illustrated papers for a living, but painted landscapes for his pleasure, and of him I remember nothing except that he had outlived ambition, was a good listener, and that my father explained his gaunt appearance by his descent from Pocahontas. If all these men were a little like becalmed ships, there was certainly one man whose sails were full. Three or four doors off on our side of the road lived a decorative artist in all the naïve confidence of popular ideals and the public approval. He was our daily comedy. "I myself and Sir Frederick Leighton are the greatest decorative artists of the age," was among his sayings, and a great Lych-gate, bought from some country church-yard, reared its thatched roof, meant to shelter bearers and coffin, above the entrance to his front garden to show that he at any rate knew nothing of discouragement. In this fairly numerous company--there were others though no other face rises before me--my father and York Powell found listeners for a conversation that had no special loyalties, or antagonisms; while I could only talk upon set topics, being in the heat of my youth, and the topics that filled me with excitement were never spoken of. IV Bedford Park had a red brick clubhouse with a little theatre that began to stir my imagination. I persuaded Todhunter to write a pastoral play and have it performed there. A couple of years before, while we were still in Dublin, he had given at Hengler's Circus, remodelled as a Greek Theatre, a most expensive performance of his _Helena of Troas_, an oratorical Swinburnian play which I had thought as unactable as it was unreadable. Since I was seventeen I had constantly tested my own ambition with Keats's praise of him who "left great verses to a little clan," so it was but natural that I should spend an evening persuading him that we had nothing to do with the great public, that it should be a point of honour to be content with our own little public, that he should write of shepherds and shepherdesses because people would expect them to talk poetry and move without melodrama. He wrote his _Sicilian Idyll_, which I have not looked at for thirty years, and never rated very high as poetry, and had the one unmistakable success of his life. The little theatre was full for twice the number of performances intended, for artists, men of letters and students had come from all over London. I made through these performances a close friend and a discovery that was to influence my life. Todhunter had engaged several professional actors with a little reputation, but had given the chief woman's part to Florence Farr, who had qualities no contemporary professional practice could have increased, the chief man's part to an amateur, Heron Allen, solicitor, fiddler and popular writer on palmistry. Heron Allen and Florence Farr read poetry for their pleasure. While they were upon the stage no one else could hold an eye or an ear. Their speech was music, the poetry acquired a nobility, a passionate austerity that made it seem akin for certain moments to the great poetry of the world. Heron Allen, who had never spoken in public before except to lecture upon the violin, had the wisdom to reduce his acting to a series of poses, to be the stately shepherd with not more gesture than was needed to "twitch his mantle blue" and to let his grace be foil to Florence Farr's more impassioned delivery. When they closed their mouths, and some other player opened his, breaking up the verse to make it conversational, jerking his body or his arms that he might seem no austere poetical image but very man, I listened in raging hatred. I kept my seat with difficulty, I searched my memory for insulting phrases, I even muttered them to myself that the people about might hear. I had discovered for the first time that in the performance of all drama that depends for its effect upon beauty of language, poetical culture may be more important than professional experience. Florence Farr lived in lodgings some twenty minutes' walk away at Brook Green, and I was soon a constant caller, talking over plays that I would some day write her. She had three great gifts, a tranquil beauty like that of Demeter's image near the British Museum reading room door, and an incomparable sense of rhythm and a beautiful voice, the seeming natural expression of the image. And yet there was scarce another gift that she did not value above those three. We all have our simplifying image, our genius, and such hard burden does it lay upon us that, but for the praise of others, we would deride it and hunt it away. She could only express hers through an unfashionable art, an art that has scarce existed since the seventeenth century, and so could only earn unimportant occasional praise. She would dress without care or calculation as if to hide her beauty and seem contemptuous of its power. If a man fell in love with her she would notice that she had seen just that movement upon the stage or had heard just that intonation and all seemed unreal. If she read out some poem in English or in French all was passion, all a traditional splendour, but she spoke of actual things with a cold wit or under the strain of paradox. Wit and paradox alike sought to pull down whatever had tradition or passion and she was soon to spend her days in the British Museum reading room and become erudite in many heterogeneous studies moved by an insatiable, destroying curiosity. I formed with her an enduring friendship that was an enduring exasperation--"why do you play the part with a bent back and a squeak in the voice? How can you be a character actor, you who hate all our life, you who belong to a life that is a vision?" But argument was no use, and some Nurse in Euripedes must be played with all an old woman's infirmities and not as I would have it, with all a Sybil's majesty, because "it is no use doing what nobody wants," or because she would show that she "could do what the others did." I used in my rage to compare her thoughts, when her worst mood was upon her, to a game called Spillikens which I had seen played in my childhood with little pieces of bone that you had to draw out with a hook from a bundle of like pieces. A bundle of bones instead of Demeter's golden sheaf! Her sitting room at the Brook Green lodging house was soon a reflection of her mind, the walls covered with musical instruments, pieces of oriental drapery, and Egyptian gods and goddesses painted by herself in the British Museum. V Presently a hansom drove up to our door at Bedford Park with Miss Maud Gonne, who brought an introduction to my father from old John O'Leary, the Fenian leader. She vexed my father by praise of war, war for its own sake, not as the creator of certain virtues but as if there were some virtue in excitement itself. I supported her against my father, which vexed him the more, though he might have understood that, apart from the fact that Carolus Duran and Bastien-Lepage were somehow involved, a man so young as I could not have differed from a woman so beautiful and so young. To-day, with her great height and the unchangeable lineaments of her form, she looks the Sybil I would have had played by Florence Farr, but in that day she seemed a classical impersonation of the Spring, the Virgilian commendation "She walks like a goddess" made for her alone. Her complexion was luminous, like that of apple blossom through which the light falls, and I remember her standing that first day by a great heap of such blossoms in the window. In the next few years I saw her always when she passed to and fro between Dublin and Paris, surrounded, no matter how rapid her journey and how brief her stay at either end of it, by cages full of birds, canaries, finches of all kinds, dogs, a parrot, and once a full-grown hawk from Donegal. Once when I saw her to her railway carriage I noticed how the cages obstructed wraps and cushions and wondered what her fellow travellers would say, but the carriage remained empty. It was years before I could see into the mind that lay hidden under so much beauty and so much energy. VI Some quarter of an hour's walk from Bedford Park, out on the high road to Richmond, lived W. E. Henley, and I, like many others, began under him my education. His portrait, a lithograph by Rothenstein, hangs over my mantelpiece among portraits of other friends. He is drawn standing, but because doubtless of his crippled legs he leans forward, resting his elbows upon some slightly suggested object--a table or a window-sill. His heavy figure and powerful head, the disordered hair standing upright, his short irregular beard and moustache, his lined and wrinkled face, his eyes steadily fixed upon some object, in complete confidence and self-possession, and yet as in half-broken reverie, all are there exactly as I remember him. I have seen other portraits and they too show him exactly as I remember him, as though he had but one appearance and that seen fully at the first glance and by all alike. He was most human--human I used to say like one of Shakespeare's characters--and yet pressed and pummelled, as it were, into a single attitude, almost into a gesture and a speech as by some overwhelming situation. I disagreed with him about everything, but I admired him beyond words. With the exception of some early poems founded upon old French models I disliked his poetry, mainly because he wrote in _vers libre_, which I associated with Tyndall and Huxley, and Bastien-Lepage's clownish peasant staring with vacant eyes at her great boots; and filled it with unimpassioned description of an hospital ward where his leg had been amputated. I wanted the strongest passions, passions that had nothing to do with observation, sung in metrical forms that seemed old enough to be sung by men half-asleep or riding upon a journey. Furthermore, Pre-Raphaelism affected him as some people are affected by a cat in the room, and though he professed himself at our first meeting without political interests or convictions, he soon grew into a violent unionist and imperialist. I used to say when I spoke of his poems: "He is like a great actor with a bad part; yet who would look at Hamlet in the grave scene if Salvini played the grave-digger?" and I might so have explained much that he said and did. I meant that he was like a great actor of passion--character-acting meant nothing to me for many years--and an actor of passion will display some one quality of soul, personified again and again, just as a great poetical painter, Titian, Botticelli, Rossetti, may depend for his greatness upon a type of beauty which presently we call by his name. Irving, the last of the sort on the English stage, and in modern England and France it is the rarest sort, never moved me but in the expression of intellectual pride and though I saw Salvini but once I am convinced that his genius was a kind of animal nobility. Henley, half inarticulate--"I am very costive," he would say--beset with personal quarrels, built up an image of power and magnanimity till it became, at moments, when seen as it were by lightning, his true self. Half his opinions were the contrivance of a sub-consciousness that sought always to bring life to the dramatic crisis and expression to that point of artifice where the true self could find its tongue. Without opponents there had been no drama, and in his youth Ruskinism and Pre-Raphaelitism, for he was of my father's generation, were the only possible opponents. How could one resent his prejudice when, that he himself might play a worthy part, he must find beyond the common rout, whom he derided and flouted daily, opponents he could imagine moulded like himself? Once he said to me in the height of his imperial propaganda, "Tell those young men in Ireland that this great thing must go on. They say Ireland is not fit for self-government, but that is nonsense. It is as fit as any other European country, but we cannot grant it." And then he spoke of his desire to found and edit a Dublin newspaper. It would have expounded the Gaelic propaganda then beginning, though Dr Hyde had, as yet, no league, our old stories, our modern literature--everything that did not demand any shred or patch of government. He dreamed of a tyranny, but it was that of Cosimo de' Medici. VII We gathered on Sunday evenings in two rooms, with folding doors between, and hung, I think, with photographs from Dutch masters, and in one room there was always, I think, a table with cold meat. I can recall but one elderly man--Dunn his name was--rather silent and full of good sense, an old friend of Henley's. We were young men, none as yet established in his own, or in the world's opinion, and Henley was our leader and our confidant. One evening, I found him alone amused and exasperated: "Young A----," he cried "has just been round to ask my advice. Would I think it a wise thing if he bolted with Mrs B----? 'Have you quite determined to do it?' I asked him. 'Quite.' 'Well,' I said, 'in that case I refuse to give you any advice.'" Mrs B---- was a beautiful talented woman, who, as the Welsh Triad said of Guinievere, "was much given to being carried off." I think we listened to him, and often obeyed him, partly because he was quite plainly not upon the side of our parents. We might have a different ground of quarrel, but the result seemed more important than the ground, and his confident manner and speech made us believe, perhaps for the first time, in victory. And besides, if he did denounce, and in my case he certainly did, what we held in secret reverence, he never failed to associate it with things or persons that did not move us to reverence. Once I found him just returned from some art congress in Liverpool or in Manchester. "The salvation armyism of art," he called it, and gave a grotesque description of some city councillor he had found admiring Turner. Henley, who hated all that Ruskin praised, thereupon derided Turner, and finding the city councillor the next day on the other side of the gallery, admiring some Pre-Raphaelite there, derided that Pre-Raphaelite. The third day Henley discovered the poor man on a chair in the middle of the room staring disconsolately upon the floor. He terrified us also and certainly I did not dare, and I think none of us dared, to speak our admiration for book or picture he condemned, but he made us feel always our importance, and no man among us could do good work, or show the promise of it, and lack his praise. I can remember meeting of a Sunday night Charles Whibley, Kenneth Grahame, author of _The Golden Age_, Barry Pain, now a well-known novelist, R. A. M. Stevenson, art critic and a famous talker, George Wyndham, later on a cabinet minister and Irish chief secretary, and now or later Oscar Wilde, who was some ten years older than the rest of us. But faces and names are vague to me and while faces that I met but once may rise clearly before me, a face met on many a Sunday has perhaps vanished. Kipling came sometimes, I think, but I never met him; and Stepniak, the Nihilist, whom I knew well elsewhere but not there, said--"I cannot go more than once a year, it is too exhausting." Henley got the best out of us all, because he had made us accept him as our judge and we knew that his judgment could neither sleep, nor be softened, nor changed, nor turned aside. When I think of him, the antithesis that is the foundation of human nature being ever in my sight, I see his crippled legs as though he were some Vulcan perpetually forging swords for other men to use; and certainly I always thought of C----, a fine classical scholar, a pale and seemingly gentle man, as our chief swordsman and bravo. When Henley founded his weekly newspaper, first _The Scots_, afterwards _The National Observer_, this young man wrote articles and reviews notorious for savage wit; and years afterwards when _The National Observer_ was dead, Henley dying, and our cavern of outlaws empty, I met him in Paris very sad and I think very poor. "Nobody will employ me now," he said. "Your master is gone," I answered, "and you are like the spear in an old Irish story that had to be kept dipped in poppy-juice that it might not go about killing people on its own account." I wrote my first good lyrics and tolerable essays for _The National Observer_, and as I always signed my work could go my own road in some measure. Henley often revised my lyrics, crossing out a line or a stanza and writing in one of his own, and I was comforted by my belief that he also rewrote Kipling then in the first flood of popularity. At first, indeed, I was ashamed of being rewritten and thought that others were not, and only began investigation when the editorial characteristics--epigrams, archaisms, and all--appeared in the article upon Paris fashions and in that upon opium by an Egyptian Pasha. I was not compelled to full conformity for verse is plainly stubborn; and in prose, that I might avoid unacceptable opinions, I wrote nothing but ghost or fairy stories, picked up from my mother or some pilot at Rosses Point and Henley saw that I must needs mix a palette fitted to my subject matter. But if he had changed every "has" into "hath" I would have let him, for had not we sunned ourselves in his generosity? "My young men outdo me and they write better than I," he wrote in some letter praising Charles Whibley's work, and to another friend with a copy of my _Man Who Dreamed of Fairyland_: "See what a fine thing has been written by one of my lads." VIII My first meeting with Oscar Wilde was an astonishment. I never before heard a man talking with perfect sentences, as if he had written them all over night with labour and yet all spontaneous. There was present that night at Henley's, by right of propinquity or of accident, a man full of the secret spite of dulness, who interrupted from time to time, and always to check or disorder thought; and I noticed with what mastery he was foiled and thrown. I noticed, too, that the impression of artificiality that I think all Wilde's listeners have recorded came from the perfect rounding of the sentences and from the deliberation that made it possible. That very impression helped him, as the effect of metre, or of the antithetical prose of the seventeenth century, which is itself a true metre, helped its writers, for he could pass without incongruity from some unforeseen, swift stroke of wit to elaborate reverie. I heard him say a few nights later: "Give me _The Winter's Tale_, 'Daffodils that come before the swallow dare' but not _King Lear_. What is _King Lear_ but poor life staggering in the fog?" and the slow, carefully modulated cadence sounded natural to my ears. That first night he praised Walter Pater's _Studies in the History of the Renaissance_: "It is my golden book; I never travel anywhere without it; but it is the very flower of decadence: the last trumpet should have sounded the moment it was written." "But," said the dull man, "would you not have given us time to read it?" "Oh no," was the retort, "there would have been plenty of time afterwards--in either world." I think he seemed to us, baffled as we were by youth, or by infirmity, a triumphant figure, and to some of us a figure from another age, an audacious Italian fifteenth century figure. A few weeks before I had heard one of my father's friends, an official in a publishing firm that had employed both Wilde and Henley as editors, blaming Henley who was "no use except under control" and praising Wilde, "so indolent but such a genius"; and now the firm became the topic of our talk. "How often do you go to the office?" said Henley. "I used to go three times a week," said Wilde, "for an hour a day but I have since struck off one of the days." "My God," said Henley, "I went five times a week for five hours a day and when I wanted to strike off a day they had a special committee meeting." "Furthermore," was Wilde's answer, "I never answered their letters. I have known men come to London full of bright prospects and seen them complete wrecks in a few months through a habit of answering letters." He too knew how to keep our elders in their place, and his method was plainly the more successful, for Henley had been dismissed. "No he is not an aesthete," Henley commented later, being somewhat embarrassed by Wilde's Pre-Raphaelite entanglement; "one soon finds that he is a scholar and a gentleman." And when I dined with Wilde a few days afterwards he began at once, "I had to strain every nerve to equal that man at all"; and I was too loyal to speak my thought: "You and not he said all the brilliant things." He like the rest of us had felt the strain of an intensity that seemed to hold life at the point of drama. He had said on that first meeting "The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl"; and for a few weeks Henley and he became close friends till, the astonishment of their meeting over, diversity of character and ambition pushed them apart, and, with half the cavern helping, Henley began mixing the poisoned bowl for Wilde. Yet Henley never wholly lost that first admiration, for after Wilde's downfall he said to me: "Why did he do it? I told my lads to attack him and yet we might have fought under his banner." IX It became the custom, both at Henley's and at Bedford Park, to say that R. A. M. Stevenson, who frequented both circles, was the better talker. Wilde had been trussed up like a turkey by undergraduates, dragged up and down a hill, his champagne emptied into the ice tub, hooted in the streets of various towns, and I think stoned, and no newspaper named him but in scorn; his manner had hardened to meet opposition and at times he allowed one to see an unpardonable insolence. His charm was acquired and systematized, a mask which he wore only when it pleased him, while the charm of Stevenson belonged to him like the colour of his hair. If Stevenson's talk became monologue we did not know it, because our one object was to show by our attention that he need never leave off. If thought failed him we would not combat what he had said, or start some new theme, but would encourage him with a question; and one felt that it had been always so from childhood up. His mind was full of phantasy for phantasy's sake and he gave as good entertainment in monologue as his cousin Robert Louis in poem or story. He was always "supposing"; "Suppose you had two millions what would you do with it?" and "Suppose you were in Spain and in love how would you propose?" I recall him one afternoon at our house at Bedford Park, surrounded by my brother and sisters and a little group of my father's friends, describing proposals in half a dozen countries. There your father did it, dressed in such and such a way with such and such words, and there a friend must wait for the lady outside the chapel door, sprinkle her with holy water and say, "My friend Jones is dying for love of you." But when it was over those quaint descriptions, so full of laughter and sympathy, faded or remained in the memory as something alien from one's own life, like a dance I once saw in a great house, where beautifully dressed children wound a long ribbon in and out as they danced. I was not of Stevenson's party and mainly I think because he had written a book in praise of Velasquez, praise at that time universal wherever Pre-Raphaelism was accurst, and to my mind, that had to pick its symbols where its ignorance permitted, Velasquez seemed the first bored celebrant of boredom. I was convinced from some obscure meditation that Stevenson's conversational method had joined him to my elders and to the indifferent world, as though it were right for old men, and unambitious men and all women, to be content with charm and humour. It was the prerogative of youth to take sides and when Wilde said: "Mr Bernard Shaw has no enemies but is intensely disliked by all his friends," I knew it to be a phrase I should never forget, and felt revenged upon a notorious hater of romance, whose generosity and courage I could not fathom. X I saw a good deal of Wilde at that time--was it 1887 or 1888?--I have no way of fixing the date except that I had published my first book _The Wanderings of Usheen_ and that Wilde had not yet published his _Decay of Lying_. He had, before our first meeting, reviewed my book and despite its vagueness of intention, and the inexactness of its speech, praised without qualification; and what was worth more than any review he had talked about it and now he asked me to eat my Christmas dinner with him believing, I imagine, that I was alone in London. He had just renounced his velveteen, and even those cuffs turned backward over the sleeves, and had begun to dress very carefully in the fashion of the moment. He lived in a little house at Chelsea that the architect Godwin had decorated with an elegance that owed something to Whistler. There was nothing mediaeval, nor Pre-Raphaelite, no cupboard door with figures upon flat gold, no peacock blue, no dark background. I remember vaguely a white drawing room with Whistler etchings, "let in" to white panels, and a dining room all white, chairs, walls, mantelpiece, carpet, except for a diamond-shaped piece of red cloth in the middle of the table under a terra-cotta statuette, and I think a red shaded lamp hanging from the ceiling to a little above the statuette. It was perhaps too perfect in its unity, his past of a few years before had gone too completely, and I remember thinking that the perfect harmony of his life there, with his beautiful wife and his two young children, suggested some deliberate artistic composition. He commended and dispraised himself during dinner by attributing characteristics like his own to his country: "We Irish are too poetical to be poets; we are a nation of brilliant failures, but we are the greatest talkers since the Greeks." When dinner was over he read me from the proofs of _The Decay of Lying_ and when he came to the sentence: "Schopenhauer has analysed the pessimism that characterises modern thought, but Hamlet invented it. The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy," I said, "Why do you change 'sad' to 'melancholy'?" He replied that he wanted a full sound at the close of his sentence, and I thought it no excuse and an example of the vague impressiveness that spoilt his writing for me. Only when he spoke, or when his writing was the mirror of his speech, or in some simple fairy tale, had he words exact enough to hold a subtle ear. He alarmed me, though not as Henley did, for I never left his house thinking myself fool or dunce. He flattered the intellect of every man he liked; he made me tell him long Irish stories and compared my art of storytelling to Homer's; and once when he had described himself as writing in the census paper "age 19, profession genius, infirmity talent" the other guest, a young journalist fresh from Oxford or Cambridge, said, "What should I have written?" and was told that it should have been "profession talent, infirmity genius." When, however, I called, wearing shoes a little too yellow--unblackened leather had just become fashionable--I realized their extravagance when I saw his eyes fixed upon them; and another day Wilde asked me to tell his little boy a fairy story, and I had but got as far as "Once upon a time there was a giant" when the little boy screamed and ran out of the room. Wilde looked grave and I was plunged into the shame of clumsiness that afflicts the young. When I asked for some literary gossip for some provincial newspaper, that paid me a few shillings a month, he explained very explicitly that writing literary gossip was no job for a gentleman. Though to be compared to Homer passed the time pleasantly, I had not been greatly perturbed had he stopped me with: "Is it a long story?" as Henley would certainly have done. I was abashed before him as wit and man of the world alone. I remember that he deprecated the very general belief in his success or his efficiency, and I think with sincerity. One form of success had gone: he was no more the lion of the season and he had not discovered his gift for writing comedy, yet I think I knew him at the happiest moment of his life. No scandal had touched his name, his fame as a talker was growing among his equals, and he seemed to live in the enjoyment of his own spontaneity. One day he began: "I have been inventing a Christian heresy," and he told a detailed story, in the style of some early father, of how Christ recovered after the Crucifixion, and escaping from the tomb, lived on for many years, the one man upon earth who knew the falsehood of Christianity. Once St Paul visited his town and he alone in the carpenters' quarter did not go to hear him preach. The other carpenters noticed that henceforth, for some unknown reason, he kept his hands covered. A few days afterwards I found Wilde with smock frocks in various colours spread out upon the floor in front of him, while a missionary explained that he did not object to the heathen going naked upon week days, but insisted upon clothes in church. He had brought the smock frocks in a cab that the only art-critic whose fame had reached Central Africa might select a colour; so Wilde sat there weighing all with a conscious ecclesiastic solemnity. XI Of late years I have often explained Wilde to myself by his family history. His father was a friend or acquaintance of my father's father and among my family traditions there is an old Dublin riddle: "Why are Sir William Wilde's nails so black?" Answer, "Because he has scratched himself." And there is an old story still current in Dublin of Lady Wilde saying to a servant, "Why do you put the plates on the coal-scuttle? What are the chairs meant for?" They were famous people and there are many like stories; and even a horrible folk story, the invention of some Connaught peasant, that tells how Sir William Wilde took out the eyes of some men, who had come to consult him as an oculist, and laid them upon a plate, intending to replace them in a moment, and how the eyes were eaten by a cat. As a certain friend of mine, who has made a prolonged study of the nature of cats, said when he first heard the tale, "Cats love eyes." The Wilde family was clearly of the sort that fed the imagination of Charles Lever, dirty, untidy, daring, and what Charles Lever, who loved more normal activities, might not have valued so highly, very imaginative and learned. Lady Wilde, who when I knew her received her friends with blinds drawn and shutters closed that none might see her withered face, longed always perhaps, though certainly amid much self-mockery, for some impossible splendour of character and circumstance. She lived near her son in level Chelsea, but I have heard her say, "I want to live on some high place, Primrose Hill or Highgate, because I was an eagle in my youth." I think her son lived with no self-mockery at all an imaginary life; perpetually performed a play which was in all things the opposite of all that he had known in childhood and early youth; never put off completely his wonder at opening his eyes every morning on his own beautiful house, and in remembering that he had dined yesterday with a duchess, and that he delighted in Flaubert and Pater, read Homer in the original and not as a schoolmaster reads him for the grammar. I think, too, that because of all that half-civilized blood in his veins he could not endure the sedentary toil of creative art and so remained a man of action, exaggerating, for the sake of immediate effect, every trick learned from his masters, turning their easel painting into painted scenes. He was a parvenu, but a parvenu whose whole bearing proved that if he did dedicate every story in _The House of Pomegranates_ to a lady of title, it was but to show that he was Jack and the social ladder his pantomime beanstalk. "Did you ever hear him say 'Marquess of Dimmesdale'?" a friend of his once asked me. "He does not say 'the Duke of York' with any pleasure." He told me once that he had been offered a safe seat in Parliament and, had he accepted, he might have had a career like that of Beaconsfield, whose early style resembles his, being meant for crowds, for excitement, for hurried decisions, for immediate triumphs. Such men get their sincerity, if at all, from the contact of events; the dinner table was Wilde's event and made him the greatest talker of his time, and his plays and dialogues have what merit they possess from being now an imitation, now a record, of his talk. Even in those days I would often defend him by saying that his very admiration for his predecessors in poetry, for Browning, for Swinburne and Rossetti, in their first vogue while he was a very young man, made any success seem impossible that could satisfy his immense ambition: never but once before had the artist seemed so great, never had the work of art seemed so difficult. I would then compare him with Benvenuto Cellini who, coming after Michael Angelo, found nothing left to do so satisfactory as to turn bravo and quarrel with the man who broke Michael Angelo's nose. XII I cannot remember who first brought me to the old stable beside Kelmscott House, William Morris's house at Hammersmith, and to the debates held there upon Sunday evenings by the Socialist League. I was soon of the little group who had supper with Morris afterwards. I met at these suppers very constantly Walter Crane, Emery Walker, in association with Cobden Sanderson, the printer of many fine books, and less constantly Bernard Shaw and Cockerell, now of the Museum of Cambridge, and perhaps but once or twice Hyndman the Socialist and the Anarchist Prince Kropotkin. There, too, one always met certain more or less educated workmen, rough of speech and manner, with a conviction to meet every turn. I was told by one of them, on a night when I had done perhaps more than my share of the talking, that I had talked more nonsense in one evening than he had heard in the whole course of his past life. I had merely preferred Parnell, then at the height of his career, to Michael Davitt, who had wrecked his Irish influence by international politics. We sat round a long unpolished and unpainted trestle table of new wood in a room where hung Rossetti's _Pomegranate_, a portrait of Mrs. Morris, and where one wall and part of the ceiling were covered by a great Persian carpet. Morris had said somewhere or other that carpets were meant for people who took their shoes off when they entered a house and were most in place upon a tent floor. I was a little disappointed in the house, for Morris was an old man content at last to gather beautiful things rather than to arrange a beautiful house. I saw the drawing-room once or twice, and there alone all my sense of decoration, founded upon the background of Rossetti's pictures, was satisfied by a big cupboard painted with a scene from Chaucer by Burne-Jones; but even there were objects, perhaps a chair or a little table, that seemed accidental, bought hurriedly perhaps and with little thought, to make wife or daughter comfortable. I had read as a boy, in books belonging to my father, the third volume of _The Earthly Paradise_, and _The Defence of Guenevere_, which pleased me less, but had not opened either for a long time. _The Man Who Never Laughed Again_ had seemed the most wonderful of tales till my father had accused me of preferring Morris to Keats, got angry about it, and put me altogether out of countenance. He had spoiled my pleasure, for now I questioned while I read and at last ceased to read; nor had Morris written as yet those prose romances that became after his death so great a joy that they were the only books I was ever to read slowly that I might not come too quickly to the end. It was now Morris himself that stirred my interest, and I took to him first because of some little tricks of speech and body that reminded me of my old grandfather in Sligo, but soon discovered his spontaneity and joy and made him my chief of men. To-day I do not set his poetry very high, but for an odd altogether wonderful line, or thought; and yet, if some angel offered me the choice, I would choose to live his life, poetry and all, rather than my own or any other man's. A reproduction of his portrait by Watts hangs over my mantelpiece with Henley's, and those of other friends. Its grave wide-open eyes, like the eyes of some dreaming beast, remind me of the open eyes of Titian's "Ariosto," while the broad vigorous body suggests a mind that has no need of the intellect to remain sane, though it give itself to every phantasy: the dreamer of the middle ages. It is "the fool of fairy ... wide and wild as a hill," the resolute European image that yet half remembers Buddha's motionless meditation, and has no trait in common with the wavering, lean image of hungry speculation, that cannot but fill the mind's eye because of certain famous Hamlets of our stage. Shakespeare himself foreshadowed a symbolic change, that shows a change in the whole temperament of the world, for though he called his Hamlet "fat" and even "scant of breath," he thrust between his fingers agile rapier and dagger. The dream world of Morris was as much the antithesis of daily life as with other men of genius, but he was never conscious of the antithesis and so knew nothing of intellectual suffering. His intellect, unexhausted by speculation or casuistry, was wholly at the service of hand and eye, and whatever he pleased he did with an unheard of ease and simplicity, and if style and vocabulary were at times monotonous, he could not have made them otherwise without ceasing to be himself. Instead of the language of Chaucer and Shakespeare, its warp fresh from field and market, if the woof were learned, his age offered him a speech, exhausted from abstraction, that only returned to its full vitality when written learnedly and slowly. The roots of his antithetical dream were visible enough: a never idle man of great physical strength and extremely irascible--did he not fling a badly baked plum pudding through the window upon Christmas Day?--a man more joyous than any intellectual man of our world, called himself "the idle singer of an empty day," created new forms of melancholy, and faint persons, like the knights and ladies of Burne-Jones, who are never, no not once in forty volumes, put out of temper. A blunderer who had said to the only unconverted man at a Socialist picnic in Dublin, to prove that equality came easy, "I was brought up a gentleman and now as you can see associate with all sorts" and left wounds thereby that rankled after twenty years, a man of whom I have heard it said "He is always afraid that he is doing something wrong and generally is," wrote long stories with apparently no other object than that his persons might show to one another, through situations of poignant difficulty the most exquisite tact. He did not project like Henley or like Wilde, an image of himself, because having all his imagination set upon making and doing he had little self knowledge. He imagined instead new conditions of making and doing; and in the teeth of those scientific generalizations that cowed my boyhood, I can see some like imagining in every great change, believing that the first flying fish first leaped, not because it sought "adaptation" to the air, but out of horror of the sea. XIII Soon after I began to attend the lectures a French class was started in the old coach-house for certain young Socialists who planned a tour in France, and I joined it, and was for a time a model student constantly encouraged by the compliments of the old French mistress. I told my father of the class, and he asked me to get my sisters admitted. I made difficulties and put off speaking of the matter, for I knew that the new and admirable self I was making would turn, under family eyes, into plain rag-doll. How could I pretend to be industrious, and even carry dramatisation to the point of learning my lessons, when my sisters were there and knew that I was nothing of the kind? But I had no argument I could use, and my sisters were admitted. They said nothing unkind, so far as I can remember, but in a week or two I was my old procrastinating idle self and had soon left the class altogether. My elder sister stayed on and became an embroideress under Miss May Morris, and the hangings round Morris's big bed at Kelmscott House, Oxfordshire, with their verses about lying happily in bed when "all birds sing in the town of the tree," were from her needle, though not from her design. She worked for the first few months at Kelmscott House, Hammersmith, and in my imagination I cannot always separate what I saw and heard from her report, or indeed from the report of that tribe or guild who looked up to Morris as to some worshipped mediaeval king. He had no need for other people. I doubt if their marriage or death made him sad or glad, and yet no man I have known was so well loved; you saw him producing everywhere organisation and beauty, seeming, almost in the same instant, helpless and triumphant; and people loved him as children are loved. People much in his neighbourhood became gradually occupied with him or about his affairs, and, without any wish on his part, as simple people become occupied with children. I remember a man who was proud and pleased because he had distracted Morris's thoughts from an attack of gout by leading the conversation delicately to the hated name of Milton. He began at Swinburne: "O, Swinburne," said Morris, "is a rhetorician; my masters have been Keats and Chaucer, for they make pictures." "Does not Milton make pictures?" asked my informant. "No," was the answer, "Dante makes pictures, but Milton, though he had a great earnest mind, expressed himself as a rhetorician." "Great earnest mind" sounded strange to me, and I doubt not that were his questioner not a simple man Morris had been more violent. Another day the same man started by praising Chaucer, but the gout was worse, and Morris cursed Chaucer for destroying the English language with foreign words. He had few detachable phrases, and I can remember little of his speech, which many thought the best of all good talk, except that it matched his burly body and seemed within definite boundaries inexhaustible in fact and expression. He alone of all the men I have known seemed guided by some beast-like instinct and never ate strange meat. "Balzac! Balzac!" he said to me once, "oh, that was the man the French Bourgeoisie read so much a few years ago." I can remember him at supper praising wine: "Why do people say it is prosaic to be inspired by wine? Has it not been made by the sunlight and the sap?" and his dispraising houses decorated by himself: "Do you suppose I like that kind of house? I would like a house like a big barn, where one ate in one corner, cooked in another corner, slept in the third corner, and in the fourth received one's friends"; and his complaining of Ruskin's objection to the underground railway: "If you must have a railway the best thing you can do with it is to put it in a tube with a cork at each end." I remember, too, that when I asked what led up to his movement, he replied: "Oh, Ruskin and Carlyle, but somebody should have been beside Carlyle and punched his head every five minutes." Though I remember little, I do not doubt that, had I continued going there on Sunday evenings, I should have caught fire from his words and turned my hand to some mediaeval work or other. Just before I had ceased to go there I had sent my _Wanderings of Usheen_ to his daughter, hoping of course that it might meet his eyes, and soon after sending it I came upon him by chance in Holborn--"You write my sort of poetry," he said and began to praise me and to promise to send his praise to _The Commonwealth_, the League organ, and he would have said more had he not caught sight of a new ornamental cast-iron lamp post and got very heated upon that subject. I did not read economics, having turned socialist because of Morris's lectures and pamphlets, and I think it unlikely that Morris himself could read economics. That old dogma of mine seemed germane to the matter. If the men and women imagined by the poets were the norm, and if Morris had, in let us say "News from Nowhere," then running through _The Commonwealth_, described such men and women, living under their natural conditions, or as they would desire to live, then those conditions themselves must be the norm and could we but get rid of certain institutions the world would turn from eccentricity. Perhaps Morris himself justified himself in his own heart by as simple an argument, and was, as the socialist D---- said to me one night, walking home after some lecture, "an anarchist without knowing it." Certainly I and all about me, including D---- himself, were for chopping up the old king for Medea's pot. Morris had told us to have nothing to do with the parliamentary socialists, represented for men in general by the Fabian Society and Hyndman's Social Democratic Federation and for us in particular by D----. During the period of transition mistakes must be made, and the discredit of these mistakes must be left to "the Bourgeoisie"; and besides, when you begin to talk of this measure, or that other, you lose sight of the goal, and see, to reverse Swinburne's description of Tiresias, "Light on the way but darkness on the goal." By mistakes Morris meant vexatious restrictions and compromises--"If any man puts me into a labour squad, I will lie on my back and kick." That phrase very much expresses our idea of revolutionary tactics: we all intended to lie upon our back and kick. D----, pale and sedentary, did not dislike labour squads and we all hated him with the left side of our heads, while admiring him immensely with the right side. He alone was invited to entertain Mrs Morris, having many tales of his Irish uncles, more especially of one particular uncle who had tried to commit suicide by shutting his head into a carpet-bag. At that time he was an obscure man, known only for a witty speaker at street corners and in Park demonstrations. He had, with an assumed truculence and fury, cold logic, an invariable gentleness, an unruffled courtesy, and yet could never close a speech without being denounced by a journeyman hatter, with an Italian name. Converted to socialism by D----, and to anarchism by himself, with swinging arm and uplifted voice, this man put, and perhaps, exaggerated our scruple about Parliament. "I lack," said D----, "the bump of reverence"; whereon the wild man shouted: "You 'ave a 'ole." There are moments when looking back I somewhat confuse my own figure with that of the hatter, image of our hysteria, for I too became violent with the violent solemnity of a religious devotee. I can even remember sitting behind D---- and saying some rude thing or other over his shoulder. I don't remember why I gave it up but I did quite suddenly and the push may have come from a young workman who was educating himself between Morris and Karl Marx. He had planned a history of the Navy, and when I had spoken of the battleships of Nelson's day had said, "O, that was the decadence of the battleship," but if his naval interests were mediæval, his ideas about religion were pure Karl Marx, and we were soon in perpetual argument. Then gradually the attitude towards religion of almost everybody but Morris, who avoided the subject altogether, got upon my nerves, for I broke out after some lecture or other with all the arrogance of raging youth. They attacked religion, I said, or some such words, and yet there must be a change of heart and only religion could make it. What was the use of talking about some new revolution putting all things right, when the change must come, if come it did, with astronomical slowness, like the cooling of the sun, or it may have been like the drying of the moon? Morris rang his chairman's bell, but I was too angry to listen, and he had to ring it a second time before I sat down. He said that night at supper, "Of course I know there must be a change of heart, but it will not come as slowly as all that. I rang my bell because you were not being understood." He did not show any vexation, but I never returned after that night; and yet I did not always believe what I had said, and only gradually gave up thinking of and planning for some near sudden change for the better. XIV I spent my days at the British Museum and must, I think, have been delicate, for I remember often putting off hour after hour consulting some necessary book because I shrank from lifting the heavy volumes of the catalogue; and yet to save money for my afternoon coffee and roll I often walked the whole way home to Bedford Park. I was compiling, for a series of shilling books, an anthology of Irish fairy-stories and, for an American publisher, a two-volume selection from the Irish novelists that would be somewhat dearer. I was not well paid, for each book cost me more than three months' reading; and I was paid for the first some twelve pounds ("O, Mr. E.," said publisher to editor, "you must never again pay so much!") and for the second twenty, but I did not think myself badly paid, for I had chosen the work for my own purposes. Though I went to Sligo every summer, I was compelled to live out of Ireland the greater part of every year, and was but keeping my mind upon what I knew must be the subject-matter of my poetry. I believed that if Morris had set his stories amid the scenery of his own Wales, for I knew him to be of Welsh extraction and supposed wrongly that he had spent his childhood there, that if Shelley had nailed his _Prometheus_, or some equal symbol, upon some Welsh or Scottish rock, their art had entered more intimately, more microscopically, as it were, into our thought and had given perhaps to modern poetry a breadth and stability like that of ancient poetry. The statues of Mausolus and Artemisia at the British Museum, private, half-animal, half-divine figures, all unlike the Grecian athletes and Egyptian kings in their near neighbourhood, that stand in the middle of the crowd's applause, or sit above measuring it out unpersuadable justice, became to me, now or later, images of an unpremeditated joyous energy, that neither I nor any other man, racked by doubt and inquiry, can achieve; and that yet, if once achieved, might seem to men and women of Connemara or of Galway their very soul. In our study of that ruined tomb raised by a queen to her dead lover, and finished by the unpaid labour of great sculptors, after her death from grief, or so runs the tale, we cannot distinguish the handiworks of Scopas and Praxiteles; and I wanted to create once more an art where the artist's handiwork would hide as under those half anonymous chisels, or as we find it in some old Scots ballads, or in some twelfth or thirteenth century Arthurian Romance. That handiwork assured, I had martyred no man for modelling his own image upon Pallas Athena's buckler; for I took great pleasure in certain allusions to the singer's life, one finds in old romances and ballads, and thought his presence there all the more poignant because we discover it half lost, like portly Chaucer, behind his own maunciple and pardoner upon the Canterbury roads. Wolfram von Eschenbach, singing his German Parsifal, broke off some description of a famished city to remember that in his own house at home the very mice lacked food, and what old ballad singer was it who claimed to have fought by day in the very battle he sang by night? So masterful indeed was that instinct that when the minstrel knew not who his poet was, he must needs make up a man: "When any stranger asks who is the sweetest of singers, answer with one voice: 'a blind man; he dwells upon rocky Chios; his songs shall be the most beautiful for ever.'" Elaborate modern psychology sounds egotistical, I thought, when it speaks in the first person, but not those simple emotions which resemble the more, the more powerful they are, everybody's emotion, and I was soon to write many poems where an always personal emotion was woven into a general pattern of myth and symbol. When the Fenian poet says that his heart has grown cold and callous--"For thy hapless fate, dear Ireland, and sorrows of my own"--he but follows tradition and if he does not move us deeply, it is because he has no sensuous musical vocabulary that comes at need, without compelling him to sedentary toil and so driving him out from his fellows. I thought to create that sensuous, musical vocabulary, and not for myself only, but that I might leave it to later Irish poets, much as a mediæval Japanese painter left his style as an inheritance to his family, and was careful to use a traditional manner and matter, yet did something altogether different, changed by that toil, impelled by my share in Cain's curse, by all that sterile modern complication, by my "originality," as the newspapers call it. Morris set out to make a revolution that the persons of his _Well at the World's End_ or his _Waters of the Wondrous Isles_, always, to my mind, in the likeness of Artemisia and her man, might walk his native scenery; and I, that my native scenery might find imaginary inhabitants, half-planned a new method and a new culture. My mind began drifting vaguely towards that doctrine of "the mask" which has convinced me that every passionate man (I have nothing to do with mechanist, or philanthropist, or man whose eyes have no preference) is, as it were, linked with another age, historical or imaginary, where alone he finds images that rouse his energy. Napoleon was never of his own time, as the naturalistic writers and painters bid all men be, but had some Roman emperor's image in his head and some condottiere blood in his heart; and when he crowned that head at Rome with his own hands he had covered, as may be seen from David's painting, his hesitation with that emperor's old suit. XV I had various women friends on whom I would call towards five o'clock mainly to discuss my thoughts that I could not bring to a man without meeting some competing thought, but partly because their tea and toast saved my pennies for the 'bus ride home; but with women, apart from their intimate exchanges of thought, I was timid and abashed. I was sitting on a seat in front of the British Museum feeding pigeons when a couple of girls sat near and began enticing my pigeons away, laughing and whispering to one another, and I looked straight in front of me, very indignant, and presently went into the Museum without turning my head towards them. Since then I have often wondered if they were pretty or merely very young. Sometimes I told myself very adventurous love-stories with myself for hero, and at other times I planned out a life of lonely austerity, and at other times mixed the ideals and planned a life of lonely austerity mitigated by periodical lapses. I had still the ambition, formed in Sligo in my teens, of living in imitation of Thoreau on Innisfree, a little island in Lough Gill, and when walking through Fleet Street very homesick I heard a little tinkle of water and saw a fountain in a shop-window which balanced a little ball upon its jet, and began to remember lake water. From the sudden remembrance came my poem _Innisfree_, my first lyric with anything in its rhythm of my own music. I had begun to loosen rhythm as an escape from rhetoric and from that emotion of the crowd that rhetoric brings, but I only understood vaguely and occasionally that I must for my special purpose use nothing but the common syntax. A couple of years later I would not have written that first line with its conventional archaism--"Arise and go"--nor the inversion in the last stanza. Passing another day by the new Law Courts, a building that I admired because it was Gothic--"It is not very good," Morris had said, "but it is better than anything else they have got and so they hate it"--I grew suddenly oppressed by the great weight of stone, and thought, "There are miles and miles of stone and brick all round me," and presently added, "If John the Baptist or his like were to come again and had his mind set upon it, he could make all these people go out into some wilderness leaving their buildings empty," and that thought, which does not seem very valuable now, so enlightened the day that it is still vivid in the memory. I spent a few days at Oxford copying out a seventeenth century translation of Poggio's _Liber Facetiarum_ or the _Hypneroto-machia_ of Poliphili for a publisher; I forget which, for I copied both; and returned very pale to my troubled family. I had lived upon bread and tea because I thought that if antiquity found locust and wild honey nutritive, my soul was strong enough to need no better. I was always planning some great gesture, putting the whole world into one scale of the balance and my soul into the other and imagining that the whole world somehow kicked the beam. More than thirty years have passed and I have seen no forcible young man of letters brave the metropolis, without some like stimulant; and all after two or three, or twelve or fifteen years, according to obstinacy, have understood that we achieve, if we do achieve, in little sedentary stitches as though we were making lace. I had one unmeasured advantage from my stimulant: I could ink my socks, that they might not show through my shoes, with a most haughty mind, imagining myself, and my torn tackle, somewhere else, in some far place "under the canopy ... i' the city of kites and crows." In London I saw nothing good and constantly remembered that Ruskin had said to some friend of my father's--"As I go to my work at the British Museum I see the faces of the people become daily more corrupt." I convinced myself for a time, that on the same journey I saw but what he saw. Certain old women's faces filled me with horror, faces that are no longer there, or if they are pass before me unnoticed: the fat blotched faces, rising above double chins, of women who have drunk too much beer and eaten much meat. In Dublin I had often seen old women walking with erect heads and gaunt bodies, talking to themselves with loud voices, mad with drink and poverty, but they were different, they belonged to romance. Da Vinci had drawn women who looked so and so carried their bodies. XVI I attempted to restore one old friend of my father's to the practice of his youth, but failed, though he, unlike my father, had not changed his belief. My father brought me to dine with Jack Nettleship at Wigmore Street, once inventor of imaginative designs and now a painter of melodramatic lions. At dinner I had talked a great deal--too much, I imagine, for so young a man, or maybe for any man--and on the way home my father, who had been plainly anxious that I should make a good impression, was very angry. He said I had talked for effect and that talking for effect was precisely what one must never do; he had always hated rhetoric and emphasis and had made me hate it; and his anger plunged me into great dejection. I called at Nettleship's studio the next day to apologise, and Nettleship opened the door himself and received me with enthusiasm. He had explained to some woman guest that I would probably talk well, being an Irishman, but the reality had surpassed, etc., etc. I was not flattered, though relieved at not having to apologise, for I soon discovered that what he really admired was my volubility, for he himself was very silent. He seemed about sixty, had a bald head, a grey beard, and a nose, as one of my father's friends used to say, like an opera-glass, and sipped cocoa all the afternoon and evening from an enormous tea-cup that must have been designed for him alone, not caring how cold the cocoa grew. Years before he had been thrown from his horse, while hunting, and broke his arm, and because it had been badly set suffered great pain for a long time. A little whisky would always stop the pain, and soon a little became a great deal and he found himself a drunkard, but having signed his liberty away for certain months he was completely cured. He had acquired, however, the need of some liquid which he could sip constantly. I brought him an admiration settled in early boyhood, for my father had always said, "George Wilson was our born painter, but Nettleship our genius," and even had he shown me nothing I could care for, I had admired him still because my admiration was in my bones. He showed me his early designs, and they, though often badly drawn, fulfilled my hopes. Something of Blake they certainly did show, but had in place of Blake's joyous, intellectual energy a Saturnian passion and melancholy. "God Creating Evil," the death-like head with a woman and a tiger coming from the forehead, which Rossetti--or was it Browning?--had described "as the most sublime design of ancient or modern art," had been lost, but there was another version of the same thought, and other designs never published or exhibited. They rise before me even now in meditation, especially a blind Titan-like ghost floating with groping hands above the tree-tops. I wrote a criticism, and arranged for reproductions with the editor of an art magazine, but after it was written and accepted the proprietor, lifting what I considered an obsequious caw in the Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, Bastien-Lepage rookery, insisted upon its rejection. Nettleship did not mind its rejection, saying, "Who cares for such things now? Not ten people," but he did mind my refusal to show him what I had written. Though what I had written was all eulogy, I dreaded his judgment for it was my first art criticism. I hated his big lion pictures, where he attempted an art too much concerned with the sense of touch, with the softness or roughness, the minutely observed irregularity of surfaces, for his genius; and I think he knew it. "Rossetti used to call my pictures pot-boilers," he said, "but they are all--all"--and he waved his arm to the canvasses--"symbols." When I wanted him to design gods, and angels, and lost spirits once more, he always came back to the point "Nobody would be pleased." "Everybody should have a _raison d'être_" was one of his phrases. "Mrs ----'s articles are not good but they are her _raison d'être_." I had but little knowledge of art for there was little scholarship in the Dublin art school, so I overrated the quality of anything that could be connected with my general beliefs about the world. If I had been able to give angelical or diabolical names to his lions I might have liked them also and I think that Nettleship himself would have liked them better and liking them better have become a better painter. We had the same kind of religious feeling, but I could give a crude philosophical expression to mine while he could only express his in action or with brush and pencil. He often told me of certain ascetic ambitions, very much like my own, for he had kept all the moral ambition of youth, as for instance--"Yeats, the other night I was arrested by a policeman--was walking round Regent's Park barefooted to keep the flesh under--good sort of thing to do. I was carrying my boots in my hand and he thought I was a burglar and even when I explained and gave him half a crown, he would not let me go till I had promised to put on my boots before I met the next policeman." He was very proud and shy and I could not imagine anybody asking him questions and so I was content to take these stories as they came: confirmations of what I had heard of him in boyhood. One story in particular had stirred my imagination for, ashamed all my boyhood of my lack of physical courage, I admired what was beyond my imitation. He thought that any weakness, even a weakness of body, had the character of sin and while at breakfast with his brother, with whom he shared a room on the third floor of a corner house, he said that his nerves were out of order. Presently he left the table, and got out through the window and on to a stone ledge that ran along the wall under the windowsills. He sidled along the ledge, and turning the corner with it, got in at a different window and returned to the table. "My nerves," he said, "are better than I thought." Nettleship said to me: "Has Edwin Ellis ever said anything about the effect of drink upon my genius?" "No," I answered. "I ask," he said, "because I have always thought that Ellis has some strange medical insight." Though I had answered no, Ellis had only a few days before used these words: "Nettleship drank his genius away." Ellis, but lately returned from Perugia where he had lived many years, was another old friend of my father's but some years younger than Nettleship or my father. Nettleship had found his simplifying image, but in his painting had turned away from it, while Ellis, the son of Alexander Ellis, a once famous man of science, who was perhaps the last man in England to run the circle of the sciences without superficiality, had never found that image at all. He was a painter and poet, but his painting, which did not interest me, showed no influence but that of Leighton. He had started perhaps a couple of years too late for Pre-Raphaelite influence, for no great Pre-Raphaelite picture was painted after 1870, and left England too soon for that of the French painters. He was, however, sometimes moving as a poet and still more often an astonishment. I have known him cast something just said into a dozen lines of musical verse, without apparently ceasing to talk; but the work once done he could not or would not amend it, and my father thought he lacked all ambition. Yet he had at times nobility of rhythm--an instinct for grandeur, and after thirty years I still repeat to myself his address to Mother Earth-- "O mother of the hills, forgive our towers, O mother of the clouds forgive our dreams." And there are certain whole poems that I read from time to time or try to make others read. There is that poem where the manner is unworthy of the matter, being loose and facile, describing Adam and Eve fleeing from Paradise. Adam asks Eve what she carries so carefully, and Eve replies that it is a little of the apple-core kept for their children. There is that vision concerning _Christ the Less_, a too hurriedly written ballad, where the half of Christ sacrificed to the divine half "that fled to seek felicity" wanders wailing through Golgotha, and there is _The Saint and the Youth_, in which I can discover no fault at all. He loved complexities--"Seven silences like candles round her face" is a line of his--and whether he wrote well or ill had always a manner which I would have known from that of any other poet. He would say to me, "I am a mathematician with the mathematics left out"--his father was a great mathematician--or "A woman once said to me, 'Mr Ellis, why are your poems like sums?'" And certainly he loved symbols and abstractions. He said once, when I had asked him not to mention something or other, "Surely you have discovered by this time that I know of no means whereby I can mention a fact in conversation." He had a passion for Blake, picked up in Pre-Raphaelite studios, and early in our acquaintance put into my hands a scrap of notepaper on which he had written some years before an interpretation of the poem that begins "The fields from Islington to Marylebone, To Primrose Hill and St. John's Wood, Were builded over with pillars of gold, And there Jerusalem's pillars stood." The four quarters of London represented Blake's four great mythological personages, the Zoas, and also the four elements. These few sentences were the foundation of all study of the philosophy of William Blake that requires an exact knowledge for its pursuit and that traces the connection between his system and that of Swedenborg or of Boehme. I recognised certain attributions, from what is sometimes called the Christian Cabbala, of which Ellis had never heard, and with this proof that his interpretation was more than fantasy he and I began our four years' work upon the Prophetic Books of William Blake. We took it as almost a sign of Blake's personal help when we discovered that the spring of 1889, when we first joined our knowledge, was one hundred years from the publication of _The Book of Thel_, the first published of the Prophetic Books, as though it were firmly established that the dead delight in anniversaries. After months of discussion and reading we made a concordance of all Blake's mystical terms, and there was much copying to be done in the Museum and at Red Hill, where the descendants of Blake's friend and patron, the landscape painter John Linnell, had many manuscripts. The Linnells were narrow in their religious ideas and doubtful of Blake's orthodoxy, whom they held, however, in great honour, and I remember a timid old lady who had known Blake when a child saying, "He had very wrong ideas, he did not believe in the historical Jesus." One old man sat always beside us, ostensibly to sharpen our pencils but perhaps really to see that we did not steal the manuscripts, and they gave us very old port at lunch, and I have upon my dining-room walls their present of Blake's Dante engravings. Going thither and returning Ellis would entertain me by philosophical discussion varied with improvised stories, at first folk-tales which he professed to have picked up in Scotland, and, though I had read and collected many folk tales, I did not see through the deceit. I have a partial memory of two more elaborate tales, one of an Italian conspirator flying barefoot, from I forget what adventure through I forget what Italian city, in the early morning. Fearing to be recognised by his bare feet, he slipped past the sleepy porter at an hotel, calling out "number so and so" as if he were some belated guest. Then passing from bedroom door to door he tried on the boots, and just as he got a pair to fit, a voice cried from the room: "Who is that?" "Merely me, sir," he called back, "taking your boots." The other was of a martyr's Bible, round which the cardinal virtues had taken personal form--this a fragment of Blake's philosophy. It was in the possession of an old clergyman when a certain jockey called upon him, and the cardinal virtues, confused between jockey and clergyman, devoted themselves to the jockey. As whenever he sinned a cardinal virtue interfered and turned him back to virtue, he lived in great credit, and made, but for one sentence, a very holy death. As his wife and family knelt round in admiration and grief he suddenly said "damn." "O my dear," said his wife, "what a dreadful expression." He answered, "I am going to heaven," and straightway died. It was a long tale, for there were all the jockey's vain attempts to sin, as well as all the adventures of the clergyman, who became very sinful indeed, but it ended happily for when the jockey died the cardinal virtues returned to the clergyman. I think he would talk to any audience that offered, one audience being the same as another in his eyes, and it may have been for this reason that my father called him unambitious. When he was a young man he had befriended a reformed thief and had asked the grateful thief to take him round the thieves' quarters of London. The thief, however, hurried him away from the worst saying, "Another minute and they would have found you out. If they were not the stupidest of men in London, they had done so already." Ellis had gone through a detailed, romantic and witty account of all the houses he had robbed and all the throats he had cut in one short life. His conversation would often pass out of my comprehension, or indeed I think of any man's, into a labyrinth of abstraction and subtlety and then suddenly return with some verbal conceit or turn of wit. The mind is known to attain in certain conditions of trance a quickness so extraordinary that we are compelled at times to imagine a condition of unendurable intellectual intensity from which we are saved by the merciful stupidity of the body, and I think that the mind of Edwin Ellis was constantly upon the edge of trance. Once we were discussing the symbolism of sex in the philosophy of Blake and had been in disagreement all the afternoon. I began talking with a new sense of conviction and after a moment Ellis, who was at his easel, threw down his brush and said that he had just seen the same explanation in a series of symbolic visions. "In another moment," he said, "I should have been off." We went into the open air and walked up and down to get rid of that feeling, but presently we came in again and I began again my explanation, Ellis lying upon the sofa. I had been talking some time when Mrs Ellis came into the room and said, "Why are you sitting in the dark?" Ellis answered, "But we are not," and then added in a voice of wonder, "I thought the lamp was lit, and that I was sitting up, and now I find that I am lying down and that we are in darkness." I had seen a flicker of light over the ceiling but thought it a reflection from some light outside the house, which may have been the case. XVII I had already met most of the poets of my generation. I had said, soon after the publication of _The Wanderings of Usheen_, to the editor of a series of shilling reprints, who had set me to compile tales of the Irish fairies, "I am growing jealous of other poets and we will all grow jealous of each other unless we know each other and so feel a share in each other's triumph." He was a Welshman, lately a mining engineer, Ernest Rhys, a writer of Welsh translations and original poems, that have often moved me greatly though I can think of no one else who has read them. He was perhaps a dozen years older than myself and through his work as editor knew everybody who would compile a book for seven or eight pounds. Between us we founded The Rhymers' Club, which for some years was to meet every night in an upper room with a sanded floor in an ancient eating house in the Strand called The Cheshire Cheese. Lionel Johnson, Ernest Dowson, Victor Plarr, Ernest Radford, John Davidson, Richard le Gallienne, T. W. Rolleston, Selwyn Image, Edwin Ellis, and John Todhunter came constantly for a time, Arthur Symons and Herbert Home, less constantly, while William Watson joined but never came and Francis Thompson came once but never joined; and sometimes if we met in a private house, which we did occasionally, Oscar Wilde came. It had been useless to invite him to The Cheshire Cheese for he hated Bohemia. "Olive Schreiner," he said once to me, "is staying in the East End because that is the only place where people do not wear masks upon their faces, but I have told her that I live in the West End because nothing in life interests me but the mask." We read our poems to one another and talked criticism and drank a little wine. I sometimes say when I speak of the club, "We had such and such ideas, such and such a quarrel with the great Victorians, we set before us such and such aims," as though we had many philosophical ideas. I say this because I am ashamed to admit that I had these ideas and that whenever I began to talk of them a gloomy silence fell upon the room. A young Irish poet, who wrote excellently but had the worst manners, was to say a few years later, "You do not talk like a poet, you talk like a man of letters," and if all the Rhymers had not been polite, if most of them had not been to Oxford or Cambridge, the greater number would have said the same thing. I was full of thought, often very abstract thought, longing all the while to be full of images, because I had gone to the art school instead of a university. Yet even if I had gone to a university, and learned all the classical foundations of English literature and English culture, all that great erudition which once accepted frees the mind from restlessness, I should have had to give up my Irish subject matter, or attempt to found a new tradition. Lacking sufficient recognized precedent I must needs find out some reason for all I did. I knew almost from the start that to overflow with reasons was to be not quite well-born, and when I could I hid them, as men hide a disagreeable ancestry; and that there was no help for it seeing that my country was not born at all. I was of those doomed to imperfect achievement, and under a curse, as it were, like some race of birds compelled to spend the time, needed for the making of the nest, in argument as to the convenience of moss and twig and lichen. Le Gallienne and Davidson, and even Symons, were provincial at their setting out, but their provincialism was curable, mine incurable; while the one conviction shared by all the younger men, but principally by Johnson and Home, who imposed their personalities upon us, was an opposition to all ideas, all generalizations that can be explained and debated. E---- fresh from Paris would sometimes say--"We are concerned with nothing but impressions," but that itself was a generalization and met but stony silence. Conversation constantly dwindled into "Do you like so and so's last book?" "No, I prefer the book before it," and I think that but for its Irish members, who said whatever came into their heads, the club would not have survived its first difficult months. I saw--now ashamed that I saw "like a man of letters," now exasperated at their indifference to the fashion of their own river-bed--that Swinburne in one way, Browning in another, and Tennyson in a third, had filled their work with what I called "impurities," curiosities about politics, about science, about history, about religion; and that we must create once more the pure work. Our clothes were, for the most part unadventurous like our conversation, though I indeed wore a brown velveteen coat, a loose tie, and a very old inverness cape, discarded by my father twenty years before and preserved by my Sligo-born mother whose actions were unreasoning and habitual like the seasons. But no other member of the club, except Le Gallienne, who wore a loose tie, and Symons, who had an inverness cape that was quite new and almost fashionable, would have shown himself for the world in any costume but "that of an English gentleman." "One should be quite unnoticeable," Johnson explained to me. Those who conformed most carefully to the fashion in their clothes, generally departed furthest from it in their handwriting, which was small, neat, and studied, one poet--which, I forget--having founded his upon the handwriting of George Herbert. Dowson and Symons I was to know better in later years when Symons became a very dear friend, and I never got behind John Davidson's Scottish roughness and exasperation, though I saw much of him, but from the first I devoted myself to Lionel Johnson. He and Horne and Image and one or two others, shared a man-servant and an old house in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, typical figures of transition, doing as an achievement of learning and of exquisite taste what their predecessors did in careless abundance. All were Pre-Raphaelite, and sometimes one might meet in the rooms of one or other a ragged figure, as of some fallen dynasty, Simeon Solomon the Pre-Raphaelite painter, once the friend of Rossetti and of Swinburne, but fresh now from some low public house. Condemned to a long term of imprisonment for a criminal offence, he had sunk into drunkenness and misery. Introduced one night, however, to some man who mistook him, in the dim candle light, for another Solomon, a successful academic painter and R.A., he started to his feet in a rage with, "Sir, do you dare to mistake me for that mountebank?" Though not one had hearkened to the feeblest caw, or been spattered by the smallest dropping from any Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, Bastien-Lepage bundle of old twigs I began by suspecting them of lukewarmness, and even backsliding, and I owe it to that suspicion that I never became intimate with Horne, who lived to become the greatest English authority upon Italian life in the fourteenth century and to write the one standard work on Botticelli. Connoisseur in several arts, he had designed a little church in the manner of Inigo Jones for a burial ground near the Marble Arch. Though I now think his little church a masterpiece, its style was more than a century too late to hit my fancy, at two or three and twenty; and I accused him of leaning towards that eighteenth century "That taught a school Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, Their verses tallied." Another fanaticism delayed my friendship with two men, who are now my friends and in certain matters my chief instructors. Somebody, probably Lionel Johnson, brought me to the studio of Charles Ricketts and Charles Shannon, certainly heirs of the great generation, and the first thing I saw was a Shannon picture of a lady and child, arrayed in lace silk and satin, suggesting that hated century. My eyes were full of some more mythological mother and child and I would have none of it and I told Shannon that he had not painted a mother and child, but elegant people expecting visitors and I thought that a great reproach. Somebody writing in _The Germ_ had said that a picture of a pheasant and an apple was merely a picture of something to eat and I was so angry with the indifference to subject, which was the commonplace of all art criticism since Bastien-Lepage, that I could at times see nothing else but subject. I thought that, though it might not matter to the man himself whether he loved a white woman or a black, a female pickpocket or a regular communicant of the Church of England, if only he loved strongly, it certainly did matter to his relations and even under some circumstances to his whole neighbourhood. Sometimes indeed, like some father in Molière, I ignored the lover's feelings altogether and even refused to admit that a trace of the devil, perhaps a trace of colour, may lend piquancy, especially if the connection be not permanent. Among these men, of whom so many of the greatest talents were to live such passionate lives and die such tragic deaths, one serene man, T. W. Rolleston, seemed always out of place; it was I brought him there, intending to set him to some work in Ireland later on. I have known young Dublin working men slip out of their workshop to see the second Thomas Davis passing by, and even remember a conspiracy, by some three or four, to make him "the leader of the Irish race at home and abroad," and all because he had regular features; and when all is said Alexander the Great and Alcibiades were personable men, and the Founder of the Christian religion was the only man who was neither a little too tall nor a little too short, but exactly six feet high. We in Ireland thought as do the plays and ballads, not understanding that, from the first moment wherein nature foresaw the birth of Bastien-Lepage, she has only granted great creative power to men whose faces are contorted with extravagance or curiosity, or dulled with some protecting stupidity. I had now met all those who were to make the 'nineties of the last century tragic in the history of literature, but as yet we were all seemingly equal, whether in talent or in luck, and scarce even personalties to one another. I remember saying one night at the Cheshire Cheese, when more poets than usual had come, "None of us can say who will succeed, or even who has or has not talent. The only thing certain about us is that we are too many." XVIII I have described what image--always opposite to the natural self or the natural world--Wilde, Henley, Morris, copied or tried to copy, but I have not said if I found an image for myself. I know very little about myself and much less of that anti-self: probably the woman who cooks my dinner or the woman who sweeps out my study knows more than I. It is perhaps because nature made me a gregarious man, going hither and thither looking for conversation, and ready to deny from fear or favour his dearest conviction, that I love proud and lonely things. When I was a child and went daily to the sexton's daughter for writing lessons, I found one poem in her School Reader that delighted me beyond all others: a fragment of some metrical translation from Aristophanes wherein the birds sing scorn upon mankind. In later years my mind gave itself to gregarious Shelley's dream of a young man, his hair blanched with sorrow, studying philosophy in some lonely tower, or of his old man, master of all human knowledge, hidden from human sight in some shell-strewn cavern on the Mediterranean shore. One passage above all ran perpetually in my ears-- "Some feign that he is Enoch: others dream He was pre-Adamite, and has survived Cycles of generation and of ruin. The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence, And conquering penance of the mutinous flesh, Deep contemplation and unwearied study, In years outstretched beyond the date of man, May have attained to sovereignty and science Over those strong and secret things and thoughts Which others fear and know not. _Mahmud._ I would talk With this old Jew. _Hassan._ Thy will is even now Made known to him where he dwells in a sea-cavern 'Mid the Demonesi, less accessible Than thou or God! He who would question him Must sail alone at sunset where the stream Of ocean sleeps around those foamless isles, When the young moon is westering as now, And evening airs wander upon the wave; And, when the pines of that bee-pasturing isle, Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery shadow Of his gilt prow within the sapphire water, Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud 'Ahasuerus!' and the caverns round Will answer 'Ahasuerus!' If his prayer Be granted, a faint meteor will arise, Lighting him over Marmora; and a wind Will rush out of the sighing pine-forest, And with the wind a storm of harmony Unutterably sweet, and pilot him Through the soft twilight to the Bosphorus: Thence, at the hour and place and circumstance Fit for the matter of their conference, The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who dare Win the desired communion." Already in Dublin, I had been attracted to the Theosophists because they had affirmed the real existence of the Jew, or of his like, and, apart from whatever might have been imagined by Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, and Bastien-Lepage, I saw nothing against his reality. Presently having heard that Madame Blavatsky had arrived from France, or from India, I thought it time to look the matter up. Certainly if wisdom existed anywhere in the world it must be in some such lonely mind admitting no duty to us, communing with God only, conceding nothing from fear or favour. Have not all peoples, while bound together in a single mind and taste, believed that such men existed and paid them that honour, or paid it to their mere shadow, which they have refused to philanthropists and to men of learning. XIX I found Madame Blavatsky in a little house at Norwood, with but, as she said, three followers left--the Society of Psychical Research had just reported on her Indian phenomena--and as one of the three followers sat in an outer room to keep out undesirable visitors, I was kept a long time kicking my heels. Presently I was admitted and found an old woman in a plain loose dark dress: a sort of old Irish peasant woman with an air of humour and audacious power. I was still kept waiting, for she was deep in conversation with a woman visitor. I strayed through folding doors into the next room and stood, in sheer idleness of mind, looking at a cuckoo clock. It was certainly stopped, for the weights were off and lying upon the ground, and yet, as I stood there the cuckoo came out and cuckooed at me. I interrupted Madame Blavatsky to say, "Your clock has hooted me." "It oftens hoots at a stranger," she replied. "Is there a spirit in it?" I said. "I do not know," she said, "I should have to be alone to know what is in it." I went back to the clock and began examining it and heard her say: "Do not break my clock." I wondered if there was some hidden mechanism and I should have been put out, I suppose, had I found any, though Henley had said to me, "Of course she gets up fraudulent miracles, but a person of genius has to do something; Sarah Bernhardt sleeps in her coffin." Presently the visitor went away and Madame Blavatsky explained that she was a propagandist for women's rights who had called to find out "why men were so bad." "What explanation did you give her?" I said. "That men were born bad, but women made themselves so," and then she explained that I had been kept waiting because she had mistaken me for some man, whose name resembled mine and who wanted to persuade her of the flatness of the earth. When I next saw her she had moved into a house at Holland Park, and some time must have passed--probably I had been in Sligo where I returned constantly for long visits--for she was surrounded by followers. She sat nightly before a little table covered with green baize and on this green baize she scribbled constantly with a piece of white chalk. She would scribble symbols, sometimes humorously explained, and sometimes unintelligible figures, but the chalk was intended to mark down her score when she played patience. One saw in the next room a large table where every night her followers and guests, often a great number, sat down to their vegetable meal, while she encouraged or mocked through the folding doors. A great passionate nature, a sort of female Dr Johnson, impressive I think to every man or woman who had themselves any richness, she seemed impatient of the formalism of the shrill abstract idealism of those about her, and this impatience broke out in railing and many nicknames: "O you are a flap-doodle, but then you are a theosophist and a brother." The most devout and learned of all her followers said to me, "H. P. B. has just told me that there is another globe stuck on to this at the north pole, so that the earth has really a shape something like a dumb-bell." I said, for I knew that her imagination contained all the folklore of the world, "That must be some piece of Eastern mythology." "O no it is not," he said, "of that I am certain, and there must be something in it or she would not have said it." Her mockery was not kept for her followers alone, and her voice would become harsh, and her mockery lose fantasy and humour, when she spoke of what seemed to her scientific materialism. Once I saw this antagonism, guided by some kind of telepathic divination, take a form of brutal fantasy. I brought a very able Dublin woman to see her and this woman had a brother, a physiologist whose reputation, though known to specialists alone, was European, and because of this brother a family pride in everything scientific and modern. The Dublin woman scarcely opened her mouth the whole evening and her name was certainly unknown to Madame Blavatsky, yet I saw at once in that wrinkled old face bent over the cards, and the only time I ever saw it there, a personal hostility, the dislike of one woman for another. Madame Blavatsky seemed to bundle herself up, becoming all primeval peasant, and began complaining of her ailments, more especially of her bad leg. But of late her master--her "old Jew," her "Ahasuerus"--cured it, or set it on the way to be cured. "I was sitting here in my chair," said she, "when the master came in and brought something with him which he put over my knee, something warm which enclosed my knee--it was a live dog which he had cut open." I recognized a cure used sometimes in mediaeval medicine. She had two masters and their portraits, ideal Indian heads, painted by some most incompetent artist, stood upon either side of the folding doors. One night when talk was impersonal and general, I sat gazing through the folding doors into the dimly lighted dining room beyond. I noticed a curious red light shining upon a picture and got up to see where the red light came from. It was the picture of an Indian and as I came near it slowly vanished. When I returned to my seat, Madame Blavatsky said, "What did you see?" "A picture," I said. "Tell it to go away." "It is already gone." "So much the better," she said, "I was afraid it was mediumship. But it is only clairvoyance." "What is the difference?" "If it had been mediumship, it would have stayed in spite of you. Beware of mediumship; it is a kind of madness; I know for I have been through it." I found her almost always full of gaiety that, unlike the occasional joking of those about her, was illogical and incalculable and yet always kindly and tolerant. I had called one evening to find her absent but expected every moment. She had been somewhere at the seaside for her health and arrived with a little suite of followers. She sat down at once in her big chair, and began unfolding a brown paper parcel while all looked on full of curiosity. It contained a large family Bible. "This is a present for my maid," she said. "What a Bible and not even annotated!" said some shocked voice. "Well, my children," was the answer, "what is the good of giving lemons to those who want oranges?" When I first began to frequent her house, as I soon did very constantly, I noticed a handsome clever woman of the world there, who seemed certainly very much out of place, penitent though she thought herself. Presently there was much scandal and gossip for the penitent was plainly entangled with two young men, who were expected to grow into ascetic sages. The scandal was so great that Madame Blavatsky had to call the penitent before her and to speak after this fashion, "We think that it is necessary to crush the animal nature; you should live in chastity in act and thought. Initiation is granted only to those who are entirely chaste," and so it ran on for some time. However, after some minutes in that vehement style, the penitent standing crushed and shamed before her, she had wound up, "I cannot permit you more than one." She was quite sincere but thought that nothing mattered but what happened in the mind, and that if we could not master the mind our actions were of little importance. One young man filled her with exasperation for she thought that his settled gloom came from his chastity. I had known him in Dublin where he had been accustomed to interrupt long periods of asceticism, in which he would eat vegetables and drink water, with brief outbreaks of what he considered the devil. After an outbreak he would for a few hours dazzle the imagination of the members of the local theosophical society with poetical rhapsodies about harlots and street lamps, and then sink into weeks of melancholy. A fellow-theosophist once found him hanging from the windowpole, but cut him down in the nick of time. I said to the man who cut him down, "What did you say to each other?" He said, "We spent the night telling comic stories and laughing a great deal." This man, torn between sensuality and visionary ambition, was now the most devout of all, and told me that in the middle of the night he could often hear the ringing of the little "astral bell" whereby Madame Blavatsky's master called her attention, and that, although it was a silvery low tone, it made the whole house shake. Another night I found him waiting in the hall to show in those who had right of entrance, on some night when the discussion was private, and as I passed he whispered into my ear, "Madame Blavatsky is perhaps not a real woman at all. They say that her dead body was found many years ago upon some Russian battlefield." She had two dominant moods, both of extreme activity, one calm and philosophic, and this was the mood always on that night in the week when she answered questions upon her system, and as I look back after thirty years I often ask myself, "Was her speech automatic? Was she a trance medium, or in some similar state, one night in every week?" In the other mood she was full of fantasy and inconsequent raillery. "That is the Greek Church, a triangle like all true religion," I recall her saying, as she chalked out a triangle on the green baize, and then as she made it disappear in meaningless scribbles, "it spread out and became a bramble bush like the Church of Rome." Then rubbing it all out except one straight line, "Now they have lopped off the branches and turned it into a broomstick and that is protestantism." And so it was night after night always varied and unforeseen. I have observed a like sudden extreme change in others, half whose thought was supernatural and Lawrence Oliphant records somewhere or other like observations. I can remember only once finding her in a mood of reverie, something had happened to damp her spirits, some attack upon her movement, or upon herself. She spoke of Balzac, whom she had seen but once, of Alfred de Musset, whom she had known well enough to dislike for his morbidity, and George Sand, whom she had known so well that they had dabbled in magic together of which "neither knew anything at all" in those days; and she ran on, as if there was nobody there to overhear her, "I used to wonder at and pity the people who sell their souls to the devil, but now I only pity them. They do it to have somebody on their side," and added to that, after some words I have forgotten, "I write, write, write as the Wandering Jew walks, walks, walks." Besides the devotees, who came to listen and to turn every doctrine into a new sanction for the puritanical convictions of their Victorian childhood, cranks came from half Europe and from all America, and they came that they might talk. One American said to me, "She has become the most famous woman in the world by sitting in a big chair and permitting us to talk." They talked and she played patience, and totted up her score on the green baize, and generally seemed to listen, but sometimes she would listen no more. There was a woman who talked perpetually of "the divine spark" within her, until Madame Blavatsky stopped her with--"Yes, my dear, you have a divine spark within you and if you are not very careful you will hear it snore." A certain Salvation Army captain probably pleased her, for if vociferous and loud of voice, he had much animation. He had known hardship and spoke of his visions while starving in the streets and he was still perhaps a little light in the head. I wondered what he could preach to ignorant men, his head ablaze with wild mysticism, till I met a man who had heard him talking near Covent Garden to some crowd in the street. "My friends," he was saying, "you have the kingdom of heaven within you and it would take a pretty big pill to get that out." Meanwhile I had got no nearer to proving that the sage Ahasuerus "dwells in a sea cavern 'mid the Demonesi," nor did I learn any more of those "Masters" whose representative Madame Blavatsky claimed to be. All there seemed to feel their presence, and all spoke of them as if they were more important than any visible inhabitant of the house. When Madame Blavatsky was more silent, less vivid than usual, it was "because her Masters were angry;" they had rebuked her because of some error, and she professed constant error. Once I seemed in their presence, or that of some messenger of theirs. It was about nine at night, and half a dozen of us sat round her big table cloth, when the room seemed to fill with the odour of incense. Somebody came from upstairs, but could smell nothing--had been outside the influence it seems--but to myself and the others, it was very strong. Madame Blavatsky said it was a common Indian incense, and that some pupil of her master's was present; she seemed anxious to make light of the matter and turned the conversation to something else. Certainly it was a romantic house, and I did not separate myself from it by my own will. I had learned from Blake to hate all abstraction, and, affected by the abstraction of what were called "esoteric teachings," I began a series of experiments. Some book or magazine published by the society had quoted from that essay of magic, which Sibley, the eighteenth century astrologer, had bound up with his big book upon astrology. If you burnt a flower to ashes and put the ashes under, I think, the receiver of an air pump, and stood the receiver in the moonlight for so many nights, the ghost of the flower would appear hovering over its ashes. I got together a committee which performed this experiment without results. The "esoteric teachings" had declared that a certain very pure kind of indigo was the symbol of one of the seven principles into which they divided human nature. I got with some difficulty a little of this pure indigo, and gave portions of it to members of the committee, and asked them to put it under their pillows at night and record their dreams. I argued that all natural scenery must be divided into seven types according to these principles, and by their study we could rid the mind of abstraction. Presently a secretary, a friendly, intelligent man, asked me to come and see him, and, when I did, complained that I was causing discussion and disturbance. A certain fanatical hungry face had been noticed red and tearful, and it was quite plain that I was not in agreement with their methods or their philosophy. "We have certain definite ideas," he said, "and we have but one duty, to spread them through the world. I know that all these people become dogmatic, that they believe what they can never prove, that their withdrawal from family life is for them a great misfortune, but what are we to do? We have been told that all spiritual influx into the society will come to an end in 1897 for exactly one hundred years; before that date our fundamental ideas must be spread in all countries." I knew the doctrine, and it made me wonder why that old woman, or the "masters" from whom, whatever they were or were not, her genius had come, insisted upon it; for influx of some kind there must always be. Did they dread heresy, or had they no purpose but the greatest possible immediate effect? XX At the British Museum reading room I often saw a man of thirty-six, or thirty-seven, in a brown velveteen coat, with a gaunt resolute face, and an athletic body, who seemed before I heard his name, or knew the nature of his studies, a figure of romance. Presently I was introduced, where or by what man or woman I do not remember. He was called Liddle Mathers, but would soon, under the touch of "The Celtic Movement," become Macgregor Mathers, and then plain Macgregor. He was the author of _The Kabbala Unveiled_, and his studies were two only--magic and the theory of war, for he believed himself a born commander and all but equal in wisdom and in power to that old Jew. He had copied many manuscripts on magic ceremonial and doctrine in the British Museum, and was to copy many more in Continental libraries, and it was through him mainly that I began certain studies and experiences, that were to convince me that images well up before the mind's eye from a deeper source than conscious or subconscious memory. I believe that his mind in those early days did not belie his face and body, though in later years it became unhinged, for he kept a proud head amid great poverty. One that boxed with him nightly has told me that for many weeks he could knock him down, though Mathers was the stronger man, and only knew long after that during those weeks Mathers starved. With him I met an old white-haired Oxfordshire clergyman, the most panic-stricken person I have ever known, though Mathers' introduction had been "he unites us to the great adepts of antiquity." This old man took me aside that he might say--"I hope you never invoke spirits--that is a very dangerous thing to do. I am told that even the planetary spirits turn upon us in the end." I said, "Have you ever seen an apparition?" "O yes, once," he said. "I have my alchemical laboratory in a cellar under my house where the Bishop cannot see it. One day I was walking up and down there when I heard another footstep walking up and down beside me. I turned and saw a girl I had been in love with when I was a young man, but she died long ago. She wanted me to kiss her. O no, I would not do that." "Why not?" I said. "O she might have got power over me." "Has your alchemical research had any success?" I said. "Yes, I once made the elixir of life. A French alchemist said it had the right smell and the right colour" (the alchemist may have been Eliphas Levi, who visited England in the 'sixties, and would have said anything) "but the first effect of the elixir is that your nails fall out and your hair falls off. I was afraid that I might have made a mistake and that nothing else might happen, so I put it away on a shelf. I meant to drink it when I was an old man, but when I got it down the other day it had all dried up." Soon after my first meeting with Mathers he emerged into brief prosperity, becoming for two or three years Curator of a private museum at Forest Hill, and marrying a young and beautiful wife, the sister of the philosopher, Henri Bergson. His house at Forest Hill was soon a romantic place to a little group, Florence Farr, myself, and some dozen fellow students. I think that it was she, her curiosity being insatiable, who first brought news of that house and that she brought it in mockery and in wonder. Mathers had taken her for a walk through a field of sheep and had said, "Look at the sheep. I am going to imagine myself a ram," and at once all the sheep ran after him; another day he had tried to quell a thunder storm by making symbols in the air with a masonic sword, but the storm had not been quelled; and then came the crowning wonder. He had given her a piece of cardboard on which was a coloured geometrical symbol and had told her to hold it to her forehead and she had found herself walking upon a cliff above the sea, seagulls shrieking overhead. I did not think the ram story impossible, and even tried half a dozen times to excite a cat by imagining a mouse in front of its nose, but still some chance movement of the flock might have deceived her. But what could have deceived her in that final marvel? Then another brought a like report, and presently my own turn came. He gave me a cardboard symbol and I closed my eyes. Sight came slowly, there was not that sudden miracle as if the darkness had been cut with a knife, for that miracle is mostly a woman's privilege, but there rose before me mental images that I could not control: a desert and black Titan raising himself up by his two hands from the middle of a heap of ancient ruins. Mathers explained that I had seen a being of the order of Salamanders because he had shown me their symbol, but it was not necessary even to show the symbol, it would have been sufficient that he imagined it. I had already written in my diary, under some date in 1887, that Madame Blavatsky's Masters were "trance personalities," and I must have meant such beings as my black Titan, only more lasting and more powerful. I had found when a boy in Dublin on a table in the Royal Irish Academy a pamphlet on Japanese art and read there of an animal painter so remarkable that horses he had painted upon a Temple wall, had slipped down after dark and trampled the neighbours' fields of rice. Somebody had come into the temple in the early morning, had been startled by a shower of water drops, had looked up and seen painted horses still wet from the dew-covered fields, but now "trembling into stillness." I had soon mastered Mathers' symbolic system, and discovered that for a considerable minority--whom I could select by certain unanalysable characteristics--the visible world would completely vanish, and that world, summoned by the symbol, take its place. One day when alone in a third-class carriage, in the very middle of the railway bridge that crosses the Thames near Victoria, I smelt incense. I was on my way to Forest Hill; might it not come from some spirit Mathers had called up? I had wondered when I smelt it at Madame Blavatsky's--if there might be some contrivance, some secret censer, but that explanation was no longer possible. I believed that Salamander of his but an image, and presently I found analogies between smell and image. It must be from thought but what certainty had I, that what had taken me by surprise, could be from my own thought, and if a thought could affect the sense of smell, why not the sense of touch? Then I discovered among that group of students that surrounded Macgregor, a man who had fought a cat in his dreams and awaked to find his breast covered with scratches. Was there an impassable barrier between those scratches and the trampled fields of rice? It would seem so, and yet all was uncertainty. What fixed law would our experiments leave to our imagination? Mathers had learning but no scholarship, much imagination and imperfect taste, but if he made some absurd statement, some incredible claim, some hackneyed joke, we would half consciously change claim, statement or joke, as though he were a figure in a play of our composition. He was a necessary extravagance, and he had carried further than anyone else, a claim implicit in the romantic movement from the time of Shelley and of Goethe; and in body and in voice at least he was perfect; so might Faust have looked at the end of his hundred years. In the credulity of our youth we secretly wondered if he had not met with, perhaps even been taught by some old man who had found the elixir. Nor did he undeceive us. "If you find the elixir," he was accustomed to say, "you always look a few years younger than the age at which you found it. If you find it at sixty you will look fifty for a hundred years." None of us would have admitted that we believed in stone or elixir, the old Oxfordshire clergyman excited no belief, yet one among us certainly laboured with crucible or athanor. Ten years ago I called upon an elderly solicitor, on some business, but at his private house, and I remembered whose pupil he had been when I found among the ashes of the hearth a little earthen pot. He pretended that he studied alchemy that he might some day write its history, and I found when I questioned others, that for twenty years there had been just such a little pot among the ashes. XXI I generalized a great deal and was ashamed of it. I thought it was my business in life to be an artist and a poet, and that there could be no business comparable to that. I refused to read books and even to meet people who excited me to generalization, all to no purpose. I said my prayers much as in childhood, though without the old regularity of hour and place, and I began to pray that my imagination might somehow be rescued from abstraction and became as preoccupied with life as had been the imagination of Chaucer. For ten or twelve years more I suffered continual remorse, and only became content when my abstractions had composed themselves into picture and dramatization. My very remorse helped to spoil my early poetry, giving it an element of sentimentality through my refusal to permit it any share of an intellect which I considered impure. Even in practical life I only very gradually began to use generalizations, that have since become the foundation of all I have done, or shall do, in Ireland. For all I know all men may have been so timid, for I am persuaded that our intellects at twenty contain all the truths we shall ever find, but as yet we do not know truths that belong to us from opinions, caught up in casual irritation or momentary fantasy. As life goes on we discover that certain thoughts sustain us in defeat, or give us victory, whether over ourselves or others, and it is these thoughts, tested by passion, that we call convictions. Among subjective men (in all those, that is, who must spin a web out of their own bowels) the victory is an intellectual daily recreation of all that exterior fate snatches away, and so that fate's antithesis; while what I have called "the Mask" is an emotional antithesis to all that comes out of their internal nature. We begin to live when we have conceived life as tragedy. XXII A conviction that the world was now but a bundle of fragments possessed me without ceasing. I had tried this conviction on the Rhymers, thereby plunging into greater silence an already too silent evening. "Johnson," I was accustomed to say, "you are the only man I know whose silence has beak and claw." I had lectured on it to some London Irish society, and I was to lecture upon it later on in Dublin, but I never found but one interested man, an official of the Primrose League, who was also an active member of the Fenian Brotherhood. "I am an extreme conservative apart from Ireland," I have heard him explain; and I have no doubt that personal experience made him share the sight of any eye that saw the world in fragments. I had been put into a rage by the followers of Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran, and Bastien-Lepage, who not only asserted the unimportance of subject whether in art or literature, but the independence of the arts from one another. Upon the other hand, I delighted in every age where poet and artist confined themselves gladly to some inherited subject matter known to the whole people, for I thought that in man and race alike there is something called "Unity of Being," using that term as Dante used it when he compared beauty in the _Convito_ to a perfectly proportioned human body. My father, from whom I had learned the term, preferred a comparison to a musical instrument so strung that if we touch a string all the strings murmur faintly. There is not more desire, he had said, in lust than in true love, but in true love desire awakens pity, hope, affection, admiration, and, given appropriate circumstance, every emotion possible to man. When I began, however, to apply this thought to the state and to argue for a law-made balance among trades and occupations my father displayed at once the violent free trader and propagandist of liberty. I thought that the enemy of this unity was abstraction, meaning by abstraction not the distinction but the isolation of occupation, or class or faculty-- "Call down the hawk from the air Let him be hooded, or caged, Till the yellow eye has grown mild, For larder and spit are bare, The old cook enraged, The scullion gone wild." I knew no mediaeval cathedral, and Westminster, being a part of abhorred London, did not interest me, but I thought constantly of Homer and Dante, and the tombs of Mausolus and Artemisia, the great figures of King and Queen and the lesser figures of Greek and Amazon, Centaur and Greek. I thought that all art should be a Centaur finding in the popular lore its back and its strong legs. I got great pleasure too from remembering that Homer was sung, and from that tale of Dante hearing a common man sing some stanza from _The Divine Comedy_, and from Don Quixote's meeting with some common man that sang Ariosto. Morris had never seemed to care greatly for any poet later than Chaucer and though I preferred Shakespeare to Chaucer I begrudged my own preference. Had not Europe shared one mind and heart, until both mind and heart began to break into fragments a little before Shakespeare's birth? Music and verse began to fall apart when Chaucer robbed verse of its speed that he might give it greater meditation, though for another generation or so minstrels were to sing his lengthy elaborated _Troilus and Criseyde_; painting parted from religion in the later Renaissance that it might study effects of tangibility undisturbed; while, that it might characterize, where it had once personified, it renounced, in our own age, all that inherited subject matter which we have named poetry. Presently I was indeed to number character itself among the abstractions, encouraged by Congreve's saying that "passions are too powerful in the fair sex to let humour," or as we say character, "have its course." Nor have we fared better under the common daylight, for pure reason has notoriously made but light of practical reason, and has been made light of in its turn from that morning when Descartes discovered that he could think better in his bed than out of it; nor needed I original thought to discover, being so late of the school of Morris, that machinery had not separated from handicraft wholly for the world's good, nor to notice that the distinction of classes had become their isolation. If the London merchants of our day competed together in writing lyrics they would not, like the Tudor merchants, dance in the open street before the house of the victor; nor do the great ladies of London finish their balls on the pavement before their doors as did the great Venetian ladies, even in the eighteenth century, conscious of an all enfolding sympathy. Doubtless because fragments broke into ever smaller fragments we saw one another in a light of bitter comedy, and in the arts, where now one technical element reigned and now another, generation hated generation, and accomplished beauty was snatched away when it had most engaged our affections. One thing I did not foresee, not having the courage of my own thought: the growing murderousness of the world. "Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction while the worst Are full of passionate intensity." XXIII If abstraction had reached, or all but reached its climax, escape might be possible for many, and if it had not, individual men might still escape. If Chaucer's personages had disengaged themselves from Chaucer's crowd, forgot their common goal and shrine, and after sundry magnifications became each in turn the centre of some Elizabethan play, and had after split into their elements and so given birth to romantic poetry, must I reverse the cinematograph? I thought that the general movement of literature must be such a reversal, men being there displayed in casual, temporary, contact as at the Tabard door. I had lately read Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina_ and thought that where his theoretical capacity had not awakened there was such a turning back: but a nation or an individual with great emotional intensity might follow the pilgrims as it were to some unknown shrine, and give to all those separated elements and to all that abstract love and melancholy, a symbolical, a mythological coherence. Not Chaucer's rough tongued riders, but rather an ended pilgrimage, a procession of the Gods! Arthur Symons brought back from Paris stories of Verhaeren and Maeterlinck, and so brought me confirmation, as I thought, and I began to announce a poetry like that of the Sufi's. I could not endure, however, an international art, picking stories and symbols where it pleased. Might I not, with health and good luck to aid me, create some new _Prometheus Unbound_; Patrick or Columbkil, Oisin or Fion, in Prometheus' stead; and, instead of Caucasus, Cro-Patric or Ben Bulben? Have not all races had their first unity from a polytheism, that marries them to rock and hill? We had in Ireland imaginative stories, which the uneducated classes knew and even sang, and might we not make those stories current among the educated classes, rediscovering for the work's sake what I have called "the applied arts of literature," the association of literature, that is, with music, speech, and dance; and at last, it might be, so deepen the political passion of the nation that all, artist and poet, craftsman and day-labourer would accept a common design? Perhaps even these images, once created and associated with river and mountain, might move of themselves and with some powerful, even turbulent life, like those painted horses that trampled the rice fields of Japan. XXIV I used to tell the few friends to whom I could speak these secret thoughts that I would make the attempt in Ireland but fail, for our civilization, its elements multiplying by division like certain low forms of life, was all-powerful; but in reality I had the wildest hopes. To-day I add to that first conviction, to that first desire for unity, this other conviction, long a mere opinion vaguely or intermittently apprehended: Nations, races, and individual men are unified by an image, or bundle of related images, symbolical or evocative of the state of mind, which is of all states of mind not impossible, the most difficult to that man, race, or nation; because only the greatest obstacle that can be contemplated without despair, rouses the will to full intensity. A powerful class by terror, rhetoric, and organized sentimentality, may drive their people to war but the day draws near when they cannot keep them there; and how shall they face the pure nations of the East when the day comes to do it with but equal arms? I had seen Ireland in my own time turn from the bragging rhetoric and gregarious humour of O'Connell's generation and school, and offer herself to the solitary and proud Parnell as to her anti-self, buskin following hard on sock, and I had begun to hope, or to half hope, that we might be the first in Europe to seek unity as deliberately as it had been sought by theologian, poet, sculptor, architect, from the eleventh to the thirteenth century. Doubtless we must seek it differently, no longer considering it convenient to epitomize all human knowledge, but find it we well might could we first find philosophy and a little passion. BOOK II IRELAND AFTER THE FALL OF PARNELL _IRELAND AFTER THE FALL OF PARNELL_ I A couple of years before the death of Parnell, I had wound up my introduction to those selections from the Irish novelists with the prophecy of an intellectual movement at the first lull in politics, and now I wished to fulfil my prophecy. I did not put it in that way, for I preferred to think that the sudden emotion that now came to me, the sudden certainty that Ireland was to be like soft wax for years to come, was a moment of supernatural insight. How could I tell, how can I tell even now? There was a little Irish Society of young people, clerks, shop boys, and shop girls, called "The Southwark Irish Literary Society," and it had ceased to meet because the girls got the giggles when any member of the Committee got up to speak. Every member of it had said all he had to say many times over. I had given them a lecture about the falling asunder of the human mind, as an opening flower falls asunder, and all had professed admiration because I had made such a long speech without quotation or narrative; and now I invited the Committee to my father's house at Bedford Park, and there proposed a new organization, "The Irish Literary Society." T. W. Rolleston came to that first meeting, and it was because he had much tact, and a knowledge of the technical business of committees, that a society was founded which was joined by every London-Irish author and journalist. In a few months somebody had written its history, and published that history, illustrated by our portraits, at a shilling. When it was published I was in Dublin, founding a society there called "The National Literary Society," and affiliating it with certain Young Ireland Societies in country towns which seemed anxious to accept its leadership. I had definite plans; I wanted to create an Irish Theatre; I was finishing my _Countess Cathleen_ in its first meagre version, and thought of a travelling company to visit our country branches; but before that there must be a popular imaginative literature. I arranged with Mr. Fisher Unwin and his reader, Mr Edward Garnett--a personal friend of mine--that when our organization was complete Mr Fisher Unwin was to publish for it a series of books at a shilling each. I told only one man of this arrangement, for after I had made my plans I heard an alarming rumour. Old Sir Charles Gavan Duffy was coming from Australia to start an Irish publishing house, and publish a series of books, and I did not expect to agree with him, but knew that I must not seek a quarrel. The two societies were necessary because their lectures must take the place of an educated popular press, which we had not, and have not now, and create a standard of criticism. Irish literature had fallen into contempt; no educated man ever bought an Irish book; in Dublin Professor Dowden, the one man of letters with an international influence, was accustomed to say that he knew an Irish book by its smell, because he had once seen some books whose binding had been fastened together by rotten glue; and Standish O'Grady's last book upon ancient Irish history--a book rather wild, rather too speculative, but forestalling later research--had not been reviewed by any periodical or newspaper in England or in Ireland. At first I had great success, for I brought with me a list of names written down by some member of the Southwark Irish Literary Society, and for six weeks went hither and thither appealing and persuading. My first conversation was over a butter-tub in some Dublin back street, and the man agreed with me at once; everybody agreed with me; all felt that something must be done, but nobody knew what. Perhaps they did not understand me, perhaps I kept back my full thoughts, perhaps they only seemed to listen; it was enough that I had a plan, and was determined about it. When I went to lecture in a provincial town, a workman's wife, who wrote patriotic stories in some weekly newspaper, invited me to her house, and I found all her children in their Sunday best. She made a little speech, very formal and very simple, in which she said that what she wrote had no merit, but that it paid for her children's schooling; and she finished her speech by telling her children never to forget that they had seen me. One man compared me to Thomas Davis, another said I could organise like Davitt, and I thought to succeed as they did, and as rapidly. I did not examine this applause, nor the true thoughts of those I met, nor the general condition of the country, but I examined myself a great deal, and was puzzled at myself. I knew that I was shy and timid, that I would often leave some business undone, or purchase unmade, because I shrank from facing a strange office or a shop a little grander than usual, and yet, here was I delightedly talking to strange people every day. It was many years before I understood that I had surrendered myself to the chief temptation of the artist, creation without toil. Metrical composition is always very difficult to me, nothing is done upon the first day, not one rhyme is in its place; and when at last the rhymes begin to come, the first rough draft of a six-line stanza takes the whole day. At that time I had not formed a style, and sometimes a six-line stanza would take several days, and not seem finished even then; and I had not learnt, as I have now, to put it all out of my head before night, and so the last night was generally sleepless, and the last day a day of nervous strain. But now I had found the happiness that Shelley found when he tied a pamphlet to a fire balloon. II At first I asked no help from prominent persons, and when some clerk or shop-assistant would say "Dr So-and-so or Professor So-and-so will have nothing to do with us" I would answer, "When we prove we can gather sheep shepherds will come." Presently, come they did, old, middle-aged, or but little older than myself, but all with some authority in their town: John O'Leary, John F. Taylor, and Douglas Hyde, and Standish O'Grady, and of these much presently; Dr. Sigerson who has picked a quarrel with me and of whom I shall say nothing that he may not pick another; Count Plunkett, Sinn Feiner of late and Minister of Dail Eireann; Dr. Coffey, now head of the National University; George Coffey, later on Curator of the Irish Antiquities at the Museum of the Royal Dublin Society; Patrick J. McCall, poet and publican of Patrick Street, and later member of corporation; Richard Ashe King, novelist and correspondent of _Truth_, a gentle, intelligent person, typical of nothing; and others, known or unknown. We were now important, had our Committee room in the Mansion House, and I remember that the old Mansion House butler recognised our importance so fully, that he took us into his confidence once in every week, while we sat waiting for a quorum. He had seen many Lord Mayors, and remembered those very superior Lord Mayors who lived before the extension of the municipal franchise, and spoke of his present masters with contempt. Among our persons of authority, and among the friends and followers they had brought, there were many who at that time found it hard to refuse if anybody offered for sale a pepper-pot shaped to suggest a round tower with a wolf-dog at its foot, and who would have felt it inappropriate to publish an Irish book, that had not harp and shamrock and green cover, so completely did their minds move amid Young Ireland images and metaphors, and I thought with alarm of the coming of Sir Charles Gavan Duffy; while here and there I noticed that smooth, smiling face that we discover for the first time in certain pictures by Velasquez; all that hungry, mediaeval speculation vanished, that had worn the faces of El Greco and in its place a self-complacent certainty that all had been arranged, provided for, set out in clear type, in manual of devotion or of doctrine. These, however, were no true disciples of Young Ireland, for Young Ireland had sought a nation unified by political doctrine, a subservient art and letters aiding and abetting. The movement of thought, which had in the 'fifties and 'fourties at Paris and London and Boston, filled literature, and especially poetical literature with curiosities about science, about history about politics, with moral purpose and educational fervour--abstractions all--had created a new instrument for Irish politics, a method of writing that took its poetical style from Campbell, Scott, Macauley, and Beranger, with certain elements from Gaelic, and its prose style--in John Mitchell, the only Young Ireland prose writer who had a style at all--from Carlyle. To recommend this method of writing as literature without much reservation and discrimination I contended was to be deceived or to practice deception. If one examined some country love-song, one discovered that it was not written by a man in love, but by a patriot who wanted to prove that we did indeed possess, in the words of Daniel O'Connell, "the finest peasantry upon earth." Yet one well-known anthology was introduced by the assertion that such love-poetry was superior to "affected and artificial" English love-songs like "Drink to me only with thine eyes"--"affected and artificial," the very words used by English Victorians who wrote for the newspapers to discourage capricious, personal writing. However, the greater number even of those who thought our famous anthology, _The Spirit of the Nation_, except for three or four songs, but good election rhyme, looked upon it much as certain enlightened believers look upon the story of Adam and Eve and the apple, or that of Jonah and the whale, which they do not question publicly, because such stories are an integral part of religion to simple men and women. I, upon the other hand, being in the intemperance of my youth, denied, as publicly as possible, merit to all but a few ballads translated from Gaelic writers, or written out of a personal and generally tragic experience. III The greater number of those who joined my society had come under the seal of Young Ireland at that age when we are all mere wax; the more ambitious had gone daily to some public library to read the bound volumes of Thomas Davis's old newspaper, and tried to see the world as Davis saw it. No philosophic speculation, no economic question of the day, disturbed an orthodoxy which, unlike that of religion had no philosophic history, and the religious bigot was glad that it should be so. Some few of the younger men were impatient, and it was these younger men, more numerous in the London than in the Dublin Society, who gave me support; and we had been joined by a few older men--some personal friends of my own or my father--who had only historical interest in Thomas Davis and his school. Young Ireland's prose had been as much occupied with Irish virtue, and more with the invader's vices, than its poetry, and we were soon mired and sunk into such problems as to whether Cromwell was altogether black, the heads of the old Irish clans altogether white, the Danes mere robbers and church burners (they tell me at Rosses Point that the Danes keep to this day the maps of the Rosses fields they were driven out of in the 9th century, and plot their return) and as to whether we were or were not once the greatest orators in the world. All the past had been turned into a melodrama with Ireland for blameless hero and poet, novelist and historian had but one object, that we should hiss the villain, and only a minority doubted that the greater the talent the greater the hiss. It was all the harder to substitute for that melodrama a nobler form of art, because there really had been, however different in their form, villain and victim; yet fight that rancour I must, and if I had not made some head against it in 1892 and 1893 it might have silenced in 1907 John Synge, the greatest dramatic genius of Ireland. I am writing of disputes that happened many years ago, that led in later years to much bitterness, and I may exaggerate their immediate importance and violence, but I think I am right in saying that disputes about the merits of Young Ireland so often interrupted our discussion of rules, or of the merit of this or that lecturer, and were so aggravated and crossed by the current wrangle between Parnellite and anti-Parnellite that they delayed our public appearance for a year. Other excited persons, doubtless, seeing that we are of a race intemperate of speech, had looked up from their rancours to the dead Lord Mayors upon the wall, superior men whose like we shall not see again, but never, I think, from rancours so seemingly academic. I was preparing the way without knowing it for a great satirist and master of irony, for master works stir vaguely in many before they grow definite in one man's mind, and to help me I had already flitting through my head, jostling other ideas and so not yet established there, a conviction that we should satirize rather than praise, that original virtue arises from the discovery of evil. If we were, as I had dreaded, declamatory, loose, and bragging, we were but the better fitted, that once declared and measured, to create unyielding personality, manner at once cold and passionate, daring long premeditated act; and if bitter beyond all the people of the world, we might yet lie, that too declared and measured, nearest the honeyed comb:-- "Like the clangour of a bell Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet, That is how he learnt so well To take the roses for his meat." IV There were others with followers of their own, and too old or indifferent to join our society. Old men who had never accepted Young Ireland, or middle-aged men kept by some family tradition to the school of thought before it arose, to the Ireland of Daniel O'Connell and of Lever and of Thomas Moore, convivial Ireland with the traditional tear and smile. They sang Moore's _Melodies_, admitted no poetry but his, and resented Young Ireland's political objections to it as much as my generation's objection to its artificial and easy rhythm; one, an old commercial traveller, a Gaelic scholar who kept an erect head and the animal vigour of youth, frequented the houses of our leading men, and would say in a loud voice, "Thomas Moore, sir, is the greatest heroic poet of ancient or modern times." I think it was the Fire Worshippers in _Lalla Rookh_ that he preferred to Homer; or, jealous for the music of the _Melodies_, denounce Wagner, then at the top of his vogue; "I would run ten miles through a bog to escape him," he would cry. Then there was a maker of tombstones of whom we had heard much but had seen little, an elderly fighting man, lately imprisoned for beating a wine-merchant. A young member of the London society, afterwards librarian to the National University, D. J. O'Donohue, who had published a dictionary of the Irish poets, containing, I think, two thousand names, had come to Dublin and settled there in a fit of patriotism. He had been born in London, and spoke the most Cockney dialect imaginable, and had picked up--probably from London critics--a dislike for the poetry of Thomas Moore. The tombstone maker invited him to tea, and he arrived with a bundle of books, which he laid beside him upon the table. During tea he began expounding that dislike of his; his host was silent, but he went on, for he was an obstinate little man. Presently the tombstone-maker rose, and having said solemnly, "I have never permitted that great poet to be slandered in my presence," seized his guest by the back of the collar, and flung him out into the street, and after that flung out the books one after another. Meanwhile the guest--as he himself told the tale--stood in the middle of the street repeating, "Nice way to treat a man in your own 'ouse." V I shared a lodging full of old books and magazines, covered with dirt and dust, with the head of the Fenian Brotherhood, John O'Leary. "In this country," he had said to me, "a man must have upon his side the Church or the Fenians, and you will never have the Church." He had been converted to nationality by the poems of Davis, and he wished for some analogous movement to that of Davis, but he had known men of letters, had been the friend of Whistler, and knew the faults of the old literature. We had made him the President of our Society, and without him I could do nothing, for his long imprisonment and longer exile, his magnificent appearance, and, above all, the fact that he alone had personality, a point of view not made for the crowd's sake, but for self-expression, made him magnetic to my generation. He and I had long been friends, he had stayed with us at Bedford Park, and my father had painted his portrait, but if I had not shared his lodging he would have opposed me. He was an old man, and my point of view was not that of his youth, and it often took me half the day to make him understand--so suspicious he was of all innovation--some simple thing that he would presently support with ardour. He had grown up in a European movement when the revolutionist thought that he, above all men, must appeal to the highest motive, be guided by some ideal principle, be a little like Cato or like Brutus, and he had lived to see the change Dostoievsky examined in _The Possessed_. Men who had been of his party--and oftener their sons--preached assassination and the bomb; and, worst of all, the majority of his countrymen followed after constitutional politicians who practised opportunism, and had, as he believed, such low morals that they would lie, or publish private correspondence, if it might advance their cause. He would split every practical project into its constituent elements, like a clerical casuist, to find if it might not lead into some moral error; but, were the project revolutionary, he would sometimes temper condemnation with pity. Though he would cast off his oldest acquaintance did he suspect him of rubbing shoulders with some carrier of bombs, I have heard him say of a man who blew himself up in an attempt to blow up Westminster Bridge, "He was not a bad man, but he had too great a moral nature for his intellect, not that he lacked intellect." He did not explain, but he meant, I suppose, that the spectacle of injustice might madden a good man more quickly than some common man. Such men were of his own sort, though gone astray, but the constitutional politicians he had been fighting all his life, and all they did displeased him. It was not that he thought their aim wrong, or that they could not achieve it; he had accepted Gladstone's Home Rule Bill; but that in his eyes they degraded manhood. "If England has been brought to do us justice by such men," he would say, "that is not because of our strength, but because of her weakness." He had a particular hatred for the rush of emotion that followed the announcement of Gladstone's conversion, for what was called "The Union of Hearts," and derided its sentimentality; "Nations may respect one another," he would say, "they cannot love." His ancestors had probably kept little shops, or managed little farms in County Tipperary, yet he hated democracy, though he never used the word either for praise or blame, with more than feudal hatred. "No gentleman can be a socialist," he said, and then, with a thoughtful look, "He might be an anarchist." He had no philosophy, but things distressed his palate, and two of those things were International propaganda and the Organised State, and Socialism aimed at both, nor could he speak such words as "philanthropy," "humanitarianism," without showing by his tone of voice that they offended him. The Church pleased him little better; there was an old Fenian quarrel there, and he would say, "My religion is the old Persian, to pull the bow and tell the truth." He had no self-consciousness, no visible pride, and would have hated anything that could have been called a gesture, was indeed scarce artist enough to invent a gesture; yet he would never speak of the hardship of his prison life--though abundantly enough of its humours--and once, when I pressed him, replied, "I was in the hands of my enemy, why should I complain?" A few years ago I heard that the Governor of the prison had asked why he did not report some unnecessary discomfort, and O'Leary had said, "I did not come here to complain." Now that he is dead, I wish that I could question him, and perhaps discover whether in early youth he had come across some teacher who had expounded Roman virtue, but I doubt if I would have learnt anything, for I think the wax had long forgotten the seal--if seal there were. The seal was doubtless made before the eloquent humanitarian 'forties and 'fifties, and was one kind with that that had moulded the youthful mind of Savage Landor. Stephens, the founder of Fenianism, had discovered him searching the second-hand bookstalls for rare editions, and enrolled him in his organization. "You have no chance of success," O'Leary had said "but it will be good for the _morale_ of the country" (_morale_ was his great word), "and I will join on the condition that I am never asked to enrol anybody." He still searched the second-hand bookstalls, and had great numbers of books, especially of Irish history and literature, and when I, exhausted over our morning's casuistry, would sit down to my day's work (I was writing _The Secret Rose_) he would make his tranquil way to the Dublin Quays. In the evening, over his coffee, he would write passages for his memoirs upon postcards and odd scraps of paper, taking immense trouble with every word and comma, for the great work must be a masterpiece of style. When it was finished, it was unreadable, being dry, abstract, and confused; no picture had ever passed before his mind's eye. He was a victim, I think, of a movement where opinions stick men together, or keep them apart, like a kind of bird lime, and without any relation to their natural likes and tastes, and where men of rich nature must give themselves up to an irritation which they no longer recognise because it is always present. I often wonder why he gave me his friendship, why it was he who found almost all the subscribers for my _Wanderings of Usheen_, and why he now supported me in all I did, for how could he like verses that were all picture, all emotion, all association, all mythology? He could not have approved my criticism either, for I exalted Mask and Image above the 18th century logic which he loved, and set experience before observation, emotion before fact. Yet he would say, "I have only three followers, Taylor, Yeats, and Rolleston," and presently he cast out Rolleston--"Davitt wants to convert thousands, but I want two or three." I think that perhaps it was because he no more wished to strengthen Irish Nationalism by second-rate literature than by second-rate morality, and was content that we agreed in that. "There are things a man must not do to save a Nation," he had once told me, and when I asked what things, had said, "To cry in public," and I think it probable that he would have added, if pressed, "To write oratorical or insincere verse." O'Leary's movements and intonations were full of impulse, but John F. Taylor's voice in private discussion had no emotional quality except in the expression of scorn; if he moved an arm it moved from the shoulder or elbow alone, and when he walked he moved from the waist only, and seemed an automaton, a wooden soldier, as if he had no life that was not dry and abstract. Except at moments of public oratory, he lacked all personality, though when one saw him respectful and gentle with O'Leary, as with some charming woman, one saw that he felt its fascination. In letters, or in painting, it repelled him unless it were harsh and obvious, and, therefore, though his vast erudition included much art and letters, he lacked artistic feeling, and judged everything by the moral sense. He had great ambition, and had he joined some established party, or found some practicable policy, he might have been followed, might have produced even some great effect, but he must have known that in defeat no man would follow him, as they followed O'Leary, as they followed Parnell. His oratory was noble, strange, even beautiful, at moments the greatest I have ever listened to; but, the speech over, where there had been, as it seemed, so little of himself, all coming from beyond himself, we saw precisely as before an ungainly body in unsuitable, badly-fitting clothes, and heard an excited voice speaking ill of this man or that other. We knew that he could never give us that one price we would accept, that he would never find a practicable policy; that no party would admit, no government negotiate with, a man notorious for a temper, that, if it gave him genius, could at times carry him to the edge of insanity. Born in some country town, the son of some little watchmaker, he had been a shop assistant, put himself to college and the bar, learned to speak at temperance meetings and Young Ireland societies, and was now a Queen's Counsel famous for his defence of country criminals, whose cases had seemed hopeless--Taylor's boys, their neighbours called them or they called themselves. He had shaped his style and his imagination from Carlyle, the chief inspirer of self-educated men in the 'eighties and early 'nineties. "I prefer Emerson's _Oversoul_," the Condalkin cobbler said to me, "but I always read Carlyle when I am wild with the neighbours"; but he used his master's style, as Mitchell had done before, to abase what his master loved, to exalt what his master scorned. His historical erudition seemed as vast as that of York Powell, but his interests were not Powell's, for he had no picture before the mind's eye, and had but one object--a plea of not guilty--entered in his country's name before a jury which he believed to be packed. O'Leary cared nothing for his country's glory, its individuality alone seemed important in his eyes; he was like some man, who serves a woman all his life without asking whether she be good or bad, wise or foolish; but Taylor cared for nothing else; he was so much O'Leary's disciple that he would say in conversation, "We are demoralised, what case for change if we are not?" for O'Leary admitted no ground for reform outside the moral life, but when he spoke to the great plea he would make no admission. He spoke to it in the most obscure places, in little halls in back streets where the white-washed walls are foul with grease from many heads, before some audience of medical students or of shop assistants, for he was like a man under a curse, compelled to hide his genius, and compelled to show in conspicuous places his ill judgment and his temper. His distaste for myself, broken by occasional tolerance, in so far as it was not distaste for an imagination that seemed to him aesthetic rather than ethical, was because I had published Irish folk-lore in English reviews to the discredit, as he thought, of the Irish peasantry, and because, England within earshot, I found fault with the Young Ireland prose and poetry. He would have hated _The Playboy of the Western World_, and his death a little before its performance was fortunate for Synge and myself. His articles are nothing, and his one historical work, a life of Hugh O'Neill, is almost nothing, lacking the living voice; and now, though a most formidable man, he is forgotten, but for the fading memory of a few friends, and for what an enemy has written here and elsewhere. Did not Leonardo da Vinci warn the imaginative man against pre-occupation with arts that cannot survive his death? VI When Carleton was dying in 1870, he said there would be nothing more about Irish Literature for twenty years, and his words were fulfilled, for the land war had filled Ireland with its bitterness; but imagination had begun to stir again. I had the same confidence in the future that Lady Gregory and I had eight or nine years later, when we founded an Irish Theatre, though there were neither, as it seemed, plays or players. There were already a few known men to start my popular series, and to keep it popular until the men, whose names I did not know, had learnt to express themselves. I had met Dr. Douglas Hyde when I lived in Dublin, and he was still an undergraduate. I have a memory of meeting in college rooms for the first time a very dark young man, who filled me with surprise, partly because he had pushed a snuffbox towards me, and partly because there was something about his vague serious eyes, as in his high cheek bones, that suggested a different civilization, a different race. I had set him down as a peasant, and wondered what brought him to college, and to a Protestant college, but somebody explained that he belonged to some branch of the Hydes of Castle Hyde, and that he had a Protestant Rector for father. He had much frequented the company of old countrymen, and had so acquired the Irish language, and his taste for snuff, and for moderate quantities of a detestable species of illegal whiskey distilled from the potato by certain of his neighbours. He had already--though intellectual Dublin knew nothing of it--considerable popularity as a Gaelic poet, mowers and reapers singing his songs from Donegal to Kerry. Years afterwards I was to stand at his side and listen to Galway mowers singing his Gaelic words without knowing whose words they sang. It is so in India, where peasants sing the words of the great poet of Bengal without knowing whose words they sing, and it must often be so where the old imaginative folk life is undisturbed, and it is so amongst schoolboys who hand their story books to one another without looking at the title page to read the author's name. Here and there, however, the peasants had not lost the habit of Gaelic criticism, picked up, perhaps, from the poets who took refuge among them after the ruin of the great Catholic families, from men like that O'Rahilly, who cries in a translation from the Gaelic that is itself a masterpiece of concentrated passion-- "The periwinkle and the tough dog-fish Towards evening time have got into my dish." An old rascal was kept in food and whiskey for a fortnight by some Connaught village under the belief that he was Craoibhin Aoibhin, "the pleasant little branch," as Doctor Hyde signed himself in the newspapers where the villagers had found his songs. The impostor's thirst only strengthened belief in his genius, for the Gaelic song-writers have had the infirmities of Robert Burns, "It is not the drink but the company," one of the last has sung. Since that first meeting Doctor Hyde and I had corresponded, and he had sent me in manuscript the best tale in my _Faery and Folk Tales_, and I think I had something to do with the London publication of his _Beside the Fire_, a book written in the beautiful English of Connaught, which is Gaelic in idiom and Tudor in vocabulary, and indeed, the first book to use it in the expression of emotion and romance, for Carleton and his school had turned it into farce. Henley had praised him, and York Powell had said, "If he goes on as he has begun, he will be the greatest folk-loreist who has ever lived"; and I know no first book of verse of our time that is at once so romantic and so concrete as his Gaelic _Abhla de'n Craoibh_; but in a few years Dublin was to laugh him, or rail him, out of his genius. He had no critical capacity, having indeed for certain years the uncritical folk-genius, as no educated Irish or Englishman has ever had it, writing out of an imitative sympathy like that of a child catching a tune and leaving it to chance to call the tune; and the failure of our first attempt to create a modern Irish literature permitted the ruin of that genius. He was to create a great popular movement, far more important in its practical results than any movement I could have made, no matter what my luck, but, being neither quarrelsome nor vain, he will not be angry if I say--for the sake of those who come after us--that I mourn for the "greatest folk-loreist who ever lived," and for the great poet who died in his youth. The Harps and Pepperpots got him and the Harps and Pepperpots kept him till he wrote in our common English--"It must be either English or Irish," said some patriotic editor, Young Ireland practice in his head--that needs such sifting that he who would write it vigorously must write it like a learned language, and took for his model the newspaper upon his breakfast table, and became for no base reason beloved by multitudes who should never have heard his name till their schoolmasters showed it upon his tomb. That very incapacity for criticism made him the cajoler of crowds, and of individual men and women; "He should not be in the world at all," said one admiring elderly woman, "or doing the world's work"; and for certain years young Irish women were to display his pseudonym, "Craoibhin Aoibhin," in gilt letters upon their hat bands. "Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin,......impart to us, We'll keep the secret, a new trick to please; Is there a bridle for this Proteus That turns and changes like his draughty seas, Or is there none, most popular of men, But, when they mock us, that we mock again?" VII Standish O'Grady, upon the other hand, was at once all passion and all judgment. And yet those who knew him better than I assured me he could find quarrel in a straw; and I did know that he had quarrelled a few years back with Jack Nettleship. Nettleship's account had been, "My mother cannot endure the God of the Old Testament, but likes Jesus Christ; whereas I like the God of the Old Testament, and cannot endure Jesus Christ; and we have got into the way of quarrelling about it at lunch; and once, when O'Grady lunched with us, he said it was the most disgraceful spectacle he had ever seen, and walked out." Indeed, I wanted him among my writers, because of his quarrels, for, having much passion and little rancour, the more he quarrelled, the nobler, the more patched with metaphor, the more musical his style became, and if he were in his turn attacked, he knew a trick of speech that made us murmur, "We do it wrong, being so majestical, to offer it the show of violence." Sometimes he quarrelled most where he loved most. A Unionist in politics, a leader-writer on _The Daily Express_, the most Conservative paper in Ireland, hater of every form of democracy, he had given all his heart to the smaller Irish landowners, to whom he belonged, and with whom his childhood had been spent, and for them he wrote his books, and would soon rage over their failings in certain famous passages that many men would repeat to themselves like poets' rhymes. All round us people talked or wrote for victory's sake, and were hated for their victories--but here was a man whose rage was a swan-song over all that he had held most dear, and to whom for that very reason every Irish imaginative writer owed a portion of his soul. In his unfinished _History of Ireland_ he had made the old Irish heroes, Fion, and Oisin, and Cuchullan, alive again, taking them, for I think he knew no Gaelic, from the dry pages of O'Curry and his school, and condensing and arranging, as he thought Homer would have arranged and condensed. Lady Gregory has told the same tales, but keeping closer to the Gaelic text, and with greater powers of arrangement and a more original style, but O'Grady was the first, and we had read him in our 'teens. I think that, had I succeeded, a popular audience could have changed him little, and that his genius would have stayed, as it had been shaped by his youth in some provincial society, and that to the end he would have shown his best in occasional thrusts and parries. But I do think that if, instead of that one admirable little book _The Bog of Stars_, we had got all his histories and imaginative works into the hands of our young men, he might have brought the imagination of Ireland nearer the Image and the honeycomb. Lionel Johnson was to be our critic, and above all our theologian, for he had been converted to Catholicism, and his orthdoxy, too learned to question, had accepted all that we did, and most of our plans. Historic Catholicism, with all its counsels and its dogmas, stirred his passion like the beauty of a mistress, and the unlearned parish priests who thought good literature or good criticism dangerous were in his eyes "all heretics." He belonged to a family that had called itself Irish some generations back, and its recent English generations but enabled him to see as one single sacred tradition Irish nationality and Catholic religion. How should he fail to know the Holy Land? Had he not been in Egypt? He had joined our London Irish Literary Society, attended its committee meetings, and given lectures in London, in Dublin, and in Belfast, on Irish novelists and Irish poetry, reading his lectures always, and yet affecting his audience as I, with my spoken lectures, could not, perhaps because Ireland had still the shape it had received from the eighteenth century, and so felt the dignity, not the artifice, of his elaborate periods. He was very little, and at a first glance he seemed but a schoolboy of fifteen. I remember saying one night at the Rhymers', when he spoke of passing safely, almost nightly, through Seven Dials, then a dangerous neighbourhood, "Who would expect to find anything in your pockets but a pegtop and a piece of string?" But one never thought of his small stature when he spoke or read. He had the delicate strong features of a certain filleted head of a Greek athlete in the British Museum, an archaistic Graeco-Roman copy of a masterpiece of the fourth century, and that resemblance seemed symbolic of the austere nobility of his verse. He was now in his best years, writing with great ease and power; neither I, nor, I think, any other, foresaw his tragedy. He suffered from insomnia, and some doctor, while he was still at the University, had recommended alcohol, and he had, in a vain hope of sleep, increased the amount, as Rossetti had increased his doses of chloral, and now he drank for drinking's sake. He drank a great deal too much, and, though nothing could, it seemed, disturb his calm or unsteady his hand or foot, his doctrine, after a certain number of glasses, would become more ascetic, more contemptuous of all that we call human life. I have heard him, after four or five glasses of wine, praise some church father who freed himself from sexual passion by a surgical operation, and deny with scorn, and much historical evidence, that a gelded man lost anything of intellectual power. Even without stimulant his theology conceded nothing to human weakness, and I can remember his saying with energy, "I wish those people who deny the eternity of punishment could realise their unspeakable vulgarity." Now that I know his end, I see him creating, to use a favourite adjective of his, "marmorean" verse, and believing the most terrible doctrines to keep down his own turbulence. One image of that stay in Dublin is so clear before me that it has blotted out most other images of that time. He is sitting at a lodging-house table, which I have just left at three in the morning, and round him lie or sit in huddled attitudes half-a-dozen men in various states of intoxication: and he is looking straight before him with head erect, and one hand resting upon the table. As I reach the stairs I hear him say, in a clear, unshaken voice, "I believe in nothing but the Holy Roman Catholic Church." He sometimes spoke of drink as something which he could put aside at any moment, and his friends believed, and I think he liked us to believe, that he would shortly enter a monastery. Did he deceive us deliberately? Did he himself already foresee the moment when he would write _The Dark Angel_? I am almost certain that he did, for he had already written _Mystic and Cavalier_, where the historical setting is, I believe, but masquerade. "Go from me: I am one of those, who fall. What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all, In my sad company? Before the end, Go from me, dear my friend! Yours are the victories of light: your feet Rest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet. But after warfare in a mourning gloom I rest in clouds of doom. * * * * * Seek with thine eyes to pierce this crystal sphere: Canst read a fate there, prosperous and clear? Only the mists, only the weeping clouds: Dimness, and airy shrouds. * * * * * O rich and sounding voices of the air! Interpreters and prophets of despair: Priests of a fearful sacrament! I come To make with you my home." VIII Sir Charles Gavan Duffy arrived. He brought with him much manuscript, the private letters of a Young Ireland poetess, a dry but informing unpublished historical essay by Davis, and an unpublished novel by William Carleton, into the middle of which he had dropped a hot coal, so that nothing remained but the borders of every page. He hired a young man to read him, after dinner, Carlyle's _Heroes and Hero-Worship_, and before dinner was gracious to all our men of authority and especially to our Harps and Pepperpots. Taylor compared him to Odysseus returning to Ithaca, and every newspaper published his biography. He was a white-haired old man, who had written the standard history of Young Ireland, had emigrated to Australia, had been the first Australian Federalist, and later Prime Minister, but, in all his writings, in which there is so much honesty, so little rancour, there is not one sentence that has any meaning when separated from its place in argument or narrative, not one distinguished because of its thought or music. One imagined his youth in some little gaunt Irish town, where no building or custom is revered for its antiquity; and there speaking a language where no word, even in solitude, is ever spoken slowly and carefully because of emotional implication; and of his manhood of practical politics, of the dirty piece of orange-peel in the corner of the stairs as one climbs up to some newspaper office; of public meetings where it would be treacherous amid so much geniality to speak, or even to think of anything that might cause a moment's misunderstanding in one's own party. No argument of mine was intelligible to him, and I would have been powerless, but that fifty years ago he had made an enemy, and though that enemy was long dead, his school remained. He had attacked, why or with what result I do not remember, the only Young Ireland politician who had music and personality, though rancorous and devil-possessed. At some public meeting of ours, where he spoke amid great applause, in smooth, Gladstonian periods, of his proposed Irish publishing firm, one heard faint hostile murmurs, and at last a voice cried, "Remember Newry," and a voice answered, "There is a grave there!" and a part of the audience sang, "Here's to John Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone; Here's to the friends that are gone." The meeting over, a group of us, indignant that the meeting we had called for his welcome should have contained those malcontents, gathered about him to apologize. He had written a pamphlet, he explained: he would give us copies. We would see that he was in the right, how badly Mitchell had behaved. But in Ireland personality, if it be but harsh and hard, has lovers, and some of us, I think, may have gone home muttering, "How dare he be in the right if Mitchell is in the wrong?" IX He wanted "to complete the Young Ireland movement"--to do all that had been left undone because of the Famine, or the death of Davis, or his own emigration; and all the younger men were upon my side in resisting that. They might not want the books I wanted, but they did want books written by their own generation, and we began to struggle with him over the control of the company. Taylor became very angry, and I can understand what I looked like in his eyes, when I remember Edwin Ellis's seriously-intended warning, "It is bad manners for a man under thirty to permit himself to be in the right." But John O'Leary supported me throughout. When Gavin Duffy had gone to London to draw up articles of association for his company, for which he had found many shareholders in Dublin, the dispute became very fierce. One night members of the general public climbed the six flights of stairs to our committee room, now no longer in the Mansion House, and found seats for themselves just behind our chairs. We were all too angry to send them away, or even to notice their presence, for I was accused of saying at a public meeting in Cork, "Our books," when I should have said, "Sir Charles Gavan Duffy's books." I was not Taylor's match with the spoken word, and barely matched him with the written word. At twenty-seven or twenty-eight I was immature and clumsy, and O'Leary's support was capricious, for, being but a spectator of life, he would desert me if I used a bad argument, and would not return till I found a good one; and our chairman, Dr. Hyde, "most popular of men," sat dreaming of his old white cockatoo in far-away Roscommon. Our very success had been a misfortune, for an opposition which had been literary and political, now that it had spread to the general public, brought religious prejudice to its aid. Suddenly, when the company seemed all but established, and a scheme had been thought out which gave some representation on its governing board to contemporary Irish writers, Gavan Duffy produced a letter from Archbishop Walsh, and threw the project up. The letter had warned him that after his death the company would fall under a dangerous influence. At this moment the always benevolent friend, to whom I had explained in confidence, when asking his support, my arrangements with my publisher, went to Gavan Duffy and suggested that they should together offer Mr Fisher Unwin a series of Irish books, and Mr Fisher Unwin and his reader accepted the series under the belief that it was my project that they accepted. I went to London to find the contract signed, and that all I could do was to get two sub-editors appointed, responsible to the two societies. Two or three good books were published, especially Dr. Hyde's _Short History of Gaelic Literature_, and Standish O'Grady's _Bog of Stars_; but the series was killed by its first volume, Thomas Davis's dry but informing historical essay. So important had our movement seemed that ten thousand copies had been sold before anybody had time to read it, and then came a dead stop. Gavan Duffy knew nothing of my plans, and so was guiltless, and my friend had heard me discuss many things that evening. I had perhaps dispraised the humanitarian Stephen Phillips, already in his first vogue, and praised Francis Thompson, but half-rescued from his gutter; or flouted his belief in the perpetual marriage of genius and virtue by numbering the vices of famous men; this man's venery, that man's drink. He could not be expected to remember that where I had said so much of no account, I said one thing, and he had made no reply, that I thought of great account. He died a few months ago, and it would have surprised and shocked him if any man had told him that he was unforgiven; had he not forgotten all about it long ago? A German doctor has said that if we leave an umbrella at a friend's house it is because we have a sub-conscious desire to re-visit that house; and he had perhaps a sub-conscious desire that my too tumultuous generation should not have its say. X I was at Sligo when I received a letter from John O'Leary, saying that I could do no more in Dublin, for even the younger men had turned against me, were "jealous," his letter said, though what they had to be jealous of God knows. He said further that it was all my own fault, that he had warned me what would happen if I lived on terms of intimacy with those I tried to influence. I should have kept myself apart and alone. It was all true; through some influence from an earlier generation, from Walt Whitman, perhaps, I had sat talking in public bars, had talked late into the night at many men's houses, showing all my convictions to men that were but ready for one, and used conversation to explore and discover among men who looked for authority. I did not yet know that intellectual freedom and social equality are incompatible; and yet, if I had, could hardly have lived otherwise, being too young for silence. The trouble came from half a dozen obscure young men, who having nothing to do attended every meeting and were able to overturn a project, that seemed my only bridge to other projects, including a travelling theatre. We had planned small libraries of Irish literature in connection with our country branches; we collected books and money, sending a lecturer to every branch and taking half the proceeds of that lecture to buy books. Maud Gonne, whose beauty could draw a great audience in any country town, had been the lecturer. The scheme was very nearly self-supporting, and six or seven bundles of books, chosen after much disputation by John O'Leary, J. F. Taylor, and myself, had been despatched to some six or seven branches. "The country will support this work" Taylor had said somewhere on some public platform, "because we are the most inflammable people on God's earth," his harsh voice giving almost a quality of style to Carlylian commonplace; but we are also a very jealous people. The half-a-dozen young men, if a little jealous of me, were still more jealous of those country branches which were getting so much notice, and where there was so much of that peasant mind their schoolmasters had taught them to despise. One must be English or Irish, they would have said. I returned to find a great box of books appropriated for some Dublin purpose and the whole scheme abandoned. I know that it was a bitter moment because I remember with gratitude words spoken not to my ear, but for my ear, by a young man who had lately joined our Society, Mr. Stephen McKenna, now well-known amongst scholars for his distinguished translations of Plotinus, and I seem to remember that I lost through anger what gift of persuasion I may possess, and that I was all the more helpless because I felt that even the best of us disagreed about everything at heart. I began to feel that I needed a hostess more than a society, but that I was not to find for years to come. I tried to persuade Maud Gonne to be that hostess, but her social life was in Paris, and she had already formed a new ambition, the turning of French public opinion against England. Without intellectual freedom there can be no agreement, and in Nationalist Dublin there was not--indeed there still is not--any society where a man is heard by the right ears, but never overheard by the wrong, and where he speaks his whole mind gaily, and is not the cautious husband of a part; where phantasy can play before matured into conviction; where life can shine and ring, and lack utility. Mere life lacking the protection of wealth or rank, or some beauty's privilege of caprice cannot choose its company, taking up and dropping men merely because it likes, or dislikes, their manners and their looks, and in its stead opinion crushes and rends, and all is hatred and bitterness: wheel biting upon wheel, a roar of steel or iron tackle, a mill of argument grinding all things down to mediocrity. If, as I think, minds and metals correspond the goldsmiths of Paris foretold the French Revolution when they substituted steel for that unserviceable gold in the manufacture of the more expensive jewel work, and made those large, flat steel buttons for men of fashion whereby the card players were able to cheat by studying the reflections of the cards. XI No country could have more natural distaste for equality, for in every circle there was some man ridiculous for posing as the type of some romantic or distinguished quality. One of our friends, a man of talent and of learning, whose ancestors had come, he believed, from Denmark in the ninth century, looked and talked the distinguished foreigner so perfectly that a patriotic newspaper gave particulars of his supposed relations in contemporary Denmark! A half-mad old man who had served for a few months in the Pope's army, many years before, still rode an old white warhorse in all national processions, and, if their enemies were not lying, one Town Councillor had challenged another to a duel by flinging his glove upon the floor; while a popular Lord Mayor had boasted in a public speech that he never went to bed at night without reading at least twelve pages of _Sappho_. Then, too, in those conversations of the small hours, to which O'Leary had so much objected, whenever we did not speak of art and letters, we spoke of Parnell. We told each other that he had admitted no man to his counsel; that when some member of his party found himself in the same hotel by chance, that member would think to stay there a presumption, and move to some other lodging; and, above all, we spoke of his pride, that made him hide all emotion while before his enemy. Once he had seemed callous and indifferent to the House of Commons, Foster had accused him of abetting assassination, but when he came among his followers his hands were full of blood, because he had torn them with his nails. What excitement there would have been, what sense of mystery would have stirred all our hearts, and stirred hearts all through the country, where there was still, and for many years to come, but one overmastering topic, had we known the story Mrs. Parnell tells of that scene on Brighton Pier. He and the woman that he loved stood there upon a night of storm, when his power was at its greatest height, and still unthreatened. He caught her from the ground and held her at arm's length out over the water and she lay there motionless, knowing that, had she moved, he would have drowned himself and her. Perhaps unmotived self-immolation, were that possible, or else at mere suggestion of storm and night, were as great evidence as such a man could give of power over self, and so of the expression of the self. XII When I look back upon my Irish propaganda of those years I can see little but its bitterness. I never met with, or but met to quarrel with, my father's old family acquaintance; or with acquaintance I myself might have found, and kept, among the prosperous educated class, who had all the great appointments at University or Castle; and this I did by deliberate calculation. If I must attack so much that seemed sacred to Irish nationalist opinion, I must, I knew, see to it that no man suspect me of doing it to flatter Unionist opinion. Whenever I got the support of some man who belonged by birth and education to University or Castle, I would say, "Now you must be baptized of the gutter." I chose Royal visits especially for demonstrations of disloyalty, rolling up with my own hands the red carpet spread by some elderly Nationalist, softened or weakened by time, to welcome Viceroyalty; and threatening, if the London Society drank to the King's health, that my friends and I would demonstrate against it by turning our glasses upside down; and was presently to discover that one can grow impassioned and fanatical about opinions, which one has chosen as one might choose a side upon the football field; and I thought many a time of the pleasant Dublin houses that would never ask me to dine; and the still pleasanter houses with trout-streams near at hand, that would never ask me upon a visit. I became absurdly sensitive, glancing about me in certain public places, the private view of our Academy, or the like, to discover imagined enemies; and even now, after twenty or thirty years, I feel at times that I have not recovered my natural manner. Yet it was in those pleasant houses, among the young men and the young girls, that we were to make our converts. When we loathe ourselves or our world, if that loathing but turn to intellect, we see self or world and its anti-self as in one vision; when loathing remains but loathing, world or self consumes itself away, and we turn to its mechanical opposite. Popular Nationalism and Unionism so changed into one another, being each but the other's headache. The Nationalist abstractions were like the fixed ideas of some hysterical woman, a part of the mind turned into stone, and all the rest a seething and burning; and Unionist Ireland had re-acted from that seething and burning to a cynical indifference, and from those fixed ideas to whatever might bring the most easy and obvious success. I remember Taylor at some public debate, stiff of body and tense of voice; and the contrasting figure of Fitzgibbon, the Lord Justice of Appeal of the moment and his calm, flowing sentences, satisfactory to hear and impossible to remember. Taylor speaks of a little nation of antiquity, which he does not name, "set between the great Empire of Persia and the great Empire of Rome." Into the mouths of those great Empires he puts the arguments of Fitzgibbon, and such as he, "Join with our greatness! What in comparison to that is your little, beggarly nationality?" And then I recall the excitement, the shiver of the nerves, as his voice rose to an ecstatic cry, "Out of that nation came the salvation of the world." I remember, too, and grow angry, as it were yesterday, a letter from that Lord Justice of Appeal, who had changed his politics for advancement's sake, recommending a correspondent to avoid us, because we dissuaded people from the study of "Shakespeare and Kingsley." Edward Dowden, my father's old friend, with his dark romantic face, the one man of letters Dublin Unionism possessed, was withering in that barren soil. Towards the end of his life he confessed to a near friend that he would have wished before all things to have been the lover of many women; and some careless lecture, upon the youthful Goethe, had in early life drawn down upon him the displeasure of the Protestant Archbishop. And yet he turned Shakespeare into a British Benthamite, flattered Shelley but to hide his own growing lack of sympathy, abandoned for like reason that study of Goethe that should have been his life-work, and at last cared but for Wordsworth, the one great poet who, after brief blossom, was cut and sawn into planks of obvious utility. I called upon him from time to time out of gratitude for old encouragements, and because, among the Dublin houses open to me, his alone was pleasant to the eye, with its many books and its air of scholarship. But when O'Grady had declared, rancorous for once but under substantial provocation, that he had "a bad head and a worse heart," I found my welcome troubled and called no more. XIII The one house where nobody thought or talked politics was a house in Ely Place, where a number of young men lived together, and, for want of a better name, were called Theosophists. Beside the resident members, other members dropped in and out during the day, and the reading-room was a place of much discussion about philosophy and about the arts. The house had been taken in the name of the engineer to the Board of Works, a black-bearded young man, with a passion for Manichean philosophy, and all accepted him as host; and sometimes the conversation, especially when I was there, became too ghostly for the nerves of his young and delicate wife, and he would be made angry. I remember young men struggling, with inexact terminology and insufficient learning, for some new religious conception, on which they could base their lives; and some few strange or able men. At the top of the house lived a medical student who read Plato and took haschisch, and a young Scotchman who owned a vegetarian restaurant, and had just returned from America, where he had gone as the disciple of the Prophet Harris, and where he would soon return in the train of some new prophet. When one asked what set him on his wanderings, he told of a young Highlander, his friend in boyhood, whose cap was always plucked off at a certain twist in the road, till the fathers of the village fastened it upon his head by recommending drink and women. When he had gone, his room was inherited by an American hypnotist, who had lived among the Zuni Indians with the explorer Cushant, and told of a Zuni Indian who, irritated by some white man's praise of telephone and telegraph, cried out, "Can they do that?" and cast above his head two handfuls of sand that burst into flame, and flamed till his head seemed wrapped in fire. He professed to talk the philosophy of the Zuni Indians, but it seemed to me the vague Platonism that all there talked, except that he spoke much of men passing in sleep into the heart of mountains; a doctrine that was presently incorporated in the mythology of the house, to send young men and women hither and thither inquiring for sacred places. On a lower floor lived a strange red-haired girl, all whose thoughts were set upon painting and poetry, conceived as abstract images like Love and Penury in the _Symposium_; and to these images she sacrificed herself with Asiatic fanaticism. The engineer had discovered her starving somewhere in an unfurnished or half-furnished room, and that she had lived for many weeks upon bread and shell-cocoa, so that her food never cost her more than a penny a day. Born into a county family, who were so haughty that their neighbours called them the Royal Family, she had quarrelled with a mad father, who had never, his tenants declared, "unscrewed the top of his flask with any man," because she wished to study art, had ran away from home, had lived for a time by selling her watch, and then by occasional stories in an Irish paper. For some weeks she had paid half-a-crown a week to some poor woman to see her to the art schools and back, for she considered it wrong for a woman to show herself in public places unattended; but of late she had been unable to afford the school fees. The engineer engaged her as a companion for his wife, and gave her money enough to begin her studies once more. She had talent and imagination, a gift for style; but, though ready to face death for painting and poetry, conceived as allegorical figures, she hated her own genius, and had not met praise and sympathy early enough to overcome the hatred. Face to face with paint and canvas, pen and paper, she saw nothing of her genius but its cruelty, and would have scarce arrived before she would find some excuse to leave the schools for the day, if indeed she had not invented over her breakfast some occupation so laborious that she could call it a duty, and so not go at all. Most watched her in mockery, but I watched in sympathy; composition strained my nerves and spoiled my sleep; and yet, as far back as I could trace--and in Ireland we have long memories--my paternal ancestors had worked at some intellectual pursuit, while hers had shot and hunted. She could at any time, had she given up her profession, which her father had raged against, not because it was art, but because it was a profession, have returned to the common comfortable life of women. When, a little later, she had quarrelled with the engineer or his wife, and gone back to bread and shell-cocoa I brought her an offer from some Dublin merchant of fairly well paid advertisement work, which would have been less laborious than artistic creation; but she said that to draw advertisements was to degrade art, thanked me elaborately, and did not disguise her indignation. She had, I believe, returned to starvation with joy, for constant anaemia would shortly give her an argument strong enough to silence her conscience when the allegorical images glared upon her, and, apart from that, starvation and misery had a large share in her ritual of worship. XIV At the top of the house and at the time I remember best, in the same room with the young Scotchman, lived Mr. George Russell (A.E.), and the house and the society were divided into his adherents and those of the engineer; and I heard of some quarrelling between the factions. The rivalry was sub-conscious. Neither had willingly opposed the other in any matter of importance. The engineer had all the financial responsibility, and George Russell was, in the eyes of the community, saint and genius. Had either seen that the question at issue was the leadership of mystical thought in Dublin, he would, I think, have given way, but the dispute seemed trivial. At the weekly meetings, anything might be discussed; no chairman called a speaker to order; an atheistic workman could denounce religion, or a pious Catholic confound theosophy with atheism; and the engineer, precise and practical, disapproved. He had an object. He wished to make converts for a definite form of belief, and here an enemy, if a better speaker, might make all the converts. He wished to confine discussion to members of the society, and had proposed in committee, I was told, a resolution on the subject; while Russell, who had refused to join my National Literary Society, because the party of Harp and Pepperpot had set limits to discussion, resisted, and at last defeated him. In a couple of years some new dispute arose; he resigned, and founded a society which drew doctrine and method from America or London; and Russell became, as he is to-day, the one masterful influence among young Dublin men and women who love religious speculation, but have no historical faith. When Russell and I had been at the Art School six or seven years before, he had been almost unintelligible. He had seemed incapable of coherent thought, and perhaps was so at certain moments. The idea came upon him, he has told me, that, if he spoke he would reveal that he had lost coherence; and for the three days that the idea lasted spent the hours of daylight wandering upon the Dublin mountains, that he might escape the necessity for speech. I used to listen to him at that time, mostly walking through the streets at night, for the sake of some stray sentence, beautiful and profound, amid many words that seemed without meaning; and there were others, too, who walked and listened, for he had become, I think, to all his fellow students, sacred, as the fool is sacred in the East. We copied the model laboriously, but he would draw without research into the natural form, and call his study "St. John in the Wilderness"; but I can remember the almost scared look and the half-whisper of a student, now a successful sculptor, who said, pointing to the modelling of a shoulder, "That is too easy, a great deal too easy!" For with brush and pencil he was too coherent. We derided each other, told absurd tales to one another's discredit, but we never derided him, or told tales to his discredit. He stood outside the sense of comedy his friend John Eglinton has called "the social cement" of our civilization; and we would "gush" when we spoke of him, as men do when they praise something incomprehensible. But when he painted there was no difficulty in comprehending. How could that ease and rapidity of composition, so far beyond anything that we could attain to, belong to a man whose words seemed often without meaning? A few months before I had come to Ireland he had sent me some verses, which I had liked till Edwin Ellis had laughed me from my liking by proving that no line had a rhythm that agreed with any other, and that, the moment one thought he had settled upon some scheme of rhyme, he would break from it without reason. But now his verse was clear in thought and delicate in form. He wrote without premeditation or labour. It had, as it were, organized itself, and grown as nervous and living as if it had, as Dante said of his own work, paled his cheek. The Society he belonged to published a little magazine, and he had asked the readers to decide whether they preferred his prose or his verse, and it was because they so willed it that he wrote the little transcendental verses afterwards published in _Homeward Songs by the Way_. Life was not expensive in that house, where, I think, no meat was eaten; I know that out of the sixty or seventy pounds a year which he earned as accountant in a Dublin shop, he saved a considerable portion for his private charity; and it was, I think, his benevolence that gave him his lucidity of speech, and, perhaps, of writing. If he convinced himself that any particular activity was desirable in the public interest or in that of his friends, he had at once the ardour that came to another from personal ambition. He was always surrounded with a little group of infirm or unlucky persons, whom he explained to themselves and to others, turning cat to griffin, goose to swan. In later years he was to accept the position of organizer of a co-operative banking system, before he had even read a book upon economics or finance, and within a few months to give evidence before a Royal Commission upon the system, as an acknowledged expert, though he had brought to it nothing but his impassioned versatility. At the time I write of him, he was the religious teacher, and that alone--his painting, his poetry, and his conversation all subservient to that one end. Men watched him with awe or with bewilderment; it was known that he saw visions continually, perhaps more continually than any modern man since Swedenborg; and when he painted and drew in pastel what he had seen, some accepted the record without hesitation, others, like myself, noticing the academic Graeco-Roman forms, and remembering his early admiration for the works of Gustave Moreau, divined a subjective element, but no one doubted his word. One might not think him a good observer, but no one could doubt that he reported with the most scrupulous care what he believed himself to have seen; nor did he lack occasional objective corroboration. Walking with some man in his park--his demesne, as we say in Ireland--he had seen a visionary church at a particular spot, and the man had dug and uncovered its foundations; then some woman had met him with, "Oh, Mr Russell, I am so unhappy," and he had replied, "You will be perfectly happy this evening at seven o'clock," and left her to her blushes. She had an appointment with a young man for seven o'clock. I had heard of this a day or so after the event, and I asked him about it, and was told it had suddenly come into his head to use those words; but why he did not know. He and I often quarrelled, because I wanted him to examine and question his visions, and write them out as they occurred; and still more because I thought symbolic what he thought real like the men and women that had passed him on the road. Were they so much a part of his sub-conscious life that they would have vanished had he submitted them to question; were they like those voices that only speak, those strange sights that only show themselves for an instant, when the attention has been withdrawn; that phantasmagoria of which I had learnt something in London: and had his verse and his painting a like origin? And was that why the same hand that painted a certain dreamy, lovely sandy shore, now in the Dublin Municipal Gallery, could with great rapidity fill many canvases with poetical commonplace; and why, after writing _Homeward Songs by the Way_, where all is skilful and much exquisite, he would never again write a perfect book? Was it precisely because in Swedenborg alone the conscious and the sub-conscious became one, as in that marriage of the angels, which he has described as a contact of the whole being, that Coleridge thought Swedenborg both man and woman? Russell's influence, which was already great, had more to support it than his versatility, or the mystery that surrounded him, for his sense of justice, and the daring that came from his own confidence in it, had made him the general counsellor. He would give endless time to a case of conscience, and no situation was too difficult for his clarity; and certainly some of the situations were difficult. I remember his being summoned to decide between two ladies who had quarrelled about a vacillating admirer, and called each other, to each other's faces, the worst names in our somewhat anaemic modern vocabulary; and I have heard of his success on an occasion when I think no other but Dostoievsky's idiot could have avoided offence. The Society was very young, and, as its members faced the world's moral complexities as though they were the first that ever faced them, they drew up very vigorous rules. One rule was that if any member saw a fault growing upon any other member, it was his duty to point it out to that member. A certain young man become convinced that a certain young woman had fallen in love with him; and, as an unwritten rule pronounced love and the spiritual life incompatible, that was a heavy fault. As the young man felt the delicacy of the situation, he asked for Russell's help, and side by side they braved the offender, who, I was told, received their admonishment with surprised humility, and promised amendment. His voice would often become high, and lose its self-possession during intimate conversation, and I especially could put him in a rage; but the moment the audience became too large for intimacy, or some exciting event had given formality to speech, he would be at the same moment impassioned and impersonal. He had, and has, the capacity, beyond that of any man I have known, to put with entire justice not only the thoughts, but the emotions, of the most opposite parties and personalities, as it were dissolving some public or private uproar into drama by Corneille or by Racine; and men who have hated each other must sometimes have been reconciled, because each heard his enemy's argument put into better words than he himself had found for his own; and this gift was in later years to give him political influence, and win him respect from Irish Nationalist and Unionist alike. It was, perhaps, because of it, joined to a too literal acceptance of those noble images of moral tradition which are so like late Graeco-Roman statues, that he had seen all human life as a mythological system, where, though all cats are griffins, the more dangerous griffins are only found among politicians he has not spoken to, or among authors he has but glanced at; while those men and women who bring him their confessions and listen to his advice, carry but the snowiest of swan's plumage. Nor has it failed to make him, as I think, a bad literary critic; demanding plays and poems where the characters must attain a stature of seven feet, and resenting as something perverse and morbid all abatement from that measure. I sometimes wonder what he would have been had he not met in early life the poetry of Emerson and Walt Whitman, writers who have begun to seem superficial precisely because they lack the Vision of evil; and those translations of the Upanishads, which it is so much harder to study by the sinking flame of Indian tradition than by the serviceable lamp of Emerson and Walt Whitman. We are never satisfied with the maturity of those whom we have admired in boyhood; and, because we have seen their whole circle--even the most successful life is but a segment--we remain to the end their harshest critics. One old schoolfellow of mine will never believe that I have fulfilled the promise of some rough unscannable verses that I wrote before I was eighteen. Does any imaginative man find in maturity the admiration that his first half-articulate years aroused in some little circle; and is not the first success the greatest? Certainly, I demanded of Russell some impossible things, and if I had any influence upon him--and I have little doubt that I had, for we were very intimate--it may not have been a good influence for I thought there could be no aim for poet or artist except expression of a "Unity of Being" like that of a "perfectly proportioned human body"--though I would not at the time have used that phrase. I remember that I was ironic and indignant when he left the Art Schools because his "will was weak, and must grow weaker if he followed any emotional pursuit;" as, later, when he let the readers of a magazine decide between his prose and his verse. I now know that there are men who cannot possess "Unity of Being," who must not seek it or express it--and who, so far from seeking an anti-self, a Mask that delineates a being in all things the opposite to their natural state, can but seek the suppression of the anti-self, till the natural state alone remains. These are those who must seek no image of desire, but await that which lies beyond their mind, unities not of the mind, but unities of nature, unities of God: the man of science, the moralist, the humanitarian, the politician, St. Simon Stylites upon his pillar, St. Antony in his cavern; all whose pre-occupation is to know themselves for fragments, and at last for nothing; to hollow their hearts out till they are void and without form, to summon a creator by revealing chaos, to become the lamp for another's wick and oil; and indeed it may be that it has been for their guidance in a very special sense that the "perfectly proportioned human body" suffered crucifixion. For them Mask and Image are of necessity morbid, turning their eyes upon themselves, as though they were of those who can be law unto themselves, of whom Chapman has written, "Neither is it lawful that they should stoop to any other law," whereas they are indeed of those who can but ask, "Have I behaved as well as So-and-so?" "Am I a good man according to the commandments?" or, "Do I realise my own nothingness before God?" "Have my experiments and observations excluded the personal factor with sufficient rigour?" Such men do not assume wisdom or beauty as Shelley did, when he masked himself as Ahasuerus, or as Prince Athanais, nor do they pursue an Image through a world that had else seemed an uninhabitable wilderness till, amid the privations of that pursuit, the Image is no more named Pandemos, but Urania; for such men must cast all Masks away and fly the Image, till that Image, transfigured because of their cruelties of self-abasement, becomes itself some Image or epitome of the whole natural or supernatural world, and itself pursues. The wholeness of the supernatural world can only express itself in personal form, because it has no epitome but man, nor can _The Hound of Heaven_ fling itself into any but an empty heart. We may know the fugitives from others poets because, like George Herbert, like Francis Thompson, like George Russell, their imaginations grow more vivid in the expression of something which they have not themselves created, some historical religion or cause. But if the fugitive should live, as I think Russell does at times, as it is natural for a Morris or a Henley or a Shelley to live, hunters and pursuers all, his art surrenders itself to moral or poetical commonplace, to a repetition of thoughts and images that have no relation to experience. I think that Russell would not have disappointed even my hopes had he, instead of meeting as an impressionable youth with our modern subjective romanticism, met with some form of traditional belief, which condemned all that romanticism admires and praises, indeed, all images of desire; for such condemnation would have turned his intellect towards the images of his vision. It might, doubtless, have embittered his life, for his strong intellect would have been driven out into the impersonal deeps where the man shudders; but it would have kept him a religious teacher, and set him, it may be, among the greatest of that species; politics, for a vision-seeking man, can be but half achievement, a choice of an almost easy kind of skill instead of that kind which is, of all those not impossible, the most difficult. Is it not certain that the Creator yawns in earthquake and thunder and other popular displays, but toils in rounding the delicate spiral of a shell? XV I heard the other day of a Dublin man recognizing in London an elderly man who had lived in that house in Ely Place in his youth, and of that elderly man, at the sudden memory, bursting into tears. Though I have no such poignant memories, for I was never of it, never anything but a dissatisfied critic, yet certain vivid moments come back to me as I write. ...Russell has just come in from a long walk on the Two Rock mountain, very full of his conversation with an old religious beggar, who kept repeating, "God possesses the heavens, but He covets the earth--He covets the earth." * * * * * I get in talk with a young man who has taken the orthodox side in some debate. He is a stranger, but explains that he has inherited magical art from his father, and asks me to his rooms to see it in operation. He and a friend of his kill a black cock, and burn herbs in a big bowl, but nothing happens except that the friend repeats again and again, "Oh, my God," and when I ask him why he has said that, does not know that he has spoken; and I feel that there is something very evil in the room. * * * * * We are sitting round the fire one night, and a member, a woman, tells a dream that she has just had. She dreamed that she saw monks digging in a garden. They dug down till they found a coffin, and when they took off the lid she saw that in the coffin lay a beautiful young man in a dress of gold brocade. The young man railed against the glory of the world, and when he had finished, the monks closed the coffin reverently, and buried it once more. They smoothed the ground, and then went on with their gardening. * * * * * I have a young man with me, an official of the National Literary Society, and I leave him in the reading-room with Russell, while I go upstairs to see the young Scotchman. I return after some minutes to find that the young man has become a Theosophist, but a month later, after an interview with a friar, to whom he gives an incredible account of his new beliefs, he goes to Mass again. BOOK III HODOS CAMELIONIS _HODOS CAMELIONIS_ I When staying with Hyde in Roscommon, I had driven over to Lough Kay, hoping to find some local memory of the old story of Tumaus Costello, which I was turning into a story now called _Proud Costello, Macdermot's Daughter, and the Bitter Tongue_. I was rowed up the lake that I might find the island where he died; I had to find it from Hyde's account in _The Love-Songs of Connaught_, for when I asked the boatman, he told the story of Hero and Leander, putting Hero's house on one island, and Leander's on another. Presently we stopped to eat our sandwiches at the "Castle Rock," an island all castle. It was not an old castle, being but the invention of some romantic man, seventy or eighty years ago. The last man who had lived there had been Dr. Hyde's father, and he had but stayed a fortnight. The Gaelic-speaking men in the district were accustomed, instead of calling some specially useless thing a "white elephant," to call it "The Castle on the Rock." The roof was, however, still sound, and the windows unbroken. The situation in the centre of the lake, that has little wood-grown islands, and is surrounded by wood-grown hills, is romantic, and at one end, and perhaps at the other too, there is a stone platform where meditative persons might pace to and fro. I planned a mystical Order which should buy or hire the castle, and keep it as a place where its members could retire for a while for contemplation, and where we might establish mysteries like those of Eleusis and Samothrace; and for ten years to come my most impassioned thought was a vain attempt to find philosophy and to create ritual for that Order. I had an unshakeable conviction, arising how or whence I cannot tell, that invisible gates would open as they opened for Blake, as they opened for Swedenborg, as they opened for Boehme, and that this philosophy would find its manuals of devotion in all imaginative literature, and set before Irishmen for special manual an Irish literature which, though made by many minds, would seem the work of a single mind, and turn our places of beauty or legendary association into holy symbols. I did not think this philosophy would be altogether pagan, for it was plain that its symbols must be selected from all those things that had moved men most during many, mainly Christian, centuries. I thought that for a time I could rhyme of love, calling it _The Rose_, because of the Rose's double meaning; of a fisherman who had "never a crack" in his heart; of an old woman complaining of the idleness of the young, or of some cheerful fiddler, all those things that "popular poets" write of, but that I must some day, on that day when the gates began to open, become difficult or obscure. With a rhythm that still echoed Morris I prayed to the Red Rose, to Intellectual Beauty: "Come near, come near, come near--ah, leave me still A little space for the Rose-breath to fill, Lest I no more hear common things.... But seek alone to hear the strange things said By God to the bright hearts of those long dead, And learn to chant a tongue men do not know." I do not remember what I meant by "the bright hearts," but a little later I wrote of Spirits "with mirrors in their hearts." My rituals were not to be made deliberately, like a poem, but all got by that method Mathers had explained to me, and with this hope I plunged without a clue into a labyrinth of images, into that labyrinth that we are warned against in those _Oracles_ which antiquity has attributed to Zoroaster, but modern scholarship to some Alexandrian poet. "Stoop not down to the darkly splendid world wherein lieth continually a faithless depth and Hades wrapped in cloud, delighting in unintelligible images." II I found a supporter at Sligo in my elderly uncle, a man of fifty-three or fifty-four, with the habits of a much older man. He had never left the West of Ireland, except for a few days to London every year, and a single fortnight's voyage to Spain on board a trading schooner, in his boyhood. He was in politics a Unionist and Tory of the most obstinate kind, and knew nothing of Irish literature or history. He was, however, strangely beset by the romance of Ireland, as he discovered it among the people who served him, sailing upon his ships or attending to his horses, and, though narrow and obstinate of opinion, and puritanical in his judgment of life, was perhaps the most tolerant man I have ever known. He never expected anybody to agree with him, and if you did not upset his habits by cheating him over a horse, or by offending his taste, he would think as well of you as he did of other men, and that was not very well; and help you out of any scrape whatever. I was accustomed to people much better read than he, much more liberal-minded, but they had no life but the intellectual life, and if they and I differed, they could not take it lightly, and were often angry, and so for years now I had gone to Sligo, sometimes because I could not afford my Dublin lodging, but most often for freedom and peace. He would receive me with "I have learned that your friend So and So has been seen at the Gresham Hotel talking to Mr William Redmond. What will not people do for notoriety?" He considered all Irish Nationalist Members of Parliament as outside the social pale, but after dinner, when conversation grew intimate, would talk sympathetically of the Fenians in Ballina, where he spent his early manhood, or of the Fenian privateer that landed the wounded man at Sligo in the 'sixties. When Parnell was contesting an election at Sligo a little before his death, other Unionist magistrates refused or made difficulties when asked for some assistance, what I do not remember, made necessary under election law; and so my uncle gave that assistance. He walked up and down some Town Hall assembly-room or some courtroom with Parnell, but would tell me nothing of that conversation, except that Parnell spoke of Gladstone with extravagant hatred. He would not repeat words spoken by a great man in his bitterness, yet Parnell at the moment was too angry to care who listened. I knew one other man who kept as firm a silence; he had attended Parnell's last public meeting, and after it sat alone beside him, and heard him speak of the followers that had fallen away, or were showing their faint hearts; but Parnell was the chief devotion of his life. When I first began my visits, he had lived in the town itself, and close to a disreputable neighbourhood called the Burrough, till one evening, while he sat over his dinner, he heard a man and woman quarrelling under his window. "I mind the time," shouted the man, "when I slept with you and your daughter in the one bed." My uncle was horrified, and moved to a little house about a quarter of a mile into the country, where he lived with an old second-sighted servant, and a man-servant to look after the racehorse that was browsing in the neighbouring field, with a donkey to keep it company. His furniture had not been changed since he set up house for himself as a very young man, and in a room opposite his dining-room were the saddles of his youth, and though he would soon give up riding, they would be oiled and the stirrups kept clean and bright till the day of his death. Some love-affair had gone wrong when he was a very young man; he had now no interest in women; certainly never sought favour of a woman, and yet he took great care of his appearance. He did not let his beard grow, though he had, or believed that he had, for he was hypochondriacal, a sensitiveness of the skin that forced him to spend an hour in shaving, and he would take to club and dumb-bell if his waist thickened by a hair's breadth, and twenty years after, when a very old man, he had the erect shapely figure of his youth. I often wondered why he went through so much labour, for it was not pride, which had seemed histrionic in his eyes--and certainly he had no vanity; and now, looking back, I am convinced that it was from habit, mere habit, a habit formed when he was a young man, and the best rider of his district. Probably through long association with Mary Battle, the second-sighted servant, he had come to believe much in the supernatural world, and would tell how several times, arriving home with an unexpected guest, he had found the table set for three, and that he himself had dreamed of his brother's illness in Liverpool before he had other news of it. He saw me using images learned from Mathers to start reverie, and, though I held out for a long time, thinking him too old and habit-bound, he persuaded me to tell him their use, and from that on we experimented continually, and after a time I began to keep careful record. In summer he always had the same little house at Rosses Point, and it was there that he first became sensitive to the cabalistic symbols. There are some high sandhills and low cliffs, and I adopted the practice of walking by the seashore while he walked on cliff or sandhill; I, without speaking, would imagine the symbol, and he would notice what passed before his mind's eye, and in a short time he would practically never fail of the appropriate vision. In the symbols which are used certain colours are classified as "actives," while certain other colours are "passives," and I had soon discovered that if I used "actives" George Pollexfen would see nothing. I therefore gave him exercises to make him sensitive to those colours, and gradually we found ourselves well fitted for this work, and he began to take as lively an interest, as was possible to a nature given over to habit, in my plans for the Castle on the Rock. I worked with others, sworn to the scheme for the most part, and I made many curious observations. It was the symbol itself, or, at any rate, not my conscious intention that produced the effect, for if I made an error and told someone, let us say, to gaze at the wrong symbol--they were painted upon cards--the vision would be suggested by the symbol, not by my thought, or two visions would appear side by side, one from the symbol and one from my thought. When two people, between whose minds there was even a casual sympathy, worked together under the same symbolic influence, the dream or reverie would divide itself between them, each half being the complement of the other; and now and again these complementary dreams, or reveries, would arise spontaneously. I find, for instance, in an old notebook, "I saw quite suddenly a tent with a wooden badly-carved idol, painted dull red; a man looking like a Red Indian was prostrate before it. The idol was seated to the left. I asked G. what he saw. He saw a most august immense being, glowing with a ruddy opalescent colour, sitting on a throne to the left", or, to summarise from a later notebook,... I am meditating in one room and my fellow-student in another, when I see a boat full of tumult and movement on a still sea, and my friend sees a boat with motionless sails upon a tumultuous sea. There was nothing in the originating symbol to suggest a boat. We never began our work until George's old servant was in her bed; and yet, when we went upstairs to our beds, we constantly heard her crying out with nightmare, and in the morning we would find that her dream echoed our vision. One night, started by what symbol I forget, we had seen an allegorical marriage of Heaven and Earth. When Mary Battle brought in the breakfast next morning, I said, "Well, Mary, did you dream anything last night?" and she replied (I am quoting from an old notebook) "indeed she had," and that it was "a dream she would not have liked to have had twice in one night." She had dreamed that her bishop, the Catholic bishop of Sligo, had gone away "without telling anybody," and had married "a very high-up lady," "and she not too young, either." She had thought in her dream, "Now all the clergy will get married, and it will be no use going to confession." There were "layers upon layers of flowers, many roses, all round the church." Another time, when George Pollexfen had seen in answer to some evocation of mine a man with his head cut in two, she woke to find that she "must have cut her face with a pin, as it was all over blood." When three or four saw together, the dream or vision would divide itself into three or four parts, each seeming complete in itself, and all fitting together, so that each part was an adaptation of a single meaning to a particular personality. A visionary being would give, let us say, a lighted torch to one, an unlighted candle to another, an unripe fruit to a third, and to the fourth a ripe fruit. At times coherent stories were built up, as if a company of actors were to improvise, and play, not only without previous consultation, but without foreseeing at any moment what would be said or done the moment after. Who made the story? Was it the mind of one of the visionaries? Perhaps, for I have endless proof that, where two worked together, the symbolic influence commonly took upon itself, though no word was spoken, the quality of the mind that had first fixed a symbol in the mind's eye. But, if so, what part of the mind? One friend, in whom the symbolic impulse produced actual trance, described an elaborate and very strange story while the trance was upon him, but upon waking told a story that after a certain point was quite different. "They gave me a cup of wine, and after that I remembered nothing." While speaking out of trance he had said nothing of the cup of wine, which must have been offered to a portion of his mind quite early in the dream. Then, too, from whence come the images of the dream? Not always, I was soon persuaded, from the memory, perhaps never in trance or sleep. One man, who certainly thought that Eve's apple was the sort that you got from the greengrocer, and as certainly never doubted its story's literal truth, said, when I used some symbol to send him to Eden, that he saw a walled garden on the top of a high mountain, and in the middle of it a tree with great birds in the branches, and fruit out of which, if you held a fruit to your ear, came the sound of fighting. I had not at the time read Dante's _Purgatorio_, and it caused me some trouble to verify the mountain garden, and, from some passage in the Zohar, the great birds among the boughs; while a young girl, on being sent to the same garden, heard "the music of heaven" from a tree, and on listening with her ear against the trunk, found that it was made by the "continual clashing of swords." Whence came that fine thought of music-making swords, that image of the garden, and many like images and thoughts? I had as yet no clear answer, but knew myself face to face with the Anima Mundi described by Platonic philosophers, and more especially in modern times by Henry More, which has a memory independent of individual memories, though they constantly enrich it with their images and their thoughts. III At Sligo we walked twice every day, once after lunch and once after dinner, to the same gate on the road to Knocknarea; and at Rosses Point, to the same rock upon the shore; and as we walked we exchanged those thoughts that never rise before me now without bringing some sight of mountain or of shore. Considering that Mary Battle received our thoughts in sleep, though coarsened or turned to caricature, do not the thoughts of the scholar or the hermit, though they speak no word, or something of their shape and impulse, pass into the general mind? Does not the emotion of some woman of fashion, caught in the subtle torture of self-analysing passion, pass down, although she speak no word, to Joan with her Pot, Jill with her Pail and, it may be, with one knows not what nightmare melancholy to Tom the Fool? Seeing that a vision could divide itself in divers complementary portions, might not the thought of philosopher or poet or mathematician depend at every moment of its progress upon some complementary thought in minds perhaps at a great distance? Is there nation-wide multiform reverie, every mind passing through a stream of suggestion, and all streams acting and reacting upon one another, no matter how distant the minds, how dumb the lips? A man walked, as it were, casting a shadow, and yet one could never say which was man and which was shadow, or how many the shadows that he cast. Was not a nation, as distinguished from a crowd of chance comers, bound together by these parallel streams or shadows; that Unity of Image, which I sought in national literature, being but an originating symbol? From the moment when these speculations grew vivid, I had created for myself an intellectual solitude, most arguments that could influence action had lost something of their meaning. How could I judge any scheme of education, or of social reform, when I could not measure what the different classes and occupations contributed to that invisible commerce of reverie and of sleep; and what is luxury and what necessity when a fragment of gold braid, or a flower in the wallpaper may be an originating impulse to revolution or to philosophy? I began to feel myself not only solitary but helpless. IV I had not taken up these subjects wilfully, nor through love of strangeness, nor love of excitement, nor because I found myself in some experimental circle, but because unaccountable things had happened even in my childhood, and because of an ungovernable craving. When supernatural events begin, a man first doubts his own testimony, but when they repeat themselves again and again, he doubts all human testimony. At least he knows his own bias, and may perhaps allow for it, but how trust historian and psychologist that have for two hundred years ignored in writing of the history of the world, or of the human mind, so momentous a part of human experience? What else had they ignored and distorted? When Mesmerists first travelled about as public entertainers, a favourite trick was to tell a mesmerised man that some letter of the alphabet had ceased to exist, and after that to make him write his name upon the blackboard. Brown, or Jones, or Robinson would become upon the instant, and without any surprise or hesitation, Rown, or Ones, or Obinson. Was modern civilisation a conspiracy of the sub-conscious? Did we turn away from certain thoughts and things because the Middle Ages lived in terror of the dark, or had some seminal illusion been imposed upon us by beings greater than ourselves for an unknown purpose? Even when no facts of experience were denied, might not what had seemed logical proof be but a mechanism of change, an automatic impulse? Once in London, at a dinner party, where all the guests were intimate friends, I had written upon a piece of paper, "In five minutes York Powell will talk of a burning house," thrust the paper under my neighbour's plate, and imagined my fire symbol, and waited in silence. Powell shifted conversation from topic to topic and within the five minutes was describing a fire he had seen as a young man. When Locke's French translator Coste asked him how, if there were no "innate ideas," he could explain the skill shown by a bird in making its nest, Locke replied, "I did not write to explain the actions of dumb creatures," and his translator thought the answer "very good, seeing that he had named his book _A Philosophical Essay upon Human Understanding_." Henry More, upon the other hand, considered that the bird's instinct proved the existence of the Anima Mundi, with its ideas and memories. Did modern enlightenment think with Coste that Locke had the better logic, because it was not free to think otherwise? V I ceased to read modern books that were not books of belief older than any European Church, and founded that interested me, I tried to trace it back to its earliest use, believing that there must be a tradition of belief older than any European Church, and founded upon the experience of the world before the modern bias. It was this search for a tradition that urged George Pollexfen and myself to study the visions and thoughts of the country people, and some country conversation repeated by one or the other often gave us a day's discussion. These visions, we soon discovered, were very like those we called up by symbol. Mary Battle, looking out of the window at Rosses Point, saw coming from Knocknarea, where Queen Maeve, according to local folklore, is buried under a great heap of stones, "the finest woman you ever saw travelling right across from the mountains and straight to here."--I quote a record written at the time. "She looked very strong, but not wicked" (that is to say, not cruel). "I have seen the Irish Giant" (some big man shown at a fair). "And though he was a fine man he was nothing to her, for he was round and could not have stepped out so soldierly ... she had no stomach on her but was slight and broad in the shoulders, and was handsomer than any one you ever saw; she looked about thirty." And when I asked if she had seen others like her, she said, "Some of them have their hair down, but they look quite different, more like the sleepy-looking ladies one sees in the papers. Those with their hair up are like this one. The others have long white dresses, but those with their hair up have short dresses, so that you can see their legs right up to the calf." And when I questioned her, I found that they wore what might well be some kind of buskin. "They are fine and dashing-looking, like the men one sees riding their horses in twos and threes on the slopes of the mountains with their swords swinging. There is no such race living now, none so finely proportioned ... When I think of her and the ladies now they are like little children running about not knowing how to put their clothes on right ... why, I would not call them women at all." Not at this time, but some three or four years later, when the visions came without any conscious use of symbol for a short time, and with much greater vividness, I saw two or three forms of this incredible beauty, one especially that must always haunt my memory. Then, too, the Master Pilot told us of meeting at night close to the Pilot House a procession of women in what seemed the costume of another age. Were they really people of the past, revisiting, perhaps, the places where they lived, or must I explain them, as I explained that vision of Eden as a mountain garden, by some memory of the race, as distinct from individual memory? Certainly these Spirits, as the country people called them, seemed full of personality; were they not capricious, generous, spiteful, anxious, angry, and yet did that prove them more than images and symbols? When I used a combined earth and fire and lunar symbol, my seer, a girl of twenty-five, saw an obvious Diana and her dogs, about a fire in a cavern. Presently, judging from her closed eyes, and from the tone of her voice, that she was in trance, not in reverie, I wished to lighten the trance a little, and made through carelessness or hasty thinking a symbol of dismissal; and at once she started and cried out, "She says you are driving her away too quickly. You have made her angry." Then, too, if my visions had a subjective element, so had Mary Battle's, for her fairies had but one tune, _The Distant Waterfall_, and she never heard anything described in a sermon at the Cathedral that she did not "see it after," and spoke of seeing in this way the gates of Purgatory. Furthermore, if my images could affect her dreams, the folk-images could affect mine in turn, for one night I saw between sleeping and waking a strange long bodied pair of dogs, one black and one white, that I found presently in some country tale. How, too, could one separate the dogs of the country tale from those my uncle heard bay in his pillow? In order to keep myself from nightmare, I had formed the habit of imagining four watch-dogs, one at each corner of my room, and, though I had not told him or anybody, he said, "Here is a very curious thing; most nights now, when I lay my head upon the pillow, I hear a sound of dogs baying--the sound seems to come up out of the pillow." A friend of Strindberg's, in _delirium tremens_, was haunted by mice, and a friend in the next room heard the squealing of the mice. VI To that multiplicity of interest and opinion, of arts and sciences, which had driven me to conceive a Unity of Culture defined and evoked by Unity of Image, I had but added a multiplicity of images, and I was the more troubled because, the first excitement over, I had done nothing to rouse George Pollexfen from the gloom and hypochondria always thickening about him. I asked no help of books, for I believed that the truth I sought would come to me like the subject of a poem, from some moment of passionate experience, and that if I filled my exposition with other men's thought, other men's investigation, I would sink into all that multiplicity of interest and opinion. That passionate experience could never come--of that I was certain--until I had found the right image or right images. From what but the image of Apollo, fixed always in memory and passion, did his priesthood get that occasional power, a classical historian has described, of lifting great stones and snapping great branches; and did not Gemma Galgani, like many others that had gone before, in 1889 cause deep wounds to appear in her body by contemplating her crucifix? In the essay that Wilde read to me one Christmas Day, occurred these words--"What does not the world owe to the imitation of Christ, what to the imitation of Caesar?" and I had seen Macgregor Mathers paint little pictures combining the forms of men, animals, and birds, according to a rule which provided a form for every possible mental condition, and I had heard him describing, upon what authority I do not remember, how citizens of ancient Egypt assumed, when in contemplation, the images of their gods. But now image called up image in an endless procession, and I could not always choose among them with any confidence; and when I did choose, the image lost its intensity, or changed into some other image. I had but exchanged the Temptation of Flaubert's _Bouvard et Pecuchet_ for that of his _St. Anthony_, and I was lost in that region a cabalistic manuscript, shown me by Macgregor Mathers, had warned me of; astray upon the Path of the Cameleon, upon _Hodos Camelionis_. VII Now that I am a settled man and have many birds--the canaries have just hatched out four nestlings--I have before me the problem that Locke waved aside. As I gave them an artificial nest, a hollow vessel like a saucer, they had no need of that skill the wild bird shows, each species having its own preference among the lichen, or moss; but they could sort out wool and hair and a certain soft white down that I found under a big tree. They would twist a stem of grass till it was limber, and would wind it all about the centre of the nest, and when the four grey eggs were laid, the mother bird knew how to turn them over from time to time, that they might be warmed evenly; and how long she must leave them uncovered, that the white might not be dried up, and when to return that the growing bird might not take cold. Then the young birds, even when they had all their feathers, were very still as compared with the older birds, as though any habit of movement would disturb the nest or make them tumble out. One of them would now and again pass on the food that he had received from his mother's beak to some other nestling. The father had often pecked the mother bird before the eggs were laid, but now, until the last nestling was decently feathered, he took his share in the feeding, and was very peaceable, and it was only when the young could be left to feed themselves that he grew jealous and had to be put into another cage. When I watch my child, who is not yet three years old, I can see so many signs of knowledge from beyond her own mind; why else should she be so excited when a little boy passes outside the window, and take so little interest in a girl; why should she put a cloak about her, and look over her shoulder to see it trailing upon the stairs, as she will some day trail a dress; and why, above all, as she lay against her mother's side, and felt the unborn child moving within, did she murmur, "Baby, baby?" When a man writes any work of genius, or invents some creative action, is it not because some knowledge or power has come into his mind from beyond his mind? It is called up by an image, as I think; all my birds' adventures started when I hung a little saucer at one side of the cage, and at the other a bundle of hair and grass; but our images must be given to us, we cannot choose them deliberately. VIII I know now that revelation is from the self, but from that age-long memoried self, that shapes the elaborate shell of the mollusc and the child in the womb, that teaches the birds to make their nest; and that genius is a crisis that joins that buried self for certain moments to our trivial daily mind. There are, indeed, personifying spirits that we had best call but Gates and Gate-keepers, because through their dramatic power they bring our souls to crisis, to Mask and Image, caring not a straw whether we be Juliet going to her wedding, or Cleopatra to her death; for in their eyes nothing has weight but passion. We have dreamed a foolish dream these many centuries in thinking that they value a life of contemplation, for they scorn that more than any possible life, unless it be but a name for the worst crisis of all. They have but one purpose, to bring their chosen man to the greatest obstacle he may confront without despair. They contrived Dante's banishment, and snatched away his Beatrice, and thrust Villon into the arms of harlots, and sent him to gather cronies at the foot of the gallows, that Dante and Villon might through passion become conjoint to their buried selves, turn all to Mask and Image, and so be phantoms in their own eyes. In great lesser writers like Landor and like Keats we are shown that Image and that Mask as something set apart; Andromeda and her Perseus--though not the sea-dragon--but in a few in whom we recognise supreme masters of tragedy, the whole contest is brought into the circle of their beauty. Such masters, Villon and Dante, let us say, would not, when they speak through their art, change their luck; yet they are mirrored in all the suffering of desire. The two halves of their nature are so completely joined that they seem to labour for their objects, and yet to desire whatever happens, being at the same instant predestinate and free, creation's very self. We gaze at such men in awe, because we gaze not at a work of art, but at the re-creation of the man through that art, the birth of a new species of man, and, it may even seem that the hairs of our heads stand up, because that birth, that re-creation, is from terror. Had not Dante and Villon understood that their fate wrecked what life could not rebuild, had they lacked their Vision of Evil, had they cherished any species of optimism, they could but have found a false beauty, or some momentary instinctive beauty, and suffered no change at all, or but changed as do the wild creatures, or from devil well to devil sick, and so round the clock. They and their sort alone earn contemplation, for it is only when the intellect has wrought the whole of life to drama, to crisis, that we may live for contemplation, and yet keep our intensity. And these things are true also of nations, but the Gate-keepers who drive the nation to war or anarchy that it may find its Image are different from those who drive individual men, though I think at times they work together. And as I look backward upon my own writing, I take pleasure alone in those verses where it seems to me I have found something hard, cold, some articulation of the Image, which is the opposite of all that I am in my daily life, and all that my country is; yet man or nation can no more make Mask or Image than the seed can be made by the soil into which it is cast. Ille. "What portion in the world can the artist have, Who has awakened from the common dream, But dissipation and despair? Hic. And yet No one denies to Keats, love of the world. Remember his deliberate happiness. Ille. His art is happy, but who knows his mind? I see a schoolboy, when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window. For certainly he sank into his grave His senses and his heart unsatisfied, And made, being poor, ailing, and ignorant.... Shut out from all the luxury of the world, Luxuriant song." BOOK IV THE TRAGIC GENERATION _THE TRAGIC GENERATION_ I Two or three years after our return to Bedford Park _The Doll's House_ had been played at the Royalty Theatre in Dean Street, the first Ibsen play to be played in England, and somebody had given me a seat for the gallery. In the middle of the first act, while the heroine was asking for macaroons, a middle-aged washerwoman who sat in front of me, stood up and said to the little boy at her side, "Tommy, if you promise to go home straight, we will go now;" and at the end of the play, as I wandered through the entrance hall, I heard an elderly critic murmur, "A series of conversations terminated by an accident." I was divided in mind, I hated the play; what was it but Carolus Durand, Bastien-Lepage, Huxley and Tyndall, all over again; I resented being invited to admire dialogue so close to modern educated speech that music and style were impossible. "Art is art because it is not nature," I kept repeating to myself, but how could I take the same side with critic and washerwoman? As time passed Ibsen became in my eyes the chosen author of very clever young journalists, who, condemned to their treadmill of abstraction, hated music and style; and yet neither I nor my generation could escape him because, though we and he had not the same friends, we had the same enemies. I bought his collected works in Mr. Archer's translation out of my thirty shillings a week and carried them to and fro upon my journeys to Ireland and Sligo, and Florence Farr, who had but one great gift, the most perfect poetical elocution, became prominent as an Ibsen actress and had almost a success in _Rosmersholm_, where there is symbolism and a stale odour of spoilt poetry. She and I and half our friends found ourselves involved in a quarrel with the supporters of old fashioned melodrama, and conventional romance, and in the support of the new dramatists who wrote in what the Daily Press chose to consider the manner of Ibsen. In 1894 she became manageress of the Avenue Theatre with a play of Dr. Todhunter's, called _The Comedy of Sighs_, and Mr Bernard Shaw's _Arms and the Man_. She asked me to write a one act play for her niece, Miss Dorothy Paget, a girl of eight or nine, to make her first stage appearance in; and I, with my Irish Theatre in mind, wrote _The Land of Heart's Desire_, in some discomfort when the child was theme, as I knew nothing of children, but with an abundant mind when Mary Bruin was for I knew an Irish woman whose unrest troubled me and lay beyond my comprehension. When she opened her theatre she had to meet a hostile audience, almost as violent as that Synge met in January, 1907, and certainly more brutal, for the Abbey audience had no hatred for the players, and I think but little for Synge himself. Nor had she the certainty of final victory to give her courage, for _The Comedy of Sighs_ was a rambling story told with a little paradoxical wit. She had brought the trouble upon herself perhaps, for always in revolt against her own poetical gift, which now seemed obsolete, and against her own Demeter-like face in the mirror, she had tried when interviewed by the Press to shock and startle--to seem to desire enemies; and yet, unsure of her own judgment being out of her own trade, had feared to begin with Shaw's athletic wit, and now outraged convention saw its chance. For two hours and a half, pit and gallery drowned the voices of the players with boos and jeers that were meant to be bitter to the author who sat visible to all in his box surrounded by his family, and to the actress struggling bravely through her weary part; and then pit and gallery went home to spread their lying story that the actress had a fit of hysterics in her dressing-room. Todhunter had sat on to the end, and there were, I think, four acts of it, listening to the howling of his enemies, while his friends slipped out one by one, till one saw everywhere their empty seats, but nothing could arouse the fighting instincts of that melancholy man. Next day I tried to get him to publish his book of words with satirical designs and illustrations, by Beardsley, who was just rising into fame, and an introduction attacking the public, but though petulant and irascible he was incapable of any emotion that could give life to a cause. He shared the superstition still current in the theatre, that the public wants sincere drama, but is kept from it by some conspiracy of managers or newspapers, and could not get out of his head that the actors were to blame. Shaw, whose turn came next, had foreseen all months before, and had planned an opening that would confound his enemies. For the first few minutes _Arms and the Man_ is crude melodrama and then just when the audience are thinking how crude it is, it turns into excellent farce. At the dress rehearsal, a dramatist who had his own quarrel with the public, was taken in the noose; for at the first laugh he stood up, turned his back on the stage, scowled at the audience, and even when everybody else knew what turn the play had taken, continued to scowl, and order those nearest to be silent. On the first night the whole pit and gallery, except certain members of the Fabian Society, started to laugh at the author and then, discovering that they themselves were being laughed at, sat there not converted--their hatred was too bitter for that--but dumbfounded, while the rest of the house cheered and laughed. In the silence that greeted the author after the cry for a speech one man did indeed get his courage and boo loudly. "I assure the gentleman in the gallery," was Shaw's answer, "that he and I are of exactly the same opinion, but what can we do against a whole house who are of the contrary opinion?" And from that moment Bernard Shaw became the most formidable man in modern letters, and even the most drunken of medical students knew it. My own play, which had been played with _The Comedy of Sighs_, had roused no passions, but had pleased a sufficient minority for Florence Farr to keep it upon the stage with _Arms and the Man_, and I was in the theatre almost every night for some weeks. "Oh, yes, the people seem to like _Arms and the Man_," said one of Mr Shaw's players to me, "but we have just found out that we are all wrong. Mr Shaw did really mean it quite seriously, for he has written a letter to say so, and we must not play for laughs any more." Another night I found the manager, triumphant and excited, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh had been there, and the Duke of Edinburgh had spoken his dislike out loud so that the whole stalls could hear, but the Prince of Wales had been "very pleasant" and "got the Duke of Edinburgh away as soon as possible." "They asked for me," he went on, "and the Duke of Edinburgh kept on repeating, 'The man is mad,' meaning Mr Shaw, and the Prince of Wales asked who Mr Shaw was, and what he meant by it." I myself was almost as bewildered for though I came mainly to see how my own play went, and for the first fortnight to vex my most patient actors with new lines, I listened with excitement to see how the audience would like certain passages of _Arms and the Man_. I hated it; it seemed to me inorganic, logical straightness and not the crooked road of life and I stood aghast before its energy as to-day before that of the Stone Drill by Mr. Epstein or of some design by Mr Wyndham Lewis. He was right to claim Samuel Butler for his master, for Butler was the first Englishman to make the discovery, that it is possible to write with great effect without music, without style, either good or bad, to eliminate from the mind all emotional implication and to prefer plain water to every vintage, so much metropolitan lead and solder to any tendril of the vine. Presently I had a nightmare that I was haunted by a sewing machine, that clicked and shone, but the incredible thing was that the machine smiled, smiled perpetually. Yet I delighted in Shaw the formidable man. He could hit my enemies and the enemies of all I loved, as I could never hit, as no living author that was dear to me could ever hit. Florence Farr's way home was mine also for a part of the way, and it was often of this that we talked, and sometimes, though not always, she would share my hesitations, and for years to come I was to wonder whenever Shaw became my topic, whether the cock crowed for my blame or for my praise. II Shaw and Wilde, had no catastrophe come, would have long divided the stage between them, though they were most unlike--for Wilde believed himself to value nothing but words in their emotional associations, and he had turned his style to a parade as though it were his show, and he Lord Mayor. I was at Sligo again and I saw the announcement of his action against Lord Queensberry, when starting from my uncle's house to walk to Knocknarea to dine with Cochrane of the Glen, as he was called, to distinguish him from others of that name, an able old man. He had a relation, a poor mad girl, who shared our meals, and at whom I shuddered. She would take a flower from the vase in front of her and push it along the tablecloth towards any male guest who sat near. The old man himself had strange opinions, born not from any mental eccentricity, but from the solitude of his life; and a freedom from all prejudice that was not of his own discovery. "The world is getting more manly," he would say, "it has begun to drink port again," or "Ireland is going to become prosperous. Divorced couples now choose Ireland for a retreat, just as before Scotland became prosperous they began to go there. There are a divorced wife and her lover living at the other side of the mountain." I remember that I spoke that night of Wilde's kindness to myself, said I did not believe him guilty, quoted the psychologist Bain, who has attributed to every sensualist "a voluminous tenderness," and described Wilde's hard brilliance, his dominating self-possession. I considered him essentially a man of action, that he was a writer by perversity and accident, and would have been more important as soldier or politician; and I was certain that, guilty or not guilty, he would prove himself a man. I was probably excited, and did most of the talking, for if Cochrane had talked, I would have remembered an amusing sentence or two; but he was certainly sympathetic. A couple of days later I received a letter from Lionel Johnson, denouncing Wilde with great bitterness. He had "a cold scientific intellect;" he got a "sense of triumph and power; at every dinner-table he dominated, from the knowledge that he was guilty of that sin which, more than any other possible to man, would turn all those people against him if they but knew." He wrote in the mood of his poem, _To the Destroyer of a Soul_, addressed to Wilde, as I have always believed, though I know nothing of the circumstance that made him write it. I might have known that Wilde's phantasy had taken some tragic turn, and that he was meditating upon possible disaster, but one took all his words for play--had he not called insincerity "a mere multiplication of the personality" or some such words? I had met a man who had found him in a barber's shop in Venice, and heard him explain, "I am having my hair curled that I may resemble Nero;" and when, as editor of an Irish anthology, I had asked leave to quote "Tread gently, she is near under the snow," he had written that I might do so if I pleased, but his most characteristic poem was that sonnet with the lines "Lo! with a little rod I did but touch the honey's romance-- And must I lose a soul's inheritance." When in London for my play I had asked news from an actor who had seen him constantly. "He is in deep melancholy," was the answer. "He says that he tries to sleep away as much of life as possible, only leaving his bed at two or three in the afternoon, and spending the rest of the day at the Café Royal. He has written what he calls the best short story in the world, and will have it that he repeats to himself on getting out of bed and before every meal. 'Christ came from a white plain to a purple city, and as he passed through the first street, he heard voices overhead, and saw a young man lying drunk upon a window sill, "Why do you waste your soul in drunkenness?" He said. "Lord, I was a leper and You healed me, what else can I do?" A little further through the town he saw a young man following a harlot, and said, "Why do you dissolve your soul in debauchery?" and the young man answered, "Lord, I was blind, and You healed me, what else can I do?" At last in the middle of the city He saw an old man crouching, weeping upon the ground, and when He asked why he wept, the old man answered, "Lord, I was dead and You raised me into life, what else can I do but weep?"'" Wilde published that story a little later, but spoiled it with the verbal decoration of his epoch, and I have to repeat it to myself as I first heard it, before I can see its terrible beauty. I no more doubt its sincerity than I doubt that his parade of gloom, all that late rising, and sleeping away his life, that elaborate playing with tragedy, was an attempt to escape from an emotion by its exaggeration. He had three successful plays running at once; he had been almost poor, and now, his head full of Flaubert, found himself with ten thousand a year:--"Lord, I was dead, and You raised me into life, what else can I do but weep." A comedian, he was in the hands of those dramatists who understand nothing but tragedy. A few days after the first production of my _Land of Heart's Desire_, I had my last conversation with him. He had come into the theatre as the curtain fell upon my play, and I knew that it was to ask my pardon that he overwhelmed me with compliments; and yet I wonder if he would have chosen those precise compliments, or spoken so extravagantly, but for the turn his thoughts had taken: "Your story in _The National Observer_, _The Crucifixion of the Outcast_, is sublime, wonderful, wonderful." Some business or other brought me to London once more and I asked various Irish writers for letters of sympathy, and I was refused by none but Edward Dowden, who gave me what I considered an irrelevant excuse--his dislike for everything that Wilde had written. I heard that Wilde was at his mother's house in Oakley Street, and I called there, but the Irish servant told me, her face drawn and tragic as in the presence of death, that he was not there, but that I could see his brother. Willie Wilde received me with, "Who are you; what do you want?" but became all friendship when I told him that I had brought letters of sympathy. He took the bundle of letters in his hand, but said, "Do these letters urge him to run away? Every friend he has is urging him to, but we have made up our minds that he must stay and take his chance." "No," I said, "I certainly do not think that he should run away, nor do those letters advise it." "Letters from Ireland," he said. "Thank you, thank you. He will be glad to get those letters, but I would keep them from him if they advised him to run away." Then he threw himself back in his chair and began to talk with incoherent emotion, and in phrases that echoed now and again his brother's style at its worst; there were tear in his eyes, and he was, I think, slightly intoxicated. "He could escape, oh, yes, he could escape--there is a yacht in the Thames, and five thousand pounds to pay his bail--well, not exactly in the Thames, but there is a yacht--oh, yes, he could escape, even if I had to inflate a balloon in the back yard with my own hand, but he has resolved to stay, to face it out, to stand the music like Christ. You must have heard--it is not necessary to go into detail--but he and I, we have not been friends; but he came to me like a wounded stag, and I took him in." "After his release"--after the failure of his action against Lord Queensberry, I think--"Stewart Headlam engaged a room at an hotel and brought him there under another name, but the manager came up and said, 'Are you Mr. Wilde?' You know what my brother is, you know how he would answer that. He said, 'Yes, I am Oscar Wilde,' and the manager said he must not stay. The same thing happened in hotel after hotel, and at last he made up his mind to come here. It is his vanity that has brought all this disgrace upon him; they swung incense before him." He dwelt upon the rhythm of the words as his brother would have done--"They swung it before his heart." His first emotion at the thought of the letters over, he became more simple, and explained that his brother considered that his crime was not the vice itself, but that he should have brought such misery upon his wife and children, and that he was bound to accept any chance, however slight, that might reestablish his position. "If he is acquitted," he said, "he will stay out of England for a few years, and can then gather his friends about him once more--even if he is condemned he will purge his offence--but if he runs away he will lose every friend that he has." I heard later, from whom I forget now, that Lady Wilde had said, "If you stay, even if you go to prison, you will always be my son, it will make no difference to my affection, but if you go, I will never speak to you again." While I was there, some woman who had just seen him--Willie Wilde's wife, I think--came in, and threw herself in a chair, and said in an exhausted voice, "It is all right now, he has made up his mind to go to prison if necessary." Before his release, two years later, his brother and mother were dead, and a little later his wife, struck by paralysis during his imprisonment, I think, was dead, too; and he himself, his constitution ruined by prison life, followed quickly; but I have never doubted, even for an instant, that he made the right decision, and that he owes to that decision half of his renown. Cultivated London, that before the action against Lord Queensberry had mocked his pose and affected style, and refused to acknowledge his wit, was now full of his advocates, though I did not meet a single man who considered him innocent. One old enemy of his overtook me in the street and began to praise his audacity, his self-possession. "He has made," he said, "of infamy a new Thermopylae." I had written in reply to Lionel Johnson's letter that I regretted Wilde's downfall but not that of his imitators, but Johnson had changed with the rest. "Why do you not regret the fall of Wilde's imitators"--I had but tried to share what I thought his opinion--"They were worthless, but should have been left to criticism." Wilde himself was a martyr in his eyes, and when I said that tragedy might give his art a greater depth, he would not even grant a martyr's enemies that poor merit, and thought Wilde would produce, when it was all over, some comedy exactly like the others, writing from an art where events could leave no trace. Everywhere one met writers and artists who praised his wit and eloquence in the witness box, or repeated some private saying. Willie Redmond told of finding him, to his astonishment, at the conversazione of some theatrical society, standing amid an infuriated crowd, mocking with more than all his old satirical wit the actors and their country. He had said to a well-known painter during one or other of the trials, "My poor brother writes to me that he is defending me all over London; my poor, dear brother, he could compromise a steam engine." His brother, too, had suffered a change, for, if rumour did not wrong him, "the wounded stag" had not been at all graciously received. "Thank God my vices were decent," had been his comment, and refusing to sit at the same table, he had dined at some neighbouring hotel at his brother's expense. His successful brother who had scorned him for a drunken ne'er-do-well was now at his mercy, and besides, he probably shared, until tragedy awoke another self, the rage and contempt that filled the crowds in the street, and all men and women who had an over-abundant normal sexual instinct. "Wilde will never lift his head again," said the art critic, Gleeson White, "for he has against him all men of infamous life." When the verdict was announced the harlots in the street outside danced upon the pavement. III Somewhere about 1450, though later in some parts of Europe by a hundred years or so, and in some earlier, men attained to personality in great numbers, "Unity of Being," and became like a "perfectly proportioned human body," and as men so fashioned held places of power, their nations had it too, prince and ploughman sharing that thought and feeling. What afterwards showed for rifts and cracks were there already, but imperious impulse held all together. Then the scattering came, the seeding of the poppy, bursting of pea-pod, and for a time personality seemed but the stronger for it. Shakespeare's people make all things serve their passion, and that passion is for the moment the whole energy of their being--birds, beasts, men, women, landscape, society, are but symbols and metaphors, nothing is studied in itself, the mind is a dark well, no surface, depth only. The men that Titian painted, the men that Jongsen painted, even the men of Van Dyck, seemed at moments like great hawks at rest. In the Dublin National Gallery there hung, perhaps there still hangs, upon the same wall, a portrait of some Venetian gentleman by Strozzi, and Mr. Sargent's painting of President Wilson. Whatever thought broods in the dark eyes of that Venetian gentleman, has drawn its life from his whole body; it feeds upon it as the flame feeds upon the candle--and should that thought be changed, his pose would change, his very cloak would rustle for his whole body thinks. President Wilson lives only in the eyes, which are steady and intent; the flesh about the mouth is dead, and the hands are dead, and the clothes suggest no movement of his body, nor any movement but that of the valet, who has brushed and folded in mechanical routine. There, all was an energy flowing outward from the nature itself; here, all is the anxious study and slight deflection of external force; there man's mind and body were predominantly subjective; here all is objective, using those words not as philosophy uses them, but as we use them in conversation. The bright part of the moon's disk, to adopt the symbolism of a certain poem, is subjective mind, and the dark, objective mind, and we have eight and twenty Phases for our classification of mankind, and of the movement of his thought. At the first Phase--the night where there is no moonlight--all is objective, while when, upon the fifteenth night, the moon comes to the full, there is only subjective mind. The mid-renaissance could but approximate to the full moon "For there is no human life at the full or the dark," but we may attribute to the next three nights of the moon the men of Shakespeare, of Titian, of Strozzi, and of Van Dyck, and watch them grow more reasonable, more orderly, less turbulent, as the nights pass; and it is well to find before the fourth--the nineteenth moon counting from the start--a sudden change, as when a cloud becomes rain, or water freezes, for the great transitions are sudden; popular, typical men have grown more ugly and more argumentative; the face that Van Dyck called a fatal face has faded before Cromwell's warty opinionated head. Henceforth no mind made like "a perfectly proportioned human body" shall sway the public, for great men must live in a portion of themselves, become professional and abstract; but seeing that the moon's third quarter is scarce passed, that abstraction has attained but not passed its climax, that a half, as I affirm it, of the twenty-second night still lingers, they may subdue and conquer; cherish, even, some Utopian dream; spread abstraction ever further till thought is but a film, and there is no dark depth any more, surface only. But men who belong by nature to the nights near to the full are still born, a tragic minority, and how shall they do their work when too ambitious for a private station, except as Wilde of the nineteenth Phase, as my symbolism has it, did his work. He understood his weakness, true personality was impossible, for that is born in solitude, and at his moon one is not solitary; he must project himself before the eyes of others, and, having great ambition, before some great crowd of eyes; but there is no longer any great crowd that cares for his true thought. He must humour and cajole and pose, take worn-out stage situations, for he knows that he may be as romantic as he please, so long as he does not believe in his romance, and all that he may get their ears for a few strokes of contemptuous wit in which he does believe. We Rhymers did not humour and cajole; but it was not wholly from demerit, it was in part because of different merit, that he refused our exile. Shaw, as I understand him, has no true quarrel with his time, its moon and his almost exactly coincide. He is quite content to exchange Narcissus and his Pool for the signal box at a railway junction, where goods and travellers pass perpetually upon their logical glittering road. Wilde was a monarchist, though content that monarchy should turn demagogue for its own safety, and he held a theatre by the means whereby he held a London dinner table. "He who can dominate a London dinner table," he had boasted, "can dominate the world." While Shaw has but carried his street-corner socialist eloquence on to the stage, and in him one discovers, in his writing and his public speech, as once--before their outline had been softened by prosperity or the passage of the years--in his clothes and in his stiff joints, the civilization that Sargent's picture has explored. Neither his crowd nor he have yet made that discovery that brought President Wilson so near his death, that the moon draws to its fourth quarter. But what happens to the individual man whose moon has come to that fourth quarter, and what to the civilization...? I can but remember pipe music to-night, though I can half hear beyond it in the memory a weightier music, but this much at any rate is certain--the dream of my early manhood, that a modern nation can return to Unity of Culture, is false; though it may be we can achieve it for some small circle of men and women, and there leave it till the moon bring round its century. "The cat went here and there And the moon spun round like a top, And the nearest kin of the moon The creeping cat looked up. * * * * Minnaloushe creeps through the grass From moonlit place to place; The sacred moon overhead Has taken a new phase. Does Minnaloushe know that her pupils Will pass from change to change, And that from round to crescent From crescent to round they range? Minnaloushe creeps through the grass Alone, important and wise, And lifts to the changing moon Her changing eyes." IV Henley's troubles and infirmities were growing upon him. He, too, an ambitious, formidable man, who showed alike in his practice and in his theory, in his lack of sympathy for Rossetti and Landor, for instance, that he never understood how small a fragment of our own nature can be brought to perfect expression, nor that even but with great toil, in a much divided civilization; though, doubtless, if our own Phase be right, a fragment may be an image of the whole, the moon's still scarce crumbled image, as it were, in a glass of wine. He would be, and have all poets be, a true epitome of the whole mass, a Herrick and Dr. Johnson in the same body and because this--not so difficult before the Mermaid closed its door--is no longer possible, his work lacks music, is abstract, as even an actor's movement can be when the thought of doing is plainer to his mind than the doing itself: the straight line from cup to lip, let us say, more plain than the hand's own sensation weighed down by that heavy spillable cup. I think he was content, when he had called before our eyes--before the too understanding eyes of his chosen crowd--the violent burly man that he had dreamed, content with the mere suggestion, and so did not work long enough at his verses. He disliked Victor Hugo as much as he did Rossetti, and yet Rossetti's translation from _Les Burgraves_, because of its mere technical mastery, out-sings Henley in his own song-- "My mother is dead; God's patience wears; It seems my Chaplain will not have done. Love on: who cares? Who cares? Love on." I can read his poetry with emotion, but I read it for some glimpse of what he might have been as Border balladist, or Cavalier, or of what he actually was, not as poet but as man. He had what Wilde lacked, even in his ruin, passion, was maybe as passionate as some great man of action, as Parnell, let us say. When he and Stevenson quarrelled, he cried over it with some woman or other, and his notorious article was but for vengeance upon Mrs. Stevenson, who had arranged for the public eye, what he considered an imaginary figure, with no resemblance to the gay companion who had founded his life, to that life's injury, upon "The august, the immortal musketeers." She had caused the quarrel, as he believed, and now she had robbed him over again, by blotting from the world's memory the friend of his youth; and because he believed it I read those angry paragraphs with but deeper sympathy for the writer; and I think that the man who has left them out of Henley's collected writings has wronged his memory, as Mrs. Stevenson wronged the memory of Stevenson. He was no contemplative man, no pleased possessor of wooden models and paper patterns, but a great passionate man, and no friend of his would have him pictured otherwise. I saw little of him in later years, but I doubt if he was ever the same after the death of his six-year old daughter. Few passages of his verse touch me as do those few mentions of her though they lack precision of word and sound. When she is but a hope, he prays that she may have his 'gift of life' and his wife's 'gift of love,' and when she is but a few months old he murmurs over her sleep-- When you wake in your crib, You an inch of experience-- Vaulted about With the wonder of darkness; Wailing and striving To reach from your feebleness Something you feel Will be good to and cherish you. And now he commends some friend "boyish and kind, and shy," who greeted him, and greeted his wife, "that day we brought our beautiful one to lie in the green peace" and who is now dead himself, and after that he speaks of love "turned by death to longing" and so, to an enemy. When I spoke to him of his child's death he said, "she was a person of genius; she had the genius of the mind, and the genius of the body." And later I heard him talk of her as a man talks of something he cannot keep silence over because it is in all his thoughts. I can remember, too, his talking of some book of natural history he had read, that he might be able to answer her questions. He had a house now at Mortlake on the Thames with a great ivy tod shadowing door and window, and one night there he shocked and startled a roomful of men by showing how far he could be swept beyond our reach in reveries of affection. The dull man, who had tried to put Wilde out of countenance, suddenly said to the whole room, roused by I cannot remember what incautious remark of mine made to some man at my side: "Yeats believes in magic; what nonsense." Henley said, "No, it may not be nonsense; black magic is all the go in Paris now." And then turning towards me with a changed sound in his voice, "It is just a game, isn't it." I replied, not noticing till too late his serious tone, and wishing to avoid discussion in the dull man's company, "One has had a vision; one wants to have another, that is all." Then Henley said, speaking in a very low voice, "I want to know how I am to get to my daughter. I was sitting here the other night when she came into the room and played round the table and went out again. Then I saw that the door was shut and I knew that I had seen a vision." There was an embarrassed silence, and then somebody spoke of something else and we began to discuss it hurriedly and eagerly. V I came now to be more in London, never missing the meetings of the Rhymers' Club, nor those of the council of the Irish Literary Society, where I constantly fought out our Irish quarrels and pressed upon the unwilling Gavan Duffy the books of our new movement. The Irish members of Parliament looked upon us with some hostility because we had made it a matter of principle never to put a politician in the chair, and upon other grounds. One day, some old Irish member of Parliament made perhaps his only appearance at a gathering of members. He recited with great emotion a ballad of his own composition in the manner of Young Ireland, repeating over his sacred names, Wolfe Tone, Emmet, and Owen Roe, and mourning that new poets and new movements should have taken something of their sacredness away. The ballad had no literary merit, but I went home with a troubled conscience; and for a dozen years perhaps, till I began to see the result of our work in a deepened perception of all those things that strengthen race, that trouble remained. I had in mind that old politician as I wrote but the other day-- "Our part To murmur name upon name As a mother names her child." The Rhymers had begun to break up in tragedy, though we did not know that till the play had finished. I have never found a full explanation of that tragedy; sometimes I have remembered that, unlike the Victorian poets, almost all were poor men, and had made it a matter of conscience to turn from every kind of money-making that prevented good writing, and that poverty meant strain, and for the most part, a refusal of domestic life. Then I have remembered that Johnson had private means, and that others who came to tragic ends, had wives and families. Another day I think that perhaps our form of lyric, our insistence upon emotion which has no relation to any public interest, gathered together, overwrought, unstable men; and remember the moment after that the first to go out of his mind had no lyrical gift, and that we valued him mainly because he seemed a witty man of the world; and that a little later another who seemed, alike as man and writer, dull and formless, went out of his mind, first burning poems which I cannot believe would have proved him as the one man who saw them claims, a man of genius. The meetings were always decorous and often dull; some one would read out a poem and we would comment, too politely for the criticism to have great value; and yet that we read out our poems, and thought that they could be so tested, was a definition of our aims. _Love's Nocturne_ is one of the most beautiful poems in the world, but no one can find out its beauty, so intricate its thought and metaphor, till he has read it over several times, or often stopped his reading to think out the meaning of some passage, and the _Faustine_ of Swinburne, where many separate verses are powerful and musical, could not, were it read out, be understood with pleasure, however clearly it were read, because it has no more logical structure than a bag of shot. I shall, however, remember all my life that evening when Lionel Johnson read or spoke aloud in his musical monotone, where meaning and cadence found the most precise elocution, his poem suggested "by the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross." It was as though I listened to a great speech. Nor will that poem be to me again what it was that first night. For long I only knew Dowson's _O Mors_, to quote but the first words of its long title, and his _Villanelle of Sunset_ from his reading, and it was because of the desire to hold them in my hand that I suggested the first _Book of The Rhymers' Club_. They were not speech but perfect song, though song for the speaking voice. It was perhaps our delight in poetry that was, before all else, speech or song, and could hold the attention of a fitting audience like a good play or good conversation, that made Francis Thompson, whom we admired so much--before the publication of his first poem I had brought to the Cheshire Cheese the proof sheets of his _Ode to the Setting Sun_, his first published poem--come but once and refuse to contribute to our book. Preoccupied with his elaborate verse, he may have seen only that which we renounced, and thought what seemed to us simplicity, mere emptiness. To some members this simplicity was perhaps created by their tumultuous lives, they praised a desired woman and hoped that she would find amid their praise her very self, or at worst, their very passion; and knew that she, ignoramus that she was, would have slept in the middle of _Love's Nocturne_, lofty and tender though it be. Woman herself was still in our eyes, for all that, romantic and mysterious, still the priestess of her shrine, our emotions remembering the _Lilith_ and the _Sybilla Palmifera_ of Rossetti; for as yet that sense of comedy, which was soon to mould the very fashion plates, and, in the eyes of men of my generation, to destroy at last the sense of beauty itself, had scarce begun to show here and there, in slight subordinate touches among the designs of great painters and craftsmen. It could not be otherwise, for Johnson's favourite phrase, that life is ritual, expressed something that was in some degree in all our thoughts, and how could life be ritual if woman had not her symbolical place? If Rossetti was a sub-conscious influence, and perhaps the most powerful of all, we looked consciously to Pater for our philosophy. Three or four years ago I re-read _Marius the Epicurean_, expecting to find I cared for it no longer, but it still seemed to me, as I think it seemed to us all, the only great prose in modern English, and yet I began to wonder if it, or the attitude of mind of which it was the noblest expression, had not caused the disaster of my friends. It taught us to walk upon a rope, tightly stretched through serene air, and we were left to keep our feet upon a swaying rope in a storm. Pater had made us learned; and, whatever we might be elsewhere, ceremonious and polite, and distant in our relations to one another, and I think none knew as yet that Dowson, who seemed to drink so little and had so much dignity and reserve, was breaking his heart for the daughter of the keeper of an Italian eating house, in dissipation and drink; and that he might that very night sleep upon a sixpenny bed in a doss house. It seems to me that even yet, and I am speaking of 1894 and 1895, we knew nothing of one another, but the poems that we read and criticised; perhaps I have forgotten or was too much in Ireland for knowledge, but of this I am certain, we shared nothing but the artistic life. Sometimes Johnson and Symons would visit our sage at Oxford, and I remember Johnson, whose reports however were not always to be trusted, returning with a sentence that long ran in my head. He had noticed books on political economy among Pater's books, and Pater had said, "Everything that has occupied man, for any length of time, is worthy of our study." Perhaps it was because of Pater's influence that we, with an affectation of learning, claimed the whole past of literature for our authority, instead of finding it like the young men in the age of comedy that followed us, in some new, and so still unrefuted authority; that we preferred what seemed still uncrumbled rock, to the still unspotted foam; that we were traditional alike in our dress, in our manner, in our opinions, and in our style. Why should men, who spoke their opinions in low voices, as though they feared to disturb the readers in some ancient library, and timidly as though they knew that all subjects had long since been explored, all questions long since decided in books whereon the dust settled--live lives of such disorder and seek to rediscover in verse the syntax of impulsive common life? Was it that we lived in what is called "an age of transition" and so lacked coherence, or did we but pursue antithesis? VI All things, apart from love and melancholy, were a study to us; Horne already learned in Botticelli had begun to boast that when he wrote of him there would be no literature, all would be but learning; Symons, as I wrote when I first met him, studied the music halls, as he might have studied the age of Chaucer; while I gave much time to what is called the Christian Cabala; nor was there any branch of knowledge Johnson did not claim for his own. When I had first gone to see him in 1888 or 1889, at the Charlotte Street house, I had called about five in the afternoon, but the man servant that he shared with Horne and Image, told me that he was not yet up, adding with effusion "he is always up for dinner at seven." This habit of breakfasting when others dined had been started by insomnia, but he came to defend it for its own sake. When I asked if it did not separate him from men and women he replied, "In my library I have all the knowledge of the world that I need." He had certainly a considerable library, far larger than that of any young man of my acquaintance, so large that he wondered if it might not be possible to find some way of hanging new shelves from the ceiling like chandeliers. That room was always a pleasure to me, with its curtains of grey corduroy over door and window and book case, and its walls covered with brown paper, a fashion invented, I think, by Horne, that was soon to spread. There was a portrait of Cardinal Newman, looking a little like Johnson himself, some religious picture by Simeon Solomon, and works upon theology in Greek and Latin and a general air of neatness and severity; and talking there by candle light it never seemed very difficult to murmur Villiers de L'isle Adam's proud words, "As for living--our servants will do that for us." Yet I can now see that Johnson himself in some hidden, half-conscious part of him desired the world he had renounced, desired it as an object of study. I was often puzzled as to when and where he could have met the famous men or beautiful women, whose conversation, often wise, and always appropriate, he quoted so often, and it was not till a little before his death that I discovered that these conversations were imaginary. He never altered a detail of speech, and would quote what he had invented for Gladstone or Newman for years without amplification or amendment, with what seemed a scholar's accuracy. His favourite quotations were from Newman, whom, I believe, he had never met, though I can remember nothing now but Newman's greeting to Johnson, "I have always considered the profession of a man of letters a third order of the priesthood!" and these quotations became so well known that at Newman's death, the editor of _The Nineteenth Century_ asked them for publication. Because of his delight in all that was formal and arranged he objected to the public quotation of private conversation even after death, and this scruple helped his refusal. Perhaps this dreaming was made a necessity by his artificial life, yet before that life began he wrote from Oxford to his Tory but flattered family, that as he stood mounted upon a library ladder in his rooms taking a book from a shelf, Gladstone, about to pass the open door on his way upstairs to some college authority, had stopped, hesitated, come into the room and there spent an hour of talk. Presently it was discovered that Gladstone had not been near Oxford on the date given; yet he quoted that conversation without variation of a word until the end of his life, and I think believed in it as firmly as did his friends. These conversations were always admirable in their drama, but never too dramatic or even too polished to lose their casual accidental character; they were the phantasmagoria through which his philosophy of life found its expression. If he made his knowledge of the world out of his phantasy, his knowledge of tongues and books was certainly very great; and yet was that knowledge as great as he would have us believe? Did he really know Welsh, for instance, had he really as he told me, made his only love song, his incomparable _Morfydd_ out of three lines in Welsh, heard sung by a woman at her door on a walking tour in Wales, or did he but wish to hide that he shared in their emotion? "O, what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes." He wanted us to believe that all things, his poetry with its Latin weight, his religion with its constant reference to the Fathers of the Church, or to the philosophers of the Church, almost his very courtesy were a study and achievement of the intellect. Arthur Symons' poetry made him angry, because it would substitute for that achievement, Parisian impressionism, "a London fog, the blurred tawny lamplight, the red omnibus, the dreary rain, the depressing mud, the glaring gin shop, the slatternly shivering women, three dexterous stanzas telling you that and nothing more." I, on the other hand, angered him by talking as if art existed for emotion only, and for refutation he would quote the close of the Aeschylean Trilogy, the trial of Orestes on the Acropolis. Yet at moments the thought came to him that intellect, as he conceived it, was too much a thing of many books, that it lacked lively experience. "Yeats," he has said to me, "You need ten years in a library, but I have need of ten years in the wilderness." When he said "Wilderness" I am certain, however, that he thought of some historical, some bookish desert, the Thebaid, or the lands about the Mareotic sea. His best poetry is natural and impassioned, but he spoke little of it, but much about his prose, and would contend that I had no right to consider words made to read, less natural than words made to be spoken; and he delighted in a sentence in his book on Thomas Hardy, that kept its vitality, as he contended, though two pages long. He punctuated after the manner of the seventeenth century and was always ready to spend an hour discussing the exact use of the colon. "One should use a colon where other people use a semi-colon, a semi-colon where other people use a comma," was, I think, but a condescension to my ignorance for the matter was plainly beset with many subtleties. VII Not till some time in 1895 did I think he could ever drink too much for his sobriety--though what he drank would certainly be too much for that of most of the men whom I knew--I no more doubted his self-control, though we were very intimate friends, than I doubted his memories of Cardinal Newman. The discovery that he did was a great shock to me, and, I think, altered my general view of the world. I had, by my friendship with O'Leary, by my fight against Gavan Duffy, drawn the attention of a group of men, who at that time controlled what remained of the old Fenian movement in England and Scotland; and at a moment when an attempt, that came to nothing, was being made to combine once more our constitutional and unconstitutional politics, I had been asked to represent them at some convention in the United States. I went to consult Johnson, whom I found sitting at a table with books about him. I was greatly tempted, because I was promised complete freedom of speech; and I was at the time enraged by some wild articles published by some Irish American newspaper, suggesting the burning down of the houses of Irish landlords. Nine years later I was lecturing in America, and a charming old Irishman came to see me with an interview to write, and we spent, and as I think in entire neglect of his interview, one of the happiest hours I have ever spent, comparing our tales of the Irish fairies, in which he very firmly believed. When he had gone I looked at his card, to discover that he was the writer of that criminal incitement. I told Johnson that if I had a week to decide in I would probably decide to go, but as they had only given me three days, I had refused. He would not hear of my refusal with so much awaiting my condemnation; and that condemnation would be effective with Catholics, for he would find me passages in the Fathers, condemning every kind of political crime, that of the dynamiter and the incendiary especially. I asked how could the Fathers have condemned weapons they had never heard of, but those weapons, he contended, were merely developments of old methods and weapons; they had decided all in principle; but I need not trouble myself about the matter, for he would put into my hands before I sailed the typewritten statement of their doctrine, dealing with the present situation in the utmost detail. He seemed perfectly logical, but a little more confident and impassioned than usual, and I had, I think, promised to accept--when he rose from his chair, took a step towards me in his eagerness, and fell on to the floor; and I saw that he was drunk. From that on, he began to lose control of his life; he shifted from Charlotte Street, where, I think, there was fear that he would overset lamp or candle and burn the house, to Gray's Inn, and from Gray's Inn to old rambling rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and at last one called to find his outer door shut, the milk on the doorstep sour. Sometimes I would urge him to put himself, as Jack Nettleship had done, into an Institute. One day when I had been very urgent, he spoke of "a craving that made every atom of his body cry out" and said the moment after, "I do not want to be cured," and a moment after that, "In ten years I shall be penniless and shabby, and borrow half-crowns from friends." He seemed to contemplate a vision that gave him pleasure, and now that I look back, I remember that he once said to me that Wilde got, perhaps, an increase of pleasure and excitement from the degradation of that group of beggars and blackmailers where he sought his pathics, and I remember, too, his smile at my surprise, as though he spoke of psychological depths I could never enter. Did the austerity, the melancholy of his thoughts, that spiritual ecstasy which he touched at times, heighten, as complementary colours heighten one another, not only the Vision of Evil, but its fascination? Was it only Villon, or did Dante also feel the fascination of evil, when shown in its horror, and, as it were, judged and lost; and what proud man does not feel temptation strengthened from the certainty that his intellect is not deceived? VIII I began now to hear stories of Dowson, whom I knew only at the Rhymers, or through some chance meeting at Johnson's. I was indolent and procrastinating, and when I thought of asking him to dine, or taking some other step towards better knowledge, he seemed to be in Paris, or at Dieppe. He was drinking, but, unlike Johnson, who, at the autopsy after his death, was discovered never to have grown, except in the brain, after his fifteenth year, he was full of sexual desire. Johnson and he were close friends, and Johnson lectured him out of the Fathers upon chastity, and boasted of the great good done him thereby. But the rest of us counted the glasses emptied in their talk. I began to hear now in some detail of the restaurant-keeper's daughter, and of her marriage to the waiter, and of that weekly game of cards with her that filled so great a share of Dowson's emotional life. Sober, he would look at no other woman, it was said, but, drunk, would desire whatever woman chance brought, clean or dirty. Johnson was stern by nature, strong by intellect, and always, I think, deliberately picked his company, but Dowson seemed gentle, affectionate, drifting. His poetry shows how sincerely he felt the fascination of religion, but his religion had certainly no dogmatic outline, being but a desire for a condition of virginal ecstasy. If it is true, as Arthur Symons, his very close friend, has written, that he loved the restaurant-keeper's daughter for her youth, one may be almost certain that he sought from religion some similar quality, something of that which the angels find who move perpetually, as Swedenborg has said, towards "the dayspring of their youth." Johnson's poetry, like Johnson himself before his last decay, conveys an emotion of joy, of intellectual clearness, of hard energy; he gave us of his triumph; while Dowson's poetry is sad, as he himself seemed, and pictures his life of temptation and defeat, "Unto us they belong Us the bitter and gay, Wine and women and song." Their way of looking at their intoxication showed their characters. Johnson, who could not have written _Dark Angel_ if he did not suffer from remorse, showed to his friends an impenitent face, and defeated me when I tried to prevent the foundation of an Irish convivial club--it was brought to an end after one meeting by the indignation of the members' wives--whereas the last time I saw Dowson he was pouring out a glass of whiskey for himself in an empty corner of my room and murmuring over and over in what seemed automatic apology "The first to-day." IX Two men are always at my side, Lionel Johnson and John Synge whom I was to meet a little later; but Johnson is to me the more vivid in memory, possibly because of the external finish, the clearly-marked lineaments of his body, which seemed but to express the clarity of his mind. I think Dowson's best verse immortal, bound, that is, to outlive famous novels and plays and learned histories and other discursive things, but he was too vague and gentle for my affections. I understood him too well, for I had been like him but for the appetite that made me search out strong condiments. Though I cannot explain what brought others of my generation to such misfortune, I think that (falling backward upon my parable of the moon) I can explain some part of Dowson's and Johnson's dissipation-- "What portion in the world can the artist have, Who has awaked from the common dream, But dissipation and despair?" When Edmund Spencer described the islands of Phaedria and of Acrasia he aroused the indignation of Lord Burleigh, "that rugged forehead" and Lord Burleigh was in the right if morality were our only object. In those islands certain qualities of beauty, certain forms of sensuous loveliness were separated from all the general purposes of life, as they had not been hitherto in European literature--and would not be again, for even the historical process has its ebb and flow, till Keats wrote his _Endymion_. I think that the movement of our thought has more and more so separated certain images and regions of the mind, and that these images grow in beauty as they grow in sterility. Shakespeare leaned, as it were, even as craftsman, upon the general fate of men and nations, had about him the excitement of the playhouse; and all poets, including Spencer in all but a few pages, until our age came, and when it came almost all, have had some propaganda or traditional doctrine to give companionship with their fellows. Had not Matthew Arnold his faith in what he described as the best thought of his generation? Browning his psychological curiosity, Tennyson, as before him Shelley and Wordsworth, moral values that were not aesthetic values? But Coleridge of the _Ancient Mariner_, and _Kubla Khan_, and Rossetti in all his writings made what Arnold has called that "morbid effort," that search for "perfection of thought and feeling, and to unite this to perfection of form," sought this new, pure beauty, and suffered in their lives because of it. The typical men of the classical age (I think of Commodus, with his half-animal beauty, his cruelty, and his caprice), lived public lives, pursuing curiosities of appetite, and so found in Christianity, with its Thebaid and its Mariotic Sea the needed curb. But what can the Christian confessor say to those who more and more must make all out of the privacy of their thought, calling up perpetual images of desire, for he cannot say "Cease to be artist, cease to be poet," where the whole life is art and poetry, nor can he bid men leave the world, who suffer from the terrors that pass before shut-eyes. Coleridge, and Rossetti though his dull brother did once persuade him that he was an agnostic, were devout Christians, and Steinbock and Beardsley were so towards their lives' end, and Dowson and Johnson always, and yet I think it but deepened despair and multiplied temptation. "Dark Angel, with thine aching lust, To rid the world of penitence: Malicious angel, who still dost My soul such subtil violence! When music sounds, then changest thou A silvery to a sultry fire: Nor will thine envious heart allow Delight untortured by desire. Through thee, the gracious Muses turn To Furies, O mine Enemy! And all the things of beauty burn With flames of evil ecstasy. Because of thee, the land of dreams Becomes a gathering place of fears: Until tormented slumber seems One vehemence of useless tears." Why are these strange souls born everywhere to-day? with hearts that Christianity, as shaped by history, cannot satisfy. Our love letters wear out our love; no school of painting outlasts its founders, every stroke of the brush exhausts the impulse, Pre-Raphaelitism had some twenty years; impressionism thirty perhaps. Why should we believe that religion can never bring round its antithesis? Is it true that our air is disturbed, as Malarmé said, by "the trembling of the veil of the temple," or "that our whole age is seeking to bring forth a sacred book?" Some of us thought that book near towards the end of last century, but the tide sank again. X I do not know whether John Davidson, whose life also was tragic, made that "morbid effort," that search for "perfection of thought and feeling," for he is hidden behind failure, to unite it "to perfection of form." At eleven one morning I met him in the British Museum reading room, probably in 1894, when I was in London for the production of _The Land of Heart's Desire_, but certainly after some long absence from London. "Are you working here?" I said; "No," he said, "I am loafing, for I have finished my day's work." "What, already?" "I work an hour a day--I cannot work longer without exhaustion, and even as it is, if I meet anybody and get into talk, I cannot write the next day; that is why I loaf when my work is finished." No one had ever doubted his industry; he had supported his wife and family for years by "devilling" many hours a day for some popular novelist. "What work is it?" I said. "I am writing verse," he answered. "I had been writing prose for a long time, and then one day I thought I might just as well write what I liked, as I must starve in any case. It was the luckiest thought I ever had, for my agent now gets me forty pounds for a ballad, and I made three hundred out of my last book of verse." He was older by ten years than his fellow Rhymers; a national schoolmaster from Scotland, he had been dismissed, he told us, for asking for a rise in his salary, and had come to London with his wife and children. He looked older than his years. "Ellis," he had said, "how old are you?" "Fifty," Edwin Ellis replied, or whatever his age was. "Then I will take off my wig. I never take off my wig when there is a man under thirty in the room." He had endured and was to endure again, a life of tragic penury, which was made much harder by the conviction that the world was against him, that he was refused for some reason his rightful position. Ellis thought that he pined even for social success, and I that his Scots jealousy kept him provincial and but half articulate. During the quarrel over Parnell's grave a quotation from Goethe ran through the papers, describing our Irish jealousy: "The Irish seem to me like a pack of hounds, always dragging down some noble stag." But I do not think we object to distinction for its own sake; if we kill the stag, it is that we may carry off his head and antlers. "The Irish people," O'Leary used to say, "do not know good from bad in any art, but they do not hate the good once it is pointed out to them because it is good." An infallible Church, with its Mass in Latin, and its mediaeval philosophy, and our Protestant social prejudice, have kept our ablest men from levelling passions; but Davidson with a jealousy, which may be Scottish, seeing that Carlyle had it, was quick to discover sour grapes. He saw in delicate, laborious, discriminating taste, an effeminate pedantry, and would, when that mood was on him, delight in all that seemed healthy, popular, and bustling. Once when I had praised Herbert Horne for his knowledge and his taste, he burst out, "If a man must be a connoisseur, let him be a connoisseur in women." He, indeed, was accustomed, in the most characteristic phrase of his type, to describe the Rhymers as lacking in "blood and guts," and very nearly brought us to an end by attempting to supply the deficiency by the addition of four Scotsmen. He brought all four upon the same evening, and one read out a poem upon the Life Boat, evidently intended for a recitation; another described how, when gold-digging in Australia, he had fought and knocked down another miner for doubting the rotundity of the earth; while of the remainder I can remember nothing except that they excelled in argument. He insisted upon their immediate election, and the Rhymers, through that complacency of good manners whereby educated Englishmen so often surprise me, obeyed, though secretly resolved never to meet again; and it cost me seven hours' work to get another meeting, and vote the Scotsmen out. A few days later I chanced upon Davidson at some restaurant; he was full of amiability, and when we parted shook my hand, and proclaimed enthusiastically that I had "blood and guts." I think he might have grown to be a successful man had he been enthusiastic instead about Dowson or Johnson, or Horne or Symons, for they had what I still lacked, conscious deliberate craft, and what I must lack always, scholarship. They had taught me that violent energy, which is like a fire of straw, consumes in a few minutes the nervous vitality, and is useless in the arts. Our fire must burn slowly, and we must constantly turn away to think, constantly analyse what we have done, be content even to have little life outside our work, to show, perhaps, to other men, as little as the watch-mender shows, his magnifying glass caught in his screwed-up eye. Only then do we learn to conserve our vitality, to keep our mind enough under control and to make our technique sufficiently flexible for expression of the emotions of life as they arise. A few months after our meeting in the Museum, Davidson had spent his inspiration. "The fires are out," he said, "and I must hammer the cold iron." When I heard a few years ago that he had drowned himself, I knew that I had always expected some such end. With enough passion to make a great poet, through meeting no man of culture in early life, he lacked intellectual receptivity, and, anarchic and indefinite, lacked pose and gesture, and now no verse of his clings to my memory. XI Gradually Arthur Symons came to replace in my intimate friendship, Lionel Johnson from whom I was slowly separated by a scruple of conscience. If he came to see me he sat tongue-tied unless I gave him the drink that seemed necessary to bring his vitality to but its normal pitch, and if I called upon him he drank so much that I became his confederate. Once, when a friend and I had sat long after our proper bed-time at his constantly repeated and most earnest entreaty, knowing what black melancholy would descend upon him at our departure, and with the unexpressed hope of getting him to his bed, he fixed upon us a laughing and whimsical look, and said:--"I want you two men to understand that you are merely two men that I am drinking with." That was the only time that I was to hear from him an imaginary conversation that had not an air of the most scrupulous accuracy. He gave two accounts of a conversation with Wilde in prison; in one Wilde wore his hair long, and in the other it had been cropped by the prison barber. He was gradually losing, too, the faculty of experience, and in his prose and verse repeated the old ideas and emotions, but faintly, as though with fading interest. I am certain that he prayed much, and on those rare days that I came upon him dressed and active before midday or but little after, I concluded that he had been to morning Mass at Farm Street. When with Johnson I had tuned myself to his mood, but Arthur Symons, more than any man I have ever known, could slip as it were into the mind of another, and my thoughts gained in richness and in clearness from his sympathy, nor shall I ever know how much my practice and my theory owe to the passages that he read me from Catullus and from Verlaine and Mallarmé. I had read _Axel_ to myself or was still reading it, so slowly, and with so much difficulty, that certain passages had an exaggerated importance, while all remained so obscure that I could without much effort imagine that here at last was the Sacred Book I longed for. An Irish friend of mine lives in a house where beside a little old tower rises a great new Gothic hall and stair, and I have sometimes got him to extinguish all light but a little Roman lamp, and in that faint light and among great vague shadows, blotting away the unmeaning ornament, have imagined myself partaking in some incredible romance. Half-a-dozen times, beginning in boyhood with Shelley's _Prometheus Unbound_, I have in that mood possessed for certain hours or months the book that I long for; and Symons, without ever being false to his own impressionist view of art and of life, deepened as I think my longing. It seems to me, looking backward, that we always discussed life at its most intense moment, that moment which gives a common sacredness to the Song of Songs, and to the Sermon on the Mount, and in which one discovers something supernatural, a stirring as it were of the roots of the hair. He was making those translations from Mallarmé and from Verlaine, from Calderon, from St. John of the Cross, which are the most accomplished metrical translations of our time, and I think that those from Mallarmé may have given elaborate form to my verses of those years, to the latter poems of _The Wind Among the Reeds_, to _The Shadowy Waters_, while Villiers de L'Isle Adam had shaped whatever in my _Rosa Alchemica_ Pater had not shaped. I can remember the day in Fountain Court when he first read me Herodiade's address to some Sibyl who is her nurse and it may be the moon also: "The horror of my virginity Delights me, and I would envelope me In the terror of my tresses, that, by night, Inviolate reptile, I might feel the white And glimmering radiance of thy frozen fire, Thou that art chaste and diest of desire, White night of ice and of the cruel snow! Eternal sister, my lone sister, lo My dreams uplifted before thee! now, apart, So rare a crystal is my dreaming heart, And all about me lives but in mine own Image, the idolatrous mirror of my pride, Mirroring this Herodiade diamond-eyed." Yet I am certain that there was something in myself compelling me to attempt creation of an art as separate from everything heterogenous and casual, from all character and circumstance, as some Herodiade of our theatre, dancing seemingly alone in her narrow moving luminous circle. Certainly I had gone a great distance from my first poems, from all that I had copied from the folk-art of Ireland, as from the statue of Mausolus and his Queen, where the luminous circle is motionless and contains the entire popular life; and yet why am I so certain? I can imagine an Aran Islander who had strayed into the Luxembourg Gallery, turning bewildered from Impressionist or Post-Impressionist, but lingering at Moreau's "Jason," to study in minute astonishment the elaborate background, where there are so many jewels, so much wrought stone and moulded bronze. Had not lover promised mistress in his own island song, "A ship with a gold and silver mast, gloves of the skin of a fish, and shoes of the skin of a bird, and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland?" XII Hitherto when in London I had stayed with my family in Bedford Park, but now I was to live for some twelve months in chambers in the Temple that opened through a little passage into those of Arthur Symons. If anybody rang at either door, one or other would look through a window in the connecting passage, and report. We would then decide whether one or both should receive the visitor, whether his door or mine should be opened, or whether both doors were to remain closed. I have never liked London, but London seemed less disagreeable when one could walk in quiet, empty places after dark, and upon a Sunday morning sit upon the margin of a fountain almost as alone as if in the country. I was already settled there, I imagine, when a publisher called and proposed that Symons should edit a Review or Magazine, and Symons consented on the condition that Beardsley were Art Editor--and I was delighted at his condition, as I think were all his other proposed contributors. Aubrey Beardsley had been dismissed from the Art editorship of _The Yellow Book_ under circumstances that had made us indignant. He had illustrated Wilde's _Salome_, his strange satiric art had raised the popular press to fury, and at the height of the excitement aroused by Wilde's condemnation, a popular novelist, a woman who had great influence among the most conventional part of the British public, had written demanding his dismissal. "She owed it to her position before the British people," she had said. Beardsley was not even a friend of Wilde's--they even disliked each other--he had no sexual abnormality, but he was certainly unpopular, and the moment had come to get rid of unpopular persons. The public at once concluded--they could hardly conclude otherwise, he was dismissed by telegram--that there was evidence against him, and Beardsley, who was some twenty-three years old, being embittered and miserable, plunged into dissipation. We knew that we must face an infuriated press and public, but being all young we delighted in enemies and in everything that had an heroic air. XIII We might have survived but for our association with Beardsley, perhaps, but for his _Under the Hill_, a Rabelaisian fragment promising a literary genius as great maybe as his artistic genius, and for the refusal of the bookseller who controlled the railway bookstalls to display our wares. The bookseller's manager, no doubt looking for a design of Beardsley's, pitched upon Blake's _Anteus setting Virgil and Dante upon the verge of Cocytus_ as the ground of refusal, and when Arthur Symons pointed out that Blake was considered "a very spiritual artist" replied, "O, Mr Symons, you must remember that we have an audience of young ladies as well as an audience of agnostics." However, he called Arthur Symons back from the door to say, "If contrary to our expectations _The Savoy_ should have a large sale, we should be very glad to see you again." As Blake's design illustrated an article of mine, I wrote a letter upon that remarkable saying to a principal daily newspaper. But I had mentioned Beardsley, and I was told that the editor had made it a rule that his paper was never to mention Beardsley's name. I said upon meeting him later, "Would you have made the same rule in the case of Hogarth?" against whom much the same objection could be taken, and he replied with what seemed to me a dreamy look, as though suddenly reminded of a lost opportunity--"Ah, there was no popular press in Hogarth's day." We were not allowed to forget that in our own day there was a popular press, and its opinions began to affect our casual acquaintance, and even our comfort in public places. At some well-known house, an elderly man to whom I had just been introduced, got up from my side and walked to the other end of the room; but it was as much my reputation as an Irish rebel as the evil company that I was supposed to keep, that excited some young men in a railway carriage to comment upon my general career in voices raised that they might catch my attention. I discovered, however, one evening that we were perhaps envied as well as despised. I was in the pit at some theatre, and had just noticed Arthur Symons a little in front of me, when I heard a young man, who looked like a shop-assistant or clerk, say, "There is Arthur Symons. If he can't get an order, why can't he pay for a stall." Clearly we were supposed to prosper upon iniquity, and to go to the pit added a sordid parsimony. At another theatre I caught sight of a woman that I once liked, the widow of some friend of my father's youth, and tried to attract her attention, but she had no eyes for anything but the stage curtain; and at some house where I met no hostility to myself, a popular novelist snatched out of my hand a copy of _The Savoy_, and opening it at Beardsley's drawing, called _The Barber_, began to expound its bad drawing and wound up with, "Now if you want to admire really great black and white art, admire the Punch Cartoons of Mr Lindley Sambourne," and our hostess, after making peace between us, said, "O, Mr Yeats, why do you not send your poems to _The Spectator_ instead of to _The Savoy_." The answer, "My friends read the _Savoy_ and they do not read _The Spectator_," brought a look of deeper disapproval. Yet, even apart from Beardsley, we were a sufficiently distinguished body: Max Beerbohm, Bernard Shaw, Ernest Dowson, Lionel Johnson, Arthur Symons, Charles Conder, Charles Shannon, Havelock Ellis, Selwyn Image, Joseph Conrad; but nothing counted but the one hated name. I think that had we been challenged we might have argued something after this fashion:--"Science through much ridicule and some persecution has won its right to explore whatever passes before its corporeal eye, and merely because it passes: to set as it were upon an equality the beetle and the whale though Ben Jonson could find no justification for the entomologist in _The New Inn_, but that he had been crossed in love. Literature now demands the same right of exploration of all that passes before the mind's eyes, and merely because it passes." Not a complete defence, for it substitutes a spiritual for a physical objective, but sufficient it may be for the moment, and to settle our place in the historical process. The critic might well reply that certain of my generation delighted in writing with an unscientific partiality for subjects long forbidden. Yet is it not most important to explore especially what has been long forbidden, and to do this not only "with the highest moral purpose," like the followers of Ibsen, but gaily, out of sheer mischief, or sheer delight in that play of the mind. Donne could be as metaphysical as he pleased, and yet never seemed unhuman and hysterical as Shelley often does, because he could be as physical as he pleased; and besides who will thirst for the metaphysical, who have a parched tongue, if we cannot recover the Vision of Evil? I have felt in certain early works of my own which I have long abandoned, and here and there in the work of others of my generation, a slight, sentimental sensuality which is disagreeable, and doesn't exist in the work of Donne, let us say, because he, being permitted to say what he pleased, was never tempted to linger, or rather to pretend that we can linger, between spirit and sense. How often had I heard men of my time talk of the meeting of spirit and sense, yet there is no meeting but only change upon the instant, and it is by the perception of a change like the sudden "blacking out" of the lights of the stage, that passion creates its most violent sensation. XIV Dowson was now at Dieppe, now at a Normandy village. Wilde, too, was at Dieppe; and Symons, Beardsley, and others would cross and recross, returning with many tales, and there were letters and telegrams. Dowson wrote a protest against some friend's too vivid essay upon the disorder of his life, and explained that in reality he was living a life of industry in a little country village; but before the letter arrived that friend received a wire, "arrested, sell watch and send proceeds." Dowson's watch had been left in London--and then another wire, "Am free." Dowson, ran the tale as I heard it ten years after, had got drunk and fought the baker, and a deputation of villagers had gone to the magistrate and pointed out that Monsieur Dowson was one of the most illustrious of English poets. "Quite right to remind me," said the magistrate, "I will imprison the baker." A Rhymer had seen Dowson at some cafe in Dieppe with a particularly common harlot, and as he passed, Dowson, who was half drunk, caught him by the sleeve and whispered, "She writes poetry--it is like Browning and Mrs Browning." Then there came a wonderful tale, repeated by Dowson himself, whether by word of mouth or by letter I do not remember. Wilde has arrived in Dieppe, and Dowson presses upon him the necessity of acquiring "a more wholesome taste." They empty their pockets on to the café table, and though there is not much, there is enough if both heaps are put into one. Meanwhile the news has spread, and they set out accompanied by a cheering crowd. Arrived at their destination, Dowson and the crowd remain outside, and presently Wilde returns. He says in a low voice to Dowson, "The first these ten years, and it will be the last. It was like cold mutton"--always, as Henley had said, "a scholar and a gentleman," he no doubt remembered the sense in which the Elizabethan dramatists used the words "Cold mutton"--and then aloud so that the crowd may hear him, "But tell it in England, for it will entirely restore my character." XV When the first few numbers of _The Savoy_ had been published, the contributors and the publisher gave themselves a supper, and Symons explained that certain among us were invited afterwards to the publisher's house, and if I went there that once I need never go again. I considered the publisher a scandalous person, and had refused to meet him; we were all agreed as to his character, and only differed as to the distance that should lie between him and us. I had just received two letters, one from T. W. Rolleston protesting with all the conventional moral earnestness of an article in _The Spectator_ newspaper, against my writing for such a magazine; and one from A. E. denouncing that magazine, which he called the "Organ of the Incubi and the Succubi," with the intensity of a personal conviction. I had forgotten that Arthur Symons had borrowed the letters until as we stood about the supper table waiting for the signal to be seated, I heard the infuriated voice of the publisher shouting, "Give me the letter, give me the letter, I will prosecute that man," and I saw Symons waving Rolleston's letter just out of reach. Then Symons folded it up and put it in his pocket, and began to read out A. E. and the publisher was silent, and I saw Beardsley listening. Presently Beardsley came to me and said, "Yeats, I am going to surprise you very much. I think your friend is right. All my life I have been fascinated by the spiritual life--when a child I saw a vision of a Bleeding Christ over the mantelpiece--but after all to do one's work when there are other things one wants to do so much more, is a kind of religion." Something, I forget what, delayed me a few minutes after the supper was over, and when I arrived at our publisher's I found Beardsley propped up on a chair in the middle of the room, grey and exhausted, and as I came in he left the chair and went into another room to spit blood, but returned immediately. Our publisher, perspiration pouring from his face, was turning the handle of a hurdy gurdy piano--it worked by electricity, I was told, when the company did not cut off the supply--and very plainly had had enough of it, but Beardsley pressed him to labour on, "The tone is so beautiful," "It gives me such deep pleasure," etc., etc. It was his method of keeping our publisher at a distance. Another image competes with that image in my memory. Beardsley has arrived at Fountain Court a little after breakfast with a young woman who belongs to our publisher's circle and certainly not to ours, and is called "twopence coloured," or is it "penny plain." He is a little drunk and his mind has been running upon his dismissal from _The Yellow Book_, for he puts his hand upon the wall and stares into a mirror. He mutters, "Yes, yes. I look like a Sodomite," which he certainly did not. "But no, I am not that," and then begins railing, against his ancestors, accusing them of that and this, back to and including the great Pitt, from whom he declares himself descended. XVI I can no more justify my convictions in these brief chapters, where I touch on fundamental things, than Shakespeare could justify within the limits of a sonnet, his conviction that the soul of the wide world dreams of things to come; and yet as I have set out to describe nature as I see it, I must not only describe events but those patterns into which they fall, when I am the looker-on. A French miracle-working priest once said to Maud Gonne and myself and to an English Catholic who had come with us, that a certain holy woman had been the "victim" for his village, and that another holy woman who had been "victim" for all France, had given him her Crucifix, because he, too, was doomed to become a "victim." French psychical research has offered evidence to support the historical proofs that such saints as Lydwine of Schiedam, whose life suggested to Paul Claudel his _L'Annonce faite à Marie_, did really cure disease by taking it upon themselves. As disease was considered the consequence of sin, to take it upon themselves was to copy Christ. All my proof that mind flows into mind, and that we cannot separate mind and body, drives me to accept the thought of victimage in many complex forms, and I ask myself if I cannot so explain the strange, precocious genius of Beardsley. He was in my Lunar metaphor a man of the thirteenth Phase, his nature on the edge of Unity of Being, the understanding of that Unity by the intellect his one overmastering purpose; whereas Lydwine de Schiedam and her like, being of the saints, are at the seven and twentieth Phase, and seek a unity with a life beyond individual being; and so being all subjective he would take upon himself not the consequences, but the knowledge of sin. I surrender myself to the wild thought that by so doing he enabled persons who had never heard his name, to recover innocence. I have so often, too, practised meditations, or experienced dreams, where the meditations or dreams of two or three persons contrast and complement one another, in so far as those persons are in themselves complementary or contrasting, that I am convinced that it is precisely from the saint or potential saint that he would gather this knowledge. I see in his fat women and shadowy, pathetic girls, his horrible children, half child, half embryo, in all the lascivious monstrous imagery of the privately published designs, the phantasms that from the beginning have defied the scourge and the hair shirt. I once said to him half seriously, "Beardsley, I was defending you last night in the only way in which it is possible to defend you, by saying that all you draw is inspired by rage against iniquity," and he answered, "If it were so inspired the work would be in no way different," meaning, as I think, that he drew with such sincerity that no change of motive could change the image. I know that some turn of disease had begun to parade erotic images before his eyes, and I do not doubt that he drew these images. "I make a blot upon the paper," he said to me; "And I begin to shove the ink about and something comes." But I was wrong to say that he drew these things in rage against iniquity, for to know that rage he must needs be objective, concerned with other people, with the Church or the Divinity, with something outside his own head, and responsible not for the knowledge but for the consequence of sin. His preparation had been the exhaustion of sin in act, while the preparation of the Saint is the exhaustion of his pride, and instead of the Saint's humility, he had come to see the images of the mind in a kind of frozen passion, the virginity of the intellect. Does not all art come when a nature, that never ceases to judge itself, exhausts personal emotion in action or desire so completely that something impersonal, something that has nothing to do with action or desire, suddenly starts into its place, something which is as unforeseen, as completely organized, even as unique, as the images that pass before the mind between sleeping and waking. But all art is not victimage; and much of the hatred of the art of Beardsley came from the fact that victimage, though familiar under another name to French criticism since the time of Baudelaire, was not known in England. He pictures almost always disillusion, and apart from those privately published drawings which he tried upon his deathbed to have destroyed, there is no representation of desire. Even the beautiful women are exaggerated into doll-like prettiness by a spirit of irony, or are poignant with a thwarted or corrupted innocence. I see his art with more understanding now, than when he lived, for in 1895 or 1896, I was in despair at the new breath of comedy that had begun to wither the beauty that I loved, just when that beauty seemed about to unite itself to mystery. I said to him once, "You have never done anything to equal your Salome with the head of John the Baptist." I think, that for the moment he was sincere when he replied, "Yes, yes; but beauty is so difficult." It was for the moment only, for as the popular rage increased and his own disease increased, he became more and more violent in his satire, or created out of a spirit of mockery a form of beauty where his powerful logical intellect eliminated every outline that suggested meditation or even satisfied passion. The distinction between the Image, between the apparition as it were, and the personal action and desire, took a new form at the approach of death. He made two or three charming and blasphemous designs; I think especially of a Madonna and Child, where the Child has a foolish, doll-like face, and an elaborate modern baby's dress; and of a St. Rose of Lima in an expensive gown decorated with roses, ascending to Heaven upon the bosom of the Madonna, her face enraptured with love, but with that form of it which is least associated with sanctity. I think that his conversion to Catholicism was sincere, but that so much of impulse as could exhaust itself in prayer and ceremony, in formal action and desire, found itself mocked by the antithetical image; and yet I am perhaps mistaken, perhaps it was merely his recognition that historical Christianity had dwindled to a box of toys, and that it might be amusing to empty the whole box on to the counterpane. XVII I had been a good deal in Paris, though never very long at any time, my later visits with a member of the Rhymer's Club whose curiosity or emotion was roused by every pretty girl. He treated me with a now admiring, now mocking wonder, because being in love, and in no way lucky in that love, I had grown exceedingly puritanical so far as my immediate neighbourhood was concerned. One night, close to the Luxembourg, a strange young woman in bicycling costume, came out of a side street, threw one arm about his neck, walked beside us in perfect silence for a hundred yards or so, and then darted up another side street. He had a red and white complexion and fair hair, but how she discovered that in the dark I could not understand. I became angry and reproachful, but he defended himself by saying, "You never meet a stray cat without caressing it: I have similar instincts." Presently we found ourselves at some Café--the Café D'Harcourt, I think--and when I looked up from my English newspaper, I found myself surrounded with painted ladies and saw that he was taking vengeance. I could not have carried on a conversation in French, but I was able to say, "That gentleman over there has never refused wine or coffee to any lady," and in a little they had all settled about him like greedy pigeons. I had put my ideal of those years, an ideal that passed away with youth, into my description of _Proud Costello_. "He was of those ascetics of passion, who keep their hearts pure for love or for hatred, as other men for God, for Mary and for the Saints." My friend was not interested in passion. A woman drew him to her by some romantic singularity in her beauty or her circumstance, and drew him the more if the curiosity she aroused were half intellectual. A little after the time I write of, throwing himself into my chair after some visit to a music-hall or hippodrome, he began, "O, Yeats, I was never in love with a serpent-charmer before." He was objective. For him "the visible world existed" as he was fond of quoting, and I suspect him of a Moon that had entered its fourth quarter. XVIII At first I used to stay with Macgregor Mathers and his gracious young wife near the Champ de Mars, or in the Rue Mozart, but later by myself in a student's hotel in the Latin quarter, and I cannot remember always where I stayed when this or that event took place. Macgregor Mathers, or Macgregor, for he had now shed the "Mathers," would come down to breakfast one day with his Horace, the next day with his Macpherson's Ossian, and read out fragments during breakfast, considering both books of equal authenticity. Once when I questioned that of Ossian, he got into a rage--what right had I to take sides with the English enemy--and I found that for him the eighteenth century controversy still raged. At night he would dress himself in Highland dress, and dance the sword dance, and his mind brooded upon the ramifications of clans and tartans. Yet I have at moments doubted whether he had seen the Highlands, or even, until invited there by some White Rose Society, Scotland itself. Every Sunday he gave to the evocation of Spirits, and I noted that upon that day he would spit blood. That did not matter, he said, because it came from his head, not his lungs; what ailed him I do not know, but I think that he lived under some great strain, and presently I noted that he was drinking neat brandy, not to drunkenness, but to detriment of mind and body. He began to foresee changes in the world, announcing in 1893 or 1894, the imminence of immense wars, and was it in 1895 or 1896 that he learned ambulance work, and made others learn it? He had a sabre wound on his wrist--or perhaps his forehead, for my memory is not clear--got in some student riot that he had mistaken for the beginning of war. It may have been some talk of his that made me write the poem that begins: "The dews drop slowly and dreams gather; unknown spears Suddenly hurtle before my dream awakened eyes, And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears." War was to bring, or be brought by, anarchy, but that would be a passing stage, he declared, for his dreams were all Napoleonic. He certainly foresaw some great role that he could play, had made himself an acknowledged master of the war-game, and for a time taught it to French officers for his living. He was to die of melancholia, and was perhaps already mad at certain moments or upon certain topics, though he did not make upon me that impression in those early days, being generous, gay, and affable. I have seen none that lacked philosophy and trod _Hodos Camelionis_ come to good there; and he lacked it but for a vague affirmation, that he would have his friends affirm also, each for himself, "There is no part of me that is not of the Gods." Once, when he had told me that he met his Teachers in some great crowd, and only knew that they were phantoms by a shock that was like an electric shock to his heart, I asked him how he knew that he was not deceived or hallucinated. He said, "I had been visited by one of them the other night, and I followed him out, and followed him down that little lane to the right. Presently I fell over the milk boy, and the milk boy got in a rage because he said that not only I but the man in front had fallen over him." He like all that I have known, who have given themselves up to images, and to the murmuring of images, thought that when he had proved that an image could act independently of his mind, he had proved also that neither it, nor what it had murmured, had originated there. Yet had I need of proof to the contrary, I had it while under his roof. I was eager for news of the Spanish-American war, and went to the Rue Mozart before breakfast to buy a _New York Herald_. As I went out past the young Normandy servant who was laying breakfast, I was telling myself some schoolboy romance, and had just reached a place where I carried my arm in a sling after some remarkable escape. I bought my paper and returned, to find Macgregor on the doorstep. "Why, you are all right," he said, "What did the Bonne mean by telling me that you had hurt your arm and carried it in a sling." Once when I met him in the street in his Highland clothes, with several knives in his stocking, he said, "When I am dressed like this I feel like a walking flame," and I think that everything he did was but an attempt to feel like a walking flame. Yet at heart he was, I think, gentle, and perhaps even a little timid. He had some impediment in his nose that gave him a great deal of trouble, and it could have been removed had he not shrunk from the slight operation; and once when he was left in a mouse-infested flat with some live traps, he collected his captives into a large birdcage, and to avoid the necessity of their drowning, fed them there for weeks. Being a self-educated, un-scholarly, though learned man, he was bound to express the fundamental antithesis in the most crude form, and being arrogant, to prevent as far as possible that alternation between the two natures which is, it may be, necessary to sanity. When the nature turns to its spiritual opposite alone there can be no alternation, but what nature is pure enough for that. I see Paris in the Eighteen-nineties as a number of events separated from one another, and without cause or consequence, without lot or part in the logical structure of my life; I can often as little find their dates as I can those of events in my early childhood. William Sharp, who came to see me there, may have come in 1895, or on some visit four or five years later, but certainly I was in an hotel in the Boulevard Raspail. When he stood up to go he said, "What is that?" pointing to a geometrical form painted upon a little piece of cardboard that lay upon my window sill. And then before I could answer, looked out of the window saying, "There is a funeral passing." I said, "That is curious, as the Death symbol is painted upon the card." I did not look, but I am sure there was no funeral. A few days later he came back and said, "I have been very ill; you must never allow me to see that symbol again." He did not seem anxious to be questioned, but years later he said, "I will now tell you what happened in Paris. I had two rooms at my hotel, a front sitting-room and a bedroom leading out of it. As I passed the threshold of the sitting-room, I saw a woman standing at the bureau writing, and presently she went into my bedroom. I thought somebody had got into the wrong room by mistake, but when I went to the bureau I saw the sheet of paper she had seemed to write upon, and there was no writing upon it. I went into my bed-room and I found nobody, but as there was a door from the bedroom on to the stairs I went down the stairs to see if she had gone that way. When I got out into the street I saw her just turning a corner, but when I turned the corner there was nobody there, and then I saw her at another corner. Constantly seeing her and losing her like that I followed till I came to the Seine, and there I saw her standing at an opening in the wall, looking down into the river. Then she vanished, and I cannot tell why, but I went to the opening in the wall and stood there, just as she had stood, taking just the same attitude. Then I thought I was in Scotland, and that I heard a sheep bell. After that I must have lost consciousness, for I knew nothing till I found myself lying on my back, dripping wet, and people standing all round. I had thrown myself into the Seine." I did not believe him, and not because I thought the story impossible, for I knew he had a susceptibility beyond that of any one I had ever known, to symbolic or telepathic influence, but because he never told one anything that was true; the facts of life disturbed him and were forgotten. The story had been created by the influence but it had remained a reverie, though he may in the course of years have come to believe that it happened as an event. The affectionate husband of his admiring and devoted wife, he had created an imaginary beloved, had attributed to her the authorship of all his books that had any talent, and though habitually a sober man, I have known him to get drunk, and at the height of his intoxication when most men speak the truth, to attribute his state to remorse for having been unfaithful to Fiona Macleod. Paul Verlaine alternated between the two halves of his nature with so little apparent resistance that he seemed like a bad child, though to read his sacred poems is to remember perhaps that the Holy Infant shared His first home with the beasts. In what month was it that I received a note inviting me to "coffee and cigarettes plentifully," and signed "Yours quite cheerfully, Paul Verlaine?" I found him at the top of a tenement house in the Rue St. Jacques, sitting in an easy chair, his bad leg swaddled in many bandages. He asked me, speaking in English, if I knew Paris well, and added, pointing to his leg, that it had scorched his leg for he know it "well, too well" and "lived in it like a fly in a pot of marmalade." He took up an English dictionary, one of the few books in the room, and began searching for the name of his disease, selecting after a long search and with, as I understood, only comparative accuracy "Erysipelas." Meanwhile his homely, middle-aged mistress made the coffee and found the cigarettes; it was obviously she who had given the room its character; her canaries in several cages hanging in the window, and her sentimental lithographs nailed here and there among the nude drawings and newspaper caricatures of her lover as various kinds of monkey, which he had pinned upon the wall. A slovenly, ragged man came in, his trousers belted with a piece of rope and an opera hat upon his head. She drew a box over to the fire, and he sat down, now holding the opera hat upon his knees, and I think he must have acquired it very lately for he kept constantly closing and opening it. Verlaine introduced him by saying, "He is a poor man, but a good fellow, and is so like Louis XI to look at that we call him Louis the XIth." I remember that Verlaine talked of Victor Hugo who was "a supreme poet, but a volcano of mud as well as of flame," and of Villiers de L'Isle Adam who was "exalté" and wrote excellent French; and of _In Memoriam_, which he had tried to translate and could not. "Tennyson is too noble, too Anglais; when he should have been brokenhearted, he had many reminiscences." At Verlaine's burial, but a few months after, his mistress quarrelled with a publisher at the graveside as to who owned the sheet by which the body had been covered, and Louis XI stole fourteen umbrellas that he found leaning against a tree in the Cemetery. XIX I am certain of one date, for I have gone to much trouble to get it right. I met John Synge for the first time in the Autumn of 1896, when I was one and thirty, and he four and twenty. I was at the Hotel Corneille instead of my usual lodging, and why I cannot remember for I thought it expensive. Synge's biographer says that you boarded there for a pound a week, but I was accustomed to cook my own breakfast, and dine at an anarchist restaurant in the Boulevard S. Jacques for little over a shilling. Some one, whose name I forget, told me there was a poor Irishman at the top of the house, and presently introduced us. Synge had come lately from Italy, and had played his fiddle to peasants in the Black Forest; six months of travel upon fifty pounds; and was now reading French literature and writing morbid and melancholy verse. He told me that he had learned Irish at Trinity College, so I urged him to go to the Aran Islands and find a life that had never been expressed in literature, instead of a life where all had been expressed. I did not divine his genius, but I felt he needed something to take him out of his morbidity and melancholy. Perhaps I would have given the same advice to any young Irish writer who knew Irish, for I had been that summer upon Inishmaan and Inishmore, and was full of the subject. My friends and I had landed from a fishing boat to find ourselves among a group of islanders, one of whom said he would bring us to the oldest man upon Inishmaan. This old man, speaking very slowly, but with laughing eyes, had said, "If any gentleman has done a crime, we'll hide him. There was a gentleman that killed his father, and I had him in my own house six months till he got away to America." From that on I saw much of Synge, and brought him to Maude Gonne's, under whose persuasion perhaps, he joined the "Young Ireland Society of Paris," the name we gave to half a dozen Parisian Irish, signed, but resigned after a few months because "it wanted to stir up Continental nations against England, and England will never give us freedom until she feels she is safe," the one political sentence I ever heard him speak. Over a year was to pass before he took my advice and settled for a while in an Aran cottage, and became happy, having escaped at last, as he wrote, "from the squalor of the poor and the nullity of the rich." I almost forget the prose and verse he showed me in Paris, though I read it all through again when after his death I decided, at his written request, what was to be published and what not. Indeed, I have but a vague impression, as of a man trying to look out of a window and blurring all that he sees by breathing upon the window. According to my Lunar parable, he was a man of the twenty-third Phase, a man whose subjective lives--for a constant return to our life is a part of my dream--were over, who must not pursue an image, but fly from it, all that subjective dreaming, that had once been power and joy, now corrupting within him. He had to take the first plunge into the world beyond himself, the first plunge away from himself that is always pure technique, the delight in doing, not because one would or should, but merely because one can do. He once said to me, "a man has to bring up his family and be as virtuous as is compatible with so doing, and if he does more than that he is a puritan; a dramatist has to express his subject and to find as much beauty as is compatible with that, and if he does more he is an aesthete," that is to say, he was consciously objective. Whenever he tried to write drama without dialect he wrote badly, and he made several attempts, because only through dialect could he escape self-expression, see all that he did from without, allow his intellect to judge the images of his mind as if they had been created by some other mind. His objectivity was, however, technical only, for in those images paraded all the desires of his heart. He was timid, too shy for general conversation, an invalid and full of moral scruple, and he was to create now some ranting braggadocio, now some tipsy hag full of poetical speech, and now some young man or girl full of the most abounding health. He never spoke an unkind word, had admirable manners, and yet his art was to fill the streets with rioters, and to bring upon his dearest friends enemies that may last their lifetime. No mind can engender till divided into two, but that of a Keats or a Shelley falls into an intellectual part that follows, and a hidden emotional flying image, whereas in a mind like that of Synge the emotional part is dreaded and stagnant, while the intellectual part is a clear mirror-like technical achievement. But in writing of Synge I have run far ahead, for in 1896 he was but one picture among many. I am often astonished when I think that we can meet unmoved some person, or pass some house, that in later years is to bear a chief part in our life. Should there not be some flutter of the nerve or stopping of the heart like that Macgregor experienced at the first meeting with a phantom? XX Many pictures come before me without date or order. I am walking somewhere near the Luxembourg Gardens when Synge, who seldom generalises and only after much thought, says, "There are three things any two of which have often come together but never all three; ecstasy, asceticism, austerity; I wish to bring all three together." * * * * * I notice that Macgregor considers William Sharp vague and sentimental, while Sharp is repelled by Macgregor's hardness and arrogance. William Sharp met Macgregor in the Louvre, and said, "No doubt considering your studies you live upon milk and fruit." And Macgregor replied, "No, not exactly milk and fruit, but very nearly so;" and now Sharp has lunched with Macgregor and been given nothing but brandy and radishes. * * * * * Macgregor is much troubled by ladies who seek spiritual advice, and one has called to ask his help against phantoms who have the appearance of decayed corpses, and try to get into bed with her at night. He has driven her away with one furious sentence, "Very bad taste on both sides." * * * * * I am sitting in a Café with two French Americans, one in the morning, while we are talking wildly, and some are dancing, there is a tap at the shuttered window; we open it and three ladies enter, the wife of a man of letters, who thought to find no one but a confederate, and her husband's two young sisters whom she has brought secretly to some disreputable dance. She is very confused at seeing us, but as she looks from one to another understands that we have taken some drug and laughs; caught in our dream we know vaguely that she is scandalous according to our code and to all codes, but smile at her benevolently and laugh. * * * * * I am at Stuart Merrill's, and I meet there a young Jewish Persian scholar. He has a large gold ring, seemingly very rough, made by some amateur, and he shows me that it has shaped itself to his finger, and says, "That is because it contains no alloy--it is alchemical gold." I ask who made the gold, and he says a certain Rabbi, and begins to talk of the Rabbi's miracles. We do not question him--perhaps it is true--perhaps he has imagined at all--we are inclined to accept every historical belief once more. * * * * * I am sitting in a Cafe with two French Americans, a German poet Douchenday, and a silent man whom I discover to be Strindberg, and who is looking for the Philosopher's Stone. The French American reads out a manifesto he is about to issue to the Latin Quarter; it proposes to establish a communistic colony of artists in Virginia, and there is a footnote to explain why he selects Virginia, "Art has never flourished twice in the same place. Art has never flourished in Virginia." Douchenday, who has some reputation as a poet, explains that his poems are without verbs, as the verb is the root of all evil in the world. He wishes for an art where all things are immoveable, as though the clouds should be made of marble. I turn over the page of one of his books which he shows me, and find there a poem in dramatic form, but when I ask if he hopes to have it played he says:--"It could only be played by actors before a black marble wall, with masks in their hands. They must not wear the masks for that would not express my scorn for reality." * * * * * I go to the first performance of Alfred Jarry's _Ubu Roi_, at the Théatre de L'Oeuvre, with the Rhymer who had been so attractive to the girl in the bicycling costume. The audience shake their fists at one another, and the Rhymer whispers to me, "There are often duels after these performances," and he explains to me what is happening on the stage. The players are supposed to be dolls, toys, marionettes, and now they are all hopping like wooden frogs, and I can see for myself that the chief personage, who is some kind of King, carries for Sceptre a brush of the kind that we use to clean a closet. Feeling bound to support the most spirited party, we have shouted for the play, but that night at the Hotel Corneille I am very sad, for comedy, objectivity, has displayed its growing power once more. I say, "After Stephane Mallarmé, after Paul Verlaine, after Gustave Moreau, after Puvis de Chavannes, after our own verse, after all our subtle colour and nervous rhythm, after the faint mixed tints of Conder, what more is possible? After us the Savage God." BOOK V THE STIRRING OF THE BONES _THE STIRRING OF THE BONES_ I It may have been the Spring of 1897 that Maud Gonne, who was passing through London, told me that for some reason unknown to her, she had failed to get a Dublin authorization for an American lecturing tour. The young Dublin Nationalists planned a monument to Wolfe Tone which, it was hoped, might exceed in bulk and in height that of the too compromised and compromising Daniel O'Connell, and she proposed to raise money for it by these lectures. I had left the Temple and taken two rooms in Bloomsbury, and in Bloomsbury lived important London Nationalists, elderly doctors, who had been medical students during the Fenian movement. So I was able to gather a sufficient committee to pass the necessary resolution. She had no sooner sailed than I found out why the Dublin committee had refused it, or rather put it off by delay and vague promises. A prominent Irish American had been murdered for political reasons, and another Irish American had been tried and acquitted, but was still accused by his political opponents, and the dispute had spread to London and to Ireland, and had there intermixed itself with current politics and gathered new bitterness. My committee, and the majority of the Nationalist Irish Societies throughout England were upon one side, and the Dublin committee and the majority of the Nationalist Societies in Ireland upon the other, and feeling ran high. Maud Gonne had the same friends that I had, and the Dublin committee could not be made to understand that whatever money she collected would go to the movement, and not to her friends and their opponents. It seemed to me that if I accepted the Presidency of the '98 Commemoration Association of Great Britain, I might be able to prevent a public quarrel, and so make a great central council possible; and a public quarrel I did prevent, though with little gain perhaps to anybody, for at least one active man assured me that I had taken the heart out of his work, and no gain at all perhaps to the movement, for our central council had commonly to send two organizers or to print two pamphlets, that both parties might be represented when one pamphlet or one organizer had served. II It was no business of mine, and that was precisely why I could not keep out of it. Every enterprise that offered, allured just in so far as it was not my business. I still think that in a species of man, wherein I count myself, nothing so much matters as Unity of Being, but if I seek it as Goethe sought, who was not of that species, I but combine in myself, and perhaps as it now seems, looking backward, in others also, incompatibles. Goethe, in whom objectivity and subjectivity were intermixed I hold, as the dark is mixed with the light at the eighteenth Lunar Phase, could but seek it as Wilhelm Meister seeks it intellectually, critically, and through a multitude of deliberately chosen experiences; events and forms of skill gathered as if for a collector's cabinet; whereas true Unity of Being, where all the nature murmurs in response if but a single note be touched, is found emotionally, instinctively, by the rejection of all experience not of the right quality, and by the limitation of its quantity. Of all this I knew nothing, for I saw the world by the light of what my father had said, speaking about some Frenchman who frequented the dissecting rooms to overcome his dread in the interest of that Unity. My father had mocked, but had not explained why he had mocked, and I, for my unhappiness had felt a shuddering fascination. Nor did I understand as yet how little that Unity, however wisely sought, is possible without a Unity of Culture in class or people that is no longer possible at all. "The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart." III I went hither and thither speaking at meetings in England and Scotland and occasionally at tumultuous Dublin conventions, and endured some of the worst months of my life. I had felt years before that I had made a great achievement when the man who trained my uncle's horses invited me to share his Xmas dinner, which we roasted in front of his harness room fire; and now I took an almost equal pride in an evening spent with some small organizer into whose spitoon I secretly poured my third glass of whiskey. I constantly hoped for some gain in self-possession, in rapidity of decision, in capacity for disguise, and am at this moment, I dare say, no different for it all, having but burgeoned and withered like a tree. When Maud Gonne returned she became our directing mind both in England and in Ireland, and it was mainly at her bidding that our movement become a protest against the dissensions, the lack of dignity, of the Parnellite and Anti-Parnellite parties, who had fought one another for seven or eight years, till busy men passed them by, as they did those performing cats that in my childhood I used to see, pretending to spit at one another on a table, outside Charing Cross station. Both parliamentary parties seeing that all young Ireland, and a good part of old, were in the movement, tried to join us, the Anti-Parnellite without abandoning its separate identity. They were admitted I think, but upon what terms I do not remember. I and two or three others had to meet Michael Davitt, and a member of parliament called F. X. O'Brien to talk out the question of separate identity, and I remember nothing of what passed but the manner and image of Michael Davitt. He seemed hardly more unfitted for such negotiation, perhaps even for any possible present politics, than I myself, and I watched him with sympathy. One knows by the way a man sits in his chair if he have emotional intensity, and Davitt's suggested to me a writer, a painter, an artist of some kind, rather than a man of action. Then, too, F. X. O'Brien did not care whether he used a good or a bad argument, whether he seemed a fool or a clever man, so that he carried his point, but if he used a bad argument Davitt would bring our thought back to it though he had to wait several minutes and re-state it. One felt that he had lived always with small unimaginative, effective men whom he despised; and that perhaps through some lack of early education, perhaps because nine years' imprisonment at the most plastic period of his life had jarred or broken his contact with reality, he had failed, except during the first months of the Land League, to dominate those men. He told me that if the split in the Irish Party had not come he would have carried the Land League into the Highlands, and recovered for Ireland as much of Scotland as was still Gaelic in blood or in language. Our negotiations, which interested so much F. X. O'Brien and my two negotiators, a barrister and a doctor, bored him I thought, even more than they did me, to whom they were a novelty; but the Highland plan with its historical foundation and its vague possibilities excited him, and it seemed to me that what we said or did stirred him, at other moments also, to some similar remote thought and emotion. I think he returned my sympathy, for a little before his death he replied to some words of congratulation I sent him after the speech in which he resigned his seat in the House of Commons, with an account of some project of his for improving the quality of the Irish representation there. IV I think that he shared with poet and philosopher the necessity of speaking the whole mind or remaining silent or ineffective, and he had been for years in a movement, where, to adapt certain words of a friend of mine, it was as essential to carry the heart upon the sleeve as the tongue in the cheek. The founders of the Irish Agrarian movement had acted upon the doctrine, contradicted by religious history, that ignorant men will not work for an idea, or feel a political passion for its own sake, and that you must find "a lever" as it was called, some practical grievance; and I do not think that I am fantastic in believing that this faith in "levers," universal among revolutionaries, is but a result of that mechanical philosophy of the Eighteenth Century, which has, as Coleridge said, turned the human mind into the quicksilver at the back of a mirror, though it still permits a work of art to seem "a mirror dawdling along a road." O'Leary had told me the story, not I think hitherto published. A prominent Irish American, not long released from the prison where Fenianism had sent him, cabled to Parnell:--"Take up Land Reform side by side with the National Question and we will support you. See Kickham." What had Parnell, a landowner and a haughty man, to do with the peasant or the peasant's grievance? And he was indeed so ignorant of both that he asked Kickham, novelist and Fenian leader, if he thought the people would take up a land agitation, and Kickham answered:--"I am only afraid they would go to the Gates of Hell for it;" and O'Leary's comment was, "and so they have." And so was founded an agitation where some men pretended to national passion for the land's sake; some men to agrarian passion for the nation's sake; some men to both for their own advancement, and this agitation at the time I write of had but old men to serve it, who found themselves after years of labour, some after years of imprisonment, derided for unscrupulous rascals. Unscrupulous they certainly were, for they had grown up amid make-believe, and now because their practical grievance was too near settlement to blind and to excite, their make-believe was visible to all. They were as eloquent as ever, they had never indeed shared anything in common but the sentimental imagery, the poetical allusions inherited from a still earlier generation, but were faced by a generation that had turned against all oratory. I recall to my memory a member of Parliament who had fought for Parnell's policy after Parnell's death, and much against his own interest, who refused to attend a meeting my friends had summoned at the declaration of the Boer War, because he thought "England was in the right," and yet a week later when the Dublin mob had taken the matter up, advised Irish soldiers to shoot their officers and join President Kruger. I recall another and more distinguished politician who supported the Anti-Parnellite Party in his declining years, and in his vigorous years had raked up some scandal about some Colonial Governor. A friend of mine, after advising that Governor's son to write his father's life, had remembered the scandal and called in her alarm upon the politician; "I do beseech you," he had said and with the greatest earnestness, "to pay no attention whatever to anything I may have said during an election." Certain of these men, all public prepossessions laid aside, were excellent talkers, genial and friendly men, with memories enriched by country humour, and much half sentimental, half practical philosophy, and at moments by poetical feeling that was not all an affectation, found very moving by English sympathisers, of the tear and the smile in Erin's eye. They may even have had more sincerity than their sort elsewhere, but they had inherited a cause that men had died for, and they themselves had gone to jail for it, and had so worn their hereditary martyrdom that they had seemed for a time no common men, and now must pay the penalty. "I have just told Mahaffy," Wilde had said to me, "that it is a party of men of genius," and now John O'Leary, Taylor, and many obscure sincere men had pulled them down; and yet, should what followed, judged by an eye that thinks most of the individual soul, be counted as more clearly out of the common? A movement first of poetry, then of sentimentality, and land hunger, had struggled with, and as the nation passed into the second period of all revolutions, had given way before a movement of abstraction and hatred; and after some twenty years of the second period, though abstraction and hatred have won their victory, there is no clear sign, of a third, a _tertium quid_, and a reasonable frame of mind. Seeing that only the individual soul can attain to its spiritual opposite, a nation in tumult must needs pass to and fro between mechanical opposites, but one hopes always that those opposites may acquire sex and engender. At moments when I have thought of the results of political subjection upon Ireland I have remembered a story told me by Oscar Wilde who professed to have found it in a book of magic, "if you carve a Cerberus upon an emerald," he said, "and put it in the oil of a lamp and carry it into a room where your enemy is, two heads will come upon his shoulders and devour one another." Instead of sharing our traditional sentimental rhetoric with every man who had found a practical grievance, whether one care a button for the grievance or not, most of us were prosecuting heretics. Nationality was like religion, few could be saved, and meditation had but one theme--the perfect nation and its perfect service. "Public opinion," said an anonymous postcard sent to a friend of mine, "will compel you to learn Irish," and it certainly did compel many persons of settled habits to change tailor and cloth. I believed myself dressed according to public opinion, until a letter of apology from my tailor informed me that "It takes such a long time getting Connemara cloth as it has to come all the way from Scotland." The Ireland of men's affections must be, as it were, self-moving, self-creating, though as yet (avoiding a conclusion that seemed hopeless) but few added altogether separate from England politically. Men for the moment were less concerned with the final achievement than with independence from English parties and influence during the struggle for it. We had no longer any leaders, abstractions were in their place; and our Conventions, where O'Leary presided interrupting discussion without the least consideration for rules of procedure when the moment came for his cup of coffee, were dominated by little groups, the Gaelic propagandists, though still very few, being the most impassioned, which had the intensity and narrowness of theological sects. I had in my head a project to reconcile old and new that gave Maud Gonne and myself many stirring conversations upon journeys by rail to meetings in Scotland, in Dublin, or in the Midlands. Should we not persuade the organizations in Dublin and in London, when the time drew near for the unveiling of our statue, or even perhaps for the laying of its foundation stone, to invite the leaders of Parnellite or Anti-Parnellite, of the new group of Unionists who had almost changed sides in their indignation at the over-taxation of Ireland, to lay their policy before our Convention--could we not then propose and carry that the Convention sit permanently, or appoint some Executive Committee to direct Irish policy and report from time to time. The total withdrawal from Westminster had been proposed in the 'Seventies, before the two devouring heads were of equal strength, and now that the abstract head seemed the strongest, would be proposed again, but the Convention could send them thither, not as an independent power, but as its delegation, and only when, and for what purpose the Convention might decide. I dreaded some wild Fenian movement, and with literature perhaps more in my mind than politics, dreamed of that Unity of Culture which might begin with some few men controlling some form of administration. I began to talk my project over with various organizers, who often interrupted their attention which was perhaps only politeness, with some new jibe at Mr. Dillon or Mr. Redmond. I thought I had Maud Gonne's support, but when I overheard her conversation, she commonly urged the entire withdrawal of the Irish Members, or if she did refer to my scheme, it was to suggest the sending to England of eighty ragged and drunken Dublin beggars or eighty pugilists "to be paid by results." She was the first who spoke publicly or semi-publicly of the withdrawal of the Irish Members as a practical policy for our time, so far as I know, but others may have been considering it. A nation in crisis becomes almost like a single mind, or rather like those minds I have described that become channels for parallel streams of thought, each stream taking the colour of the mind it flows through. These streams are not set moving, as I think, through conversation or publication, but through "telepathic contact" at some depth below that of normal consciousness, and it is only years afterwards, when future events have shown the themes' importance, that we discover that they are different expressions of a common theme. That self-moving, self-creating nation necessitated an Irish centre of policy, and I planned a premature impossible peace between those two devouring heads because I was sedentary and thoughtful; but Maud Gonne was not sedentary, and I noticed that before some great event she did not think but became exceedingly superstitous. Are not such as she aware, at moments of great crisis, of some power beyond their own minds; or are they like some good portrait painter of my father's generation and only think when the model is under their eye? Once upon the eve of some demonstration, I found her with many caged larks and finches which she was about to set free for the luck's sake. I abandoned my plans on discovering that our young men, not yet educated by Mr. Birrell's university, would certainly shout down everyone they disagreed with, and that their finance was so extravagant that we must content ourselves with a foundation stone and an iron rail to protect it, for there could never be a statue; while she carried out every plan she made. Her power over crowds was at its height, and some portion of the power came because she could still, even when pushing an abstract principle to what seemed to me an absurdity, keep her own mind free, and so when men and women did her bidding they did it not only because she was beautiful, but because that beauty suggested joy and freedom. Besides there was an element in her beauty that moved minds full of old Gaelic stories and poems, for she looked as though she lived in an ancient civilization where all superiorities whether of the mind or the body were a part of public ceremonial, were in some way the crowd's creation, as the Pope entering the Vatican is the crowd's creation. Her beauty, backed by her great stature, could instantly affect an assembly, and not as often with our stage beauties because obvious and florid, for it was incredibly distinguished, and if--as must be that it might seem that assembly's very self, fused, unified, and solitary--her face, like the face of some Greek statue, showed little thought, her whole body seemed a master work of long labouring thought, as though a Scopas had measured and calculated, consorted with Egyptian sages, and mathematicians out of Babylon, that he might outface even Artemisia's sepulchral image with a living norm. But in that ancient civilization abstract thought scarce existed, while she but rose partially and for a moment out of raging abstraction; and for that reason, as I have known another woman do, she hated her own beauty, not its effect upon others, but its image in the mirror. Beauty is from the antithetical self, and a woman can scarce but hate it, for not only does it demand a painful daily service, but it calls for the denial or the dissolution of the self. "How many centuries spent The sedentary soul, In toil of measurement Beyond eagle or mole Beyond hearing and seeing Or Archimedes' guess, To raise into being That loveliness?" V On the morning of the great procession, the greatest in living memory, the Parnellite and Anti-Parnellite members of Parliament, huddled together like cows in a storm, gather behind our carriage, and I hear John Redmond say to certain of his late enemies, "I went up nearer the head of the Procession, but one of the Marshals said, 'This is not your place, Mr Redmond; your place is further back.' 'No,' I said, 'I will stay here.' 'In that case,' he said, 'I will lead you back.'" Later on I can see by the pushing and shouldering of a delegate from South Africa how important place and procedure is; and noticing that Maud Gonne is cheered everywhere, and that the Irish Members march through street after street without welcome, I wonder if their enemies have not intended their humiliation. * * * * * We are at the Mansion House Banquet, and John Dillon is making the first speech he has made before a popular Dublin audience since the death of Parnell; and I have several times to keep my London delegates from interrupting. Dillon is very nervous, and as I watch him the abstract passion begins to rise within me, and I am almost overpowered by an instinct of cruelty; I long to cry out, "Had Zimri peace who slew his master?" * * * * * Is our Foundation Stone still unlaid when the more important streets are decorated for Queen Victoria's Jubilee? I find Maud Gonne at her hotel talking to a young working-man who looks very melancholy. She had offered to speak at one of the regular meetings of his socialist society about Queen Victoria, and he has summoned what will be a great meeting in the open air. She has refused to speak, and he says that her refusal means his ruin, as nobody will ever believe that he had any promise at all. When he has left without complaint or anger, she gives me very cogent reasons against the open air meeting, but I can think of nothing but the young man and his look of melancholy. He has left his address, and presently at my persuasion, she drives to his tenement, where she finds him and his wife and children crowded into a very small space--perhaps there was only one room--and, moved by the sight, promises to speak. The young man is James Connolly who, with Padraic Pearce, is to make the Insurrection of 1916 and to be executed. * * * * * The meeting is held in College Green and is very crowded, and Maud Gonne speaks, I think, standing upon a chair. In front of her is an old woman with a miniature of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, which she waves in her excitement, crying out, "I was in it before she was born." Maud Gonne tells how that morning she had gone to lay a wreath upon a martyr's tomb at St. Michael's Church, for it is the one day in the year when such wreaths are laid, but has been refused admission because it is the Jubilee. Then she pauses, and after that her voice rises to a cry, "Must the graves of our dead go undecorated because Victoria has her Jubilee?" * * * * * It is eight or nine at night, and she and I have come from the City Hall, where the Convention has been sitting, that we may walk to the National Club in Rutland Square, and we find a great crowd in the street, who surround us and accompany us. Presently I hear a sound of breaking glass, the crowd has begun to stone the windows of decorated houses, and when I try to speak that I may restore order, I discover that I have lost my voice through much speaking at the Convention. I can only whisper and gesticulate, and as I am thus freed from responsibility, I share the emotion of the crowd, and perhaps even feel as they feel when the glass crashes. Maud Gonne has a look of exultation as she walks with her laughing head thrown back. Later that night Connolly carries in procession a coffin with the words "British Empire" upon it, and police and mob fight for its ownership, and at last that the police may not capture, it is thrown into the Liffey. And there are fights between police and window-breakers, and I read in the morning papers that many have been wounded; some two hundred heads have been dressed at the hospitals; an old woman killed by baton blows, or perhaps trampled under the feet of the crowd; and that two thousand pounds worth of decorated plate glass windows have been broken. I count the links in the chain of responsibility, run them across my fingers, and wonder if any link there is from my workshop. * * * * * Queen Victoria visits the city, and Dublin Unionists have gathered together from all Ireland some twelve thousand children and built for them a grandstand, and bought them sweets and buns that they may cheer. A week later Maud Gonne marches forty thousand children through the streets of Dublin, and in a field beyond Drumcondra, and in the presence of a Priest of their Church, they swear to cherish towards England until the freedom of Ireland has been won, an undying enmity. How many of these children will carry bomb or rifle when a little under or a little over thirty? * * * * * Feeling is still running high between the Dublin and London organizations, for a London doctor, my fellow-delegate, has called a little after breakfast to say he was condemned to death by a certain secret society the night before. He is very angry, though it does not seem that his life is in danger, for the insult is beyond endurance. * * * * * We arrive at Chancery Lane for our Committee meeting, but it is Derby Day, and certain men who have arranged a boxing match are in possession of our rooms. We adjourn to a neighbouring public-house where there are little pannelled cubicles as in an old-fashioned eating house, that we may direct the secretary how to answer that week's letters. We are much interrupted by a committee man who has been to the Derby, and now, half lying on the table, keeps repeating, "I know what you all think. Let us hand on the torch, you think, let us hand it on to our children, but I say no! I say, let us order an immediate rising." Presently one of the boxers arrives, sent up to apologise it seems, and to explain that we had not been recognized. He begins his apology but stops, and for a moment fixes upon us a meditative critical eye. "No, I will not," he cries. "What do I care for anyone now but Venus and Adonis and the other Planets of Heaven." * * * * * French sympathisers have been brought to see the old buildings in Galway, and with the towns of Southern France in their mind's eye, are not in the least moved. The greater number are in a small crowded hotel. Presently an acquaintance of mine, peeping, while it is still broad day, from his bedroom window, sees the proprietress of the hotel near the hall door, and in the road a serious-minded, quixotic Dublin barrister, with a little boy who carries from a stick over his shoulder twelve chamber pots. He hears one angry, and one soft pleading explanatory voice, "But, Madam, I feel certain that at the unexpected arrival of so many guests, so many guests of the Nation, I may say, you must have found yourself unprepared." "Never have I been so insulted." "Madam, I am thinking of the honour of my country." * * * * * I am at Maud Gonne's hotel, and an Italian sympathiser Cipriani, the friend of Garibaldi, is there, and though an old man now, he is the handsomest man I have ever seen. I am telling a ghost story in English at one end of the room, and he is talking politics in French at the other. Somebody says, "Yeats believes in ghosts," and Cipriani interrupts for a moment his impassioned declamation to say in English, and with a magnificent movement and intonation, "As for me, I believe in nothing but cannon." * * * * * I call at the office of the Dublin organization in Westmoreland Street, and find the front door open, and the office door open, and though the office is empty the cupboard door open and eighteen pounds in gold upon the shelf. * * * * * At a London Committee meeting I notice a middle-aged man who slips into the room for a moment, whispers something to the secretary, lays three or four shillings on a table, and slips out. I am told that he is an Irish board-school teacher who, in early life, took an oath neither to drink nor smoke, but to contribute the amount so saved weekly to the Irish Cause. * * * * * VI A few months before I was drawn into politics, I made a friendship that was to make possible that old project of an Irish Theatre. Arthur Symons and I were staying at Tillyra Castle in County Galway with Mr. Edward Martyn, when Lady Gregory, whom I had met once in London for a few minutes drove over, and after Symon's return to London I stayed at her house, which is some four miles from Tillyra. I was in poor health, the strain of youth had been greater than it commonly is, even with imaginative men, who must always, I think, find youth bitter, and I had lost myself besides as I had done periodically for years, upon _Hodos Camelionis_. The first time was in my eighteenth or nineteenth years, when I tried to create a more multitudinous dramatic form, and now I had got there through a novel that I could neither write nor cease to write which had _Hodos Camelionis_ for its theme. My chief person was to see all the modern visionary sects pass before his bewildered eyes, as Flaubert's St. Anthony saw the Christian sects, and I was as helpless to create artistic, as my chief person to create philosophic order. It was not that I do not love order, or that I lack capacity for it, but that--and not in the arts and in thought only--I outrun my strength. It is not so much that I choose too many elements, as that the possible unities themselves seem without number, like those angels, that in Henry More's paraphrase of the Schoolman's problem, dance spurred and booted upon the point of a needle. Perhaps fifty years ago I had been in less trouble, but what can one do when the age itself has come to _Hodos Camelionis_? Lady Gregory seeing that I was ill brought me from cottage to cottage to gather folk-belief, tales of the fairies, and the like, and wrote down herself what we had gathered, considering that this work, in which one let others talk, and walked about the fields so much, would lie, to use a country phrase, "Very light upon the mind." She asked me to return there the next year, and for years to come I was to spend my summers at her house. When I was in good health again, I found myself indolent, partly perhaps because I was affrighted by that impossible novel, and asked her to send me to my work every day at eleven, and at some other hour to my letters, rating me with idleness if need be, and I doubt if I should have done much with my life but for her firmness and her care. After a time, though not very quickly, I recovered tolerable industry, though it has only been of late years that I have found it possible to face an hour's verse without a preliminary struggle and much putting off. Certain woods at Sligo, the woods above Dooney Rock and those above the waterfall at Ben Bulben, though I shall never perhaps walk there again, are so deep in my affections that I dream about them at night; and yet the woods at Coole, though they do not come into my dream are so much more knitted to my thought, that when I am dead they will have, I am persuaded, my longest visit. When we are dead, according to my belief, we live our lives backward for a certain number of years, treading the paths that we have trodden, growing young again, even childish again, till some attain an innocence that is no longer a mere accident of nature, but the human intellect's crowning achievement. It was at Coole that the first few simple thoughts that now, grown complex, through their contact with other thoughts, explain the world, came to me from beyond my own mind. I practised meditations, and these, as I think, so affected my sleep that I began to have dreams that differed from ordinary dreams in seeming to take place amid brilliant light, and by their invariable coherence, and certain half-dreams, if I can call them so, between sleep and waking. I have noticed that such experiences come to me most often amid distraction, at some time that seems of all times the least fitting, as though it were necessary for the exterior mind to be engaged elsewhere, and it was during 1897 and 1898, when I was always just arriving from or just setting out to some political meeting, that the first dreams came. I was crossing a little stream near Inchy Wood and actually in the middle of a stride from bank to bank, when an emotion never experienced before swept down upon me. I said, "That is what the devout Christian feels, that is how he surrenders his will to the will of God." I felt an extreme surprise for my whole imagination was preoccupied with the pagan mythology of ancient Ireland, I was marking in red ink upon a large map, every sacred mountain. The next morning I awoke near dawn, to hear a voice saying, "The love of God is infinite for every human soul because every human soul is unique, no other can satisfy the same need in God." Lady Gregory and I had heard many tales of changelings, grown men and women as well as children, who as the people believe are taken by the fairies, some spirit or inanimate object bewitched into their likeness remaining in their stead, and I constantly asked myself what reality there could be in these tales, often supported by so much testimony. I woke one night to find myself lying upon my back with all my limbs rigid, and to hear a ceremonial measured voice which did not seem to be mine speaking through my lips, "We make an image of him who sleeps," it said, "and it is not him who sleeps, and we call it Emmanuel." After many years that thought, others often found as strangely being added to it, became the thought of the Mask, which I have used in these memoirs to explain men's characters. A few months ago at Oxford I was asking myself why it should be "An image of him who sleeps," and took down from the shelf not knowing why I was doing so, a book which I had never read, Burkitt's _Early Eastern Christianity_, and opened it at random. My eyes lit upon a passage from a Gnostic Hymn telling how a certain King's son being exiled, slept in Egypt, a symbol of the natural state, and while he slept an Angel brought him a royal mantle; and at the bottom of the page I found a footnote saying that the word mantle did not represent the meaning properly for that which the Angel gave had the exile's own form and likeness. I did not, however, find in the Gnostic Hymn my other thought that Egypt and that which the Mask represents are antithetical. That, I think, became clear, though I had had some premonitions when a countryman told Lady Gregory and myself that he had heard the crying of new-dropped lambs in November--Spring in the world of Fairy, being November with us. * * * * * On the sea coast at Duras, a few miles from Coole, an old French Count, Florimond de Bastero, lived for certain months in every year. Lady Gregory and I talked over my project of an Irish Theatre looking out upon the lawn of his house, watching a large flock of ducks that was always gathered for his arrival from Paris, and that would be a very small flock, if indeed it were a flock at all, when he set out for Rome in the autumn. I told her that I had given up my project because it was impossible to get the few pounds necessary for a start in little halls, and she promised to collect or give the money necessary. That was her first great service to the Irish intellectual movement. She reminded me the other day that when she first asked me what she could do to help our movement I suggested nothing; and, certainly, no more foresaw her genius that I foresaw that of John Synge, nor had she herself foreseen it. Our theatre had been established before she wrote or had any ambition to write, and yet her little comedies have merriment and beauty, an unusual combination, and those two volumes where the Irish heroic tales are arranged and translated in an English so simple and so noble, may do more than other books to deepen Irish imagination. They contain our ancient literature, are something better than our _Mabinogion_, are almost our _Morte D'Arthur_. It is more fitting, however, that in a book of memoirs I should speak of her personal influence, and especially as no witness is likely to arise better qualified to speak. If that influence were lacking, Ireland would be greatly impoverished, so much has been planned out in the library, or among the woods at Coole; for it was there that John Shawe Taylor found the independence from class and family that made him summon the conference between landlord and tenant, that brought land purchase, and it was there that Hugh Lane formed those Irish ambitions that led to his scattering many thousands, and gathering much ingratitude; and where, but for that conversation at Florimond de Bastero's, had been the genius of Synge? I have written these words instead of leaving all to posterity, and though my friend's ear seems indifferent to praise or blame, that young men to whom recent events are often more obscure than those long past, may learn what debts they owe and to what creditor. END. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE DUNEDIN PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. Periods after "Mr" and "Mrs" are used inconsistently in the original. The following misprints have been corrected: "philospohy" corrected to "philosophy" (page 51) "unkown" corrected to "unknown" (page 87) "have have" corrected to "have" (page 92) "comparson" corrected to "comparison" (page 117) "politicion" corrected to "politician" (page 128) "spendid" corrected to "splendid" (page 137) "mother'" corrected to "mother's" (page 151) "discoverey" corrected to "discovery" (page 161) "Shakesspeare's" corrected to "Shakespeare's" (page 169) "knowlege" corrected to "knowledge" (page 183) "mechnical" corrected to "mechanical" (page 230) "delgation" corrected to "delegation" (page 234) "precedure" corrected to "procedure" (page 237) Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. 
12014	----	THE LIVES OF THE POETS OF GREAT BRITAIN and IRELAND. By Mr. CIBBER, and other Hands. VOL. IV. MDCCLIII. VOLUME IV. Contains the LIVES OF Motteux Manley Mrs. Needler Hughes Prior Centlivre Mrs. Brady Stepney Pack Dawes Arch. York Congreve Vanbrugh Steele Marvel Thomas Mrs. Fenton Booth Sewel Hammond Eusden Eachard Oldmixon Welsted Smyth More Dennis Granville L. Lansdowne Gay Philip D. Wharton Codrington Ward L'Estrange Smith Edmund De Foe Rowe Mrs. Yalden Mitchel Ozell * * * * * _Just Published,_ Dedicated to the Right Honourable PHILIP Earl of CHESTERFIELD. Correctly printed in a neat Pocket Volume (Price Bound Three Shillings,) The Second Edition of LES MOEURS; or, MANNERS. Accurately Translated from the French. Wherein the Principles of Morality, or Social Duties, viz. Piety, Wisdom, Prudence, Fortitude, Justice, Temperance, Love, Friendship, Humanity, &c. &c. are described in all their Branches; the Obligations of them shewn to consist in our Nature, and the Enlargement of them strongly enforc'd. Here Parents are taught, that, giving Birth to a Child, scarcety entitles them to that honourable Name, without a strict Discharge of Parental Duties; the Friend will find, there are a thousand other Decorums, besides the doing of a Favour, to entitle him to the tender Name of Friend; and the Good natur'd Man will find, he ought to extend that Quality beyond the Bounds of his own Neighbourhood or Party. The Whole wrote in a manner entirely New and Entertaining, and enliven'd with real Characters, drawn from life, and fited to instill the Principles of all Social Virtues into tender Minds. Printed for W. Johnston at the Golden-Ball in St. Paul's Church-Yard. THE LIVES OF THE POETS. * * * * * PETER MOTTEAUX, A French gentleman, born and educated at Rohan, in Normandy. He came over into England, was a considerable trader, and resided here many years. He is said to have possessed no inconsiderable share of wit, and humour; and, besides a translation of Don Quixote, several Songs, Prologues and Epilogues, together with a Poem on Tea, dedicated to the Spectator, (see Vol. VII. Numb. 552) he is author of the following dramatic pieces. 1. Love's a Jest, a Comedy; acted at the new Theatre, in little Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1696. In the two scenes, where love is made a jest, some passages are taken from Italian writers. 2. The Loves of Mars and Venus; a Masque set to Music, performed at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1696; dedicated to colonel Codrington. The story from Ovid. 3. The Novelty, or every Act a Play; consisting of Pastoral, Comedy, Masque, Tragedy, and Farce, after the Italian manner; acted at the Theatre in little Lincoln's-Inn Fields 1697. The model of this play is formed upon Sir William Davenant's Play-House to be let: But neither of them met with much success. 4. Europe's Revels for the Peace, and his Majesty's Happy Return, a Musical Interlude, performed at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1697. 5. Beauty in Distress, a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1698. There is some poetry in this play; and in the multiplicity of its incidents, he has followed the example of the British Poets. Before this piece, there is prefixed a discourse on the lawfulness or unlawfulness of plays; written originally in French, by the learned father Cassaro, divinity professor at Paris; sent by a friend to Mr. Motteaux. 6. The Island Princess, or the Generous Portugueze; made into an Opera, and performed at the Theatre-Royal 1701. The music by Mr. Daniel Purcell, Mr. Clark, and Mr. Leveridge. The greatest part of the play is taken from Fletcher's Island Princess. Scene the Spice Island. 7. The Four Seasons, or Love in every Age; a musical Interlude, set to Music by Mr. Jeremiah Clark; printed with the musical Entertainments of the above Opera. 8. Britain's Happiness, a musical Interlude; performed at both the Theatres, being part of the entertainment, subscribed for by the nobility. Scene a prospect of Dover castle and the sea. This Interlude was long before designed, only as an introduction to an Opera; which if ever finished was to have been called the Loves of Europe, every act shewing the manner of the different nations in their addresses to the fair-sex; of which he has informed us in his prefatory epistle. 9. Thomyris Queen of Scythia, an Opera; translated from the Italian; performed at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. 10. The Temple of Love, a Pastoral Opera, from the Italian; performed at the Queen's Theatre in the Hay-market, by her majesty's servants, 1706. Scene Arcadia. Time of action, the same with that of the representation. 11. Love Dragoon'd, a Farce. This gentleman, who seems to have led a very comfortable life, his circumstances being easy, was unfortunate in his death; for he lost his life in a disorderly house, in the parish of St. Clement Danes, not without suspicion of having been murthered; which accident happened to him, on his birth day in the 58th year of his age, 1718. His body was interred in his own parish church, being that of St. Mary Ax, in the city of London. * * * * * Mrs. MANLEY, The celebrated authoress of the Atalantis, was born in Hampshire, in one of those islands which formerly belonged to France, of which her father Sir Roger Manley was governor; who afterwards enjoyed the same post in other places in England. He was the second son of an ancient family; the better part of his estate was ruined in the civil war by his firm adherence to Charles I. He had not the satisfaction of ever being taken notice of, nor was his loyalty acknowledged at the restoration. The governor was a brave gallant man, of great honour and integrity. He became a scholar in the midst of the camp, having left the university at the age of sixteen, to follow the fortunes of Charles I. His temper had too much of the Stoic in it to attend much to the interest of his family. After a life spent in the civil and foreign wars, he began to love ease and retirement, devoting himself to his study, and the charge of his little post, without following the court; his great virtue and modesty, debaring him from solliciting favours from such persons as were then at the helm of affairs, his deserts were buried, and forgotten. In this solitude he wrote several tracts for his own amusement, particularly his Latin Commentaries of the Civil Wars of England. He was likewise author of the first volume of that admired work, the Turkish Spy. One Dr. Midgley, an ingenious physician, related to the family by marriage, had the charge of looking over his papers. Amongst them he found that manuscript, which he reserved to his proper use, and by his own pen, and the assistance of some others, continued the work till the eighth volume was finished, without having the honesty to acknowledge the author of the first. The governor likewise wrote the History of the Rebellion in England, Scotland and Ireland; wherein the most material passages, battles, sieges, policies, and stratagems of war, are impartially related on both sides, from the year 1640, to the beheading of the duke of Monmouth 1688, in three parts, printed in octavo, in the year 1691. His daughter, our authoress, received an education suitable to her birth, and gave very early discoveries of a genius, not only above her years, but much superior to what is usually to be found amongst her own sex. She had the misfortune to lose her mother, while she was yet an infant, a circumstance, which laid the foundation of many calamities, which afterwards befell her. The brother of Sir Roger Manley, who was of principles very opposite to his, joined with the Parliamentarian party; and after Charles I. had suffered, he engaged with great zeal in the cause of those who were for settling a new form of government, in which, however, they were disappointed by the address of Cromwell, who found means to transfer the government into his own hands, and in place of instituting a republic, restored monarchy under another name, and erected a tyranny as dangerous, perhaps, in its consequences, as that which he had contributed to overthrow. During these heats and divisions, Mr. Manley, who adhered to the most powerful party, was fortunate enough to amass an estate, and purchased a title; but these, upon the restoration, reverted back to the former possessor; so that he was left with several small children unprovided for. The eldest of these orphans, Sir Roger Manley took under his protection, bestowed a very liberal education on him, and endeavoured to inspire his mind with other principles, than those he had received from his father. This young gentleman had very promising parts, but under the appearance of an open simplicity, he concealed the most treacherous hypocrisy. Sir Roger, who had a high opinion of his nephew's honour, as well as of his great abilities, on his death-bed bequeathed to him the care of our authoress, and her youngest sister. This man had from nature a very happy address, formed to win much upon the hearts of unexperienced girls; and his two cousins respected him greatly. He placed them at the house of an old, out-of-fashion aunt, who had been a keen partizan of the royal cause during the civil wars; she was full of the heroic stiffness of her own times, and would read books of Chivalry, and Romances with her spectacles. This sort of conversation, much infected the mind of our poetess, and fill'd her imagination with lovers, heroes, and princes; made her think herself in an inchanted region, and that all the men who approached her were knights errant. In a few years the old aunt died, and left the two young ladies without any controul; which as soon as their cousin Mr. Manley heard, he hasted into the country, to visit them; appeared in deep mourning, as he said for the death of his wife; upon which the young ladies congratulated him, as they knew his wife was a woman of a most turbulent temper, and ill fitted to render the conjugal life tolerable. This gentleman, who had seen a great deal of the world, and was acquainted with all the artifices of seducing, lost no time in making love to his cousin, who was no otherwise pleased with it, than as it answered something to the character she had found in those books, which had poisoned and deluded her dawning reason. Soon after these protestations of love were made, the young lady fell into a fever, which was like to prove fatal to her life. The lover and her sister never quitted the chamber for sixteen nights, nor took any other repose than throwing themselves alternately upon a little pallet in the same room. Having in her nature a great deal of gratitude, and a very tender sense of benefits; she promised upon her recovery to marry her guardian, which as soon as her health was sufficiently restored, she performed in the presence of a maid servant, her sister, and a gentleman who had married a relation. In a word, she was married, possessed, and ruin'd. The husband of our poetess brought her to London, fixed her in a remote quarter of it, forbad her to stir out of doors, or to receive the visits of her sister, or any other relations, friends, or acquaintance. This usage, she thought exceeding barbarous, and it grieved her the more excessively, since she married him only because she imagined he loved and doated on her to distraction; for as his person was but ordinary, and his age disproportioned, being twenty-years older than she, it could not be imagined that she was in love with him.--She was very uneasy at being kept a prisoner; but her husband's fondness and jealousy was made the pretence. She always loved reading, to which she was now more than ever obliged, as so much time lay upon her hands: Soon after she proved with child, and so perpetually ill, that she implored her husband to let her enjoy the company of her sister and friends. When he could have no relief from her importunity (being assured that in seeing her relations, she must discover his barbarous deceit) he thought it was best to be himself the relator of his villany; he fell upon his knees before her, with so much seeming confusion, distress and anguish, that she was at a loss to know what could mould his stubborn heart to such contrition. At last, with a thousand well counterfeited tears, and sighs, he stabb'd her with the wounding relation of his wife's being still alive; and with a hypocrite's pangs conjured her to have some mercy on a lost man as he was, in an obstinate, inveterate passion, that had no alternative but death, or possession. He urged, that could he have supported the pain of living without her, he never would have made himself so great a villain; but when the absolute question was, whether he should destroy himself, or betray her, self-love had turned the ballance, though not without that anguish to his soul, which had poisoned all his delights, and planted daggers to stab his peace. That he had a thousand times started in his sleep with guilty apprehensions; the form of her honoured father perpetually haunting his troubled dreams, reproaching him as a traitor to that trust which in his departing moments he had reposed in him; representing to his tortured imagination the care he took of his education, more like a father than an uncle, with which he had rewarded him by effecting the perdition of his favourite daughter, who was the lovely image of his benefactor. With this artful contrition he endeavoured to sooth his injured wife: But what soothing could heal the wounds she had received? Horror! amazement! sense of honour lost! the world's opinion! ten thousand distresses crowded her distracted imagination, and she cast looks upon the conscious traitor with horrible dismay! Her fortune was in his hands, the greatest part of which was already lavished away in the excesses of drinking and gaming. She was young, unacquainted with the world; had never experienced necessity, and knew no arts of redressing it; so that thus forlorn and distressed, to whom could she run for refuge, even from want, and misery, but to the very traitor that had undone her. She was acquainted with none that could or would espouse her cause, a helpless, useless load of grief and melancholy! with child! disgraced! her own relations either unable, or unwilling to relieve her. Thus was she detained by unhappy circumstances, and his prevailing arts to wear away three wretched years with him, in the same house, though she most solemnly protests, and she has a right to be believed, that no persuasion could ever again reconcile her to his impious arms. Whenever she cast her eyes upon her son, it gave a mortal wound to her peace: The circumstances of his birth glared full on her imagination; she saw him, in future, upbraided with his father's treachery, and his mother's misfortunes. Thus forsaken of all the world, in the very morning of her life, when all things should have been gay, and promising, she wore away three wretched years. Mean time her betrayer had procured for himself a considerable employment; the duties of which obliged him to go into the country where his first wife lived. He took leave of his injured innocent, with much seeming tenderness; and made the most sacred protestations, that he would not suffer her, nor her child ever to want. He endeavoured to persuade her to accompany him into the country, and to seduce, and quiet her conscience, shewed her a celebrated piece written in defence of Polygamy, and Concubinage: When he was gone, he soon relapsed into his former extravagances, forgot his promise of providing for his child, and its mother; and inhumanly left them a prey to indigence and oppression. The lady was only happy in being released from the killing anguish, of every day having before her eyes the object of her undoing. When she again came abroad into the world, she was looked upon with cold indifference; that which had been her greatest misfortune, was imputed to her as the most enormous guilt; and she was every where sneered at, avoided, and despised. What pity is it, that an unfortunate, as well as a false step, should damn a woman's fame! In what respect was Mrs. Manley to blame? In what particular was she guilty? to marry her cousin, who passionately professed love to her, and who solemnly vowed himself a widower, could not be guilt; on the other hand, it had prudence and gratitude for its basis. Her continuing in the house with him after he had made the discovery, cannot be guilt, for by doing so, she was prevented from being exposed to such necessities as perhaps would have produced greater ruin. When want and beggary stare a woman in the face, especially one accustomed to the delicacies of life, then indeed is virtue in danger; and they who escape must have more than human assistance. Our poetess now perceived, that together with her reputation, she had lost all the esteem, that her conversation and abilities might have else procured her; and she was reduced to the deplorable necessity of associating with those whose fame was blasted by their indiscretion, because the more sober and virtuous part of the sex did not care to risk their own characters, by being in company with one so much suspected, and against whom the appearance of guilt was too strong. Under this dilemma, it is difficult to point out any method of behaviour, by which she would not be exposed to censure: If she had still persisted in solitude, the ill-natured world would have imputed to it a cause, which is not founded on virtue; besides, as the means of support were now removed, by the perfidy of Mr. Manley, she must have perished by this resolution. In this case, the reader will not be much surprized to find our authoress, under the patronage of the duchess of Cleveland, a mistress of king Charles the IId's, who was justly reckoned one of the most celebrated beauties of that age. Mrs. Manley was paying a visit to a lady of her grace's acquaintance, when she was introduced into the favour of this royal courtezan; and as the duchess of Cleveland was a woman of parts and genius, she could not but be charmed with the sprightliness of her conversation. She was fond of new faces, and immediately contracted the greatest intimacy with our poetess, and gave her a general invitation to her table. The lady at whose house the duchess became acquainted with Mrs. Manley, soon perceived her indiscretion in bringing them together; for the love of novelty so far prevailed on the duchess, that herself was immediately discarded, and the affection formerly bestowed upon her, was lavished on Mrs. Manley. This procured our poetess an inveterate enemy; and the greatest blow that was ever struck at her reputation, was by that woman, who had been before her friend. She was not content to inform persons who began to know and esteem Mrs. Manley, that her marriage was a cheat; but even endeavoured to make the duchess jealous of her new favourite's charms, in respect of Mr. Goodman the player, who at that time had the honour of approaching her grace's person, with the freedom of a gallant. As the duchess of Cleveland was a woman of a very fickle temper, in six months time she began to be tired of Mrs. Manley. She was quarrelsome, loquacious, fierce, excessively fond, or downright rude; when she was disgusted with any person, she never failed to reproach them, with all the bitterness of wit she was mistress of, with such malice, and ill-nature, that she was hated, not only by all the world, but by her own children and servants: The extremes of prodigality, and covetousness, of love, and hatred, of dotage, and fondness, met in her. A woman of this temper will be at no loss for the means of effecting any one's ruin, and having now conceived an aversion to our poetess, she was resolved to drive her from her house, with as much reproach as possible; and accordingly gave out, that she had detected Mrs. Manley in an intrigue with her own son, and as she did not care to give encouragement to such amours, she thought proper to discharge her. Whether or not there was any truth in this charge, it is impossible for us to determine: But if Mrs. Manley's own word may be taken, in such a case, she was perfectly innocent thereof. When our authoress was dismissed by the duchess, she was sollicited by lieutenant-general Tidcomb, to pass some time with him at his country seat; but she excused herself by telling him, she must be in love with a man, before she could think of residing with him, which she could not, without a violation of truth, profess for him. She told him her love of solitude was improved, by her disgust of the world, and since it was impossible for her to be public with reputation, she was resolved to remain in it concealed. It was in this solitude she composed her first tragedy, which was much more famous for the language, fire, and tenderness, than the conduct. Mrs. Barry distinguished herself in it, and the author was often heard to express great surprize, that a man of Mr. Betterton's grave sense, and judgment, should think well enough of the productions of a young woman, to bring it upon the stage, since she herself in a more mature age could hardly bear to read it. But as the play succeeded, she received such unbounded incense from admirers, that her apartment was crowded with men of wit, and gaiety. There is a copy of verses prefixed to her play, said to be written by a very great hand which deserve notice. What! all our sex in one sad hour undone? Lost are our arts, our learning, our renown Since nature's tide of wit came rolling down. Keen were your eyes we knew, and sure their darts; Fire to our soul they send, and passion to our heart! Needless was an addition to such arms, When all mankind were vassals to your charms: That hand but seen, gives wonder and desire, Snow to the fight, but with its touches fire! Who sees thy yielding Queen, and would not be On any terms, the best, the happy he; Entranc'd we fancy all is extasy. Quote Ovid, now no more ye am'rous swains, Delia, than Ovid has more moving strains. Nature in her alone exceeds all art, And nature sure does nearest touch the heart. Oh! might I call the bright discoverer mine, The whole fair sex unenvied I'd resign; Give all my happy hours to Delia's charms, She who by writing thus our wishes warms, What worlds of love must circle in her arms? They who had a regard for Mrs. Manley could not but observe with concern, that her conduct was such, as would soon issue in her ruin. No language but flattery approached her ear; the Beaux told her, that a woman of her wit, was not to be confined to the dull formalities of her own sex, but had a right to assume the unreserved freedom of the male, since all things were pardonable to a lady, who knew to give laws to others, yet was not obliged to keep them herself. General Tidcomb, who seems to have been her sincerest friend, took the privilege of an old acquaintance to correct her ill taste, and the wrong turn she gave her judgment, in admitting adulation from such wretches, whose praise could reflect but little honour, and who would be ready to boast of favours they never received, nor indeed ever endeavoured to obtain. This salutary council was rejected; she told him, that she did not think fit to reform a conduct, which she reckoned very innocent; and still continued to receive the whispers of flatterers, 'till experience taught her the folly of her behaviour, and she lived to repent her indiscretion. Her virtue was now nodding, and she was ready to fall into the arms of any gallant, like mellow fruit, without much trouble in the gathering. Sir Thomas Skipwith, a character of gaiety of those times, and, who it seems had theatrical connections, was recommended to her, as being very able to promote her design in writing for the stage. This knight was in the 50th year of his age, and in the 60th of his constitution, when he was first introduced to her, and as he had been a long practised gallant, he soon made addresses to her, and whether or no this knight, who was more dangerous to a woman's reputation, than her virtue, was favoured by her, the world was so much convinced of it, that her character was now absolutely lost. Sir Thomas was a weak, vain, conceited coxcomb, who delighted in boasting of his conquests over women, and what was often owing to his fortune, and station in life, he imputed to his address, and the elegance of his manner, of both which he was totally destitute. He even published Mrs. Manley's dishonour, and from that time our sprightly poetess was considered, by the sober part of the sex, quite abandoned to all shame. When her affair with this superannuated knight was over, she soon engaged in another intrigue, still more prejudicial to her character; for it was with a married man, one Mr. Tilly, a gentleman of the Law; with whom she lived a considerable time: while he underwent at home many of those severe lectures, which the just provocation, and jealousy of his wife taught her to read him. Mrs. Tilly at last died, and our gallant was left at his freedom to marry the object of his passion; but unluckily his finances were in such a situation, that he was obliged to repair them by marrying a woman of fortune. This was a cruel circumstance; for he really loved, and doated upon Mrs. Manley, and had the felicity of a reciprocal passion. She agreed however, in order to repair his fortune, that he should marry a rich young widow, whom he soon won by the elegance of his address, while our authoress retired into the country to spend her days in solitude and sorrow, and bid an everlasting farewel to the pleasures of love and gallantry. Mr. Tilly did not many years survive this reparation: his life was rendered miserable at home by the jealousy of his young wife, who had heard of his affair with Mrs. Manley; he lost his senses, and died in a deplorable situation. During her retirement, our authoress, who had a most confirmed aversion to the Whig ministry, wrote her Atalantis, which was meant as a representation of the characters of some of those, who had effected the Revolution. A warrant was granted from the secretary of state's office, to seize the Printer and Publisher of these volumes. This circumstance reduced the writer to a very troublesome dilemma; she could not bear the thoughts that innocent people should suffer on her account, and she judged it cruel to remain concealed, while they who were only inferior instruments, were suffering for her. She consulted, on this occasion, her best friend, general Tidcomb, who, after rallying her for exposing people, who had never in particular injured her, he advised her to go into France, and made her an offer of his purse for that purpose. This advice she rejected, and came to a determined resolution, that no person should ever suffer on her account. The general asked her, how she should like to be confined in Newgate? to which she answered, that she would rather lye in a prison, after having discharged her conference, than riot in a palace under its reproaches. The general upon this replied, that these things sounded very heroic, but there was a great difference between real and imaginary sufferings, 'that she had chosen to declare herself for the Tories, a party, who never could keep their own, nor other people's secrets, and were ever forgetful of such as served them; that the most severe critics upon the Tory writings, were the Tories themselves, who never considering the design, or honest intention of the author, would examine the performance only, and that too with as much severity, as they would an enemy's, and at the same time value themselves upon being impartial against their friends. Then as to gratitude, or generosity, the Tories did not approach to the Whigs, who never suffered any man to go unrewarded, however dull, or insignificant, provided he declared himself to be for them; whereas the Tories had no general interest, and consequently no particular, each person refusing to contribute towards the benefit of the whole; and if it should happen, that she should perish, through want, in a Jail, they would sooner condemn her folly, than pity her sufferings.' This did not deter our poetess from voluntarily preferring herself before the Court of King's Bench, as the author of the Atalantis. When she was examined before the secretary (then lord Sunderland) he was assiduous to know from whom she had got information of some particulars, which they imagined were above her own intelligence. Her defence was with much humility and sorrow, at the same time denying that any persons were concerned with her, or that she had a farther design than writing for her own amusement, and diversion in the country, without intending particular reflexions, or characters; when this was not believed, and the contrary urged against her by several circumstances, she said, 'then it must be by inspiration, because knowing her own innocence, she could account for it no other way.' The secretary replied, 'that inspiration used to be upon a good account, and her writings were stark naught.' She, with an air of penitence, 'acknowledged, that his lordship's observation might be true, but that there were evil angels, as well as good, so that nevertheless what she had wrote, might still be by inspiration.' In consequence of this examination, our authoress was close shut up in a messenger's house, without being allowed pen, ink, and paper. However her council sued out her Habeas Corpus at the King's-Bench Bar, and she was admitted to bail. Whether those in power were ashamed to bring a woman to her trial, for writing a few amorous trifles, or our laws were defective, as was generally conjectured, because she had disguised her satire under romantic names, and a feigned scene of action, she was discharged, after several times exposing her in person, to cross the court before the Bench of Judges, with her three attendants, the Printer, and two Publishers. Not long after this a total change of the ministry ensued, the statesmen to whom she had been obnoxious were removed, and consequently all her fears upon that score dissipated; her native gaiety, and good humour returned, and she again employed herself in writing a tragedy for the stage, and resolved never more to deal in politics, as being much out of the natural sphere of a woman, she was persuaded it was folly in one in her station, to disoblige any party by a pen, equally qualified to divert all. Being advanced to the autumn of her charms, she conversed with the opposite sex, in a manner very delicate, sensible, and agreeable, and when she felt that time had left his impression upon her brow, she did not court praise and flattery. The greatest genius's of the times conversed freely with her, and gave her daily proofs of esteem, and friendship, except Sir Richard Steele, with whom it seems she was at variance; and indeed Sir Richard sufficiently exposed himself by his manner of taking revenge; for he published to the world that it was his own fault he was not happy with Mrs. Manley, for which omission he publickly, and gravely asked her pardon. Those are the most material incidents in the life of our poetess; a lady, who was born with high powers from nature, which were afterwards cultivated by enjoying the brightest conversation; the early part of her life was unfortunate, she fell a sacrifice to a seducer, who laid the foundation for those errors she afterwards committed, and of those sufferings she underwent; she had a high relish for the pleasures of life; she was extremely susceptible of the passion of love, and treated it with a peculiar vivacity. Her dramatic works are 1. The Lover, or The Jealous Husband; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1696. This play did not succeed in the representation. 2. The Royal Mischief, a Tragedy; acted by his Majesty's Servants in the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1696. This was exhibited with general applause. 3. Lucius, the First Christian King of Britain, a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane by his Majesty's Servants, and dedicated to Sir Richard Steele. She has written several poems, and we shall select, as a specimen, an Epistle to the Countess of Bristol, which will shew how much she possessed the power of delicate numbers; she has also in print a volume of Letters, the second edition of which was published in 1713. She died July 11, 1724. To the Right Honourable the Countess of BRISTOL. Long had my mind, unknowing how to soar, In humble prose been train'd, nor aim'd at more: Near the fam'd sisters never durst aspire To sound a verse, or touch the tuneful lyre. 'Till Bristol's charms dissolv'd the native cold; Bad me survey her eyes, and thence be bold. Thee, lovely Bristol! thee! with pride I chuse, The first, and only subject of my muse; That durst transport me like the bird of Jove, To face th' immortal source of light above! Such are thy kindred beams-- So blessings, with a bounteous hand they give, So they create, and make creation live. When charming Felton, of a beauteous race, Adorn'd in blooming youth, with ev'ry grace; First saw the lovely Suffolk Swain her prize, The noblest conquest of the brightest eyes! How many wretched nymphs that union made, What cold despair the warmest hearts invade! What crouds of lovers, hopeless and undone, Deplore those charms which brought their ruin on! Rich in themselves--all excellence they find, Wit! beauty! wisdom! and a constant mind! No vain desires of change disturb their joy; Such sweets, like bliss divine, can never cloy: Fill'd with that spirit which great souls inflame, Their wondrous offspring start to early fame. In their young minds, immortal sparkles rise! And all their mother flashes from their eyes! From thence such scenes of beauty charm the sight, We know not where o fix the strong delight! Hervey's soft features--next, Eliza bright! Anna just dawning, like Aurora's light! With all the smiling train of Cupids round, Fond little loves, with flowing graces crown'd. As some fair flowers, who all their bloom disclose, The Spanish Jas'min, or the British Rose? Arriv'd at full perfection, charm the sense, Whilst the young blossoms gradual sweets dispense. The eldest born, with almost equal pride; The next appears in fainter colours dy'd: New op'ning buds, as less in debt to time, Wait to perform the promise of their prime! All blest descendants of the beauteous tree, What now their parent is, themselves shall be. Oh! could I paint the younger Hervey's mind, Where wit and judgment, fire and taste refin'd To match his face, with equal art are join'd: Oh best belov'd of Jove! to thee alone, What would enrich the whole, he gives to one! [A]In Titian's colours whilst Adonis glows, See fairest Bristol more than Venus shows; View well the valu'd piece, how nice each part; Yet nature's hand surpasses Titian's art! Such had his Venus and Adonis been, The standard beauty had from thence been seen! Whose arbitrary laws had fix'd the doom To Hervey's form, and Bristol's ever bloom! [B]As once Kazeia, now Eliza warms The kindred-fair bequeath'd her all her charms; Such were her darts, so piercing and so strong, Endow'd by Phoebus both, with tuneful song; But far from thee Eliza be her doom; Snatch'd hence by death, in all her beauty's bloom. Long may'st thou live, adorning Bristol's name, With future heroes to augment his fame. When haughty Niobe, with joy and pride, Saw all her shining offspring grace her side; She view'd their charms, exulting at each line, And then oppos'd 'em to the race divine! Enrag'd Latona urg'd the silver bow: Immortal vengeance laid their beauties low. No more a mother now--too much she mourn'd, By grief incessant into marble turn'd. But lovely Bristol, with a pious mind, Owns all her blessings are from Heav'n assign'd. Her matchless Lord--her beauteous numerous race! Her virtue, modesty, and ev'ry grace! For these, devoutly, to the gods she bows, And offers daily praise, and daily vows: Phoebus, well-pleas'd, the sacrifice regards; And thus the grateful mother's zeal rewards: 'Beauty and wit, to all of Bristol's line! But each in some peculiar grace shall shine! Or to excel in courts, and please the fair! Or Conquest gain thro' all the wat'ry war! With harmony divine the ear to charm! Or souls with more melodious numbers warm! By wond'rous memory shall some excel In awful senates, and in speaking well! To hold Astræa's scales with equal hand, And call back justice to that happy land! To teach mankind how best the gods to praise! To fix their minds in truth's unerring ways! 'Thus all her honours, Bristol's sons shall wear, Whilst each his country's good shall make his chiefest care!' [Footnote A: This is not designed as a parallel of the story, but the painting from a piece of Titian's, at my lord Bristol's.] [Footnote B: A sister of lord Bristol's, who was a lady of most extraordinary beauty.] * * * * * HENRY NEEDLER, This Poet was born at Harley in Surry, in the year 1690, and educated at a private school at Ryegate in the same county[A]. He was removed from thence in 1705, and in 1708 accepted a small place in a public office; where he continued the remainder of his days. About this time contracting a friendship with a gentleman of a like taste, who furnished him with proper books, he applied himself at his intervals of leisure, to reading the dailies, and to the study of logic, metaphysics, and the mathematics, with which last he was peculiarly delighted. And in a few years by the force of his own happy genius, and unwearied diligence, without the assistance of any master, he acquired a considerable knowledge of the most difficult branches of those useful and entertaining studies. By so close an application, he contracted a violent pain in his head, which notwithstanding the best advice, daily encreased. This, and other unfortunate circumstances concurring, so deeply affected him, who had besides in his constitution a strong tincture of melancholy, that he was at last brought under almost a total extinction of reason. In this condition he fell into a fever; and as there were before scarce any hopes of him, it may be said to have happily put an end to the deplorable bondage of so bright a mind, on the 21st of December, 1718, in the 29th year of his age. He was buried in the church of Friendsbury, near Rochester. Mr. Needler's life was influenced by the principles of sincere, unaffected piety, and virtue. On all occasions (says Mr. Duncomb) 'he was a strenuous advocate for universal toleration and forbearance in matters of religion; rightly supposing that no service can be acceptable to the supreme Being, unless it proceeds from the heart; and that force serves only to make hypocrites, but adds no new lights to the understanding. He was modest to a fault, entertaining the most humble opinion of his own performances; and was always ready to do justice to those of others. His affection for his friends indeed sometimes biassed his judgment, and led him to the commending their writings beyond their merit.' In the volume of Mr. Needler's works, are printed some familiar Letters, upon moral, and natural subjects. They are written with elegance and taste; the heart of a good man may be traced in them all, and equally abound with pious notions, as good sense, and solid reasoning.--He seems to have been very much master of smooth versification, his subjects are happily chosen, and there is a philosophical air runs through all his writings; as an instance of this, we shall present our readers with a copy of his verses addressed to Sir Richard Blackmore, on his Poem, intitled The Creation. Dress'd in the charms of wit and fancy, long The muse has pleas'd us with her syren song; But weak of reason, and deprav'd of mind, Too oft on vile, ignoble themes we find The wanton muse her sacred art debase, Forgetful of her birth, and heavenly race; Too oft her flatt'ring songs to sin intice, And in false colours deck delusive vice; Too oft she condescends, in servile lays, The undeserving rich and great to praise. These beaten paths, thy loftier strains refuse With just disdain, and nobler subjects chuse: Fir'd with sublimer thoughts, thy daring soul Wings her aspiring flight from Pole to Pole, Observes the foot-steps of a pow'r divine, Which in each part of nature's system shine; Surveys the wonders of this beauteous frame, And sings the sacred source, whence all things came. But Oh! what numbers shall I find to tell, The mighty transports which my bosom swell, Whilst, guided by thy tuneful voice, I stray Thro' radiant worlds, and fields of native day, Wasted from orb, to orb, unwearied fly Thro' the blue regions of the yielding sky; See how the spheres in stated courses roll, And view the just composure of the whole! Such were the strains, by antient Orpheus sung. To such, Mufæus' heav'nly lyre was strung; Exalted truths, in learned verse they told, And nature's deepest secrets did unfold. How at th' eternal mind's omnisic call, Yon starry arch, and this terrestrial ball, The briny wave, the blazing source of light, And the wane empress of the silent night, Each in it's order rose and took its place, And filled with recent forms the vacant space; How rolling planets trace their destin'd way, Nor in the wastes of pathless �ther stray; How the pale moon, with silver beams adorn Her chearful orb, and gilds her sharpened horns; How the vast ocean's swelling tides obey Her distant reign, and own her watr'y sway; How erring floods, their circling course maintain, Supplied by constant succours from the main; Whilst to the sea, the refluent streams restore, The liquid treasures which she lent before; What dreadful veil obscures the solar light, And Phæbe's darken'd face conceals from mortal sight. Thy learned muse, I with like pleasure hear The wonders of the lesser world declare, Point out the various marks of skill divine, Which thro' its complicated structure mine, In tuneful verse, the vital current trace, Thro' all the windings of its mazy race, And tell hew the rich purple tide bestows, Vigour, and kindly warmth where e'er it flows; By what contrivance of mechanic art The muscles, motions to the limbs impart; How at th' imperial mind's impulsive nod, Th' obedient spirits thro' the nervous road Find thro' their fib'rous cells the ready way, And the high dictates of the will obey; From how exact and delicate a frame, The channeled bones their nimble action claim; With how much depth, and subtility of thought The curious organ of the eye is wrought; How from the brain their root the nerves derive, And sense to ev'ry distant member give. Th' extensive knowledge you of men enjoy, You to a double use of man employ; Nor to the body, is your skill confin'd, Of error's worse disease you heal the mind. No longer shall the hardy atheist praise Lucretius' piercing wit, and philosophic lays; But by your lines convinc'd, and charm'd at once, His impious tenets shall at length renounce, At length to truth and eloquence shall yield, Confess himself subdu'd, and wisely quit the field. [Footnote A: See his Life prefixed to his works, by William Duncomb Esq;] * * * * * JOHN HUGHES, William Duncomb, esq; has obliged the world with an entire edition of this author's poetical and prose works, to which he has prefixed some account of his life, written with candour and spirit. Upon his authority we chiefly build the following narration; in which we shall endeavour to do as much justice as possible to the memory of this excellent poet. Our author was the son of a worthy citizen of London, and born at Marlborough in the county of Wilts, on the 29th of January 1677; but received the rudiments of his learning at private schools in London. In the earliest years of his youth, he applied himself with ardour to the pursuit of the sister arts, poetry, drawing and music, in each of which by turns, he made a considerable progress; but for the most part pursued these and other polite studies, only as agreeable amusements, under frequent confinement from indisposition, and a valetudinary state of health. He had some time an employment in the office of ordinance; and was secretary to two or three commissioners under the great-seal, for purchasing lands for the better securing the docks and harbours at Portsmouth, Chatham, and Harwich. In the year 1717 the lord chancellor Cowper, (to whom Mr. Hughes was then but lately known) was pleased, without any previous sollicitation, to make him his secretary for the commissions of the peace, and to distinguish him with singular marks of his favour and affection: And upon his lordship's laying down the great-seal, he was at his particular recommendation, and with the ready concurrence of his successor, continued in the same employment under the earl of Macclesfield. He held this place to the time of his decease, which happened on the 17th of February 1719, the very night in which his tragedy, entitled the Siege of Damascus, was first acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane. He was cut off by a consumption, after a painful life, at the age of 42, when he had just arrived at an agreeable competence, and advancing in fame and fortune. So just is the beautiful reflexion of Milton in his Lycidas; Fame is the spur, that the clear spirit doth raise, (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon, when we hops to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind fury with th' abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life.-- He was privately buried in the vault under the chancel of St. Andrew's Church in Holborn. Mr. Hughes, as a testimony of gratitude to his noble friend, and generous patron, earl Cowper, gave his lordship a few weeks before he died, his picture drawn by Sir Godfrey Kneller, which he himself had received from that masterly painter. The value lord Cowper set upon it will be best shewn, by the letter he wrote upon this occasion to Mr. Hughes. As such a testimony from so eminent a person, was considered by himself as one of the highest honours he was capable of receiving, we shall therefore insert it. 24th Jan. 1719-20. 'Sir, 'I thank you for the most acceptable present of your picture, and assure you that none of this age can set a higher value on it than I do, and shall while I live, tho' I am sensible posterity will out-do me in that particular.' I am with the greatest esteem, and sincerity Your most affectionate, and oblig'd humble servant COWPER. Mr. Hughes was happy in the acquaintance and friendship of several of the greatest men, and most distinguished genius's of the age in which he lived; particularly of the nobleman just now mentioned, the present lord bishop of Winchester, lord chief baron Gilbert, Sir Godfrey Kneller, Mr. Congreve, Mr. Addison, Sir Richard Steele, Mr. Southern, Mr. Rowe, &c. and might have justly boasted in the words of Horace ----me Cum magnis vixisse, invita fatebitu usque Invidia.---- Having given this short account of his life, which perhaps is all that is preserved any where concerning him; we shall now consider him, first, as a poet, and then as a prose writer. The Triumph of Peace was the earliest poem he wrote of any length, that appeared in public. It was written on occasion of the peace of Ryswick, and printed in the year 1677. A learned gentleman at Cambridge, in a letter to a friend of Mr. Hughes's, dated the 28th of February 1697-8, gives the following account of the favourable reception this poem met with there, upon its first publication. 'I think I never heard a poem read with so much admiration, as the Triumph of Peace was by our best critics here, nor a greater character given to a young poet, at his first appearing; no, not even to Mr. Congreve himself. So nobly elevated are his thoughts, his numbers so harmonious, and his turns so fine and delicate, that we cry out with Tully, on a like occasion, 'Nostræ spes altera Romæ!' The Court of Neptune, was written on king William's return from Holland, two years after the peace, in 1699. This Poem was admired for the verification, however, the musical flow of the numbers is its least praise; it rather deserves to be valued for the propriety, and boldness of the figures and metaphors, and the machinery. The following lines have been justly quoted as an instance of the author's happy choice of metaphors. As when the golden god, who rules the day, Drives down his flaming chariot to the sea, And leaves the nations here, involved in night, To distant regions he transports his light; So William's rays by turns, two rations cheer, And when he sets to them, he rises here. A friend of Mr. Hughes's soon after the publication of this poem, complimented him upon the choice of his subject, and for the moral sentiments contained in it. 'I am sure (says he) virtue is most for the interest of mankind; and those poets have ever obtained the most honour in the world, who have made that the end and design of their works. A wanton Sappho, or Anacreon, among the ancients, never had the same applause, as a Pindar, or Alexis; nor in the judgment of Horace did they deserve it. In the opinion of all posterity, a lewd and debauch'd Ovid, did justly submit to the worth of a Virgil; and, in future ages, a Dryden will never be compared to Milton. In all times, and in all places of the world, the moral poets have been ever the greatest; and as much superior to others in wit, as in virtue. Nor does this seem difficult to be accounted for, since the dignity of their subjects naturally raised their ideas, and gave a grandeur to their sentiments.' The House of Nassau, a Pindaric Ode (printed in 1702) was occasioned by the death of king William. 'In Pindaric and Lyric Poetry (says Mr. Duncomb) our author's genius shines in its full lustre. Tho' he enjoyed all that fire of imagination, and divine enthusiasm, for which some of the ancient poets are so deservedly admired, yet did his fancy never run away with his reason, but was always guided by superior judgment; and the music of his verse is exquisite.' The Translation of the third Ode of the third Book of Horace, and the Paraphrase of the twenty-second Ode, of the first book, were both written when he was very young; and the latter of them was his first poetical Essay, which appeared in print. Mr. Hughes, in a private letter sent to one of his friends, gives it as his opinion, that the Odes of Horace, are fitter to be paraphrased, than translated. The Tenth Book of Lucan, was translated by Mr. Hughes, long before Mr. Rowe undertook that author. The occasion of it was this: Mr. Tonson the bookseller, sollicited a translation of Lucan, by several hands. Mr. Hughes performed his part, but others failing in their promises, the design was dropp'd; and Mr. Rowe was afterwards prevailed upon to undertake the whole, which he performed with great success. In the year 1709 Mr. Hughes obliged the publick, with an elegant translation of Moliere's celebrated Comedy, the Misantrope. This has been since reprinted, with the other plays of that admirable author, translated by Mr. Ozell; but care is taken to distinguish this particular play. In the year 1712 his Opera of Calypso and Telemachus, was performed at the Queen's Theatre in the Hay-Market. Perhaps it may be worth while to mention here, one circumstance concerning this Opera, as it relates to the History of Music in England, and discovers the great partiality shewn at that time to Opera's performed in Italian. After many such had been encouraged by large subscriptions, this, originally written, and set in English, after the Italian manner, was prepared with the usual expence of scenes and decorations; and being much crowded and applauded at the rehearsals, a subscription was obtained for it as usual. This alarmed the whole Italian band, who, apprehending that their profession would suffer thereby, procured an order from the duke of Shrewsbury, then lord chamberlain, the day before the performing of this Opera, to take off the subscription for it, and to open the house at the lowest prices, or not at all. This was designed to sink it, but failed of its end. It was performed, formed, though under such great discouragement; and was revived afterwards at the theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. Mr. Addison, in the Spectator, Numb. 405, speaking of the just applause given this opera, by Signior Nicolini (who he says was the greatest performer in dramatic music, that perhaps ever appeared upon a stage) has these words, 'The town is highly obliged to that excellent artist, for having shewn us the Italian music in its perfection, as well as for that generous approbation he gave to an Opera of our own country, in which Mr. Galliard the composer endeavoured to do justice to the beauty of the words, by following that noble example which has been set him by the greatest foreign masters of that art.' The Ode to the Creator of the World, occasioned by the fragments of Orpheus, was printed in the year 1713, at the particular instance of Mr. Addison; and is mentioned with applause in the Spectator. This, and the Extasy, (published since the death of the author) are justly esteemed two of the noblest Odes in our language. The seventh Stanza of the last mentioned piece, is so sublimely excellent, that it would be denying ourselves, and our poetical readers, a pleasure not to transcribe it. The whole of this Ode is beautifully heightened, and poetically conceived. It furnished a hint to a living Poet to write what he entitles the Excursion, which tho' it has very great merit, yet falls infinitely short of this animated Ode of Mr. Hughes. After having represented the natural and artificial calamities to which man is doomed, he proceeds, But why do I delay my flight? Or on such gloomy objects gaze? I go to realms serene, with ever-living light. Haste, clouds and whirlwinds, haste a raptured bard to raise; Mount me sublime along the shining way, Where planets, in pure streams of Aether driven, Swim thro' the blue expanse of heav'n. And lo! th' obsequious clouds and winds obey! And lo! again the nations downward fly; And wide-stretch'd kingdoms perish from my eye. Heav'n! what bright visions now arise! What op'ning worlds my ravish'd sense surprize! I pass Cerulian gulphs, and now behold New solid globes; their weight self-ballanc'd, bear Unprop'd amidst the fluid air, And all, around the central Sun, incircling eddies roll'd. Unequal in their course, see they advance And form the planetary dance! Here the pale Moon, whom the same laws ordain T' obey the earth, and rule the main; Here spots no more in shadowy streaks appear; But lakes instead, and groves of trees, The wand'ring muse, transported sees, And their tall heads discover'd mountains rear. And now once more, I downward cast my sight, When lo! the earth, a larger moon displays, Far off, amidst the heav'ns, her silver face, And to her sister moons by turns gives light! Her seas are shadowy spots, her land a milky white. The author of an Essay on Criticism, printed in the year 1728, informs us, that the Tragedy of Cato being brought upon the stage in 1713 was owing to Mr. Hughes. The circumstances recorded by this author are so remarkable, that they deserve to be related; and as they serve to shew the high opinion Mr. Addison entertained of our author's abilities as a Poet, I shall therefore transcribe his own words.-- 'It has been often said by good judges, that Cato was no proper subject for a dramatic poem: That the character of a stoic philosopher, is inconsistent with the hurry and tumult of action, and passions which are the soul of tragedy. That the ingenious author miscarried in the plan of his work, but supported it by the dignity, the purity, the beauty, and justness of the sentiments. This was so much the opinion of Mr. Maynwaring, who was generally allowed to be the best critic of our time; that he was against bringing the play upon the stage, and it lay by unfinished many years. That it was play'd at last was owing to Mr. Hughes. He had read the four acts which were finished, and really thought it would be of service to the public, to have it represented at the latter end of queen Anne's reign, when the spirit of liberty was likely to be lost. He endeavoured to bring Mr. Addison into his opinion, which he did, and consented it should be acted if Mr. Hughes would write the last act; and he offered him the scenery for his assistance, excusing his not finishing it himself, upon account of some other avocations. He press'd Mr. Hughes to do it so earnestly, that he was prevailed upon, and set about it. But, a week after, seeing Mr. Addison again, with an intention to communicate to him what he thought of it, he was agreeably surprized at his producing some papers, where near half of the act was written by the author himself, who took fire at the hint, that it would be serviceable; and, upon a second reflexion, went through with the fifth act, not that he was diffident of Mr. Hughes's abilities; but knowing that no man could have so perfect a notion of his design as himself, who had been so long, and so carefully thinking of it. I was told this by Mr. Hughes, and I tell it to shew, that it was not for the love-scenes, that Mr. Addison consented to have his Tragedy acted, but to support public spirit; which in the opinion of the author was then declining.' In the year 1720 the Siege of Damascus was acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, with universal applause. His present majesty honoured it with his presence, and the late queen distinguished it with marks of favour. Mr. Hughes drew up the dedication of this Tragedy to the late Earl Cowper, about ten days before he died. It is indeed surprising, that he should be able to form a piece so finely turned, and at such an hour; when death was just before him, and he was too weak to transcribe it himself. Mr. Pope, in a letter to Mr. Hughes's brother, written soon after his death, in answer to one received from him, with the printed copy of the play, has the following pathetic passage. 'I read over again your brother's play, with more concern and sorrow, than I ever felt in the reading any Tragedy. The real loss of a good man may be called a distress to the world, and ought to affect us more, than any feigned distress, how well drawn soever. I am glad of an occasion of giving you under my hand this testimony, both how excellent I think this work to be, and how excellent I thought the author.' It is generally allowed that the characters in this play are finely varied and distinguished; that the sentiments are just, and well adapted to the characters; that it abounds with beautiful descriptions, apt allusions to the manners, and opinions of the times where the scene is laid, and with noble morals; that the diction is pure, unaffected, and sublime; and that the plot is conducted in a simple and clear manner. Some critics have objected, that there is not a sufficient ground and foundation, for the distress in the fourth and fifth acts. That Phocyas only assists the enemy to take Damascus a few days sooner, than it must unavoidably have fallen into the hands of the Saracens by a capitulation, which was far from dishonourable. If Phocyas is guilty, his guilt must consist in this only, that he performed the same action from a sense of his own wrong, and to preserve the idol of his soul from violation, and death, which he might have performed laudably, upon better principles. But this (say they) seems not sufficient ground for those strong and stinging reproaches he casts upon himself, nor for Eudocia's rejecting him with so much severity. It would have been a better ground of distress, considering the frailty of human nature, and the violent temptations he lay under; if he had been at last prevailed upon to profess himself a Mahometan: For then his remorse, and self-condemnation, would have been natural, his punishment just, and the character of Eudocia placed in a more amiable light. In answer to these objections, and in order to do justice to the judgment of Mr. Hughes, we must observe, that he formed his play according to the plan here recommended: but, over-persuaded by some friends, he altered it as it now stands. When our author was but in the nineteenth year of his age, he wrote a Tragedy, entitled, Amalasont Queen of the Goths, which displays a fertile genius, and a masterly invention. Besides these poetical productions Mr. Hughes is author of several works in prose, particularly, The Advices from Parnassus, and the Poetical Touchstone of Trajano Boccalini, translated by several hands, were printed in folio 1706. This translation was revised and corrected, and the preface to it was written by Mr. Hughes. Fontenelle's Dialogues of the Dead, translated by our author; with two original Dialogues, published in the year 1708. The greatest part of this had lain by him for six years. Fontenelle's Discourse concerning the ancients, and moderns, are printed with his conversations with a Lady, on the Plurality of Worlds, translated by Glanville. The History of the Revolutions in Portugal, written in French, by Monsieur L'Abbé de Vertot, was translated by Mr. Hughes. The Translation of the Letters of Abelard and Heloise, was done by Mr. Hughes; upon which Mr. Pope has built his beautiful Epistle of Heloise to Abelard. As Mr. Hughes was an occasional contributor to the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, the reader perhaps may be curious to know more particularly what share he had in those papers, which are so justly admired in all places in the world, where taste and genius have visited. As it is the highest honour to have had any concern in works like these, so it would be most injurious to the memory of this excellent genius, not to particularize his share in them. In the Tatler he writ, Vol. II. Numb. 64. A Letter signed Josiah Couplet. Numb. 73. A Letter against Gamesters, signed William Trusty. Mr. Tickell alludes to this Letter, in a Copy of Verses addressed to the Spectator, Vol. VII. No. 532. From Felon Gamesters, the raw squire is free, And Briton owes her rescued oaks to thee. Numb. 113. The Inventory of a Beau. In the Spectator. Vol. I. Numb. 33. A Letter on the Art of improving beauty. Numb. 53. A Second Letter on the same subject. Numb. 66. Two Letters concerning fine breeding. Vol. II. Numb. 91. The History of Honoria, or the Rival Mother. Numb. 104. A Letter on Riding-Habits for Ladies. Numb. 141. Remarks on a Comedy, intitled the Lancashire-Witches. Vol. III. Numb. 210. On the immortality of the Soul. Numb. 220. A Letter concerning expedients for Wit. Numb. 230. All, except the last Letter. Numb. 231. A Letter on the awe of appearing before public assemblies. Numb. 237. On Divine Providence. Vol. IV. Numb. 252. A Letter on the Eloquence of Tears, and fainting fits. Numb. 302. The Character of Emilia. Numb. 311. A Letter from the Father of a great Fortune. Vol. V. Numb. 57. A Picture of Virtue in Distress. Vol. VII. Numb. 525. On Conjugal Love. Numb. 537. On the Dignity of Human Nature. Numb. 541. Rules for Pronunciation and Action, chiefly collected from Cicero. Vol. VII. Numb. 554. On the Improvement of the Genius, illustrated in the characters of Lord Bacon, Mr. Boyle, Sir Isaac Newton, and Leonardo da Vinci.--We have not been able to learn, what papers in the Guardian were written by him, besides Number 37, Vol. I. which contains Remarks on the Tragedy of Othello. In the year 1715 Mr. Hughes published a very accurate edition of the works of our famous poet Edmund Spenser, in six volumes, 12mo. to this edition are prefixed the Life of Spenser; an Essay on Allegorical poetry; Remarks on the Fairy Queen; on the Shepherd's Calendar, and other writings of Spenser; and a Glossary explaining the Old and obsolete Words. In 1718 he published a piece called Charon, or The Ferry-Boat, a Vision. This, and Mr. Walsh's �sculapius, or Hospital of Fools, are perhaps two of the finest dialogues we have in English, as well as the most lively imitations of Lucian. Sir Richard Steele, in a paper called The Theatre, No. 15. has paid a tribute to the memory of Mr. Hughes, with which as it illustrates his amiable character, we shall conclude his life. 'I last night (says he) saw the Siege of Damascus, and had the mortification to hear this evening that Mr. Hughes, the author of it, departed this life within some few hours after his play was acted, with universal applause. This melancholy circumstance recalled into my thought a speech in the tragedy, which very much affected the whole audience, and was attended to with the greatest, and most solemn instance of approbation, and awful silence.' The incidents of the play plunge a heroic character into the last extremity; and he is admonished by a tyrant commander to expect no mercy, unless he changes the Christian religion for the Mahometan. The words with which the Turkish general makes his exit from his prisoner are, Farewel, and think of death. Upon which the captive breaks into the following soliloquy, Farewel! and think of death!--was it not so? Do murtherers then, preach morality? But how to think of what the living know not, And the dead cannot, or else may not tell! What art thou? O thou great mysterious terror! The way to thee, we know; diseases, famine, Sword, fire, and all thy ever open gates, That day and night stand ready to receive us. But what, beyond them? who will draw that veil? Yet death's not there.----No, 'tis a point of time; The verge 'twixt mortal, and immortal Being. It mocks our thought----On this side all is life; And when we've reach'd it, in that very instant, 'Tis past the thinking of----O if it be The pangs, the throes, the agonizing struggle, When soul and body part, sure I have felt it! And there's no more to fear. 'The gentleman (continues Sir Richard) to whose memory I devote this paper, may be the emulation of more persons of different talents, than any one I have ever known. His head, hand, or heart, was always employed in something worthy imitation; his pencil, his bow (string) or his pen, each of which he used in a masterly manner, were always directed to raise, and entertain his own mind, or that of others, to a more chearful prosecution of what is noble and virtuous. Peace be with thy remains, thou amiable spirit! but I talk in the language of our weakness, that is flown to the regions of immortality, and relieved from the aking engine and painful instrument of anguish and sorrow, in which for many tedious years he panted with a lively hope for his present condition.' We shall consign the trunk, in which he was so long imprisoned, to common earth, with all that is due to the merit of its inhabitant[A]. [Footnote A: There are several copies of verses written to the memory of Mr. Hughes, prefixed to Mr. Duncomb's edition of his poems, of which one by a lady who has withheld her name, deserves particular distinction.] * * * * * MATTHEW PRIOR, Esq; This celebrated poet was the son of Mr. George Prior, citizen of London, who was by profession a Joiner. Our author was born in 1664. His father dying when he was very young, left him to the care of an uncle, a Vintner near Charing-Cross, who discharged the trust that was reposed in him, with a tenderness truly paternal, as Mr. Prior always acknowledged with the highest professions of gratitude. He received part of his education at Westminster school, where he distinguished himself to great advantage, but was afterwards taken home by his uncle in order to be bred up to his trade. Notwithstanding this mean employment, to which Mr. Prior seemed now doomed, yet at his leisure hours he prosecuted his study of the classics, and especially his favourite Horace, by which means he was soon taken notice of, by the polite company, who resorted to his uncle's house. It happened one day, that the earl of Dorset being at his Tavern, which he often frequented with several gentlemen of rank, the discourse turned upon the Odes of Horace; and the company being divided in their sentiments about a passage in that poet, one of the gentlemen said, I find we are not like to agree in our criticisms, but, if I am not mistaken, there is a young fellow in the house, who is able to set us all right: upon which he named Prior, who was immediately sent for, and desired to give his opinion of Horace's meaning in the Ode under consideration; this he did with great modesty, and so much to the satisfaction of the company, that the earl of Dorset, from that moment, determined to remove him from the station in which he was, to one more suited to his genius; and accordingly procured him to be sent to St. John's College in Cambridge, where he took his degree in 1686, and afterwards became fellow of the College. During his residence in the university, he contracted an intimate friendship with Charles Montague, esq; afterwards earl of Hallifax, in conjunction with whom he wrote a very humorous piece, entitled The Hind and Panther transversed to the story of the Country Mouse, and the City Mouse, printed 1687 in 4to. in answer to Mr. Dryden's Hind and the Panther, published the year before. Upon the revolution Mr. Prior was brought to court by his great patron the earl of Dorset, by whose interest he was introduced to public employment, and in the year 1690 was made secretary to the earl of Berkley, plenipotentiary to King William and Queen Mary at the Congress at the Hague. In this station he acquitted himself so well, that he was afterwards appointed secretary to the earls of Pembroke, and Jersey, and Sir Joseph Williamson, ambassadors, and plenipotentiaries, at the treaty of Ryswick 1697, as he was likewise in 1698 to the earl of Portland, ambassador to the court of France. While he was in that kingdom, one of the officers of the French King's houshold, shewing him the royal apartments, and curiosities at Versailles, especially the paintings of Le Brun, wherein the victories of Lewis XIV. are described, asked him, whether King William's actions are to be seen in his palace? 'No Sir, replied Mr. Prior, the monuments of my master's actions are to be seen every where, but in his own house.' In the year 1697 Mr. Prior was made secretary of state for Ireland, and in 1700 was created master of arts by Mandamus, and appointed one of the lords commissioners of trade and plantations, upon the resignation of Mr. Locke. He was also Member of Parliament for East-Grimstead in Sussex. In 1710 he was supposed to have had a share in writing the Examiner, and particularly a Criticism in it upon a Poem of Dr. Garth to the earl of Godolphin, taken notice of in the life of Garth. About this time, when Godolphin was defeated by Oxford, and the Tories who had long been eclipsed by the lustre of Marlborough, began again to hold up their heads, Mr. Prior and Dr. Garth espoused opposite interests; Mr. Prior wrote for, and Garth against the court. The Dr. was so far honest, that he did not desert his patron in distress; and notwithstanding the cloud which then hung upon the party, he addressed verses to him, which, however they may fail in the poetry, bear strong the marks of gratitude, and honour. While Mr. Prior was thus very early initiated in public business, and continued in the hurry of affairs for many years, it must appear not a little surprizing, that he should find sufficient opportunities to cultivate his poetical talents, to the amazing heights he raised them. In his preface to his poems, he says, that poetry was only the product of his leisure hours; that he had commonly business enough upon his hands, and, as he modestly adds, was only a poet by accident; but we must take the liberty of differing from him in the last particular, for Mr. Prior seems to have received from the muses, at his nativity, all the graces they could well bestow on their greatest favourite. We must not omit one instance in Mr. Prior's conduct, which will appear very remarkable: he was chosen a member of that Parliament which impeached the Partition Treaty, to which he himself had been secretary; and though his share in that transaction was consequently very considerable, yet he joined in the impeachment upon an honest principle of conviction, that exceptionable measures attended it. The lord Bolingbroke, who, notwithstanding many exceptions made both to his conduct, and sentiments in other instances, yet must be allowed to be an accomplished judge of fine talents, entertained the highest esteem for Mr. Prior, on account of his shining abilities. This noble lord, in a letter dated September 10, 1712, addressed to Mr. Prior, while he was the Queen's minister, and plenipotentiary at the court of France, pays him the following compliment; 'For God's sake, Matt. hide the nakedness of thy country, and give the best turn thy fertile brain will furnish thee with, to the blunders of thy countrymen, who are not much better politicians, than the French are poets.' His lordship thus concludes his epistle; 'It is near three o'clock in the morning, I have been hard at work all day, and am not yet enough recovered to bear much fatigue; excuse therefore the confusedness of this scroll, which is only from Harry to Matt, and not from the secretary to the minister. Adieu, my pen is ready to drop out of my hand, it being now three o'clock in the morning; believe that no man loves you better, or is more faithfully yours, &c. 'BOLINGBROKE.' There are several other letters from Bolingbroke to Prior, which, were it necessary, we might insert as evidences of his esteem for him; but Mr. Prior was in every respect so great a man, that the esteem even of lord Bolingbroke cannot add much to the lustre of his reputation, both as a statesman, and a poet. Mr. Prior is represented by those who knew, and have wrote concerning him, as a gentleman, who united the elegance and politeness of a court, with the scholar, and the man of genius. This representation, in general, may be just, yet it holds almost invariably true, that they who have risen from low life, still retain some traces of their original. No cultivation, no genius, it seems, is able entirely to surmount this: There was one particular in which Mr. Prior verified the old proverb. The same woman who could charm the waiter in a tavern, still maintained her dominion over the embassador at France. The Chloe of Prior, it seems, was a woman in this station of life; but he never forsook her in the heighth of his reputation. Hence we may observe, that associations with women are the most lasting of all, and that when an eminent station raises a man above many other acts of condescension, a mistress will maintain her influence, charm away the pride of greatness, and make the hero who fights, and the patriot who speaks, for the liberty of his country, a slave to her. One would imagine however, that this woman, who was a Butcher's wife, must either have been very handsome, or have had something about her superior to people of her rank: but it seems the case was otherwise, and no better reason can be given for Mr. Prior's attachment to her, but that she was his taste. Her husband suffered their intrigue to go on unmolested; for he was proud even of such a connexion as this, with so great a man as Prior; a singular instance of good nature. In the year 1715 Mr. Prior was recalled from France, and upon his arrival was taken up by a warrant from the House of Commons; shortly after which, he underwent a very strict examination by a Committee of the Privy Council. His political friend, lord Bolingbroke, foreseeing a storm, took shelter in France, and secured Harry, but left poor Matt. in the lurch. On the 10th of June Robert Walpole, esq; moved the House against him, and on the 17th Mr. Prior was ordered into close custody, and no person was admitted to see him without leave from the Speaker. For the particulars of this procedure of the Parliament, both against Mr. Prior, and many others concerned in the public transactions of the preceding reign, we refer to the histories of that time. In the year 1717 an Act of Grace was passed in favour of those who had opposed the Hanoverian succession, as well as those who had been in open rebellion, but Mr. Prior was excepted out of it. At the close of this year, however, he was discharged from his confinement, and retired to spend the residue of his days at Downhall in Essex. The severe usage which Mr. Prior met with, perhaps was the occasion of the following beautiful lines, addressed to his Chloe; From public noise, and factious strife, From all the busy ills of life, Take me, my Chloe, to thy breast; And lull my wearied soul to rest: For ever, in this humble cell, Let thee and I, my fair one, dwell; None enter else, but Love----and he Shall bar the door, and keep the key. To painted roofs, and shining spires (Uneasy feats of high desires) Let the unthinking many croud, That dare be covetous, and proud; In golden bondage let them wait, And barter happiness for state: But oh! my Chloe when thy swain Desires to see a court again; May Heav'n around his destin'd head The choicest of his curses shed, To sum up all the rage of fate. In the two things I dread, and hate, May'st thou be false, and I be great. In July 1721, within two months of his death, Mr. Prior published the following beautiful little tale on the falshood of mankind, entitled The Conversation, and applied it to the truth, honour, and justice of his grace the duke of Dorset. The CONVERSATION. A Tale. It always has been thought discreet To know the company you meet; And sure, there may be secret danger In talking much before a stranger. Agreed: what then? then drink your ale; I'll pledge you, and repeat my tale. No matter where the scene is fix'd, The persons were but odly mix'd, When sober Damon thus began: (And Damon is a clever man) I now grow old; but still from youth, Have held for modesty and truth, The men, who by these sea-marks steer, In life's great voyage, never err; Upon this point I dare defy The world; I pause for a reply. Sir, either is a good assistant, Said one, who sat a little distant: Truth decks our speeches, and our books, And modesty adorns our looks: But farther progress we must take; Not only born to look and speak, The man must act. The Stagyrite Says thus, and says extremely right; Strict justice is the sovereign guide, That o'er our actions should preside; This queen of virtue is confess'd To regulate and bind the rest. Thrice happy, if you can but find Her equal balance poise your mind: All diff'rent graces soon will enter, Like lines concurrent to their center. 'Twas thus, in short, these two went on, With yea and nay, and pro and con, Thro' many points divinely dark, And Waterland assaulting Clarke; 'Till, in theology half lost, Damon took up the Evening-Post; Confounded Spain, compos'd the North, And deep in politics held forth. Methinks, we're in the like condition, As at the treaty of partition; That stroke, for all King William's care, Begat another tedious war. Matthew, who knew the whole intrigue, Ne'er much approv'd that mystic league; In the vile Utrecht treaty too, Poor man! he found enough to do. Sometimes to me he did apply; But downright Dunstable was I, And told him where they were mistaken, And counsell'd him to save his bacon: But (pass his politics and prose) I never herded with his foes; Nay, in his verses, as a friend, I still found something to commend. Sir, I excus'd his Nut-brown maid; Whate'er severer critics said: Too far, I own, the girl was try'd: The women all were on my side. For Alma I return'd him thanks, I lik'd her with her little pranks; Indeed, poor Solomon, in rhime, Was much too grave to be sublime. Pindar and Damon scorn transition, So on he ran a new division; 'Till, out of breath, he turn'd to spit: (Chance often helps us more than wit) T'other that lucky moment took, Just nick'd the time, broke in, and spoke. Of all the gifts the gods afford (If we may take old Tully's word) The greatest is a friend, whose love Knows how to praise, and when reprove; From such a treasure never part, But hang the jewel on your heart: And pray, sir (it delights me) tell; You know this author mighty well-- Know him! d'ye question it? ods fish! Sir, does a beggar know his dish? I lov'd him, as I told you, I Advis'd him--here a stander-by Twitch'd Damon gently by the cloke, And thus unwilling silence broke: Damon, 'tis time we should retire, The man you talk with is Matt. Prior. Patron, thro' life, and from thy birth my friend, Dorset, to thee this fable let me send: With Damon's lightness weigh thy solid worth; The foil is known to set the diamond forth: Let the feign'd tale this real moral give, How many Damons, how few Dorsets live! Mr. Prior, after the fatigue of a length of years past in various services of action, was desirous of spending the remainder of his days in rural tranquility, which the greatest men of all ages have been fond of enjoying: he was so happy as to succeed in his wish, living a very retired, and contemplative life, at Downhall in Essex, and found, as he expressed himself, a more solid, and innocent satisfaction among woods, and meadows, than he had enjoyed in the hurry, and tumults of the world, the courts of Princes, or the conducting foreign negotiations; and where as he melodiously sings, The remnant of his days he safely past, Nor found they lagg'd too slow, nor flew too fast; He made his wish with his estate comply, Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die. This great man died on the 18th of September, 1721, at Wimple in Cambridgshire, the seat of the earl of Oxford, with whose friendship he had been honoured for some years. The death of so distinguished a person was justly esteemed an irreparable loss to the polite world, and his memory will be ever dear to those, who have any relish for the muses in their softer charms. Some of the latter part of his life was employed in collecting materials for an History of the Transactions of his own Times, but his death unfortunately deprived the world of what the touches of so masterly a hand, would have made exceeding valuable. Mr. Prior, by the suffrage of all men of taste, holds the first rank in poetry, for the delicacy of his numbers, the wittiness of his turns, the acuteness of his remarks, and, in one performance, for the amazing force of his sentiments. The stile of our author is likewise so pure, that our language knows no higher authority, and there is an air of original in his minutest performances. It would be superfluous to give any detail of his poems, they are in the hands of all who love poetry, and have been as often admired, as read. The performance however, for which he is most distinguished, is his Solomon; a Poem in three Books, the first on Knowledge, the second on Pleasure, and the third on Power. We know few poems to which this is second, and it justly established his reputation as one of the best writers of his age. This sublime work begins thus, Ye sons of men, with just regard attend, Observe the preacher, and believe the friend, Whose serious muse inspires him to explain, That all we act, and all we think is vain: That in this pilgrimage of seventy years, O'er rocks of perils, and thro' vales of tears Destin'd to march, our doubtful steps we tend, Tir'd of the toil, yet fearful of its end: That from the womb, we take our fatal shares, Of follies, fashions, labours, tumults, cares; And at approach of death shall only know, The truths which from these pensive numbers flow, That we pursue false joy, and suffer real woe. After an enquiry into, and an excellent description of the various operations, and effects of nature, the system of the heavens, &c. and not being fully informed of them, the first Book concludes, How narrow limits were to wisdom given? Earth she surveys; she thence would measure Heav'n: Thro' mists obscure, now wings her tedious way; Now wanders dazl'd, with too bright a day; And from the summit of a pathless coast Sees infinite, and in that sight is lost. In the second Book the uncertainty, disappointment, and vexation attending pleasure in general, are admirably described; and in the character of Solomon is sufficiently shewn, that nothing debases majesty, or indeed any man, more than ungovernable passion. When thus the gath'ring storms of wretched love In my swoln bosom, with long war had strove; At length they broke their bounds; at length their force Bore down whatever met its stronger course: Laid all the civil bounds of manhood waste. And scatter'd ruin, as the torrent past. The third Book treats particularly of the trouble and instability of greatness and power, considers man through the several stages and conditions of life, and has excellent reasoning upon life and death. On the last are these lines; Cure of the miser's wish, and cowards fear, Death only shews us, what we knew was near. With courage therefore view the 'pointed hour; Dread not death's anger, but expect its power; Nor nature's laws, with fruitless sorrow mourn; But die, O mortal man! for thou wast born. The poet has likewise these similies on life; As smoke that rises from the kindling fires Is seen this moment, and the next expires: As empty clouds by rising winds are tost, Their fleeting forms no sooner found than lost: So vanishes our state; so pass our days; So life but opens now, and now decays; The cradle, and the tomb, alas! so nigh; To live is scarce distinguished from to die. We shall conclude this account of Mr. Prior's life with the following copy of verses, written on his Death by Robert Ingram, esq; which is a very successful imitation of Mr. Prior's manner. 1. Mat. Prior!--(and we must submit) Is at his journey's end; In whom the world has lost a wit, And I, what's more, a friend. 2. Who vainly hopes long here to stay, May see with weeping eyes; Not only nature posts away, But e'en good nature dies! 3. Should grave ones count these praises light, To such it may be said: A man, in this lamented wight, Of business too is dead. 4. From ancestors, as might a fool! He trac'd no high-fetch'd stem; But gloriously revers'd the rule, By dignifying them. 5. O! gentle Cambridge! sadly say, Why fates are so unkind To snatch thy giant sons away, Whilst pigmies stay behind? 6. Horace and he were call'd, in haste, From this vile earth to heav'n; The cruel year not fully past, �tatis, fifty seven. 7. So, on the tops of Lebanon, Tall cedars felt the sword, To grace, by care of Solomon, The temple of the Lord. 8. A tomb amidst the learned may The western abbey give! Like theirs, his ashes must decay, Like theirs, his fame shall live. 9. Close, carver, by some well cut books, Let a thin busto tell, In spite of plump and pamper'd looks, How scantly sense can dwell! 10. No epitaph of tedious length Should overcharge the stone; Since loftiest verse would lose its strength, In mentioning his own. 11. At once! and not verbosely tame, Some brave Laconic pen Should smartly touch his ample name, In form of--O rare Ben! * * * * * Mrs. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE, This lady was daughter of one Mr. Freeman, of Holbeack in Lincolnshire. There was formerly an estate in the family of her father, but being a Dissenter, and a zealous parliamentarian, he was so very much persecuted at the restoration, that he was laid under a necessity to fly into Ireland, and his estate was confiscated; nor was the family of our authoress's mother free from the severity of those times, they being likewise parliamentarians. Her education was in the country, and her father dying when she was but three years of age, and her mother not living 'till she was twelve, the improvements our poetess made were merely by her own industry and application. She was married before the age of fifteen, to a nephew of Sir Stephen Fox. This gentleman living with her but a year, she afterwards married Mr. Carrol, an officer in the army, and survived him likewise in the space of a year and a half. She afterwards married Mr. Joseph Centlivre, yeoman of the mouth to his late Majesty. She gave early discoveries of a genius for poetry, and Mr. Jacob in his Lives of the Poets tells us, that she composed a song before she was seven years old. She is the author of fifteen plays; her talent is comedy, particularly the contrivance of the plots, and incidents. Sir Richard Steele, in one of his Tatlers, speaking of the Busy Body, thus recommends it. 'The plot, and incidents of the play, are laid with that subtilty, and spirit, which is peculiar to females of wit, and is very seldom well performed by those of the other sex, in whom craft in love is an act of invention, and not as with women, the effect of nature, and instinct'. She died December 1, 1723; the author of the Political State thus characterizes her. 'Mrs. Centlivre, from a mean parentage and education, after several gay adventures (over which we shall draw a veil) she had, at last, so well improved her natural genius by reading, and good conversation, as to attempt to write for the stage, in which sh had as good success as any of her sex before her. Her first dramatic performance was a Tragi-Comedy, called The Perjured Husband, but the plays which gained her most reputation were, two Comedies, the Gamester, and the Busy Body. She wrote also several copies of verses on divers subjects, and occasions, and many ingenious letters, entitled Letters of Wit, Politics, and Morality, which I collected, and published about 21 years ago[A].' Her dramatic works are, 1. The Perjured Husband, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1702, dedicated to the late Duke of Bedford. Scene Venice. 2. The Beau's Duel, or a Soldier for the Ladies, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1703; a Criticism was written upon this play in the Post-Angel for August. 3. The Stolen Heiress, or The Salamancha Doctor Out-plotted; a Comedy; acted at the Theatre in Lincolns-Inn-Fields 1704. The scene Palermo. 4. The Gamester, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre in Lincolns-Inn-Fields 1704, dedicated to George Earl of Huntingdon. This play is an improved translation of one of the same title in French. The prologue was written by Mr. Rowe. 5. The Basset Table, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, dedicated to Arthur Lord Altham, 4to. 1706. 6. Love's Contrivance, or Le Medicin Malgre lui; a Comedy; acted at Drury-Lane 1705, dedicated to the Earl of Dorset. This is a translation from Moliere. 7. Love at a Venture, a Comedy; acted at Bath, 4to. 1706, dedicated to the Duke of Beaufort. 8. The Busy Body, acted at the Theatre-Royal 1708, dedicated to Lord Somers. This play was acted with very great applause. 9. Marplot, or the Second Part of the Busy Body; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1709, dedicated to the Earl of Portland. 10. The Perplex'd Lovers, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1710, dedicated to Sir Henry Furnace. 11. The Platonic Lady, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1711. 12. The Man's Bewitch'd, or The Devil to do about Her; a Comedy; acted at the Theatre in the Haymarket 1712, dedicated to the Duke of Devonshire. 13. The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane. This play was acted with success. 14. The Cruel Gift, or The Royal Resentment; a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1716, for the story of this play consult Sigismonda and Guiscarda, a Novel of Boccace. 15. A Bold Stroke for a Wife, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1717, dedicated to the Duke of Wharton. Besides these plays Mrs. Centlivre has written three Farces; Bickerstaff's Burying, or Work for the Upholders. The Gotham Election. A Wife well Managed. [Footnote A: See Bayer's Political State, vol. xxvi. p.670.] * * * * * Dr. NICHOLAS BRADY, This revd. gentleman was son of Nicholas Brady, an officer in the King's army, in the rebellion 1641, being lineally descended from Hugh Brady, the first Protestant bishop of Mieath[A]. He was born at Bandon in the county of Cork, on the 28th of October 1659, and educated in that county till he was 12 years of age, when he was removed to Westminster school, and from thence elected student of Christ's Church, Oxford. After continuing there about four years, he went to Dublin, where his father resided, at which university he immediately commenced bachelor of arts. When he was of due standing, his Diploma for the degree of doctor of divinity was, on account of his uncommon merit, presented to him from that university, while he was in England, and brought over by Dr. Pratt, then senior travelling-fellow, afterwards provost of that college. His first ecclesiastical preferment was to a prebend, in the Cathedral of St. Barry's in the city of Cork, to which he was collared by bishop Wettenhal, to whom he was domestic chaplain. He was a zealous promoter of the revolution, and suffered for it in consequence of his zeal. In 1690, when the troubles broke out in Ireland, by his interest with King James's general, Mac Carty, he thrice prevented the burning of Bandon town, after three several orders given by that Prince to destroy it. The same year, having been deputed by the people of Bandon, he went over to England to petition the Parliament, for a redress of some grievances they had suffered, while King James was in Ireland. During his stay here, and to the time of his death, he was in the highest esteem among all ranks of persons in this kingdom, for his eminent attachment to the true interest of his country. Having quitted his preferments in Ireland, he settled in London, where he, being celebrated for his abilities in the pulpit, was elected minister of St. Catherine-Cree Church, and lecturer of St. Michael's Woodstreet. He afterwards became minister of Richmond in Surry, and Stratford upon Avon in Warwickshire, and at length, rector of Clapham in the county above-mentioned; which last, together with Richmond, he held to the time of his death. He was also chaplain to the duke of Ormond's troop of Horse-guards, as he was to their Majesties King William, and Queen Anne. He died on the 20th of May 1726, in the 67th year of his age, leaving behind him the reputation of a good man; he was of a most obliging, sweet, affable temper, a polite gentleman, an excellent preacher, and no inconsiderable poet. His compositions in poetry are chiefly these, 1. A New Version of the Psalms of David, performed by him, in conjunction with Mr. Tate, soon after he settled in London; now sung in most churches of England, and Ireland, instead of that obsolete and ridiculous Version made by Sternhold, and Hopkins, in the reign of King Edward VI. As the 104th Psalm is esteemed one of the most sublime in the whole book, we shall present the reader with the two first Parts of his Version of that Psalm as a specimen. There have not been less than forty different Versions, and Paraphrases of this Psalm, by poets of very considerable eminence, who seem to have vied with one another for the superiority. Of all these attempts, if we may trust our own judgment, none have succeeded so happily as Mr. Blackclock, a young gentleman now resident at Dumfries in Scotland. This Paraphrase is the more extraordinary, as the author of it has been blind from his cradle, and now labours under that calamity; it carries in it such elevated strains of poetry, such picturesque descriptions, and such a mellifluent flow of numbers, that we are persuaded, the reader cannot be displeased at finding it inserted here. Dr. Brady also translated the �neid of Virgil, which were published by subscription in four volumes octavo, the last of which came out in 1726, a little before the author's death. He also published in his life-time three Volumes of Sermons in 8vo. each consisting of 14, all printed in London; the first in 1704, the second in 1706, and the third in 1713. After the Dr's. death, his eldest son, who is now a clergyman, published three other Volumes of his father's Sermons, each also consisting of 14, printed in London 1730, 8vo. Amongst his sermons there is one preached on St. Cecilia's day, in vindication of Church-music, first printed in 1697, in 4to. PSALM CIV. 1. Bless God my soul; thou, Lord alone, Possessest empire without bounds: With honour thou art crown'd, thy throne Eternal Majesty surrounds. 2. With light thou dost thy self enrobe, And glory for a garment take; Heav'n's curtain stretch'd beyond the globe, The canopy of state to make. 3. God builds on liquid air, and forms His palace-chambers in the skies: The clouds his chariots are, and storms The swift-wing'd steeds with which he flies. 4. As bright as flame, as swift as wind His ministers Heav'ns palace fill; To have their sundry tasks assign'd, All proud to serve their Sovereign's will. 5., 6. Earth on her center fix'd he set, Her face with waters over spread; Not proudest mountains dar'd as yet To lift above the waves their head! 7. But when thy awful face appear'd, Th' insulting waves dispers'd; they fled When once thy thunder's voice they heard, And by their haste confess'd their dread. 8. Thence up by secret tracts they creep, And gushing from the mountain's side, Thro' vallies travel to the deep; Appointed to receive their tide. 9. There hast thou fix'd the ocean's mounds, The threat'ning surges to repel: That they no more o'erpass their bounds, Nor to a second deluge swell. PART II. 10. Yet, thence in smaller parties drawn, The sea recovers her lost hills: And starting springs from every lawn, Surprize the vales with plenteous rills. 11. The fields tame beasts are thither led Weary with labour, faint with drought, And asses on wild mountains bred, Have sense to find these currents out. 12. There shady trees from scorching beams, Yield shelter to the feather'd throng: They drink, and to the bounteous streams Return the tribute of their song. 13. His rains from heav'n parch'd hills recruit, That soon transmit the liquid store: 'Till earth is burthen'd with her fruit, And nature's lap can hold no more. 14. Grass for our cattle to devour, He makes the growth of every field: Herbs, for man's use, of various pow'r, That either food or physic yield. 15. With cluster'd grapes he crowns the vine To cheer man's heart oppress'd with cares: Gives oil that makes his face to shine. And corn that wasted strength repairs. PSALM CIV. imitated by THOMAS BLACKCLOCK. Arise my soul! on wings seraphic rise! And praise th' Almighty sov'reign of the skies! In whom alone essential glory shines, Which not the Heav'n of Heav'ns, nor boundless space confines! When darkness rul'd with universal sway, He spoke, and kindled up the blaze of day; First fairest offspring of th' omnific word! Which like a garment cloath'd it's sovereign lord. He stretch'd the blue expanse, from pole to pole, And spread circumfluent æther round the whole. Of liquid air he bad the columns rise, Which prop the starry concave of the skies. Soon as he bids, impetuous whirlwinds fly, To bear his sounding chariot thro' the sky: Impetuous whirlwinds the command obey, Sustain his flight, and sweep th' aerial way. Fraught with his mandates from the realms on high, Unnumber'd hosts of radiant heralds fly; From orb to orb, with progress unconfin'd, As lightn'ing swift, resistless as the wind. His word in air this pondr'ous ball sustain'd. "Be fixt, he said."--And fix'd the ball remain'd. Heav'n, air, and sea, tho' all their stores combine. Shake not its base, nor break the law divine. At thy almighty voice, old ocean raves, Wakes all his force, and gathers all his waves; Nature lies mantled in a watry robe, And shoreless ocean roils around the globe; O'er highest hills, the higher surges rise, Mix with the clouds, and leave the vaulted skies. But when in thunder, the rebuke was giv'n, That shook th' eternal firmament of heav'n, The dread rebuke, the frighted waves obey, They fled, confus'd, along th' appointed way, Impetuous rushing to the place decreed, Climb the steep hill, and sweep the humble mead: And now reluctant in their bounds subside; Th' eternal bounds restrain the raging tide: Yet still tumultuous with incessant roar, It shakes the caverns, and assaults the shore. By him, from mountains, cloth'd in livid snow, Thro' verdant vales, the mazy fountains flow. Here the wild horse, unconscious of the rein, That revels boundless, o'er the wide champaign, Imbibes the silver stream, with heat opprest To cool the fervour of his glowing breast. Here verdant boughs adorn'd with summer's pride, Spread their broad shadows o'er the silver tide: While, gently perching on the leafy spray, Each feather'd songster tunes his various lay: And while thy praise, they symphonize around, Creation ecchoes to the grateful sound. Wide o'er the heav'ns the various bow he bends. Its tincture brightens, and its arch extends: At the glad sign, aërial conduits flow, The hills relent, the meads rejoice below: By genial fervour, and prolific rain, Gay vegetation cloaths the fertile plain; Nature profusely good, with bliss o'er-flows, And still she's pregnant, tho' she still bestows: Here verdant pastures, far extended lie, And yield the grazing herd a rich supply! Luxuriant waving in the wanton air, Here golden grain rewards the peasant's care! Here vines mature, in purple clusters glow, And heav'n above, diffuses heav'n below! Erect and tall, here mountain cedars rise, High o'er the clouds, and emulate the skies! Here the winged crowds, that skim the air, with artful toil, their little dams prepare, Here, hatch their young, and nurse their rising care! Up the steep-hill ascends the nimble doe, While timid conies scour the plains below; Or in the pendent rocks elude the scenting foe. He bade the silver majesty of night, Revolve her circle, and increase her light. But if one moment thou thy face should'st hide, Thy glory clouded, or thy smiles denied, Then widow'd nature veils her mournful eyes, And vents her grief, in universal cries! Then gloomy death, with all his meagre train; Wide o'er the nations spreads his iron reign! Sea, earth, and air, the bounteous ravage mourn, And all their hosts to native dust return! Again thy glorious quickning influence shed, The glad creation rears its drooping head: New rising forms, thy potent smiles obey, And life re-kindles at the genial ray; United thanks replenish'd nature pays, And heaven and earth resound their Maker's praise. When time shall in eternity be lost, And hoary nature languish into dust, Forever young, thy glories shall remain, Vast as thy being, endless as thy reign! Thou from the realms of everlasting day, See'st all thy works, at one immense survey! Pleas'd at one view, the whole to comprehend, Part join'd to part, concurring to one end. If thou to earth, but turn'st thy wrathful eyes, Her basis trembles, and her offspring dies. Thou smit'st the hills, and at th' almighty blow, Their summits kindle, and their entrails glow. While this immortal spark of heav'nly flame, Distends my breast, and animates my frame, To thee my ardent praises shall be born, On the first breeze, that wakes the blushing morn: The latest star shall hear the pleasing sound, And nature, in full choir shall join around! When full of thee, my soul excursive flies, Thro' earth, air, ocean or thy regal skies, From world, to world, new wonders still I find! And all the Godhead bursts upon my mind! When, wing'd with whirlwinds, vice shall take her flight, To the wide bosom of eternal night, To thee my soul shall endless praises pay; Join! men and angels! join th' exalted day! Assign'd a province to each rolling sphere, And taught the sun to regulate the year. At his command wide hov'ring o'er the plain, Primæval night resumes her gloomy reign. Then from their dens impatient of delay, The savage monsters bend their speedy way, Howl thro' the spacious waste and chase the frighted prey. Here walks the shaggy monarch of the wood, Taught from thy providence to ask his food: To thee O Father! to thy bounteous skies, He rears his main, and rolls his glaring eyes. He roars, the desarts tremble wide around! And repercusive hills repeat the sound. Now purple gems, the eastern skies adorn, And joyful nature hails th' opening morn; The rovers conscious of approaching day, Fly to their shelters, and forget their prey. Laborious man, with moderate slumber blest, Springs chearful to his toil, from downy rest; Till grateful ev'ning with her silver train, Bid labour cease, and ease the weary swain! Hail, sovereign Goodness! All productive mind! On all thy works, thyself inscribed we find! How various all! how variously endow'd! How great their number! and each part how good! How perfect then must the great parent shine! Who with one act of energy divine, Laid the vast plan, and finish'd the design. Where e'er the pleasing search my thoughts pursue, Unbounded goodness opens to my view. Nor does our world alone, its influence share; Exhaustless bounty, and unwearied care, Extend thro' all th' infinitude of space, And circle nature with a kind embrace. The wavy kingdoms of the deep below, Thy power, thy wisdom, and thy goodness shew, Here various beings without number stray, Croud the profound, or on the surface play. Leviathan here, the mightiest of the train, Enormous! sails incumbent o'er the main. All these thy watchful providence supplies; To thee alone, they turn their waiting eyes. For them thou open'st thy exhaustless store, Till the capacious wish can grasp no more. [Footnote A: Biograph. Brit. Art, Brady.] * * * * * GEORGE STEPNEY, Esq; This poet was descended of the family of the Stepneys of Pindigrast in Pembrokeshire, but born in Westminster in the year 1693. He received the rudiments of his education in Westminster school, and after making some progress in literature there, he was removed to Trinity College in Cambridge, where he was cotemporary with Charles Montague, esq; afterwards earl of Halifax; and being of the same college with him, a very strict friendship was contracted between them. To this lucky accident of being early known to Mr. Montague, was owing all the preferment Mr. Stepney afterwards enjoyed; for he seems not to have had parts sufficient to have risen to any distinction, without the immediate patronage of so great a man, as the lord Hallifax. When Stepney first set out in life, he was perhaps attached to the Tory interest, for one of the first poems he wrote, was an Address to king James the Second, on his Accession to the Throne. In this little piece, in which there is as little poetry, he compares that monarch to Hercules, but with what propriety let the reader judge. Soon after the accession of James II. when Monmouth's rebellion broke out, the university of Cambridge, to demonstrate their zeal for the King, thought proper to burn the picture of that rash Prince, who had formerly been their chancellor. Upon this occasion Stepney wrote some good verses, in answer to this question; ----Sed quid Turba Remi? sequitur fortunam, ut semper et odit damnatos. Upon the revolution he embraced another interest, and procured himself to be nominated for several foreign embassies. In the year 1692 he went to the elector of Brandenburgh's court in quality of envoy, and, in the year following, to the Imperial court in the same character. In 1694 he was sent to the elector of Saxony, and two years after to the electors of Mentz, Cologn, &c. and the congress at Francfort. He was employed in several other embassies, and in the year 1706 Queen Anne sent him envoy to the States General. He was very successful in his negotiations, which occasioned his constant employment in the most weighty affairs. At his leisure hours he composed several other pieces of poetry besides those already mentioned; which are chiefly these, An Epistle to the Earl of Hallifax, on his Majesty's Voyage to Holland. A Translation of the Eighth Satire of Juvenal. To the Earl of Carlisle upon the Death of his Son. Some Imitations of Horace's Odes. The Austrian Eagle. The Nature of Dreams. A Poem to the Memory of Queen Mary. These performances are not very long, nor are the subjects upon which they are written very considerable. It seems probable that the eminence to which Stepney rose, must have been more owing to some personal kindness lord Hallifax had for him, than to his merit as a writer. In raising Stepney, his lordship might act as the friend of the man, but not as a patron of the poet. Friendship, in many respects, participates of the nature of love; it begins, we know not how, it strengthens by imperceptible degrees, and grows into an established firmness. Such might be the regard lord Hallifax had for Stepney, but we may venture to assert, from his lordship's exquisite taste in poetry, that he never could highly admire the pretty trifles which compose the works of this author; and which are printed amongst the works of the Minor Poets, published some years ago by Mr. Tonson in two volumes 12mo.[A] Our author died at Chelsea in the year 1707, and was buried in Westminster-Abbey, where a fine monument is erected over him, with the following inscription upon the pedestal; H.S.E. GEORGIUS STEPNEIUS, Armiger, viz. Ob Ingenii acumen, Literarum Scientiam, Morum Suavitatem, Rerum Usum, Virorum Amplissimorum Consuetudinem, Linguæ, Styli ac Vitæ Elegantiam, Praeclara Officia cum Britanniæ; tum Europæ Praestita, Suâ ætate multum celebratus, Apud Posteros semper celebrandus; Plurimas Legationes obiit Ea Fide, Diligentiâ, & Felicitate, Ut Augustissimorum Principum GULIELMI & ANN� Spem in illo repositam Nunquam sesellerit, Haud raro superavit. Post longum honorum Cursum Brevi Temporis spatio confectum, Cum Naturæ parvæ Fama satis vixerat, Animam ad altiora aspirantem placide efflavit. On the left hand. G.S. Ex Equestri Familia STEPNEIORUM, De PENDEGRAST, in Comitatu PEMBROCHIENSI ORIENDUS, WESTMONASTERII natus est, A.D. 1663. Electus in Collegium Sancti PETRI WESTMONAST. A, 1676. Sanctæ TRINITATIS CANTAB. 1682. Consiliariorum quibus Commercii Cura commissa est 1697. CHELSEI� mortuus, & Comitante Magna Procerum Frequentiâ huc elatus, 1707. On the right hand is a particular account of all his employments abroad. As a specimen of Mr. Stepney's poetry, we shall quote the following lines on the Nature of Dreams, At dead of night imperial reason sleeps, And fancy with her train loose revels keeps: Then airy phantoms a mixt scene display, Of what we heard, or saw, or wish'd by day; For memory those images retains Which passion form'd, and still the strongest reigns, Huntsmen renew the chase they lately run; And generals fight again their battles won. Spectres and furies haunt the murth'rers dreams; Grants, or disgraces, are the courtiers themes. The miser spies a thief, or some new hoard, The cit's a knight, the sycophant a lord. Thus fancy's in the wild distraction lost With what we most abhor, or covet most. But of all passions that our dreams controul, Love prints the deepest image in the soul; For vigorous fancy, and warm blood dispense Pleasures so lively, that they rival sense. Such are the transports of a willing maid, Not yet by time and place to act betray'd. Whom spies, or some faint virtue force to fly That scene of joy, which yet she dies to try. 'Till fancy bawds, and by mysterious charms Brings the dear object to her longing arms; Unguarded then she melts, acts fierce delight, And curses the returns of envious light. In such bless'd dreams Biblis enjoys a flame; Which waking she detests, and dares not name. Ixion gives a loose to his wild love, And in his airy visions cuckolds Jove. Honours and state before this phantom fall; For sleep, like death its image, equals all. Our author likewise wrote some political pieces in prose, particularly an Essay on the present Interest of England, 1701. To which are added, The Proceedings of the House of Commons in 1677, upon the French King's Progress in Flanders. This piece is reprinted in Cogan's Collection of Tracts, called Lord Somers's Collection. [Footnote A: And likewise of another work of the same kind, in two volumes also, published by one Cogan.] * * * * * Major RICHARDSON PACK, This gentleman was the son of John Pack, of Stocke-Ash in Suffolk, esq; who in the year 1697 was high sheriff of that county. He had his early education at a private country school, and was removed from thence to Merchant Taylor's, where he received his first taste of letters; for he always reckoned that time which he spent at the former school as lost, since he had only contracted bad habits, and was obliged to unlearn what had been taught him there. At the age of sixteen he was removed to St. John's College in Oxford. About eighteen his father entered him of the Middle Temple, designing him for the profession of the Law; and by the peculiar indulgence of the treasurer, and benchers of that honourable society, he was at eight Terms standing admitted barrister, when he had not much exceeded the age of 20. But a sedentary studious life agreeing as ill with his health, as a formal one with his inclinations, he did not long pursue those studies. After some wavering in his thoughts, he at last determined his views to the army, as being better suited to the gaiety of his temper, and the sprightliness of his genius, and where he hoped to meet with more freedom, as well as more action. His first command was that of a company of foot in March 1705. In November 1710 the regiment in which he served was one of those two of English foot, that were with the marshal Staremberg at the battle of Villa Viciosa, the day after general Stanhope, and the troops under his command were taken at Brighuega[A], where the major being killed, and our author's behaviour being equal to the occasion on which he acted, his grace the duke of Argyle confirmed his pretensions to that vacancy, by giving him the commission of the deceased major, immediately on his arrival in Spain. It was this accident which first introduced our gallant soldier to the acquaintance of that truly noble and excellent person, with whose protection and patronage he was honoured during the remaining part of his life. The ambition he had to celebrate his grace's heroic virtues (at a time when there subsisted a jealousy between him and the duke of Marlborough, and it was fashionable by a certain party to traduce him) gave birth to some of the best of his performances. What other pieces the major has written in verse, are, for the most part, the unlaboured result of friendship, or love; and the amusement of those few solitary intervals in a life that seldom wanted either serious business, or social pleasures, of one kind or other, entirely to fill up the circle. They are all published in one volume, together with a translation of the Life of Miltiades and Cymon, from Cornelius Nepos; the first edition was in 1725. The most considerable of them are the following, 1. The Muse's Choice, or the Progress of Wit. 2. On Friendship. To Colonel Stanhope. 3. To Mr. Addison, occasioned by the news of the victory obtained over the Rebels in Scotland, by his Grace the Duke of Argyle. 4. To Lady Catherine Manners. 5. The Lovers Parting. 6. The Retreat. 7. An Epistle from a Half-pay Officer in the Country, to his Friend in Town. 8. Upon Religious Solitude; occasioned by reading the Inscription on the Tomb of Casimir King of Poland, who abdicated his Crown, and spent the remainder of his life in the Abbey of St. Germains, near Paris, where he lies interred. 9. A Pastoral in Imitation of Virgil's Second Eclogue. 10. The 2d, 3d, and 4th Elegies of the Fourth Book of Tibullus. 11. Elegy. Sylvia to Amintor, in Imitation of Ovid. After Sylvia is enjoyed, she gives this Advice to her sex. Trust not the slight defence of female pride. Nor in your boasted honour much confide; So still the motion, and so smooth the dart, It steals unfelt into the heedless heart. A Prologue to the Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh, and an Epilogue to Mr. Southern's Spartan Dame. In the former he has the following beautiful lines on Ambition; Ambition is a mistress few enjoy! False to our hopes, and to our wishes coy; The bold she bafflles, and defeats the strong; And all are ruined who pursue her long; Yet so bewitching are her fatal charms, We think it heav'n to die within her arms. Major Pack obliged the world with some Memoirs of the Life of Mr. Wycherley, which are prefixed to Theobald's edition of that author. Mr. Jacob mentions a piece of his which he saw in MS. entitled Religion and Philosophy, which, says he, with his other works, demonstrate the author to be a polite writer, and a man of wit and gallantry. This amiable gentleman died at Aberdeen in Scotland, in the month of September 1728, colonel Montague's regiment, in which he was then a major, being quartered there. [Footnote A: Vide Jacob's Lives.] * * * * * Sir WILLIAM DAWES, Baronet (Archbishop of YORK,) This revd. prelate was descended from an ancient, and honourable family in the county of Essex; he was educated at Merchant-Taylor's school, London, and from thence elected to St. John's College in Oxford, of which he was afterwards fellow. He was the youngest of four brothers, three of whom dying young, the title, and estate of the family fell to him. As soon as he had taken his first degree in arts, and upon the family estate devolving to him, he resigned his fellowship, and left Oxford. For some time he gave his attention to the affairs of his estate, but finding his inclination lead him more to study, than rural affairs, he entered into holy orders. Sir William did not long remain in the church without preferment; his fortune, and family assisted him to rise; for it often happens that these advantages will do much more for a man, as well in the ecclesiastical, as in other classes of life, than the brightest parts without them. Before he was promoted to the mitre, he was made master of Catherine Hall in Cambridge, chaplain to Queen Anne, and dean of Bocking. In the year 1708 he was consecrated bishop of Chester, and in 1713 was translated to the archbishopric of York. While he was at the university, before he went into orders, he wrote the Anatomy of Atheism, a Poem, dedicated to Sir George Darcy Bart. printed in the year 1701, 8vo. The design of this piece, as his lordship declares in the preface, 'is to expose the folly of those men, who are arrived at that pitch of impudence and prophaneness, that they think it a piece of wit to deny the Being of a God, and to laugh at that which they cannot argue against.' Such characters are well described in the following lines, See then our Atheist all the world oppose, And like Drawcansir make all men his foes. See with what fancy pride he does pretend, His miser father's notions to amend, Huffs Plutarch, Plato, Pliny, Seneca, And bids even Cicero himself give way. Tells all the world, they follow a false light, And he alone, of all mankind is right. Thus, like a madman, who when all alone, Thinks himself King, and every chair a throne, Drunk with conceit, and foolish impudence, He prides himself in his abounding sense. This prelate is said to have united the gentleman, and the divine, which both shone out with equal lustre in him. He was esteemed in his time a very popular preacher; his piety was great, and conspicuous; his charity and benevolence equalled by few, and his good nature, and humanity the most extensive. Our author died in the 53d year of his age, April 30, 1724. We have no account of any other of his grace's poetical works, probably the business of his high station diverted his mind from the amusements of poetry. The archbishop has written several sermons upon the Eternity of Hell Torments, a doctrine which he has laboured to vindicate; also sermons upon various other subjects. * * * * * WILLIAM CONGREVE, Esq; This gentleman was descended from the ancient house of Congreve in Staffordshire, but authors differ as to the place of his birth; some contend that he was born in Ireland[A], others that he drew his first breath at the village of Bardsa, near Leeds in Yorkshire, which was the estate of a near relation of his by his mother's side. Mr. Jacob, in his preface to the Lives of the Poets, has informed us, that he had the advice and assistance of Mr. Congreve in that work, who communicated to him many particulars of the lives of cotemporary writers, as well as of himself, and as Mr. Congreve can hardly be thought ignorant of the place of his own birth, and Mr. Jacob has asserted it to be in England, no room is left to doubt of it. The learned antiquary of Ireland, Sir James Ware, has reckoned our author amongst his own country worthies, from the relation of Southern; but Mr. Congreve's own account, if Jacob may be relied on, is more than equal to that of Southern, who possibly might be mistaken. About the year 1671, or 1672, our author was born, and his father carried him, when a child, into Ireland, where he then had a command in the army, but afterwards was entrusted with the management of a considerable estate, belonging to the noble family of Burlington, which fixed his residence there[B]. Mr. Congreve received the first tincture of letters in the great school of Kilkenny, and, according to common report, gave early proofs of a poetical genius; his first attempt in poetry was a copy of verses on the death of his master's Magpye. He went from the school of Kilkenny to the university of Dublin, where under the direction of Dr. George Ash, he acquired a general knowledge of the classics. His father, who was desirous that his studies should be directed to a profitable employment, sent him over to England a little after the revolution, and placed him as a student in the Middle-Temple. But the severe study of the Law was so ill adapted to the sprightly genius of Congreve, that he never attempted to reconcile himself to a way of life, for which he had the greatest aversion. But however he disappointed his friends with respect to the proficiency they expected him to make in the Law; yet it is certain he was not negligent in those studies to which his genius led him. Mr. Congreve's first performance, written when but a youth of seventeen, was a Novel, dedicated to Mrs. Katherine Leveson, which gave proof, not only of a great vivacity of wit, but also a fluency of stile, and a solid judgment. He was conscious that young men in their early productions generally aimed at a florid stile, and enthusiastic descriptions, without any regard to the plot, fable, or subserviency of the parts; for this reason he formed a new model, and gave an example how works of that kind should be written. He pursued a regular plan, observed a general moral, and carried on a connexion, as well as distinction, between his characters. This performance is entitled Incognita, or Love and Duty Reconciled; it has been asserted that this is a real history, and though the scene is laid in Italy, the adventures happened in England; it is not our business to enter into the secret history of this entertaining piece, or to attempt giving the reader a key to what the writer took so much pains to conceal. It appears from this piece, that Mr. Congreve aimed at perfection from the very beginning, and his design in writing this novel, was to shew, how novels ought to be written. Let us hear what he says himself, and from thence we shall entertain a higher opinion of his abilities, than could possibly be raised by the warmest commendations. After very judiciously observing, that there is the same relation between romances and novels as between tragedy and comedy, he proceeds thus: 'Since all traditions must indisputably give glace to the drama, and since there is no possibility of giving that life to the writing, or repetition of a story, which it has in the action; I resolved in another beauty to imitate dramatic writing, namely, in the design, contexture, and result in the plot. I have not observed it before in a novel. Some I have seen begin with an unexpected accident which has been the only surprizing part of the story, cause enough to make the sequel look flat, tedious, and insipid; for 'tis but reasonable the reader should expect, if not to rise, at least to keep upon a level in the entertainment, for so he may be kept on, in hopes, that some time, or other, it may mend; but the other is such a baulk to a man, 'tis carrying him up stairs to shew him the dining room, and afterwards force him to make a meal in the kitchen. This I have not only endeavoured to avoid, but also have used a method for the contrary purpose. The design of this novel is obvious, after the first meeting of Aurelian and Hippolito, with Incognita, and Leonora; the difficulty is in bringing it to pass, maugre all apparent obstacles within the compass of two days. How many probable casualties intervene, in opposition to the main design, viz. of marrying two couple so oddly engaged in an intricate amour, I leave the reader at his leisure to consider; as also whether every obstacle does not, in the progress of the story, act as subservient to that purpose, which at first it seems to oppose. In a comedy this would be called the unity of action, here it may pretend to no more than an unity of contrivance. The scene is continued in Florence from the commencement of the amour, and the time from first to last, is but three days.' Soon after Mr. Congreve's return to England, he amused himself, during a slow recovery from a fit of sickness, with writing a comedy. Captain Southern, in conjunction with Mr. Dryden, and Arthur Manwayring, esq; revised this performance, which was the Old Batchelor; of which Mr. Dryden said, he never saw such a first play in his life, adding, that the author not being acquainted with the stage, or the town, it would be pity to have it miscarry for want of a little assistance. Mr. Thomas Davenant, who had then the direction of the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, had so high a sense of the merit of the piece, and was so charmed with the author's conversation, that he granted him the freedom of the house before his play came on, which, according to the maxims of theatrical government, was not only an unusual, but an unprecedented favour. In 1693 the Old Batchelor was acted before a numerous, and polite audience. The play was received with such general applause, that Mr. Congreve was then considered as a prop to the declining stage, and a rising genius in dramatic poetry. It was this play, and the singular success which attended it upon the stage, that introduced our author to the acquaintance of the earl of Hallifax, who was then the professed patron of men of wit; and who, being desirous to raise a man of so promising a genius, above the necessity of too hasty productions, made him one of the commissioners for licensing Hackney coaches. The earl bestowed upon him soon after a place in the Pipe-Office, and gave him likewise a post in the Custom-House, to the value of 600 l. per annum. In the following year Mr. Congreve brought upon the stage the Double Dealer, which met not with so good a reception as the former. Mr. Congreve has informed us in the dedication of this play, to Charles Montague, esq; that he was very assiduous to learn from the critics what objections could be found to it; but, says he, 'I have heard nothing to provoke an answer. That which looks most like an objection, does not relate in particular to this play, but to all; or most that ever have been written, and that is soliloquy; therefore I will answer it, not only for my own sake, but to save others the trouble to whom it may be hereafter objected. I grant, that for a man to talk to himself, appears absurd, and unnatural, and indeed it is so in most cases, but the circumstances which may attend the occasion, makes great alteration. It often happens to a man to have designs, which require him to himself, and in their nature cannot admit of a confident. Such for certain is all villainy, and other less mischievous intentions may be very improper to be communicated to a second person. In such a case, therefore the audience must observe, whether the person upon the stage takes any notice of them at all, or no: for if he supposes any one to be by,[C] when he talks to himself, it is monstrous and ridiculous to the last degree; nay not only in this case, but in any part of a play, if there is expressed any knowledge of an audience it is insufferable. But otherwise, when a man in a soliloquy reasons with himself, and pro's and con's, and weighs all his designs, we ought not to imagine that this man either talks to us, or to himself; he is only thinking, and thinking such matter, as it were inexcusable folly in him to speak. But, because we are concealed spectators of the plot in agitation, and the poet finds it necessary to let us know the whole mystery of his contrivance, he is willing to inform us of this person's thoughts, and to that end is forced to make use of the expedient of speech, no other, or better way being yet invented for the communication of thought.' Towards the close of the same year Queen Mary died. Upon that occasion Mr. Congreve produced an elegiac Pastoral, a composition which the admirers of this poet have extolled in the most lavish terms of admiration, but which seems not to merit the incense it obtained. When Mr. Betterton opened the new house at Lincoln's-Inn, Congreve took part with him, and gave him his celebrated comedy of Love for Love, then introduced upon the stage, with the most extraordinary success. This comedy, with some more of our author's, was smartly criticised by the ingenious Mr. Collier, as containing lessons of immorality, and a representation of loose characters, which can never, in his opinion, appear on a stage without corrupting the audience. Messrs. Congreve, Dennis, and Dryden, engaged in a vigorous defence of the English stage, and endeavoured to shew the necessity of such characters being introduced in order to be exposed, and laughed at. To all their defences Mr. Collier replied, and managed the point with so much learning, wit, and keenness, that in the opinion of many, he had the better of his antagonists, especially Mr. Congrove, whose comedies it must be owned, though they are admirably written, and the characters strongly marked, are so loose, that they have given great offence: and surely we pay too dear for pleasure, when we have it at the expence of morality. The same year he distinguished himself in another kind of poetry, viz. an irregular Ode on the taking Namure, which the critics have allowed to contain fine sentiments, gracefully expressed. His reputation as a comic poet being sufficiently established, he was desirous of extending his fame, by producing a tragedy. It has been alledged, that some, who were jealous of his growing reputation, put him upon this task, in order, as they imagined, to diminish it, for he seemed to be of too gay and lively a disposition for tragedy, and in all likelihood would miscarry in the attempt. However, In 1697, after the expectation of the town had been much raised, the Mourning Bride appeared on the New Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields: few plays ever excited so great an ardour of expectation as this, and very few ever succeeded to such an extravagant degree. There is something new in the management of the plot; after moving the passions of the audience to the greatest commiseration, he brings off his principal characters, punishes the guilty, and makes the play conclude happily. The controversy we have just now mentioned, was thought to have occasioned a dislike in Mr. Congreve towards the stage; yet he afterwards produced another comedy called The Way of the World, which was so just a picture of the world, that, as an author prettily says, The world could not bear it. The reception this play met with, compleated our author's disgust to the theatre; upon which Mr. Dennis, who was a warm friend to Congreve, made this fine observation, 'that Mr. Congreve quitted the stage early, and that comedy left it with him.' It is said that when Congreve found his play met with but indifferent success, he came in a passion on the stage, and desired the audience to save themselves the trouble of shewing their dislike; for he never intended to write again for the Theatre, nor submit his works to the censure of impotent critics. In this particular he kept his word with them, and as if he had foreseen the fate of his play, he took an ample revenge, in his Epilogue, of the race of Little Snarlers, who excited by envy, and supported by false ideas of their own importance, dared to constitute themselves judges of wit, without any just pretensions to it. This play has long ago triumphed over its enemies, and is now in great esteem amongst the best judges of Theatrical Entertainments. Though Mr. Congreve quitted the stage, yet did not he give up the cause of poetry; for on the death of the marquis of Blandford, the only son of the duke of Marlborough, which happened in 1705, we find him composing a pastoral to soften the grief of that illustrious family, which he addressed to the lord treasurer Godolphin. About the same time, the extraordinary success of the duke of Marlborough's arms, furnished him with materials for an Ode to Queen Anne. In another Pindaric Ode he celebrates the lord Godolphin; taking occasion from that nobleman's delight in horse-racing to imitate the Greek Poet in his favourite manner of writing, by an elegant digression; to which he added a criticism on that species of poetry. As in the early part of his life, Mr. Congreve had received favours from people of a less exalted station, so of these he was highly sensible, and never let slip any opportunity of shewing his gratitude. He wrote an Epilogue to his old friend Southern's Tragedy of Oroonoko; and Mr. Dryden has acknowledged his assistance in the translation of Virgil: He contributed by his Version of the eleventh Satire of Juvenal, to the translation of that poet, published also by Mr. Dryden, to whom Mr. Congreve wrote a copy of Verses on his Translation of Persius. He wrote likewise a Prologue for a Play of Mr. Charles Dryden's, full of kindness for that young gentleman, and of respect for his father. But the noblest testimony he gave of his filial regard to the memory of his poetical father, Mr. John Dryden, was the Panegyric he wrote upon his works, contained in the dedication of Dryden's plays to the duke of Newcastle. Mr. Congreve translated the third Book of Ovid's Art of Love; some favourite passages from the Iliad, and writ some Epigrams, in all which he was not unsuccessful, though at the same time he has been exceeded by his cotemporaries in the same attempts. The author of the elegant Letters, not long ago published under the name of Fitz Osborne, has taken some pains to set before his readers; the version of those parts of Homer, translated by our author, and the same passages by Pope and Tickell, in which comparison the palm is very deservedly yielded to Pope. Our author wrote a Satire called Doris, celebrated by Sir Richard Steele, who was a warm friend to Mr. Congreve. He also wrote the Judgment of Paris, a Masque; and the Opera of Semele; of these, the former was acted with great applause, and the latter is finely set to music by Mr. Eccles. The last of his Poetical Works, is his Art of Pleasing, addressed to Sir Richard Temple, the late viscount Cobham. He has written many Prose Epistles, dispersed in the works of other writers, and his Essay on Humour in Comedy, published in a Collection of Dennis's Letters, is an entertaining, and correct piece of criticism: All his other Letters are written with a great deal of wit and spirit, a fine flow of language; and are so happily intermixt with a lively and inoffensive raillery, that it is impossible not to be pleased with them at the first reading: we may be satisfied from the perusal of them, that his conversation must have been very engaging, and therefore we need not wonder that he was caressed by the greatest men of his time, or that they courted his friendship by every act of kindness in their power. It is said of Mr. Congreve, that he was a particular favourite with the ladies, some of whom were of the first distinction. He indulged none of those reveries, and affected absences so peculiar to men of wit: He was sprightly as well as elegant in his manner, and so much the favourite of Henrietta duchess of Marlborough, that even after his death, she caused an image of him to be every day placed at her toilet-table, to which she would talk as to the living Mr. Congreve, with all the freedom of the most polite and unreserved conversation. Mrs. Bracegirdle likewise had the highest veneration for our author, and joined with her Grace in a boundless profusion of sorrow upon his death. Some think, he had made a better figure in his Last Will, had he remembered his friendship he professed for Mrs. Bracegirdle, whose admirable performance added spirit to his dramatic pieces; but he forgot her, and gratified his vanity by chusing to make a rich duchess his sole legatee, and executrix. Mr. Congreve was the son of fortune, as well as of the muses. He was early preferred to an affluent situation, and no change of ministry ever affected him, nor was he ever removed from any post he enjoyed, except to a better. His place in the custom-house, and his office of secretary in Jamaica, are said to have brought him in upwards of 1200 l. a year; and he was so far an oeconomist, as to raise from thence a competent estate. No man of his learning ever pass'd thro' life with more ease, or less envy; and as in the dawn of his reputation he was very dear to the greatest wits of his time, so during his whole life he preserved the utmost respect of, and received continual marks of esteem from, men of genius and letters, without ever being involved, in any of their quarrels, or drawing upon himself the least mark of distaste, or, even dissatisfaction. The greatest part of the last twenty years of his life were spent in ease and retirement, and he gave himself no trouble about reputation. When the celebrated Voltaire was in England, he waited upon Congreve, and pass'd some compliments upon him, as to the reputation and merit of his works; Congreve thanked him, but at the same time told that ingenious foreigner, he did not chuse to be considered as an author, but only as a private gentleman, and in that light expected to be visited. Voltaire answered, 'That if he had never been any thing but a private gentleman, in all probability, he had never been troubled with that visit.' Mr. Voltaire upon this occasion observes, that he was not a little disgusted with so unseasonable a piece of vanity:--This was indeed the highest instance of it, that perhaps can be produced. A man who owed to his wit and writings the reputation, as well as the fortune, he acquired, pretending to divest himself of human nature to such a degree, as to have no consciousness of his own merit, was the most absurd piece of vanity that ever entered into the heart of man; and of all vanity, that is the greatest which masks itself under the appearance of the opposite quality. Towards the close of his life, he was much troubled with the gout; and for this reason, in the summer of the year 1728, he made a tour to Bath, for the benefit of the waters, where he had the misfortune to be overturned in his chariot, from which time he complained of a pain in his side, which was supposed to arise from some inward bruise. Upon his return to London, he perceived his health gradually decline, which he bore with fortitude and resignation. On January the 19th, 1728-9, he yielded his last breath, about five o'clock in the morning, at his house in Surrey-street in the Strand, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. On the sunday following, January 26, his corpse lay in state in the Jerusalem-Chamber, from whence the same evening, between the hours of nine and ten, it was carried with great decency and solemnity to Henry the VIIth's Chapel; and after the funeral service was performed, it was interred in the Abbey. The pall was supported by the duke of Bridgewater, earl of Godolphin, lord Cobham, lord Wilmington, the honourable George Berkley, Esq; and Brigadier-general Churchill; and colonel Congreve followed his corpse as chief mourner; some time after, a neat and elegant monument was erected to his memory, by Henrietta duchess of Marlborough. Mr. Congreve's reputation is so extensive, and his works so generally read, that any specimen of his poetry may be deemed superfluous. But finding an epistle of our author's in the Biographia Brittannica, not inserted in his works, it may not be improper to give it a place here. It is addressed to the lord viscount Cobham, and the ingenious authors inform us, that they copied it from a MS. very correct. As in this poem there is a visible allusion to the measures, which the writer thought were too complaisant to the French, it is evident it must have been penned but a very small time before his death. Of improving the present time. Sincerest critic of my prose, or rhyme. Tell how thy pleasing Stowe employs thy time. Say, Cobham, what amuses thy retreat? Or stratagems of war, or schemes of state? Dost thou recall to mind, with joy or grief, Great Marlbro's actions? that immortal chief, Whose highest trophy, rais'd in each campaign, More than suffic'd to signalize a reign. Does thy remembrance rising, warm thy heart With glory past, where thou thyself had'st part; Or do'st thou grieve indignant, now to see The fruitless end of all thy victory! To see th' audacious foe, so late subdu'd, Dispute those terms for which so long they su'd, As if Britannia now were sunk so low, To beg that peace she wanted to bestow. Be far, that guilt! be never known that shame! That England should retract her rightful claim! Or ceasing to be dreaded and ador'd, Stain with her pen the lustre of her sword. Or dost thou give the winds, a-far to blow, Each vexing thought, and heart-devouring woe, And fix thy mind alone on rural scenes, To turn the levell'd lawns to liquid plains; To raise the creeping rills from humble beds, And force the latent springs to lift their heads; On watry columns capitals to rear, That mix their flowing curls with upper air? Or dost thou, weary grown, late works neglect, No temples, statues, obelisks erect; But catch the morning breeze from fragrant meads. Or shun the noon-tide ray in wholesome shades; Or lowly walk along the mazy wood, To meditate on all that's wise and good: For nature, bountiful, in thee has join'd, A person pleasing, with a worthy mind, Not giv'n the form alone, but means and art, To draw the eye, or to allure the heart. Poor were the praise, in fortune to excel, Yet want the way to use that fortune well. While thus adorn'd, while thus with virtue crown'd, At home in peace; abroad, in arms renown'd; Graceful in form, and winning in address, While well you think, what aptly you express; With health, with honour, with a fair estate, A table free, and elegantly neat. What can be added more to mortal bliss? What can he want that stands possest of this? What can the fondest wishing mother more, Of heav'n attentive, for her son implore? And yet, a happiness remains unknown, Or to philosophy reveal'd alone; A precept which, unpractis'd, renders vain Thy flowing hopes, and pleasure turns to pain. Shou'd hope and fear thy heart alternate tear, Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care, Whatever passions may thy mind infest, (Where is that mind which passions ne'er molest?) Amidst the pangs of such intestine strife, Still think the present day the last of life; Defer not 'till to-morrow to be wise, To-morrow's sun to thee may never rise; Or shou'd to-morrow chance to chear thy sight, With her enliv'ning, and unlook'd-for light. How grateful will appear her dawning rays! Its favours unexpected doubly please. Who thus can think, and who such thoughts pursues, Content may keep his life, or calmly lose. All proofs of this, thou may'st thyself receive, When leisure from affairs will give thee leave. Come, see thy friend retir'd, without regret, Forgetting care, or striving to forget, In easy contemplation, soothing time With morals much, and now and then with rhyme; Not so robust in body as in mind, And always undejected, tho' declin'd; Not wond'ring at the world's new wicked ways, Compar'd with those of our fore-father's days: For virtue now is neither more or less, And vice is only vary'd in the dress: Believe it, men have ever been the same, And OVID'S GOLDEN AGE is but a dream. We shall conclude the life of this eminent wit, with the testimony of Mr. Pope in his favour, from the close of his postscript to the translation of Homer: It is in every respect so honourable, that it would be injurious to Mr. Congreve to omit it.--His words are--'Instead of endeavouring to raise a vain monument to myself, let me leave behind me a memorial of my friendship with one of the most valuable men, as well as the finest writers of my age and country. One who has tried, and knows by his own experience, how hard an undertaking it is to do justice to Homer, and one who I'm sure sincerely rejoices with me at the period of my labours. To him therefore, having brought this long work to a conclusion, I desire to dedicate it, and have the honour and satisfaction of placing together in this manner, the names of Mr. Congreve and of A. POPE. [Footnote A: General Dictionary.] [Footnote B: Wilson's Memoirs of Congreve.] [Footnote C: Yet Maskwell purposely talks to himself, designing to be overheard by Lord Touchwood; undoubtedly an error in the conduit, and want of art in the author. This he seems here to forget, or would not remember it.] * * * * * Sir JOHN VANBRUGH, This Gentleman was descended from an antient family in Cheshire, which came originally from France; though by the name it would appear to be of Dutch extraction. He received a very liberal education, and became eminent for his poetry, and skill in architecture, to both which he discovered an early propension. It is somewhat remarkable in the History of Poetry, that when the spirit of Tragedy, in a great measure, declined, when Otway and Lee were dead, and Dryden was approaching to old age, that Comedy should then begin to flourish; at an �ra, which one would not have expected to prove auspicious to the cause of mirth. Much about the same time rose Mr. Congreve, and Sir John Vanbrugh; who, without any invidious reflection on the genius of others, gave a new life to the stage, and restored it to reputation, which before their appearance had been for some time sinking. Happy would it have been for the world, and some advantage to the memory of those comic writers, if they had discovered their wit, without any mixture of that licentiousness, which while it pleased, tended to corrupt the audience. The first step our author made into life, was in the character of an ensign in the army. He was possessed of a very ready wit, and an agreeable elocution. He happened somewhere in his winter quarters, to contract an acquaintance with Sir Thomas Skipwith, and received a particular obligation from him. He had very early discovered a taste for dramatic writing, to improve which he made some attempts in that way, and had the draft or out-lines of two plays lying by him, at the time his acquaintance commenced with Sir Thomas. This gentleman possessed a large share in a Theatrical Patent, though he very little concerned himself in the conduct of it; but that he might not appear altogether remiss, he thought to procure some advantage to the stage, by having our author's play, called the Relapse, to be acted upon it. In this he was not disappointed, for the Relapse succeeded beyond the warmest expectation, and raised Vanbrugh's name very high amongst the writers for the stage. Tho' this play met with greater applause, than the author expected, yet it was not without its enemies. These were people of the graver sort, who blamed the looseness of the scenes, and the unguarded freedom of the dialect. These complaints induced Vanbrugh to make some observations upon them in his preface, which he thus begins, 'To go about to excuse half the defects this abortive brat is come into the world with, would be to provoke the town with a long useless preface, when 'tis, I doubt, sufficiently sour'd already, by a tedious play. 'I do therefore, with all the humility of a repenting sinner, confess it wants every thing--but length, and in that I hope the severest critics will be pleased to acknowledge, I have not been wanting. But my modesty will sure attone for every thing, when the world shall know it is so great, I am even to this day insensible of those two shining graces, in the play (which some part of the town is pleased to compliment me with) blasphemy and bawdy. For my part I cannot find them out; if there were any obscene expressions upon the stage, here they are in print; for I have dealt fairly, I have not sunk a syllable, that could be ranged under that head, and yet I believe with a steady faith, there is not one woman of real reputation in town, but when she has read it impartially over in her closet, will find it so innocent, she'll think it no affront to her prayer book, to lay it upon the same shelf.' Being encouraged by the success of the Relapse, he yielded to the sollicitation of lord Hallifax, who had read some of the loose sheets of his Provok'd Wife, to finish that piece; and after throwing them into a proper form, gave the play to the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. Though Sir John had a greater inclination to serve the other company, yet the request of lord Hallifax, so eminent a patron of the poets, could not be resisted. Sir Thomas Skipwith was not offended at so reasonable a compliance, and the Provok'd Wife was acted 1698, with success. Some critics likewise objected against this, as a loose performance; and that it taught the married women how to revenge themselves on their husbands, who should offend them. The play has indeed this moral, that such husbands as resemble Sir John Brute, may expect that neglected beauty, and abused virtue, may be provoked to yield to the motives of revenge, and that the forcible sollicitations of an agreeable person, who not only demonstrates a value, but a passion for what the possessor slights, may be sufficiently prevalent with an injured wife to forfeit her honour. Though this event may often fall out, that the brutality of a husband produces the infidelity of a wife, yet it need not be shewn upon the stage; women are not generally so tame in their natures, as to bear neglect with patience, and the natural resentments of the human heart will without any other monitor point out the method of revenge. Besides, every husband ought not to be deemed a brute, because a too delicate, or ceremonious wife, shall, in the abundance of her caprice, bestow upon him that appellation. Many women who have beheld this representation, may have been stimulated to imitate lady Brute in her method of revenge, without having suffered her provocation. This play verifies the observation of Mr. Pope, That Van wants grace, who never wanted wit. The next play which Sir John Vanbrugh introduced upon the stage was Aesop, a Comedy; in two Parts, acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane 1698. This was originally written in French, by Mr. Boursart, about six years before; but the scenes of Sir Polidorus Hogstye, the Players, the Senator, and the Beau, were added by our author. This performance contains a great deal of general satire, and useful morality; notwithstanding which, it met with but a cold reception from the audience, and its run terminated in about 8 or 9 days. This seemed the more surprising to men of taste, as the French comedy from which it was taken, was played to crowded audiences for a month together. Sir John has rather improved upon the original by adding new scenes, than suffered it to be diminished in a translation, but the French and the English. taste was in that particular very different. We cannot better account for the ill success of this excellent piece, than in the words of Mr. Cibber's Apology for his own Life, when speaking of this play, he has the following observation; 'The character that delivers precepts of wisdom, is, in some sort, severe upon the auditor, for shewing him one wiser than himself; but when folly is his object, he applauds himself for being wiser than the coxcomb he laughs at, and who is not more pleased with an occasion to commend, than to accuse himself?' Sir John Vanbrugh, it is said, had great facility in writing, and is not a little to be admired for the spirit, ease, and readiness, with which he produced his plays. Notwithstanding his extraordinary expedition, there is a clear and lively simplicity in his wit, that is equally distant from the pedantry of learning, and the lowness of scurrility. As the face of a fine lady, with her hair undressed, may appear in the morning in its brightest glow of beauty; such were the productions of Vanbrugh, adorned with only the negligent graces of nature. Mr. Cibber observes, that there is something so catching to the ear, so easy to the memory in all he wrote, that it was observed by the actors of his time, that the stile of no author whatsoever gave the memory less trouble than that of Sir John Vanbrugh, which he himself has confirmed by a pleasing experience. His wit and humour was so little laboured, that his most entertaining scenes seemed to be no more than his common conversation committed to paper. As his conceptions were so full of life and humour, it is not much to be wondered at, if his muse should be sometimes too warm to wait the slow pace of judgment, or to endure the drudgery of forming a regular Fable to them. That Sir John was capable of a great force of thinking, appears abundantly clear from that scene between Aesop and a country gentleman, who comes to complain of the bad conduct of those in power. The dialogue is at once sensible and animated. Aesop shews him what he reckoned the oppressions of the administration, flowed from the prejudices of ignorance, contemplated through the medium of popular discontent. In the interview between the Beau and the Philosopher, there is the following pretty fable. The Beau observes to Aesop, 'It is very well; it is very well, old spark; I say it is very well; because I han't a pair of plod shoes, and a dirty shirt, you think a woman won't venture upon me for husband.--Why now to shew you, old father, how little you philosophers know the ladies.--I'll tell you an adventure of a friend of mine.' A Band, a Bob-wig and a Feather Attack'd a lady's heart together, The band in a most learned plea, Made up of deep philosophy, Told her, if she would please to wed A reverend beard, and take instead Of vigorous youth, Old solemn truth, With books, and morals into bed, How happy she would be. The Bob, he talk'd of management, What wond'rous blessings Heav'n sent On care, and pains, and industry; And truly he must be so free, To own he thought your airy beaux, With powdered wigs, and dancing shoes, Were good for nothing (mend his soul) But prate and talk, and play the fool. He said, 'twas wealth gave joy, and mirth, And that to be the dearest wife, Of one who laboured all his life, To make a mine of gold his own, And not spend sixpence when he'd done Was Heaven upon earth. When these two blades had done, d'ye see. The Feather (as it might be me) Steps out sir from behind the skreen. With such an air and such a mien, Look you, old gentleman, in short, He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport. It prov'd such sunshine weather, That you must know at the first beck The lady leapt about his neck, And off they went together. The reputation which Sir John gained by his comedies was rewarded with, greater advantages, than what arise from the usual profits of writing for the stage. He was appointed Clarencieux King at Arms, a place which he some time held, and at last disposed of. In August 1716 he was appointed surveyor of the works at Greenwich Hospital; he was likewise made comptroller-general of his Majesty's works, and surveyor of the gardens and waters, the profits of which places, collectively considered, must amount to a very considerable sum. In some part of our author's life (for we cannot justly ascertain the time) he gratified an inclination of visiting France. As curiosity no doubt induced him to pass over to that country, he lost no time in making such observations as could enable him to discern the spirit, and genius of that polite people. His taste for architecture excited him to take a survey of the fortifications in that kingdom; but the ardour of his curiosity drew him into a snare, out of which he found great difficulty to escape. When he was one day surveying some fortifications with the strictest attention, he was taken notice of by an Engineer, secured by authority, and then carried prisoner to the Bastile in Paris. The French were confirmed in suspicions of his design, by several plans being found in his possession at the time he was seized upon; but as the French, except in cases of Heresy, use their prisoners with gentleness and humanity, Sir John found his confinement so endurable, that he amus'd himself in drawing rude draughts of some comedies. This circumstance raising curiosity in Paris, several of the noblesse visited him in the Bastile, when Sir John, who spoke their language with fluency and elegance, insinuated himself into their favour by the vivacity of his wit, and the peculiarity of his humour. He gained so much upon their affections, that they represented him to the French King in an innocent light, and by that means procured his liberty some days before the sollicitation came from: England. Sir John Vanbrugh formed a project of building a stately theatre in the Hay-market, for which: he had interest enough, to raise a subscription of thirty persons of quality at 100 l. each, in consideration whereof, every subscriber for his own life, should be admitted to whatever entertainments should be publickly performed there, without farther payment for entrance. On the first stone that was laid in this theatre, were inscribed the words LITTLE WHIG, as a compliment to a lady of extraordinary beauty, then the celebrated toast, and pride of that party. In the year 1706 when this house was finished, Mr. Betterton and his copartners put themselves under the direction of Sir John Vanbrugh and Mr. Congreve; imagining that the conduct of two such eminent authors would restore their ruined affairs; but they found their expectations were too sanguine, for though Sir John was an expeditious writer, yet Mr. Congreve was too judicious to let any thing come unfinished out of his hands; besides, every proper convenience of a good theatre had been sacrificed to shew the audience a vast triumphal piece of architecture, in which plays, by means of the spaciousness of the dome, could not be successfully represented, because the actors could not be distinctly heard. Not long before this time the Italian Opera began to steal into England, but in as rude a disguise, and as unlike itself as possible; notwithstanding which the new monster pleaded, though it had neither grace, melody, nor action to recommend it. To strike in therefore with the prevailing fashion, Vanbrugh and Congreve opened their New Theatre in the Hay-market, with a translated Opera, set to Italian music, called The Triumph of Love, but it met with a cold reception, being performed only three days, to thin houses. Immediately upon the failure of the Opera, Vanbrugh produced his comedy called The Confederacy, greatly improved from the Bourgois a la mode of Dancour. The success of this play was not equal to its merit; for it is written in, an uncommon vein of humour, and abounds with the most lively strokes of raillery. The prospects of gain from this theatre were so very unpromising, that Congreve, in a few months, gave up his share and interest in the government wholly to Sir John Vanbrugh; who being now sole proprietor of the house, was under a necessity to exert himself in its support. As he had a happier talent for throwing the English spirit into his translations of French plays, than any former author who had borrowed from them, he, in the same season, gave the public three more of that kind, viz. 1. The Cuckold in Conceit, from the Cocu imaginaire of Moliere. 2. Squire Treelooby, from his Monsieur de Pourceaugnac. 3. The Mistake, from the Depit Amoureux of the same Author[A]. However well executed these pieces were, yet they came to the ear in the same undistinguished utterance, by which almost all their plays had equally suffered; for as few could plainly hear, it was not likely a great many would applaud. In this situation it appears, that nothing but the union of the two companies could restore the stage to its former reputation. Sir John Vanbrugh therefore, tired of theatrical management, thought of disposing of his whole farm to some industrious tenant, that might put it into better condition. It was to Mr. Owen Swiny, that in the exigence of his affairs, he made an offer of his actors under such agreements of salary as might be made with them; and of his house, cloaths, and scenes, with the Queen's license to employ them, upon payment of the casual rent of five pounds every acting day, and not to exceed 700 l. per annum. With this proposal Mr. Swiny complied, and governed that stage till another great theatrical revolution. There are two plays of our author not yet mentioned, viz. The False Friend, a Comedy; acted in 1698, and A Journey to London, a Comedy; which he left unfinished. This last piece was finished by Mr. Cibber to a very great advantage, and now is one of the best comedies in our language. Mr. Cibber, in his prologue, takes particular notice of our author's virtuous intention in composing this piece, which, he says, was to make some amends for those loose scenes, which in the fire of his youth he had with more regard to applause, than virtue, exhibited to the public: but this design will be best understood by inserting the prologue. PROLOGUE. This play took birth from principles of truth, To make amends for errors past, of youth. A bard that's now no more, in riper days, Conscious review'd the licence of his plays: And tho' applause his wanton muse had fir'd, Himself condemn'd what sensual minds admir'd. At length he own'd that plays should let you see Not only what you are, but ought to be: Though vice was natural, 'twas never meant, The stage should shew it, but for punishment! Warm with that thought his muse once more took flame, Resolv'd to bring licentious life to shame. Such was the piece, his latest pen design'd', But left no traces of his plan behind. Luxurious scenes, unprun'd, or half contriv'd; Yet, through the mass, his native fire surviv'd: Rough as rich oar, in mines the treasure lay, Yet still 'twas rich, and forms at length a play. In which the bold compiler boasts no merit, But that his pains have sav'd you scenes of spirit. Not scenes that would a noisy joy impart, But such as hush the mind, and warm the heart. From praise of hands, no sure account he draws, But fix'd attention is, sincere applause. If then (for hard you'll own the task) his art Can to those Embrion scenes new life impart; The living proudly would exclude his lays, And to the buried bard resign the praise. Sir John indeed appears to have been often sensible of the immorality of his scenes; for in the year 1725 when the company of comedians was called upon, in a manner that could not be resisted, to revive the Provok'd Wife, the author, who was conscious how justly it was exposed to censure, thought proper to substitute a new scene in the fourth act, in place of another, in which, in the wantonness of his wit and humour, he had made a Rake talk like a Rake, in the habit of a Clergyman. To avoid which offence, he put the same Debauchee into the Undress of a Woman of Quality; for the character of a fine lady, it seems, is not reckoned so indelibly sacred, as that of a Churchman. Whatever follies he exposed in the petticoat kept him at least clear of his former imputed prophaneness, and appeared now to the audience innocently ridiculous. This ingenious dramatist died of a quinsey at his house in Whitehall, on the 26th of March 1726. He was a man of a lively imagination, of a facetious, and engaging humour, and as he lived esteemed by all his acquaintance, so he died without leaving ons enemy to reproach his memory; a felicity which few men of public employments, or possessed of so distinguished a genius, ever enjoyed. He has left behind him monuments of fame, which can never perish but with taste and politeness. [Footnote A: The two first were never printed from Sir John's manuscript.] * * * * * Sir RICHARD STEELE, Knt. This celebrated genius was born in Ireland. His father being a counsellor at law, and private secretary to James duke of Ormond, he went over with his grace to that kingdom, when he was raised to the dignity of lord lieutenant[A]. Our author when but very young, came over into England; and was educated at the Charter-House school in London, where Mr. Addison was his school-fellow, and where they contracted a friendship which continued firm till the death of that great man. His inclination leading him to the army, he rode for some time privately in the guards; in which station, as he himself tells us, in his Apology for his Writings, he first became an author, a way of life in which the irregularities of youth are considered as a kind of recommendation. Mr. Steele was born with the most violent propension to pleasure, and at the same time was master of so much good sense, as to be able to discern the extreme folly of licentious courses, their moral unfitness, and the many calamities they naturally produce. He maintained a perpetual struggle between reason and appetite. He frequently fell into indulgencies, which cost him many a pang of remorse, and under the conviction of the danger of a vicious life, he wrote his Christian Hero, with a design to fix upon his own mind a strong impression of virtue and religion. But this secret admonition to his conscience he judged too weak, and therefore in the year 1701 printed the book with his name prefixed, in hopes that a standing evidence against himself in the eyes of the world, might the more forcibly induce him to lay a restraint upon his desires, and make him ashamed of vice, so contrary to his own sense and conviction. This piece was the first of any note, and is esteem'd by some as one of the best of Mr. Steele's works; he gained great reputation by it, and recommended himself to the regard of all pious and good men. But while he grew in the esteem of the religious and worthy, he sunk in the opinion of his old companions in gaiety: He was reckoned by them to have degenerated from the gay, sprightly companion, to the dull disagreeable pedant, and they measured the least levity of his words and actions with the character of a Christian Hero. Thus he found himself slighted, instead of being encouraged for his declarations as to religion; but happily those who held him in contempt for his defence of piety and goodness were characters, with whom to be at variance is virtue. But Mr. Steele, who could not be content with the suffrage of the Good only, without the concurrence of the Gay, set about recovering the favour of the latter by innocent means: He introduced a Comedy on the stage, called Grief A-la-Mode, in which, tho' full of incidents that move laughter, and inspire chearfulness, virtue and vice appear just as they ought to do. This play was acted at the Theatre in Drury Lane 1702, and as nothing can make the town so fond of a man, as a successful play; so this, with some other particulars enlarged on to his advantage, recommended him to king William, and his name to be provided for was in the last table-book worn by his majesty. He had before this time procured a captain's commission in the lord Lucas's regiment, by the interest of lord Cutts, to whom he dedicated his Christian Hero, and who likewise appointed him his secretary: His next appearance as a writer, was in the office of Gazetteer, in which he observes in the same apology for himself, he worked faithfully, according to order, without ever erring against the rule observed by all ministers, to keep that paper very innocent, and insipid. The reproaches he heard every Gazette-day against the writer of it, inspired him with a fortitude of being remarkably negligent of what people said, which he did not deserve. In endeavouring to acquire this negligence, he certainly acted a prudent part, and gained the most important and leading advantage, with which, every author should set out. Whoever writes for the public, is sure to draw down envy on himself from some quarter or other, and they who are resolved never to be pleased, consider him as too assuming, and discover their resentment by contempt. How miserable is the state of an author! It is his misfortune in common with the fair sex, To please too little, or to please too much. If he happens to be a successful writer, his friends who become then proud of his acquaintance, flatter him, and by soothing his vanity teach him to overrate his importance, and while he grasps at universal fame, he loses by too vigorous an effort, what he had acquired by diligence and application: If he pleases too little, that is, if his works are not read, he is in a fair way of being a great loser by his attempt to please. Mr. Steele still continued to write plays. In the year 1703 his Comedy, entitled the Tender Husband, or the Accomplished Fools, was acted at the Theatre in Drury-Lane; as his Comedy of the Lying-Lovers, or the Ladies Friendship, was likewise the year following, both with success; so that his reputation was now fully established. In the year 1709 he began the Taller, the first of which was published on Tuesday April the 12th, and the last on Tuesday January the 2d, 1710-11. This paper greatly increasing his fame, he was preferred to be one of the commissioners of the stamp office. Upon laying down the Tatler, he set up, in concert with Mr. Addison, the Spectator, which was continued from March the 1st, 1710-11, to December the 6th 1712; and resumed June 18th 1714. and continued till December the 20th, the same year. The Guardian was likewise published by them, in 1713, and in the October of the same year, Mr. Steele began a political paper, entitled the Englishman. In the Spectator, Mr. Steele's papers are marked with the letter T. and in them are contained the most picturesque descriptions of low life, of which he was perfect matter. Humour was his talent, though not so much confined to that cast of writing to be incapable of painting very tender scenes; witness his Conscious Lovers, which never fails to draw tears; and in some of his Spectators he has written in so feeling a manner, that none can read them without emotion. He had a strong inclination to find out the humours of low life, and to make himself master of them. When he was at Edinburgh, as one of the commissioners on the forfeited estates, he one day made a very splendid feast, and while his servants were surprized at the great preparations, and were expecting every moment to carry out his invitations to the company for whom they imagined it was prepared, he commanded them to go out to the street, and pick up whatever beggars, and poor people they saw, and invite them to his house: The servants obeyed, and Sir Richard soon saw himself at the head of 40 or 50 beggars, together with some poor decay'd tradesmen. After dinner he plied them with punch and wine, and when the frolic was ended, he declared, that besides the pleasure of feeding so many hungry persons, he had learned from them humour enough for a good comedy. Our author was a man of the highest benevolence; he celebrates a generous action with a warmth that is only peculiar to a good heart; and however he may be blamed for want of oeconomy, &c. yet was he the most agreeable, and if we may be allowed the expression, the most innocent rake, that ever trod the rounds of indulgence. He wrote several poetical pieces, particularly the Englishman's thanks to the duke of Marlborough, printed in 1711; a letter to Sir Miles Wharton, concerning Occasional Peers, dated March 5th, 1713. The Guardian of August the 7th, 1713; and the importance of Dunkirk considered, in defence of that Guardian, in a letter to the bailiff of Stockbridge: The French Faith represented in the present state of Dunkirk: The Crisis, a Letter to a Member of Parliament, concerning the bill to prevent the present Growth of Schism, dated May 28, 1714; and his Apology for himself and his Writings. These pieces shew how much he was displeased with the last measures of Queen Anne, and were written to combat the Tory ministry; to oppose which he set about procuring a seat in Parliament; for which purpose he resigned his place of commissioner of the stamp-office, in June 1713, in a letter to the earl of Oxford, lord high treasurer, and was chosen member of the House of Commons, for the Borough of Stockbridge. But he did not long enjoy his seat in that house before he was expelled, on the 18th of March 1713, for writing the Englishman, being the close of the paper so called; and the Crisis[B]. In 1714 he published the Romish Ecclesiastical History of late years, and a paper intitled The Lover; the first of which appeared Thursday February 25, 1714, and another intitled the Reader, which began on Thursday April 22, the same year. In the sixth Number of this last paper, he gave an account of his design of writing the History of the Duke of Marlborough, from proper materials in his custody: the relation to commence from the date of his grace's commission, as captain-general, and plenipotentiary; and to end with the expiration of these commissions. But this noble design he lived not to execute, and the materials were afterwards returned to the duchess of Marlborough, who left them to Mr. Mallet, with a handsome gratuity for the execution of Sir Richard's design. Soon after the accession of king George the 1st to the throne, Mr. Steele was appointed surveyor of the royal stables at Hampton-Court, and governor of the royal company of Comedians, by a patent, dated January 19, 1714-15. He was likewise put into the commission of the peace for the county of Middlesex; and in April 1715 received the honour of knighthood from his majesty. In the first parliament of that king, he was chosen for Borough-brigg in Yorkshire; and after the suppressing the Rebellion in the North, was appointed one of the commissioners of the forfeited estates in Scotland, where he received from several of the nobility and gentry of that part of the united kingdom the most distinguishing marks of respect. He contracted a friendship while in Scotland, with one Hart, a Presbyterian minister in Edinburgh, whom he afterwards honoured with his correspondence: This Hart he used merrily to stile the Hangman of the Gospel, for though he was a facetious good-natur'd man, yet he had fallen into a peculiar way of preaching what he called the Terrors of the Law, and denounced anathemas from the pulpit without reserve. Sir Richard held frequent conversations with Hart, and other ministers, concerning the restoration of episcopacy, the antient church-government of that nation, and often observed that it was pity, when the two kingdoms were united in language, in dress, in politics, and in all essential points, even in religion, should yet be divided in the ecclesiastical administration, which still serves to maintain a kind of alienation between the people. He found many of the Scots well disposed towards prelacy; but the generality, who were taught to contemplate the church of England, with as much horror as that of Rome, could not soon be prevailed upon to return to it. Sir Richard wished well to the interests of religion, and as he imagined that Union would promote it, he had some thoughts of proposing it at court, but the times were unfavourable. The Presbyterians had lately appeared active against the rebels, and were not to be disobliged; but such is now the good understanding between the episcopal and presbyterian parties, that a few concessions on the one side, and not many advances on the other, possibly might produce an amicable coalition, as it is chiefly in form, rather than in articles of religion, in which they differ. In the year 1715 he published an account of the state of the Roman Catholic Religion throughout the World, translated from an Italian manuscript, with a dedication to the Pope, giving him a very particular account of the state of religion amongst the Protestants, and several other matters of importance, relating to Great-Britain; but this dedication is supposed to be written by another very eminent hand, more conversant in subjects of that nature than Sir Richard. The same year our author published a Letter from the earl of Marr to the king, before his majesty's arrival in England; with some remarks on my lord's subsequent conduct; and the year following a second volume of the Englishman, and in 1718 an account of a Fish-Pool, which was a project of his for bringing fish to market alive, for which he obtained a patent. In 1719 he published a pamphlet called the Spinster, and a Letter to the Earl of Oxford, concerning the Bill of Peerage, which bill he opposed in the House of Commons. Some time after, he wrote against the South-Sea-Scheme; his Crisis of posterity; and another piece intitled, A Nation a Family; and on Saturday January the 2d, 1719-20, he began a paper called the Theatre, during the course of which his patent of governor of the Royal Company of Comedians, being suspended by his majesty, he published, The State of the Case. In the year 1722, he brought his Conscious Lovers on the stage, with prodigious success. This is the last and most finished of all Sir Richard's Comedies, and 'tis doubtful if there is upon the stage, any more instructing; that tends to convey a finer moral, or is better conducted in its design. We have already observed, that it is impossible to witness the tender scenes of this Comedy without emotion; that is, no man of feeling and humanity, who has experienced the délicate solicitudes of love and affection, can do it. Sir Richard has told us, that when one of the players told Mr. Wilks, that there was a General weeping for Indiana; he politely observed, that he would not fight the worse for that; and indeed what a noble school of morality would the stage be, if all those who write for it would observe such delicate chastity; they would then inforce an honourable and virtuous deportment, by the most insinuating and easy means; they would so allure the audience by the amiable form of goodness represented in her native loveliness, that he who could resist her charms, must be something more than wicked. When Sir Richard finished this Comedy, the parts of Tom and Phillis were not then in it: He read it to Mr. Cibber, who candidly told him, that though he liked his play upon the whole, both in the cast of the characters and execution of them; yet, that it was rather too grave for an English audience, who want generally to laugh at a Comedy, and without which in their opinion, the end is not answered. Mr. Cibber then proposed the addition of some comic characters, with which Sir Richard agreed, and saw the propriety and force of the observation. This comedy (at Sir Richard's request) received many additions from, and were greatly improved by Mr. Cibber.--Our author dedicated this work to the king, who made him a present of 500 l. Some years before his death, he grew paralytic, and retired to his seat at Langunner, near Caermarthen in Wales, where he died September the 1st, 1729; and was privately interred according to his own desire, in the church of Caermarthen. Besides his writings above-mentionened, he began on Saturday the 17th of December, a weekly paper in quarto, called the Town-Talk, in a letter to a lady in the country; and another, intitled the Tea-Table: He had likewise planned a comedy which he intended to call The School of Action.--As Sir Richard was beloved when living, so his loss was sincerely regretted at his death. He was a man of undissembled, and extensive benevolence; a friend to the friendless, and as far as his circumstances would permit, the father of every orphan: His works are chaste, and manly, he himself admired virtue, and he drew her as lovely as she is: of his works it may be said, as Sir George Lyttleton in his prologue to Coriolanus observes of Thomson, that there are not in them One corrupted, one immoral thought, A line which dying he could wish to blot. He was a stranger to the most distant appearance of envy or malevolence, never jealous of any man's growing reputation, and so far from arrogating any praise to himself, from his conjunction with Mr. Addison, that he was the first who desired him to distinguish his papers in the Spectator, and after the death of that great man was a faithful executor of his fame, notwithstanding an aspersion which Mr. Tickell was so unjust to throw upon him. Sir Richard's greatest error was want of oeconomy, as appears from the two following instances related by the elegant writer of Mr. Savage's Life, to whom that gentleman communicated them. 'Savage was once desired by Sir Richard, with an air of the utmost importance, to come very early to his house the next morning. Mr. Savage came as he had promised, found the chariot at the door, and Sir Richard waiting for him ready to go out. What was intended, and whither they were to go, Savage could not conjecture, and was not willing to inquire, but immediately seated himself with Sir Richard: The coachman was ordered to drive, and they hurried with the utmost expedition to Hyde-Park Corner, where they stopped at a petty tavern, and retired to a private room. Sir Richard then informed him, that he intended to publish a pamphlet, and that he desired him to come thither, that he might write for him. They soon sat down to the work, Sir Richard dictated, and Savage wrote, till the dinner which had been ordered, was put upon the table. Savage was surprised at the meanness of the entertainment, and after some hesitation, ventured to ask for wine, which Sir Richard, not without reluctance ordered to be brought. They then finished their dinner, and proceeded in their pamphlet, which they concluded in the afternoon. Mr. Savage then imagined his task over, and expected that Sir Richard would call for the reckoning and return home; but his expectations deceived him, for Sir Richard told him he was without money and that the pamphlet must be sold before the dinner could be paid for; and Savage was therefore obliged to go and offer their new production to sale for two guineas, which with some difficulty he obtained. Sir Richard then returned home, having retired that day only to avoid his creditors, and composed the pamphlet only to discharge his reckoning.' As Savage has said nothing to the contrary, it is reasonable to conjecture that he had Sir Richard's permission to use his name to the Bookseller, to whom he made an offer of it for two guineas, otherwise it is very improbable that the pamphlet should be sold at all in so short a time. The other instance is equally uncommon with the former: Sir Richard having incited to his house a great number of persons of the first quality, they were surprized at the number of liveries which surrounded the table; and after dinner, when wine and mirth had set them free from the observation of rigid ceremony, one of them enquired of Sir Richard, how such an expensive train of domestics could be consistent with his fortune? Sir Richard frankly confessed, that they were fellows of whom he would very willingly be rid. And being then asked why he did not discharge them; he declared that they were Bailiffs who had introduced themselves with an execution, and whom, since he could not send them away, he had thought it convenient to imbellish with liveries, that they might do him credit whilst they staid. His friends were diverted with the expedient, and by paying the debt, discharged the attendance, having obliged Sir Richard to promise that they should never find him again graced with a retinue of the same kind. He married to his first wife a gentlewoman of Barbadoes, with whom he had a valuable Plantation there on the death of her brother, who was taken by the French at Sea as he was coming to England, and died in France. This wife dying without issue, he married Mary, the daughter of Jonathan Scurlock of Langunnoc in Carmarthanshire, esq; by whom he had one son, Eugene, who died young: of his two daughters, one only is living; which lady became sole heiress to a handsome estate in Wales. She was married, when young, to the hon. John Trevor, esq; one of the judges of the principality of Wales; who since, by the death of his brother, has taken his seat in the House of Lords, as Baron Trevor, &c. [Footnote A: General Dictionary, vol. ix, p. 395.] [Footnote B: His expulsion was owing to the spleen of the then prevailing party; what they design'd as a disgrace, prov'd an honour to him.] * * * * * ANDREW MARVEL, Esq;[A] This ingenious gentleman was the son of Mr. Andrew Marvel, Minister and Schoolmaster of Kingston upon Hull in Yorkshire, and was born in that town in the year 1620[B]. He was admitted into Trinity College in Cambridge December 14, 1633, where he had not been long before his studies were interrupted by the following accident: Some Jesuits with whom he familiarly conversed, observing in him a genius beyond his years, used their utmost efforts to proselyte him to their faith, which they imagined they could more easily accomplish while he was yet young. They so far succeeded as to seduce him from the college, and carry him to London, where, after some months absence, his father found him in a Bookseller's shop, and prevailed upon him to return to the college. He afterwards pursued his studies with the most indefatigable application, and in the year 1638, took the degree of bachelor of arts, and the same year was admitted scholar of the house, that is, of the foundation at Trinity College[C]. We have no farther account of him for several years after this, only that he travelled through the most polite parts of the world, but in what quality we are not certain, unless in that of secretary to the embassy at Constantinople. While our author was in France, he wrote his poem entitled Cuidam, qui legendo Scripturam, descripsit Formam, Sapientiam, Sortemque Authoris. Illustrissimo Viro Domino Lanceloto Josepho de Maniban Grammatomanti. The person to whom he addresses these verses was an Abbot, famous for entering into the qualities of those whom he had never seen, and prognosticating their good, or bad fortune from an inspection of their hand-writing. During the troubles of the Republic we find him tutor to one Mr. Dutton, a young gentleman; as appears from an original letter of his to Oliver Cromwel. This letter sent to so extraordinary a person by a man of Mr. Marvel's consequence, may excite the reader's curiosity, with which, he shall be gratified. It carries in it much of that stiffness and pedantry peculiar to the times, and is very different from the usual stile of our author. 'May it please your LORDSHIP, 'It might perhaps seem fit for me to seek out words to give your excellence thanks for myself. But indeed the only civility, which it is fit for me to practise with so eminent a person, is to obey you, and to perform honestly this work which you have set me about. Therefore I shall use the time that your lordship is pleased to allow me for writing, only to that purpose for which you have given me it, that is to render you some account of Mr. Dutton. I have taken care to examine him several times in the presence of Mr. Oxenbridge[D], as those who weigh and tell over money, before some witnesses e'er they take charge of it; for I thought that there might be possibly some lightness in the coin, or error in the telling, which hereafter I might be bound to make good. Therefore Mr. Oxenbridge is the best to make your excellence an impartial relation thereof; I shall only say, that I shall strive according to my best understanding to increase whatsoever talent he may have already. Truly he is of a gentle, and waxen disposition; and, God be praised, I cannot say that he hath brought with him any evil impression; and I hope to set nothing upon his spirit, but what shall be of a good sculpture. He hath in him two things, which make youth most easily to be managed, modesty, which is the bridle to vice, and emulation, which is the spur to virtue. And the care which your excellency is pleased to take of him, is no small encouragement, and shall be represented to him; but above all, I shall labour to make him sensible of his duty to God, for then we begin to serve faithfully, when we consider that he is our master; and in this both he and I owe infinitely to your lordship, for having placed in so godly a family as that of Mr. Oxenbridge, whose doctrine and example are like a book and a map, not only instructing the ear, but demonstrating to the eye which way we ought to travel. I shall upon occasion henceforward inform your excellency of any particularities in our little affairs. I have no more at present but to give thanks to God for your lordship, and to beg grace of him, to approve myself. * * * * * Mr. Marvel's first appearance in public business at home, was, in being assistant to Milton as Latin secretary to the Protector. He himself tells us, in a piece called The Rehearsal Transposed, that he never had any, not the remotest relation to public matters, nor correspondence with the persons then predominant, until the year 1657, when indeed, says he, 'I entered into an employment, for which I was not altogether improper, and which I considered to be the most innocent, and inoffensive towards his Majesty's affairs of any in that usurped, and irregular government, to which all men were then exposed; and this I accordingly discharged, without disobliging any one person, there having been opportunities, and endeavours since his Majesty's happy return, to have discovered, had it been otherwise.' A little before the Restoration, he was chosen by his native town, Kingston upon Hull, to sit in that Parliament which began at Westminster April 25, 1660, and again after the Restoration for that which began at the same place May 8, 1661. In this station our author discharged his trust with the utmost fidelity, and always shewed a peculiar regard for those he represented; for he constantly sent the particulars of every proceeding in the House, to the heads of the town for which he was elected; and to those accounts he always joined his own opinion. This respectful behaviour gained so much on their affections, that they allowed him an honourable pension to his death, all which time he continued in Parliament. Mr. Marvel was not endowed with the gift of eloquence, for he seldom spoke in the house; but was however capable of forming an excellent judgment of things, and was so acute a discerner of characters, that his opinion was greatly valued, and he had a powerful influence over many of the Members without doors. Prince Rupert particularly esteemed him, and whenever he voted agreeable to the sentiments of Mr. Marvel, it was a saying of the opposite party, he has been with his tutor. The intimacy between this illustrious foreigner, and our author was so great, that when it was unsafe for the latter to have it known where he lived, on account of some mischief which was threatened him, the prince would frequently visit him in a disguised habit. Mr. Marvel was often in such danger of assassination, that he was obliged to have his letters directed to him in another name, to prevent any discovery that way. He made himself obnoxious to the government, both by his actions, and writings; and notwithstanding his proceedings were all contrary to his private interest, nothing could ever make his resolution, of which the following is a notable instance, and transmits our author's name with lustre to posterity. One night he was entertained by the King, who had often been delighted with his company: his Majesty next day sent the lord treasurer Danby to find out his lodging; Mr. Marvel, then rented a room up two pair of stairs, in a little court in the Strand, and was writing when the lord treasurer opened the door abruptly upon him. Surprized at the sight of so unexpected a visitor, Mr. Marvel told his lordship, that he believed he had mistaken his way; the lord Danby replied, not now I have found Mr. Marvel: telling him that he came with a message from his Majesty, which was to know what he could do to serve him? his answer was, in his usual facetious manner, that it was not in his Majesty's power to serve him: but coming to a serious explanation of his meaning, he told the lord treasurer, that he well knew the nature of courts, and that whoever is distinguished by a Prince's favour, is certainly expected to vote in his interest. The lord Danby told him, that his Majesty had only a just sense of his merits, in regard to which alone, he desired to know whether there was any place at court he could be pleased with. These offers, though, urged with the greatest earnestness, had no effect upon him; he told the lord treasurer, that he could not accept it with honour, for he must either be ungrateful to the King by voting against him, or betray his country by giving his voice against its interest, at least what he reckoned so. The only favour therefore which he begged of his Majesty, was, that he would esteem him as dutiful a subject as any he had, and more in his proper interest in rejecting his offers, than if he had embraced them. The lord Danby finding no arguments would prevail, told him, the King had ordered a thousand pounds for him, which he hoped he would accept, 'till he could think what farther to ask of his Majesty. This last temptation was refused with the same stedfastness of mind as the first. The reader must have already taken notice that Mr. Marvel's chief support was the pension allowed him by his constituents, that his lodgings, were mean, and consequently his circumstances at this time could not be affluent. His resisting these temptations therefore in such a situation, was perhaps one of the most heroic instances of patriotism the Annals of England can furnish. But his conduct will be still heightened into a more amiable light, when it is related, that as soon as the lord treasurer had taken his leave, he was obliged to send to a friend to borrow a guinea. As the most powerful allurements of riches, and honour, could never seduce him to relinquish the interest of his country, so not even the most immense dangers could deter him from pursuing it. In a private letter to a friend from Highgate, in which he mentions the insuperable hatred of his foes to him, and their design of murthering him, he has these words; Praeterea magis eccidere metuo quam occidi, non quod vitam tanti aestimem, sed ne imparatus moriar, i.e., 'Besides, I am more apprehensive of killing, than being killed, not that I value life so much, but that I may not die unprepared.' Mr. Marvel did not remain an unconcerned member of the state, when he saw encroachments made upon it both by the civil, and ecclesiastical powers. He saw that some of the bishops had formed an idea of protestantism very different from the true one, and were making such advances towards popery, as would soon issue in a reconciliation. Amongst these ecclesiastics, none was so forward as Dr. Samuel Parker, who published at London 1672 in 8vo. bishop Bramhal's Vindication of himself, and the Episcopal Clergy, from the Presbyterian charge of Popery, as it is managed by Mr. Baxter in his Treatise on the Grotian Religion. Dr. Parker likewise preached up the doctrine of Non-resistance, which slavish principle is admirably calculated to prepare the people for receiving any yoke. Marvel, whose talent consisted in drollery, more than in serious reasoning, took his own method of exposing those opinions. He wrote a piece called The Rehearsal Transposed, in which he very successfully ridiculed Dr. Parker. This ludicrous essay met with several answers, some serious, and others humorous; we shall not here enumerate all the Rejoinders, Replies, and Animad-versions upon it. Wood himself confesses, who was an avowed enemy to Marvel, 'that Dr. Parker judged it more prudent rather to lay down the cudgels, than to enter the lists again, with an untowardly combatant, so hugely well versed, and experienced, in the then newly refined art of sporting, and jeering buffoonery.' And bishop Burnet tells us in the History of his own Time, 'That Dr. Parker, after he had for some years entertained the nation with several virulent books, was attacked by the liveliest droll of the age, who wrote in a burlesque stile, but with so peculiar, and entertaining a conduct, that from the King down to the tradesman, his book was read with great pleasure. This not only humbled Parker, but the whole party, for the author of The Rehearsal Transposed, had all the men of wit on his side.' Dr. Swift likewise in his Apology for the Tale of a Tub, speaking of the usual fate of common answerers to books, and how short-lived their labours are, observes, 'That there is indeed an exception, when any great genius thinks it worth his while to expose a foolish piece; so we still read Marvel's answer to Parker with pleasure, though the book it answers be sunk long ago.' The next controversy in which we find Mr. Marvel engaged, was with an antagonist of the pious Dr. Croft, bishop of Hereford, who wrote a discourse entitled The Naked Truth, or A True State of the Primitive Church: By an humble Moderator. Dr. Turner, fellow of St. John's College, wrote Animadversions upon this book; Mr. Marvel's answer to these Animadversions, was entitled Mr. Smirk, or The Divine in Mode; being certain Annotations upon the Animadversions on The Naked Truth, together with a Short Historical Essay concerning General Councils, Creeds, and Impositions in Matters of Religion, printed 1676. Our author's next work was An Account of the Growth of Popery, and Arbitrary Government in England; more particularly from the long prorogation of November 1675, ending February 15, 1676, 'till the meeting of Parliament July 15, 1677, printed in folio 1678. Our author in a letter dated June 10, 1678, wrote thus; 'There came out about Christmas last here, a large book concerning the Growth of Popery, and Arbitrary Government. There have been great rewards offered in private, and considerable, in the Gazette, to any, who would inform of the author, and Printer, but not yet discovered. Three or four printed books since have described (as near as was proper to go, the man being a member of Parliament) Mr. Marvel to be the author, but if he had, he surely could not have escaped being questioned in Parliament, or 'Some other place.' This book was so offensive to the court at that time, that an order was published in these words, 'Whereas there have been lately printed, and published several seditious, and scandalous libels against the proceedings of both Houses of Parliament, and other his Majesty's Courts of Justice, to the dishonour of his Majesty's government, and the hazard of the public peace, these are to give notice, that what person soever shall discover unto one of the secretaries of state, the printer, publisher, author, or hander to the press of any of the said libels, so that full evidence may be made thereof to a Jury, without mentioning the informer, especially one libel, entitled An Account of the Growth of Popery; and another called A Reasonable Argument to all the Grand Juries, &c. the discoverer shall be rewarded as follows; he shall have fifty pounds for such discovery as aforesaid, of the printer or publisher of it from the press, and for the hander of it to the press, one hundred pounds.' Mr. Marvel begins this book with a panegyric on the constitution of the English government, shewing how happy the people are under such wholesome laws, which if faithfully observed, must make a people happy, and a monarch great. He observes, that the king and the subject are equally under the laws; and that the former is no longer king than he continues to obey them. 'So that, says he, the kings of England, are in nothing inferior to other princes, save in being more abridg'd from injuring their own subjects, but have as large a field as any of external felicity, wherein to exercise their own virtue, and to reward and encourage it in others. In short there is nothing that comes nearer the divine perfection, than when the monarch, as with us, enjoys a capacity of doing all the good imaginable to mankind, under a disability of all that is evil.' After slightly tracing popery from earlier times, he begins with the Dutch war in 1665; but dwells most upon the proceedings at Rome, from November 1675, to July 1677. He relates the occasion of the Dutch war, shews that the papists, and the French in particular, were the true springs of all our councils; and draws the following picture of popery. 'It is such a thing, as cannot but for want of a word to express it, be called a religion; nor is it to be mentioned with that civility, which is otherwise decent to be used in speaking of the differences of human opinions about divine matters; were it either open Juadism, or plain Turkery, or, there is yet a certain Bona Fides in the most extravagant belief, and the sincerity of an erroneous profession may render it more pardonable: But this is a compound of all the three, an extract of whatever is most ridiculous or impious in them, incorporated with more peculiar absurdities of its own, in which those were deficient; and all this deliberately contrived, and knowingly carried on, by the solid imposture of priests, under the name of Christianity.' This great man died, not without strong suspicions of being poisoned, August 16, 1678, in the 58th year of his age, and was interred in the church of St. Giles's in the Fields; and in the year 1688 the town of Kingston upon Hull contributed a sum of money to erect a monument over him, in St. Giles's church, for which an epitaph was composed by an able hand; but the minister of that church, piously forbad both the inscription and monument to be placed there. Mr. Wood tells us, that in his conversation, he was very modest, and of few words; and Mr. Cooke observes, 'that he was very reserved among people he did not very well know; but a most delightful, and improving companion amongst his friends.' In the year 1680, his miscellaneous poems were published, to which is prefixed this advertisement. 'These are to certify every ingenious reader, that all these poems, as also the other things in this book contained, are printed according to the exact copies of my late dear husband, under his own hand writing, both found since his death, among his other papers. Witness my hand, MARY MARVEL. But Mr. Cooke informs us, 'that these were published with a mercenary view; and indeed not at all to the honour of the deceased, by a woman with whom he lodged, who hoped by this stratagem to share in what he left behind him.' He was never married, and the same gentleman observes in another place, that in the editions of 1681, there are such gross errors, especially in the Latin Poems, as make several lines unintelligible; and that in the volume of Poems on Affairs of State, the same mistakes are as frequent; and in those, some pieces are attributed to our author, which he never wrote. Most of his Poems printed in Dryden's Miscellanies are so imperfect, that whole stanzas are omitted in many places. These Mr. Cooke has restored in his edition of the works of Andrew Marvel, Esq; printed at London 1725, in two volumes, and corrected such faults as in either of the two former editions obscure the sense: in this edition are also added, some poems from original manuscripts. Great care has likewise been taken by Mr. Cooke, to retrench such pieces as he was sure were not genuine. Mr. Marvel, considered as a statesman, makes a more conspicuous figure than any of the age in which he lived, the proceeding, or the subsequent: He possessed the first quality of a statesman, that is, inviolable integrity, and a heart so confirmed against corruption, that neither indigence, a love of pomp or even dangers the most formidable, could move his settled purpose, to pursue in every respect, the interest of his country. That Marvel understood the true interest of his country, is abundantly clear, from the great reverence paid to his opinion, by such persons as were most able to discern, and most disposed to promote its welfare. He has succeeded to a miracle in the droll way of writing; and when he assumes a severity, and writes seriously his arguments and notions are far removed from imbecility. As a poet, I cannot better delineate his character than in the words of Mr. Cooke, 'There are few of his poems (says he) that have not something very pleasing in them, and some he must be allowed to have excelled in; most of them seem to be the effect of a lively genius, and manly sense, but at the same time seem to want that correctness he was capable of making. His most finished pieces are upon Milton's Paradise Lost, and upon Blood's stealing the crown; the latter of which is very satirical.' On BLOOD's stealing the Crown. When daring Blood, his rent to have regain'd, Upon the English diadem distrain'd; He chose the cassoc, circingle, and gown, The fittest mask for one that robs the crown: But his lay-pity underneath prevail'd, And, while he sav'd the keeper's life, he fail'd. With the priest's vestment had he but put on The prelate's cruelty, the crown had gone. 'In his state Poems, is contained much of the secret history of king Charles the IId, in which time they were all written. They were composed on various occasions, and chiefly to expose a corrupt ministry, and the violence of those who were for persecuting all who differed from them in opinion. He has several Poems in Latin, some of which he translated into English, and one in Greek. They have each their proper merit; he discovers a great facility in writing the Latin tongue. There are some small pieces of his in prose, which ought not to escape observation. From his letter to Sir John Trott, there seems to have been a friendly correspondence between him and that gentleman. By his Familiar Letters, we may easily judge what part of his works are laboured, and what not. But of all his pieces in Prose, the King's Mock-Speech to both Houses of Parliament, has most of spirit, and humour. As it will furnish the best specimen of Mr. Marvel's genius for drollery, as well as the character of that prince and ministry, we shall here insert it, as a performance of the most exquisite humour we have ever seen. His Majesty's most gracious Speech to both Houses of Parliament. My Lords and Gentlemen, 'I told you, at our last meeting, the winter was the fittest time for business, and truly I thought so, till my lord treasurer assured me the spring was the best season for sallads and subsidies. I hope therefore, that April will not prove so unnatural a month, as not to afford some kind showers on my parched exchequer, which gapes for want of them. Some of you, perhaps, will think it dangerous to make me too rich; but I do not fear it; for I promise you faithfully, whatever you give me I will always want; and although in other things my word may be thought a slender authority, yet in that, you may rely on me, I will never break it. My Lords and Gentlemen, I can bear my straits with patience; but my lord treasurer does protest to me, that the revenue, as it now stands, will not serve him and me too. One of us must suffer for it, if you do not help me. I must speak freely to you, I am under bad circumstances, for besides my harlots in service, my Reformado Concubines lie heavy upon me. I have a passable good estate, I confess, but, God's-fish, I have a great charge upon't. Here's my lord treasurer can tell, that all the money designed for next summer's guards must, of necessity, be applyed to the next year's cradles and swadling-cloths. What shall we do for ships then? I hint this only to you, it being your business, not mine. I know, by experience, I can live without ships. I lived ten years abroad without, and never had my health better in my life; but how you will be without, I leave to yourselves to judge, and therefore hint this only by the by: I do not insist upon it. There's another thing I must press more earnestly, and that is this: It seems, a good part of my revenue will expire in two or three years, except you will be pleased to continue it. I have to say for't; pray why did you give me so much as you have done, unless you resolve to give as fast as I call for it? The nation hates you already for giving so much, and I'll hate you too, if you do not give me more. So that if you stick not to me, you must not have a friend in England. On the other hand, if you will give me the revenue I desire, I shall be able to do those things for your religion and liberty, that I have had long in my thoughts, but cannot effect them without a little more money to carry me through. Therefore look to't, and take notice, that if you do not make me rich enough to undo you, it shall lie at your doors. For my part, I wash my hands on't. But that I may gain your good opinion, the best way is to acquaint you what I have done to deserve it, out of my royal care for your religion and your property. For the first, my proclamation is a true picture of my mind. He that cannot, as in a glass, see my zeal for the church of England, does not deserve any farther satisfaction, for I declare him willful, abominable, and not good. Some may, perhaps, be startled, and cry, how comes this sudden change? To which I answer, I am a changling, and that's sufficient, I think. But to convince men farther, that I mean what I say, there are these arguments. First, I tell you so, and you know I never break my word. Secondly, my lord treasurer says so, and he never told a lye in his life. Thirdly, my lord Lauderdale will undertake it for me; and I should be loath, by any art of mine, he should forfeit the credit he has with you. If you desire more instances of my zeal, I have them for you. For example, I have converted my natural sons from Popery; and I may say, without vanity, it was my own work, so much the more peculiarly mine than the begetting them. 'Twould do one's heart good to hear how prettily George can read already in the Psalter. They are all fine children, God bless 'em, and so like me in their understandings! But, as I was saying, I have, to please you, given a pension to your favourite, my lord Lauderdale; not so much that I thought he wanted it, as that you would take it kindly. I have made Carwel duchess of Portsmouth, and marry'd her sister to the earl of Pembroke. I have, at my brother's request, lent my lord Inchequin into Barbary, to settle the Protestant religion among the Moors, and an English interest at Tangier. I have made Crew bishop of Durham, and, at the first word of my lady Portsmouth, Prideaux bishop of Chichester. I know not, for my part, what factious men would have; but this I am sure of, my predecessors never did any thing like this, to gain the good-will of their subjects. So much for your religion, and now for your property. My behaviour to the bankers is a public instance; and the proceedings between Mrs. Hyde and Mrs. Sutton, for private ones, are such convincing evidences, that it will be needless to say any more to't. I must now acquaint you, that, by my lord treasurer's advice, I made a considerable retrenchment upon my expences in candies and charcoal, and do not intend to stop there, but will, with your help, look into the late embezzlements of my dripping-pans and kitchenstuff; of which, by the way, upon my conscience, neither my lord treasurer, nor my lord Lauderdale, are guilty. I tell you my opinion; but if you should find them dabling in that business, I tell you plainly, I leave 'em to you; for, I would have the world to know, I am not a man to be cheated. My Lords and Gentlemen, I desire you to believe me as you have found me; and I do solemnly promise you, that whatsoever you give me shall be specially managed with the same conduct, trust, sincerity, and prudence, that I have ever practiced, since my happy restoration.' In order to shew the versification of Mr. Marvel, we shall add a beautiful dialogue between the resolved soul, and created pleasure. It is written with a true spirit of poetry, the numbers are various, and harmonious, and is one of the best pieces, in the serious way, of which he is author. A DIALOGUE between the Resolved SOUL and Created PLEASURE. Courage, my Soul, now learn to weild The weight of thine immortal shield. Close on thy head thy helmet bright; Ballance thy sword against the fight. See where an army, strong as fair, With silken banners spreads the air. Now, if thou be'st that thing divine, In this day's combat let it shine; And shew that nature wants an art To conquer one resolved heart. PLEASURE. Welcome the creation's guest, Lord of earth, and heaven's heir; Lay aside that warlike crest, And of nature's banquet share: Where the Souls of fruits and flow'rs, Stand prepar'd to heighten yours. SOUL. I sup above, and cannot stay, To bait so long upon the way. PLEASURE. On these downy pillows lye, Whose soft plumes will thither fly: On these roses, strew'd so plain Lest one leaf thy side should strain. SOUL. My gentler rest is on a thought, Conscious of doing what I ought. PLEASURE. If thou be'st with perfumes pleas'd, Such as oft the gods appeas'd, Thou in fragrant clouds shalt show Like another god below. SOUL. A Soul that knows not to presume, Is heaven's, and its own, perfume. PLEASURE. Every thing does seem to vye Which should first attract thine eye; But since none deserves that grace, In this crystal view thy face. SOUL. When the creator's skill is priz'd, The rest is all but earth disguis'd. PLEASURE. Hark how music then prepares, For thy stay, these charming airs; Which the posting winds recall, And suspend the river's fall. SOUL. Had I but any time to lose, On this I would it all dispose. Cease Tempter. None can chain a mind, Whom this sweet cordage cannot bind. CHORUS. Earth cannot shew so brave a sight, As when a single Soul does fence The batt'ry of alluring sense, And Heaven views it with delight. Then persevere; for still new charges sound; And if thou overcom'st thou shalt be crown'd. PLEASURE. All that's costly, fair, and sweet, Which scatteringly doth shine, Shall within one beauty meet, And she be only thine. SOUL. If things of sight such heavens be, What heavens are those we cannot see? PLEASURE. Wheresoe'er thy foot shall go The minted gold shall lye; Till thou purchase all below, And want new worlds to buy. SOUL. Wer't not for price who'd value gold? And that's worth nought that can be sold. PLEASURE. Wilt thou all the glory have That war or peace commend? Half the world shall be thy slave, The other half thy friend. SOUL. What friends, if to my self untrue? What slaves, unless I captive you? PLEASURE. Thou shalt know each hidden cause; And see the future time: Try what depth the centre draws; And then to heaven climb. SOUL. None thither mounts by the degree Of knowledge, but humility. CHORUS. Triumph, triumph, victorious Soul; The world has not one pleasure more; The rest does lye beyond the pole, And is thine everlasting store. We shall conclude the life of Mr. Marvel, by presenting the reader with that epitaph, which was intended to be inscribed upon his tomb, in which his character is drawn in a very masterly manner. Near this place Lieth the body of ANDREW MARVEL, Esq; A man so endowed by nature, So improved by education, study, and travel, So consummated, by experience and learning; That joining the most peculiar graces of wit With a singular penetration and strength of judgment, And exercising all these in the whole course of his life, With unalterable steadiness in the ways of virtue, He became the ornament and example of his age, Beloved by good men, fear'd by bad, admired by all, Tho' imitated, alas! by few; And scarce paralleled by any. But a tombstone can neither contain his character, Nor is marble necessary to transmit it to posterity. It is engraved in the minds of this generation, And will be always legible in his inimitable writings. Nevertheless He having served near twenty-years successively in parliament, And that, with such wisdom, integrity, dexterity, and courage, As became a true patriot, The town of Kingiton upon Hull, From whence he was constantly deputed to that Assembly, Lamenting in his death the public loss, Have erected this monument of their grief and gratitude, 1688. He died in the 58th year of his age On the 16th day of August 1678. Heu fragile humanum genus! heu terrestria vana! Heu quem spectatum continet urna virum! [Footnote A: A disappointment occasioned our throwing this life out of the chronlogical order. But we hope the candid reader will pardon a fault of this kind: we only wish he may find nothing of more consequence to accuse us of.] [Footnote B: Cook's Life of Andrew Marvel, Esq; prefixed to the first volume of Mr. Marvel's Works, London 1726.] [Footnote C: Life ubi supri.] [Footnote D: Mr. John Oxenbridge, who was made fellow of Eton College curing the civil war, but ejected at the Restoration; he died in New England, and was a very enthusiastic person.] * * * * * Mrs. ELIZABETH THOMAS, This lady, who is known in the world by the poetial name of Corinna, seems to have been born for misfortunes; her very bitterest enemies could never brand her with any real crime, and yet her whole life has been one continued scene of misery[A]. The family from which she sprung was of a rank in life beneath envy, and above contempt. She was the child of an ancient, and infirm parent, who gave her life when he was dying himself, and to whose unhappy constitution she was sole heiress. From her very birth, which happened 1675, she was afflicted with fevers and defluxions, and being over-nursed, her constitution was so delicate and tender, that had she not been of a gay disposition, and possessed a vigorous mind, she must have been more unhappy than she actually was. Her father dying when she was scarce two years old, and her mother not knowing his real circumstances, as he was supposed from the splendour of his manner of life to be very rich, some inconveniencies were incurred, in bestowing upon him a pompous funeral, which in those times was fashionable. The mother of our poetess, in the bloom of eighteen, was condemned to the arms of this man, upwards of 60, upon the supposition of his being wealthy, but in which she was soon miserably deceived. When the grief, which so young a wife may be supposed to feel for an aged husband, had subsided, she began to enquire into the state of his affairs, and found to her unspeakable mortification, that he died not worth one thousand pounds in the world. As Mrs. Thomas was a woman of good sense, and a high spirit, she disposed of two houses her husband kept, one in town, the other in the county of Essex, and retired into a private, but decent country lodging. The chambers in the Temple her husband possessed, she sold to her brother for 450 l. which, with her husband's books of accounts, she lodged in her trustee's hands, who being soon after burnt out by the fire in the paper buildings in the temple (which broke out with such violence in the dead of night, that he saved nothing but his life) she lost considerably. Not being able to make out any bill, she could form no regular demand, and was obliged to be determined by the honour of her husband's clients, who though persons of the first fashion, behaved with very little honour to her. The deceased had the reputation of a judicious lawyer, and an accomplished gentleman, but who was too honest to thrive in his profession, and had too much humanity ever to become rich. Of all his clients, but one lady behaved with any appearance of honesty. The countess dowager of Wentworth having then lost her only daughter the lady Harriot (who was reputed the mistress of the duke of Monmouth) told Mrs. Thomas, 'that she knew she had a large reckoning with the deceased, but, says she, as you know not what to demand, so I know not what to pay; come, madam, I will do better for you than a random reckoning, I have now no child, and have taken a fancy to your daughter; give me the girl, I will breed her as my own, and provide for her as such when I die.' The widow thank'd her ladyship, but with a little too much warmth replied, 'she would not part with her child on any terms;' which the countess resented to such a degree, that she would never see her more, and dying in a few years, left 1500 l. per annum inheritance, at Stepney, to her chambermaid. Thus were misfortunes early entailed upon this lady. A proposal which would have made her opulent for life, was defeated by the unreasonable fondness of her mother, who lived to suffer its dismal consequences, by tasting the bitterest distresses. We have already observed, that Mrs. Thomas thought proper to retire to the country with her daughter. The house where she boarded was an eminent Cloth-worker's in the county of Surry, but the people of the house proved very disagreeable. The lady had no conversation to divert her; the landlord was an illiterate man, and the rest of the family brutish, and unmannerly. At last Mrs. Thomas attracted the notice of Dr. Glysson, who observing her at church very splendidly dressed, sollicited her acquaintance. He was a valuable piece of antiquity, being then, 1684, in the hundredth year of his age. His person was tall, his bones very large, his hair like snow, a venerable aspect, and a complexion, which might shame the bloom of fifteen. He enjoyed a sound judgment, and a memory so tenacious, and clear, that his company was very engaging. His visits greatly alleviated the solitude of this lady. The last visit he made to Mrs. Thomas, he drew on, with much attention, a pair of rich Spanish leather gloves, embost on the backs, and tops with gold embroidery, and fringed round with gold plate. The lady could not help expressing her curiosity, to know the history of those gloves, which he seemed to touch with so much respect. He answered, 'I do respect them, for the last time I had the honour of approaching my mistress, Queen Elizabeth, she pulled them from her own Royal hands, saying, here Glysson, wear them for my sake. I have done so with veneration, and never drew them on, but when I had a mind to honour those whom I visit, as I now do you; and since you love the memory of my Royal mistress, take them, and preserve them carefully when I am gone.' The Dr. then went home, and died in a few days. This gentleman's death left her again without a companion, and an uneasiness hung upon her, visible to the people of the house; who guessing the cause to proceed from solitude, recommended to her acquaintance another Physician, of a different cast from the former. He was denominated by them a conjurer, and was said to be capable of raising the devil. This circumstance diverted Mrs. Thomas, who imagined, that the man whom they called a conjurer, must have more sense than they understood. The Dr. was invited to visit her, and appeared in a greasy black Grogram, which he called his Scholar's Coat, a long beard, and other marks of a philosophical negligence. He brought all his little mathematical trinkets, and played over his tricks for the diversion of the lady, whom, by a private whisper, he let into the secrets as he performed them, that she might see there was nothing of magic in the case. The two most remarkable articles of his performance were, first lighting a candle at a glass of cold water (performed by touching the brim before with phosphorus, a chymical fire which is preserved in water and burns there) and next reading the smallest print by a candle of six in the pound, at a hundred yards distance in the open air, and darkest night. This was performed by a large concave-glass, with a deep pointed focus, quick-silvered on the backside and set in tin, with a socket for a candle, sconce fashion, and hung up against a wall. While the flame of the candle was diametrically opposite to the centre, the rays equally diverging, gave so powerful a light as is scarce credible; but on the least variation from the focus, the charm ceased. The lady discerning in this man a genius which might be improved to better purposes than deceiving the country people, desired him not to hide his talents, but to push himself in the world by the abilities of which he seemed possessed. 'Madam, said he, I am now a fiddle to asses, but I am finishing a great work which will make those asses fiddle to me.' She then asked what that work might be? He replied, 'his life was at stake if it took air, but he found her a lady of such uncommon candour, and good sense, that he should make no difficulty in committing his life and hope to her keeping.' All women are naturally fond of being trusted with secrets; this was Mrs. Thomas's failing: the Dr. found it out, and made her pay dear for her curiosity. 'I have been, continued he, many years in search of the Philosopher's Stone, and long master of the smaragdine-table of Hermes Trismegistus; the green and red dragons of Raymond Lully have also been obedient to me, and the illustrious sages themselves deign to visit me; yet is it but since I had the honour to be known to your ladyship, that I have been so fortunate as to obtain the grand secret of projection. I transmuted some lead I pulled off my window last night into this bit of gold.' Pleased with the sight of this, and having a natural propension to the study, the lady snatched it out of the philosopher's hand, and asked him why he had not made more? He replied, 'it was all the lead I could find.' She then commanded her daughter to bring a parcel of lead which lay in the closet, and giving it to the Chymist, desired him to transmute it into gold on the morrow. He undertook it, and the next day brought her an ingot which weighed two ounces, which with the utmost solemnity he avowed was the very individual lead she gave him, transmuted to gold. She began now to engage him in serious discourse; and finding by his replies, that he wanted money to make more powder, she enquired how much would make a stock that would maintain itself? He replied, one fifty pounds after nine months would produce a million. She then begged the ingot of him, which he protested had been transmuted from lead, and flushed with the hopes of success, hurried to town to examine whether the ingot was true gold, which proved fine beyond the standard. The lady now fully convinced of the truth of the empyric's declaration, took fifty pounds out of the hands of a Banker, and entrusted him with it. The only difficulty which remained, was, how to carry on the work without suspicion, it being strictly prohibited at that time. He was therefore resolved to take a little house in another county, at a few miles distance from London, where he was to build a public laboratory, as a professed Chymist, and deal in such medicines as were most vendible, by the sale of which to the apothecaries, the expence of the house was to be defrayed during the operation. The widow was accounted the housekeeper, and the Dr. and his man boarded with her; to which she added this precaution, that the laboratory, with the two lodging rooms over it, in which the Dr. and his man lay, was a different wing of the building from that where she and her little daughter, and maid-servant resided; and as she knew some time must elapse before any profit could be expected, she managed with the utmost frugality. The Dr. mean time acted the part of a tutor to miss, in Arithmetic, Latin, and Mathematics, to which she discovered the strongest propensity. All things being properly disposed for the grand operation, the vitriol furnace was set to work, which requiring the most intense heat for several days, unhappily set fire to the house; the stairs were consumed in an instant, and as it surprized them all in their first sleep, it was a happy circumstance that no life perished. This unlucky accident was 300 l. loss to Mrs. Thomas: yet still the grand project was in a fair way of succeeding in the other wing of the building. But one misfortune is often followed by another. The next Sunday evening, while she was reading to, and instructing her little family, a sudden, and a violent report, like a discharge of cannon was heard; the house being timber, rocked like a cradle, and the family were all thrown from their chairs on the ground. They looked with the greatest amazement on each other, not guessing the cause, when the operator pretending to revive, fell to stamping, tearing his hair, and raving like a madman, crying out undone, undone, lost and undone for ever. He ran directly to the Athanor, when unlocking the door, he found the machine split quite in two, the eggs broke, and that precious amalgamum which they contained was scattered like sand among the ashes. Mrs. Thomas's eyes were now sufficiently opened to discern the imposture, and, with a very serene countenance, told the empyric, that accidents will happen, but means might be fallen upon to repair this fatal disappointment. The Dr. observing her so serene, imagined she would grant him more money to compleat his scheme, but she soon disappointed his expectation, by ordering him to be gone, and made him a present of five guineas, left his desperate circumstances should induce him to take some violent means of providing for himself. Whether deluded by a real hope of finding out the Philosopher's Stone, or from an innate principle of villainy, cannot be determined, but he did not yet cease his pursuit, and still indulged the golden delusion. He now found means to work upon the credulity of an old miser, who, upon the strength of his pretensions, gave him his daughter in marriage, and embarked all his hoarded treasure, which was very considerable, in the same chimerical adventure. In a word, the miser's stock was also lost, the empyric himself, and the daughter reduced to beggary. This unhappy affair broke the miser's heart, who did not many weeks survive the loss of his cash. The Dr. also put a miserable end to his life by drinking poison, and left his wife with two young children in a state of beggary. But to return to Mrs. Thomas. The poor lady suffered on this occasion a great deal of inward anguish; she was ashamed of having reduced her fortune, and impoverished her child by listening to the insinuations of a madman. Time and patience at last overcame it; and when her health, which by this accident had been impaired, was restored to her, she began to stir amongst her husband's great clients. She took a house in Bloomsbury, and by means of good economy, and an elegant appearance, was supposed to be better in the world than she really was. Her husband's clients received her like one risen from the dead: They came to visit her, and promised to serve her. At last the duke of Montague advised her to let lodgings, which way of life she declined, as her talents were not suited for dealing with ordinary lodgers; but added she, 'if I knew any family who desired such a conveniency, I would readily accommodate them.' I take you at your word, replied the duke, 'I will become your sole tenant: Nay don't smile, for I am in earnest, I love a little freedom more than I can enjoy at home, and I may come sometimes and eat a bit of mutton, with four or five honest fellows, whose company I delight in.' The bargain was bound, and proved matter of fact, though on a deeper scheme than drinking a bottle: And his lordship was to pass in the house for Mr. Freeman of Hertfordshire. In a few days he ordered a dinner for his beloved friends, Jack and Tom, Will and Ned, good honest country-fellows, as his grace called them. They came at the time appointed; but how surprized was the widow, when she saw the duke of Devonshire, the lords Buckingham, and Dorset, and a certain viscount, with Sir William Dutton Colt, under these feign'd names. After several times meeting at this lady's house, the noble persons, who had a high opinion of her integrity, entrusted her with the grand secret, which was nothing less than the project for the Revolution. Tho' these meetings were held as private as possible, yet suspicions arose, and Mrs. Thomas's house was narrowly watched; but the messengers, who were no enemies to the cause, betrayed their trust, and suffered the noblemen to meet unmolested, or at least without any dread of apprehension. The Revolution being effected, and the state came more settled, that place of rendezvous was quitted: The noblemen took leave of the lady, with promises of obtaining a pension, or some place in the houshold for her, as her zeal in that cause highly merited; besides she had a very good claim to some appointment, having been ruined by shutting up the Excheqner. But alas! court promises proved an aerial foundation, and these noble peers never thought of her more. The duke of Montague indeed made offers of service, and being captain of the band of pensioners, she asked him to admit Mr. Gwynnet, a gentleman who had made love to her daughter, into such a post. This he promised, but upon these terms, that her daughter should ask him for it. The widow thanked him, and not suspecting that any design was covered under this offer, concluded herself sure of success: But how amazed was she to find her daughter (whom she had bred in the most passive subjection) and who had never discovered the least instance of disobedience, absolutely refuse to ask any such favour of his grace. She could be prevailed upon neither by flattery, nor threatning, and continuing still obstinate in her resolution; her mother obliged her to explain herself, upon the point of her refusal. She told her then, that the duke of Montague had already made an attack upon her, that his designs were dishonourable; and that if she submitted to ask his grace one favour, he would reckon himself secure of another in return, which he would endeavour to accomplish by the basest means. This explanation was too satisfactory; Who does not see the meanness of such an ungenerous conduct? He had made use of the mother as a tool, for carrying on political designs; he found her in distress, and as a recompence for her service, and under the pretence of mending her fortune, attempted the virtue of her daughter, and would provide for her, on no other terms, but at the price of her child's innocence. In the mean time, the young Corinna, a poetical name given her by Mr. Dryden, continued to improve her mind by reading the politest authors: Such extraordinary advances had she made, that upon her sending some poems to Mr. Dryden, entreating his perusal, and impartial sentiments thereon, he was pleased to write her the following letter. Fair CORINNA, 'I have sent your two poems back again, after having kept them so long from you: They were I thought too good to be a woman's; some of my friends to whom I read them, were of the same opinion. It is not very gallant I must confess to say this of the fair sex; but, most certain it is, they generally write with more softness than strength. On the contrary, you want neither vigour in your thoughts, nor force in your expression, nor harmony in your numbers; and me-thinks, I find much of Orinda in your manner, (to whom I had the honour to be related, and also to be known) but I am so taken up with my own studies, that I have not leisure to descend to particulars, being in the mean time, the fair Corinna's Most humble, and Most faithful servant Nov. 12, 1699. JOHN DRYDEN. Our amiable poetess, in a letter to Dr. Talbot, Bishop of Durham, has given some farther particulars of her life. We have already seen that she was addressed upon honourable terms, by Mr. Gwynnet, of the Middle Temple, son of a gentleman in Gloucestershire. Upon his first discovering his passion to Corinna, she had honour enough to remonstrate to him the inequality of their fortune, as her affairs were then in a very perplexed situation. This objection was soon surmounted by a lover, especially as his father had given him possession of the greatest part of his estate, and leave to please himself. Mr. Gwynnet no sooner obtained this, than he came to London, and claimed Corinna's promise of marriage: But her mother being then in a very weak condition, she could not abandon her in that distress, to die among strangers. She therefore told Mr. Gwynnet, that as she had not thought sixteen years long in waiting for him, he could not think six months long in expectation of her. He replied, with a deep sigh, 'Six months at this time, my Corinna, is more than sixteen years have been; you put it off now, and God will put it off for ever.'--It proved as he had foretold; he next day went into the country, made his will, sickened, and died April the 16th, 1711, leaving his Corinna the bequest of six-hundred pounds; and adds she, 'Sorrow has been my food ever since.' Had she providentially married him, she had been secure from the insults of poverty; but her duty to her parent was more prevalent than considerations of convenience. After the death of her lover, she was barbarously used: His brother, stifled the will, which compelled her to have recourse to law; he smothered the old gentleman's conveyance deed, by which he was enabled to make a bequest, and offered a large sum of money to any person, who would undertake to blacken Corinna's character; but wicked as the world is, he found none so compleatly abandoned, as to perjure themselves for the sake of his bribe. At last to shew her respect to the memory of her deceased lover, she consented to an accommodation with his brother, to receive 200 l. down, and 200 l. at the year's end. The first payment was made, and distributed instantly amongst her mother's creditors; but when the other became due, he bid her defiance, stood suit on his own bond, and held out four terms. He carried it from one court to another, till at last it was brought to the bar of the House of Lords; and as that is a tribunal, where the chicanery of lawyers can have no weight, he thought proper to pay the money without a hearing: The gentlemen of the long-robe had made her sign an instrument, that they should receive the money and pay themselves: After they had laid their cruel hands upon it, of the 200 l. the poor distressed lady received but 13 l. 16 s. which reduced her to the necessity of absconding from her creditors, and starving in an obscure corner, till she was betrayed by a false friend, and hurried to jail. Besides all the other calamities of Corinna, she had ever a bad state of health, occasioned by an accident too curious to be omitted. In the year 1730 her case was given into the college of physicians, and was reckoned a very surprizing one. It is as follows. 'In April 1711 the patient swallowed the middle bone of the wing of a large fowl, being above three inches long; she had the end in her mouth, and speaking hastily it went forcibly down in the act of inspiration. After the first surprize, feeling no pain she thought no more of it; in a few days after, she complained what she eat or drank lay like a stone in her stomach, and little or nothing pass'd through her. After three weeks obstruction, she fell into a most violent bloody flux, attended with a continual pain at the pit of her stomach, convulsions, and swooning fits; nor had she any ease but while her stomach was distended with liquids, such as small beer, or gruel: She continued in this misery, with some little intervals, till the Christmass following, when she was seized with a malignant fever, and the convulsions encreased to so high a degree, that she crowed like a cock, and barked like a dog, to the affrightment of all who saw her, as well as herself. Dr. Colebatch being called to her relief, and seeing the almost incredible quantity of blood she voided, said it was impossible she could live, having voided all her bowels. He was however prevailed with to use means, which he said could only be by fetching off the inner coat of her stomach, by a very strong vomit; he did so, and she brought the hair-veel in rolls, fresh and bleeding; this dislodged the bone, which split length ways, one half pass'd off by siege, black as jet, the cartilaginous part at each end consumed, and sharp on each side as a razor; the other part is still lodged within her. In this raw and extream weak condition, he put her into a salivation, unknown to her mother or herself, to carry off the other part, which shocked them to such a degree, that they sent for Dr. Garth, who with much difficulty, and against his judgment, was prevailed on to take it off, and using a healing galenical method, she began to recover so much strength as to be turned in her bed, and receive nourishment: But she soon after was seized with the Iliac Passion, and for eleven days, her excrements came upwards, and no passage could be forced through her, till one day by Dr. Garth, with quick-silver. After a few weeks it returned again, and the same medicine repeated, upon which she recovered, and for some months was brought to be in a tolerable state of health, only the region of the spleen much swelled; and at some times, when the bone moved outwards, as it visibly did to sight and touch, was very painful.--In July 1713, on taking too strong a purge, a large imposthume bag came away by stool, on which it was supposed, the cystus, which the bone had worked for itself, being come away, the bone was voided also; but her pains continued so extraordinary, she willingly submitted to the decree of four surgeons, who agreed to make an incision in the left side of the abdomen, and extract the bone; but one of the surgeons utterly rejecting the operation, as impracticable, the bone being lodged in the colon, sent her to Bath, where she found some relief by pumping, and continued tolerably well for some years, even to bear the fatigue of an eight years suit at law, with an unjust executor; save that in over-walking, and sudden passion, she used to be pained, but not violent; and once or twice in a year a discharge of clean gall, with some portions of a skin, like thin kid leather, tinged with gall, which she felt break from the place, and leave her sore within; but the bone never made any attempt out-wards after the first three years. Being deprived of a competent fortune, by cross accidents, she has suffered all the extremities of a close imprisonment, if want of all the necessaries of life, and lying on the boards for two-years may be termed such, during which time she never felt the bone. But on her recovering liberty, and beginning to use exercise, her stomach, and belly, and head swelled to a monstrous degree, and she was judged in a galloping dropsy; but no proper medicines taking place, she was given over as incurable, when nature unexpectedly helped itself, and in twelve hours time by stool, and vomit, she voided about five gallons of dirty looking water, which greatly relieved her for some days, but gathered again as the swelling returned, and always abounded with a hectic, or suffocating asthma in her stomach, and either a canine appetite or loathing. She has lately voided several extraneous membranes different from the former, and so frequent, that it keeps her very low, some of which she has preserved in spirits, and humbly implores your honours judgment thereon.' Under all these calamities, of which the above is a just representation, did poor Corinna labour; and it is difficult to produce a life crouded with greater evils. The small fortune which her father left her, by the imprudence of her mother, was soon squandered: She no sooner began to taste of life, than an attempt was made upon her innocence. When she was about being happy in the arms of her amiable lover Mr. Gwynnet, he was snatched from her by an immature fate. Amongst her other misfortunes, she laboured under the displeasure of Mr. Pope, whose poetical majesty she had innocently offended, and who has taken care to place her in his Dunciad. Mr. Pope had once vouchsafed to visit her, in company with Henry Cromwel, Esq; whose letters by some accident fell into her hands, with some of Pope's answers. As soon as that gentleman died, Mr. Curl found means to wheedle them from her, and immediately committed them to the press. This so enraged Pope, that tho' the lady was very little to blame, yet he never forgave her. Not many months after our poetess had been released from her gloomy habitation, she took a small lodging in Fleet street, where she died on the 3d of February 1730, in the 56th year of her age, and was two days after decently interred in the church of St. Bride's. Corinna, considered as an authoress, is of the second rate, she had not so much wit as Mrs. Behn, or Mrs. Manley, nor had so happy a power of intellectual painting; but her poetry is soft and delicate, her letters sprightly and entertaining. Her Poems were published after her death, by Curl; and two volumes of Letters which pass'd between her and Mr. Gwynnet. We shall select as a specimen of her poetry, an Ode addressed to the duchess of Somerset, on her birth-day. An ODE, &c. I. Great, good, and fair, permit an humble muse, To lay her duteous homage at your feet: Such homage heav'n itself does not refuse, But praise, and pray'rs admits, as odours sweet. II. Blest be forever this auspicious day, Which gave to such transcendent virtue birth: May each revolving year new joys display, Joys great as can supported be on earth. III. True heiress of the Finch and Hatton line, Formed by your matchless parents equal care (The greatest statesman he, yet best divine, She bright example of all goodness here). IV. And now incircled in the dearest tye, To godlike Seymour, of connubial love; Seymour illustrious prince, whose family Did heretofore the kingly race improve. V. Adorns the nation still, and guards the throne, In noble Somerset, whose generous breast, Concenters all his ancestors in one, That were in church, and state, and arms profest. VI. Yet 'midst the plaudits of a grateful land, His heaven-born soul reviews his pristine state; And in obedience to divine command, Numberless poor are feasted at his gate. VII. Thrice happy greatness, true philosophy, That does so well the use of riches know, And can by charity transpire the sky, Encompass'd round with splendour here below. VIII. O may posterity from such a pair, Enjoy a progeny almost divine, Great as their fire, and as their mother fair, And good as both, till last extent of time. [Footnote A: See the Memoirs of Mrs. Thomas's Life, prefixed to a volume of Letters between her and Mr. Gwynnet; the only account that is preserved concerning her.] * * * * * ELIJAH FENTON, This worthy gentleman was born at Shelton, near Newcastle under the Line, in Staffordshire[A]. In this county, though there are several families of the name of Fenton, yet they are all branches from one flock, which is a very antient and opulent family: Our author's mother being immediately descended from one Mare, an officer in William the Conqueror's army. Our poet was the youngest of twelve children, and was intended by his parents for the ministry: He was sent to the university of Cambridge, where he embraced the principles very opposite to the government, by which he became disqualified for entering into holy orders. We find him soon after his quitting the university, secretary to the earl of Orrery, but how long he remained in that station we cannot ascertain. After he quitted the service of this noble peer, it was his custom to perform a visit annually to his eldest brother's house in the country, who possessed an estate of 1000 l. per annum. He was caressed in the country, by all his relations, to whom he endeared himself, by his affable and genteel behaviour. Mr. Fenton was a man of the most tender humanity, and discovered it upon every proper occasion: A gentleman resident in that county, who has transmitted to us some account of Mr. Fenton, has given us the following instance of his humane disposition. He had a great number of sisters, some of whom were less happy in their marriages than others; one in particular was exposed to many misfortunes, by the indiscretion and extravagance of her husband. It is the custom of some people to make very great distinctions between their rich and poor relations; Mr. Fenton's brother was of this stamp, and it seems treated his unfortunate sister with less ceremony than the rest. One day, while Mr. Fenton, was at his brother's house, he observed the family going to dinner without this sister, who was in town, and had as good a right to an invitation, as any of the rest who dined there as a compliment to him. He could not help discovering his displeasure at so unnatural a distinction, and would not sit down to table till she was sent for, and in consequence of this slight shewn her by the rest of the family, Mr. Fenton treated her with more tenderness and complaisance than any of his sisters. Our author carried through life a very fair reputation, he was beloved and esteemed by Mr. Pope, who honoured him with a beautiful epitaph. Mr. Fenton after a life of ease and tranquility, died at East-Hampstead-Park, near Oakingham, the 13th of July 1730, much regretted by all men of taste, not being obnoxious to the resentment even of his brother writers. In the year 1723, Mr. Fenton introduced upon the stage his Tragedy of Mariamne, built upon the story related of her in the third volume of the Spectator, Numb. 171, which the ingenious author collected out of Josephus. As this story so fully displays the nature of the passion of jealousy, and discovers so extraordinary a character as that of Herod, we shall here insert it, after which we shall consider with what success Mr. Fenton has managed the plot. In a former paper, the author having treated the passion of jealousy in various lights, and marked its progress through the human mind, concludes his animadversions with this story, which he says may serve as an example to whatever can be said on that subject. 'Mariamne had all the charms that beauty, birth, wit, and youth could give a woman, and Herod all the love that such charms are able to raise in a warm and amorous disposition. In the midst of his fondness for Mariamne, he put her brother to death, as he did her father not many years after. The barbarity of the action was represented to Mark Anthony, who immediately summoned Herod into Egypt, to answer for the crime that was laid to his charge: Herod attributed the summons to Anthony's desire of Mariamne, whom therefore before his departure, he gave into the custody of his uncle Joseph, with private orders to put her to death, if any such violence was offered to himself. This Joseph was much delighted with Mariamne's conversation, and endeavoured with all his art and rhetoric to set out the excess of Herod's passion for her; but when he still found her cold and incredulous, he inconsiderately told her, as a certain instance of her lord's affection, the private orders he had left behind him, which plainly shewed, according to Joseph's interpretation, that he could neither live nor die without her. This barbarous instance of a wild unreasonable passion quite put out for a time those little remains of affection, she still had for her lord: Her thoughts were so wholly taken up with the cruelty of his orders, that she could not consider the kindness which produced them; and therefore represented him in her imagination, rather under the frightful idea of a murderer, than a lover. 'Herod was at length acquitted, and dismiss'd by Mark Anthony, when his soul was all in flames for his Mariamne; but before their meeting he was not a little alarmed at the report he had heard of his uncle's conversation and familiarity with her in his absence. This therefore was the first discourse he entertained her with, in which she found it no easy matter to quiet his suspicions. But at last he appeared so well satisfied of her innocence; that from reproaches, and wranglings, he fell to tears and embraces. Both of them wept very tenderly at their reconciliation and Herod pour'd out his whole soul to her in the warmest protestations of love and constancy; when, amidst all his sighs and languishings, she asked him, whether the private orders he left with his uncle Joseph were an instance of such an enflamed affection? The jealous king was immediately roused at so unexpected a question, and concluded his uncle must have been too familiar with her, before he would have discovered such a secret. In short he put his uncle to death, and very difficultly prevailed on himself to spare Mariamne. 'After this he was forced on a second journey into Egypt, when he committed his lady to the care of Sohemus, with the same private orders he had before given his uncle, if any mischief befel himself: In the meantime Mariamne had so won upon Sohemus, by her presents and obliging behaviour, that she drew all the secret from him, with which Herod had entrusted him; so that after his return, when he flew to her, with all the transports of joy and love, she received him coldly with sighs and tears, and all the marks of indifference and aversion. This reception so stirred up his indignation, that he had certainly slain her with his own hands, had not he feared he himself should become the greater sufferer by it. It was not long after this, when he had another violent return of love upon him; Mariamne was therefore sent for to him, whom he endeavoured to soften and reconcile with all possible conjugal caresses, and endearments; but she declined his embraces, and answered all his fondness, with bitter invectives for the death of her father and her brother. 'This behaviour so incensed Herod, that he very hardly refrained from striking her; when in the heat of their quarrel, there came in a witness, suborned by some of Mariamne's enemies, who accused her to the king of a design to poison him. Herod was now prepared to hear any thing in her prejudice, and immediately ordered her servant to be stretched upon the rack; who in the extremity of his tortures confest, that his mistresses aversion to the king arose from something Sohemus had told her; but as for any design of poisoning, he utterly disowned the least knowledge of it. This confession quickly proved fatal to Sohemus, who now lay under the same suspicions and sentence, that Joseph had before him, on the like occasion. Nor would Herod rest here; but accused her with great vehemence of a design upon his life, and by his authority with the judges had her publickly condemned and executed. 'Herod soon after her decease grew melancholy and dejected, retiring from the public administration of affairs, into a solitary forest, and there abandoned himself to all the black considerations, which naturally arise from a passion made up of love, remorse, pity and despair. He used to rave for his Mariamne, and to call upon her in his distracted fits; and in all probability, would have soon followed her, had not his thoughts been seasonably called off from so sad an object, by public storms, which at that time very nearly threatened him.' Mr. Fenton in the conduct of this design, has shewn himself a very great master of stage propriety. He has softened the character of Herod, well knowing that so cruel a tyrant as the story makes him, could not be born upon the English stage. He has altered the character of Sohemus, from an honest confident, to a crafty enterprising statesman, who to raise his master to the throne of Judea, murthered the natural heir. He has introduced in his drama, a character under the name of Salome, the king's sister, who bore an implacable hatred to Mariamne; and who in league with Sohemus pursues her revenge, at no less a price than that of her brother's and the queen's life. After the wars, which had subsided between Cæsar and Anthony, had subsided, and the world fell to the share of the former; Herod is represented as having just returned from Rome, where, as an hostage to the emperor, he has stipulated to send his younger son there, and Flaminius, a noble Roman accompanies him into Jewry, to carry off the young prince. The day in which this dramatic action begins, is upon a grand festival, appointed in honour of Herod's safe return from Rome, and being still permitted to enjoy his kingdom. The hard condition of sending the prince to Rome, greatly affects the heart of the queen, whom the poet has drawn a most tender mother. This throws a cloud over the ceremony, and furnishes an opportunity for Sohemus and Salome, to set their infernal engines at work; who, in conjunction with Sameas the king's cup bearer, contrive to poison the king and queen at the feast. But the poisoned cup is first tasted by Hazeroth, a young lord related to the queen, and the sudden effect which it has upon him discovers the villainy. The queen's absence from the feast proves a fatal circumstance, and as managed by Sohemus, fixes the appearance of guilt upon her. While Herod was absent at Rome, Sohemus made addresses to Arsinoe, a Roman lady, confidant to Mariamne; to whom in the ardour of his passion he revealed the secret entrusted to him by Herod, of putting Mariamne to death, in case he by any calamitous accident should lose his life. Arsinoe from a motive of affection communicated this to Mariamne; as an instance of the violent passion which Herod had for her. This she did immediately before her departure for Rome, with Flaminius the Roman envoy, who proved to be the lord of her wishes, whom she imagined to have been killed in fighting against Mark Anthony. Mariamne thrown into this imminent danger, orders Arsinoe to be intercepted, whose return clears up her innocence, as she declares that no correspondence had ever been carried on between the queen and Sohemus, of whom he was now jealous, as Mariamne had upbraided him with his cruel resolutions of putting her to death, entrusted to that minister. Herod is satisfied of her innocence, by the evidence of Arsinoe; but as he had before given the cruel orders for patting the queen to death, she, to prevent the execution of such barbarity, drank poison. The Queen is conducted in by the high priest in the agonies of death, which gives such a shock to Herod, that not able to survive her, he dies in the sight of the audience. Sohemus, who knew what tortures would be reserved for him, kills himself, after having sacrificed Sameas, by whose treachery the plot was discovered, and who in his falling stabs Salome to the heart, as the last effort of his revenge. As the plan of this play is regular, simple, and interesting, so are the sentiments no less masterly, and the characters graphically distinguished. It contains likewise many beautiful strokes of poetry. When Narbal, a lord of the queen's party, gives an account to Flaminius the Roman general, of the queen's parting with her son; he says, ----A while she stood, Transform'd by grief to marble, and appear'd Her own pale monument; Flaminius consistent with his character as a soldier, answers, Give me, ye gods! the harmony of war, The trumpet's clangor, and the clash of arms, That concert animates the glowing breast, To rush on death; but when our ear is pierc'd With the sad notes which mournful beauty yields; Our manhood melts in symphathising tears. The character of Sameas the king's cup-bearer, is one of the most villainous ever shewn upon a stage; and the poet makes Sohemus, in order to give the audience a true idea of him, and to prepare them for those barbarities he is to execute, relate the following instance of his cruelty. ----Along the shore He walk'd one evening, when the clam'rous rage Of tempests wreck'd a ship: The crew were sunk, The master only reach'd the neighb'ring strand, Born by a floating fragment; but so weak With combating the storm, his tongue had lost The faculty of speech, and yet for aid He faintly wav'd his hand, on which he wore A fatal jewel. Sameas, quickly charm'd Both by its size, and lustre, with a look Of pity stoop'd, to take him by the hand; Then cut the finger off to gain the ring, And plung'd him back to perish in the waves; Crying, go dive for more.--I've heard him boast Of this adventure. In the 5th act, when Herod is agitated with the rage of jealousy, his brother Pheroras thus addresses him, Sir, let her crime Erase the faithful characters which love Imprinted on your heart, HEROD. Alas! the pain We feel, whene'er we dispossess the soul Of that tormenting tyrant, far exceeds The rigour of his rule. PHERORAS. With reason quell That haughty passion; treat it as your slave: Resume the monarch. The observation, which Herod makes upon this, is very affecting. The poet has drawn him so tortured with his passion, that he seems almost sufficiently punished, for the barbarity of cutting off the father and brother of Mariamne, HEROD. Where's the monarch now? The vulgar call us gods, and fondly think That kings are cast in more than mortal molds; Alas! they little know that when the mind Is cloy'd with pomp, our taste is pall'd to joy; But grows more sensible of grief or pain. The stupid peasant with as quick a sense Enjoys the fragrance of a rose, as I; And his rough hand is proof against the thorn, Which rankling in my tender skin, would seem A viper's tooth. Oh blissful poverty! Nature, too partial! to thy lot assigns Health, freedom, innocence, and downy peace, Her real goods; and only mocks the great With empty pageantries! Had I been born A cottager, my homely bowl had flow'd Secure from pois'nous drugs; but not my wife! Let me, good heav'n! forget that guilty name, Or madness will ensue. Some critics have blamed Mariamne, for yielding her affections to Herod, who had embrued his hands in her father and brother's blood; in this perhaps she cannot be easily defended, but the poet had a right to represent this as he literally found it in history; and being the circumstance upon which all the others depended. Tho' this play is one of the most beautiful in our language, yet it is in many places exposed to just criticism; but as it has more beauties than faults, it would be a kind of violence to candour to shew the blemishes. The life of Fenton, like other poets who have never been engaged in public business, being barren of incidents, we have dwelt the longer on his works, a tribute which his genius naturally demanded from us. Mr. Fenton's other poetical works were published in one volume 1717, and consist chiefly of the following pieces. An Ode to the Sun, for the new year 1707, as a specimen of which we shall quote the three following stanza's. I. Begin celestial source of light, To gild the new revolving sphere; And from the pregnant womb of night; Urge on to birth the infant year. Rich with auspicious lustre rife, Thou fairest regent of the skies, Conspicuous with thy silver bow! To thee, a god, 'twas given by Jove To rule the radiant orbs above, To Gloriana this below. II. With joy renew thy destin'd race, And let the mighty months begin: Let no ill omen cloud thy face, Thro' all thy circle smile serene. While the stern ministers of fate Watchful o'er the pale Lutetia wait. To grieve the Gaul's perfidious head; The hours, thy offspring heav'nly fair, Their whitest wings should ever wear, And gentle joys on Albion shed. III. When Ilia bore the future fates of Rome, And the long honours of her race began, Thus, to prepare the graceful age to come, They from thy stores in happy order ran. Heroes elected to the list of fame, Fix'd the sure columns of her rising state: Till the loud triumphs of the Julian name Render'd the glories of her reign compleat, Each year advanc'd a rival to the rest, In comely spoils of war, and great achievements drest. Florelio, a Pastoral, lamenting the death of the marquis of Blandford. Part of the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah Paraphrased. Verses on the Union. Cupid and Hymen. Olivia, a small Poem of humour against a Prude. The fair Nun, a Tale. An Epistle addressed to Mr. Southern, written in the year 1711. The eleventh Book of Homer's Odyssey, translated in Milton's stile. The Widow's Will; a Tale. A-La-Mode, a very humorous representation of a fond, doating Husband, injured by his Wife. Sappho to Phaon. A Love Epistle, translated from Ovid. Phaon to Sappho. A Tale devised in the pleasant manner of Chaucer; in which the Poet imitates that venerable old Bard, in the obsolete Language of his Verse. Verses addressed to Mr. Pope. The Platonic Spell. Marullus de Neæra. Marullus imitated. Joannis Secundi Basium I. Kisses. Translated from Secundus. I know not if all poetry ever exceeded the smoothness and delicacy of those lines. They flow with an irresistable enchantment, and as the inserting them will shew the spirit both of the original and translation, we shall make no further apology for doing it. When Venus, in the sweet Idalian shade, A violet couch for young Ascanius made; Their op'ning gems, th' obedient roses bow'd And veil'd his beauties with a damask cloud: While the bright goddess with a gentle show'r, Of nectar'd dews, perfum'd the blissful bow'r; Of sight insatiate, she devours his charms. Till her soft breast re-kindling ardour warms: New joys tumultuous in her bosom rowl, And all Adonis rusheth on her soul. Transported with each dear resembling grace, She cries, Adonis!--Sure I see thy face! Then stoops to clasp the beauteous form, but fears He'd wake too soon, and with a sigh forbears; Yet, fix'd in silent rapture, stands to gaze, Kissing each flow'ring bud that round him plays. Swell'd with the touch, each animated rose Expands; and strait with warmer purple glows: Where infant kisses bloom, a balmy store! Redoubling all the bliss she felt before. Sudden, her swans career along the skies, And o'er the globe the fair celestial flies. Then, as where Ceres pass'd, the teeming plain, Yellow'd with wavy crops of golden grain; So fruitful kisses fell where Venus flew; And by the power of genial magic grew: A plenteous harvest! which she deign'd t'impart To sooth an agonizing love-sick heart. All hail, ye Roseat kisses! who remove Our cares, and cool the calenture of love. Lo! I your poet in melodious lays, Bless your kind pow'r; enamour'd of your praise: Lays! form'd to last, 'till barb'rous time invades The muses hill, and withers all their shades. Sprung from the Guardian[B] of the Roman name, In Roman numbers live secure of fame. Joannis Secundi Basum IId. translated. An Epistle to Thomas Lambard Esq; An Ode to the right hon. John lord Gower. An EPITAPH On Mr. ELIJAH FENTON, At EAST-HAMPSTEAD in BERKS, 1730. This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say, here lies an honest man: A Poet, bless'd beyond a Poet's fate, Whom Heav'n kept sacred from the proud and great: Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease, Content with science in the vale of peace. Calmly he look'd on either life, and here Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear; From nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfy'd Thank'd Heav'n, that he had liv'd, and that he died. [Footnote A: See Jacob, p. 55.] [Footnote B: Venus.] * * * * * BARTON BOOTH, Esq; It[A] is but justice to the memory of this great actor to give him a place among the poets, if he had been less considerable in that province than he really was; for he appears early to have understood the Latin classics, and to have succeeded in occasional pieces, and little odes, beyond many persons of higher name in poetry. Mr. Booth was descended from a very ancient, and honourable family, originally seated in the County Palatine of Lancaster. His father, John Booth, esq; was a man of great worth and honour; and though his fortune was not very considerable, he was extremely attentive to the education of his children, of whom Barton (the third) was born in 1681. When about nine years of age, he was put under the tuition of the famous Dr. Busby, head-master of Westminster school, under whom some of the ablest men have been educated, that in the last and present age have done honour to the nation. The sprightliness of Booth's parts early recommended him to the notice of Dr. Busby: he had a strong passion for learning, and a peculiar turn for Latin poetry, and by studying the best authors in it, he fixed many of the finest passages so firmly in his memory, that he was able to repeat them with such propriety, and graceful action, with so fine a tone of voice, and peculiar emphasis, that it was taken notice of by the whole school. In consequence of this happy talent, when, according to the custom of the school, a Latin play was to be acted, a considerable part thereof was given to young Booth, who drew by the melody of his voice, and the gracefulness of his action, the applause of all the spectators, a circumstance which first fired him with theatrical ambition, much against the inclination of his father, who intended him for the church, and was therefore careful of his education. This propension in our young Roscius, recommended him still more to the favour of Dr. Busby, who bestowed the most lavish encomiums upon him: Busby was himself a great admirer of theatrical elocution, and admirably fitted by nature for the stage; when he was young, he obtained great applause in a part he performed in a play of Cartwright's, and from that moment held theatrical accomplishments in the highest esteem. When Booth had reached the age of eighteen, and the time approached when he was to have been sent to the university, he resolved to run any risk, rather than enter upon a course of life inconsistent with the liveliness of his temper, and the natural bent of his inclinations. It happened that there was then in London one Mr. Ashbury, who had been long master of a company at Dublin, with whom young Booth became acquainted, and finding that under his direction there was no danger of his getting a livelihood, he quitted all other views, stole away from school, and went over to Ireland with Mr. Ashbury in 1698.[B] He very soon distinguished himself on the stage at Dublin, where he had great natural advantages over most of his cotemporaries, especially in tragedy; he had a grave countenance, a good person, an air of dignity, a melodious voice, and a very manly action. He spoke justly, his cadence was grateful to the ear, and his pronunciation was scholastically correct and proper. He so far insinuated himself into the favour of English gentlemen in Ireland, and found his reputation growing to so great a heighth, that he returned home in 1701, to make a trial of his talents on the British stage. He accordingly applied to lord Fitzharding, of the bedchamber to Prince George of Denmark, and was by him recommended to Mr. Betterton, who took him under his care, and gave him all the assistance in his power, of which Mr. Booth greatly profited. Never were a tutor and pupil better met; the one was capable of giving the best instructions in his own performance, and the other had a promptness of conception, a violent propensity, and a great genius. The first part Booth performed in London was Maximus in Valentinian, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher's originally, but altered, and brought upon the stage by the earl of Rochester. The reception he met with exceeded his warmest hopes, and the favour of the town had a happy effect upon him, in inspiring him with a proper degree of confidence without vanity. The Ambitious Step-mother, a tragedy written by Mr. Rowe, in which that author has thrown out more fire, and heat of poetry, than in any other of his plays, was about this time introduced upon the stage; the part of Artaban was assigned to Booth, in which he raised his character to such a heighth, as to be reckoned only second to his great master. In the year 1704 he married Miss Barkham, daughter to Sir William Barkham of Norfolk, bart. who lived with him six years, and died without issue. In the theatrical revolutions which happened in those days, Mr. Booth, notwithstanding his great capacity, and reputation with the town, had very little share. He adhered constantly to Mr. Betterton, while he could be of any service to him, and when his tutor retired from the management of the stage, he trusted to his merit, and the taste of the public, in which he was never deceived. Mr. Booth was particularly turned for tragedy, he never could bear those parts which had not strong passion to inspire him; and Mr. Cibber observes, that he could not so well melt in the lover, as rage in the jealous husband. Othello was his master-piece, but in all his parts he was often subject to a kind of indolence, which some people imagined he affected, to shew that even in his lazy fits he was superior to every body upon the stage; _as if secure of all beholders hearts, neglecting he could take them._[C] The late ingenious Mr. Whitingham, who perfectly understood theatrical excellence, and who was, beyond any man I ever knew, distinct, and accurate in his relations of things, often told me, that such was the dignity of Booth's appearance, such his theatrical ease, and gracefulness, that had he only crossed the stage without uttering a word, the house would be in a roar of applause. We come now to that period of time, when Mr. Booth's sole merit raised him to the greatest height, and procured for him that reward he had long deserved. The tragedy of Cato, which had been written in the year 1703, or at least four acts of it, was brought upon the stage in 1712, chiefly on a political principle; the part of Cato was given to Booth, for the managers were very well satisfied that nobody else could perform it. As party prejudice never than higher than at that time, the excellency of the play was distinguished by the surprizing contests between both factions, which should applaud it most, so the merit of the actor received the same marks of approbation, both parties taking care to shew their satisfaction, by bestowing upon him, most liberal presents, the particulars of which are already inserted in the life of Addison. The run of Cato being over at London, the managers thought fit to remove to Oxford in the summer, where the play met with so extraordinary a reception, that they were forced to open the doors at noon, and the house was quite full by one o'clock. The same respect was paid it for three days together, and though the universal applause it met with at London, surpassed any thing that had been remembered of that kind, yet the tribute of praise it received from this famous university, surpassed even that. Booth, whose reputation was now at its heighth, took the advantage of it, and making his application to lord Bolingbroke, then at the head of the ministry, he procured a new licence, recalling all former ones, and Mr. Booth's name was added to those of Cibber, Dogget, and Wilks. Tho' none of the managers had occasion to be pleased with this act of justice done to Booth's merit, at the expence of, what they deemed, their property, yet none of them carried their resentment so high as Mr. Dogget, who absolutely refused to accept of any consideration for his share in the scenes and clothes; this obstinacy had however no other effect, than depriving him of his share, which brought him in 1000 l. a year; though Mr. Cibber informs us, that this was only a pretence, and that the true reason of quitting the stage, was, his dislike to another of the managers, whose humour was become insupportable. This person we conjecture to have been Mr. Wilks, who, according to Cibber's account, was capricious in his temper, though he had otherwise great merit as a player, and was a good man, morally considered; some instances of the generosity and noble spirit of Wilks, are taken notice of in the life of Farquhar. A few years after Mr. Booth rose to the dignity of manager, he married the celebrated Miss Santlowe, who, from her first appearance as an actress in the character of the Fair Quaker of Deal, to the time she quitted the stage, had always received the strongest marks of public applause, which were repeated when after a retreat of some years, she appeared there again. By her prudence in managing the advantages that arose to her from her reputation as an actress, and her great diligence in her profession, she acquired a considerable fortune, which was very useful to Mr. Booth, who, from the natural turn of his temper, though he had a strict regard to justice, was not much inclined to saving. During the few years they lived together, there was the greatest harmony between them, and after the death of Booth, his disconsolate widow, who is yet alive, quitted the stage, and devoted herself entirely to a private course of life. By degrees the health of Mr. Booth began to decline, so that it was impossible for him to continue to act with so much diligence as usual, but at whatever time he was able to return to the stage, the town demonstrated their respect for him by crowding the house. Being attacked by a complication of distempers, he paid the debt to nature May 10, 1733. A copy of his Will was printed in the London Magazine for 1733, p. 126, in which we find he testified his esteem for his wife, to whom he left all his fortune, for reasons there assigned, which he declared amounted to no more than two thirds of what he had received from her on the day of marriage. His character as an actor, has been celebrated by the best judges, and was never questioned by any. And here we cannot resist the opportunity of shewing Mr. Booth in that full, and commanding light in which he is drawn by the late ingenious Aaron Hill, esq; who had long experience in the affairs of the stage, and could well distinguish the true merits of an actor. His words are, 'Two advantages distinguished him in the strongest light from the rest of his fraternity: he had learning to understand perfectly what it was his part to speak, and judgment to know how far it agreed, or disagreed with his character. Hence arose a peculiar grace, which was visible to every spectator, though few were at the pains of examining into the cause of their pleasure. He could soften, and slide over, with a kind of elegant negligence, the improprieties in the part he acted, while, on the contrary, he would dwell with energy upon the beauties, as if he exerted a latent spirit which had been kept back for such an occasion, that he might alarm, awaken, and transport in those places only, where the dignity of his own good sense could be supported by that of his author. A little reflexion upon this remarkable quality, will teach us to account for that manifest languor which has sometimes been observed in his action, and which was generally, though I think falsly, imputed to the natural indolence of his temper. For the same reason, though in the customary round of his business, he would condescend to some parts in comedy; he seldom appeared in any of them with much advantage to his character. The passions which he found in comedy, were not strong enough to excite his fire, and what seemed want of qualification, was only the absence of impression. He had a talent at discovering the passions where they lay hid in some celebrated parts, by the injudicious practice of other actors; when he had discovered he soon grew able to express them; and his secret of his obtaining this great lesson of the theatre, was an adaption of his look to his voice, by which artful imitation of nature, the variations in the sound of his words, gave propriety to every change in his countenance, so that it was Mr. Booth's peculiar felicity to be heard and seen the same, whether as the _pleased,_ the _grieved,_the _pitying,_the _reproachful,_or the _angry_. One would be almost tempted to borrow the aid of a very bold figure, and to express this excellence more significantly, beg permission to affirm, that the blind might have seen him in his voice, and the deaf have heard him in his visage. His gesture, or as it is commonly called his action, was but the result, and necessary consequence of his dominion over his voice and countenance; for having by a concurrence of two such causes, impressed his imagination with such a stamp, and spirit of passion, he ever obeyed the impulse by a kind of natural dependency, and relaxed, or braced successively into all that fine expressiveness with which he painted what he spoke, without restraint, or affectation.' But it was not only as a player that Mr. Booth excelled; he was a man of letters also, and an author in more languages than one. He had a taste for poetry which we have observed discovered itself when he was very young, in translations of some Odes of Horace; and in his riper years he wrote several songs, and other original poems, which did him honour. He was also the author of a masque, or dramatic entertainment, called Dido and Aeneas, which was very well received upon the stage, but which however did not excite him to produce any thing of the same kind afterwards. His master-piece was a Latin inscription to the memory of a celebrated actor, Mr. William Smith, one of the greatest men of his profession, and of whom Mr. Booth alway spoke in raptures. It is a misfortune that we can give no particular account of the person this excellent inscription referred to, but it is probable he was of a good family, since he was a Barrister at Law of Gray's-Inn, before he quitted that profession for the stage. The inscription is as follows, Scenicus eximius Regnante Carolo secundo: Bettertono Coaetaneus & Amicus, Necnon propemodum Aequalis. Haud ignobili stirpe oriundus, Nec literarum rudis humaniorum, Rem fenicam Per multos feliciter annos administravit; Justoque moderamine & morum suavitate, Omnium intra Theatrum Observantiam, extra Theatrum Laudem, Ubique benevolentiam & amorem fibi conciliavit. In English thus; An excellent player In the reign of Charles the Second; The cotemporary, and friend of Betterton, and almost his equal. Descended of no ignoble family, Nor destitute of polite learning. The business of the stage He for many years happily managed, And by his just conduct, and sweetness of manners Obtained the respect of all within the theatre, The applause of those without, And the good will, and love of all mankind. Such the life and character of Mr. Booth, who deservedly stood very high in the esteem of mankind, both on account of the pleasure which he gave them, and the native goodness of heart which he possessed. Whether considered as a private gentleman, a player, a scholar, or a poet, Mr. Booth makes a very great figure, and his extraordinary excellence in his own profession, while it renders his memory dear to all men of taste, will ever secure him applause amongst those happy few, who were born to instruct, to please, and reform their countrymen. [Footnote A: N.B. As Mr. Theophilus Cibber is publishing (in a work entirely undertaken by himself) The Lives, and Characters of all our Eminent Actors, and Actresses, from Shakespear, to the present time; he leaves to the other gentlemen, concerned in this collection, the accounts of some players who could not be omitted herein, as Poets.] [Footnote B: History of the English stage.] [Footnote C: Dryden's All for Love.] * * * * * Dr. GEORGE SEWEL, This ingenious gentleman was the eldest son of Mr. John Sewel, treasurer, and chapter-clerk of the college of Windsor, in which place our poet was born. He received his education at Eton school, was afterwards sent to the university of Cambridge, and took the degree of bachelor of physic at Peter-house College. He then passed over to Leyden, and studied under the famous Boerhaave, and afterwards returned to London, where for several years he practised as a Physician. He had a strong propension for poetry, and has favoured the world with many performances much applauded. In the year 1719 he introduced upon the stage his tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh, taken from the historical account of that great man's fate. He was chiefly concerned in writing the fifth volume of the Tatler, and the ninth of the Spectator. He translated, with some other gentlemen, the Metamorphoses of Ovid, with very great success, and rendered the Latin poems of Mr. Addison into English. Dr. Sewel made an attempt, which he had not leisure to execute, of translating Quillet's Callipedia, which was afterwards done by Rowe. He is the author of several miscellanous poems, of which the following is as accurate an account as we could possibly obtain. On Conscience, Beauty, the Force of Music, Song of Troilus, &c. dedicated to the Duke of Newcastle. To his Grace the Duke of Marlborough, upon his going into Germany 1712. This poem begins thus, Go, mighty prince, and those great nations see, Which thy victorious arms made free; View that fam'd column, where thy name's engrav'd, Shall tell their children who their empire fav'd. Point out that marble where thy worth is shewn To every grateful country but thy own. A Description of the Field of Battle, after Caesar was Conqueror at Pharsalia, from the Seventh Book of Lucan. The Patriot. Translations from Lucan, occasioned by the Tragedy of Cato. The Fifth Elegy of the First Book of Tibullus, translated, and addressed to Delia. An Apology for Loving a Widow. The Fifth Psalm Paraphrased. A Poetical Epistle, written from Hampstead to Mr. Thornhill, upon Mr. Addison's Cato. An Epistle to Mr. Addison on the Death of the Earl of Hallifax. This poem begins thus, And shall great Hallifax resign to fate, And not one bard upon his ashes wait? Or is with him all inspiration fled, And lye the muses with their patron dead? Convince us, Addison, his spirit reigns, Breathing again in thy immortal strains: To thee the list'ning world impartial bends, Since Hallifax and envy now are friends. Cupid's Proclamation, or a Defence of Women; a Poem from Chaucer. Dr. Sewel, in his state principles, was inclined to the cause of the Tories, and takes every occasion to combat with the bishop of Salisbury, who had so eminently appeared in the cause of the Whigs. The following is a list of his prose works, in which there are some letters addressed to, and animadversions upon that eminent prelate's works. The Clergy, and the Present Ministry defended; being a Letter to the Bishop of Salisbury, occasioned by his Lordship's new Preface to his Pastoral Case, 8vo. 1713, third Edition that year. In a fourth Edition (same date) this is called Mr. Sewel's First Letter to the Bishop of Salisbury, the Clergy, &c. A Second Letter to the Bishop of Salisbury, upon the Publication of his new Volume of Sermons, wherein his Lordship's Preface concerning the Revolution, and the Case of the Lord Russel are examined, &c. 8vo. 1713. Remarks upon a Pamphlet entitled Observations upon the State of the Nation 1712-13, third Edition; to which is added a Postscript to the Vindicator of the Earl of Nottingham, 8vo. 1714. An Introduction to the Life and Writings of G----t Lord Bishop of S----m, &c. being a Third Letter to the Bishop of Salisbury, 8vo. 1716. A Vindication of the English Stage, exemplified in the Cato of Mr. Addison. In a Letter to a Nobleman, 8vo. 1716. Schism destructive of the Government, both in Church and State; being a Defence of the Bill intitled An Act to prevent the Growth of Schism; wherein all the Objections against it, and particularly those in 'Squire Steele's Letter are fully Refuted. Humbly offered to the Consideration of the House of Lords, 8vo. 1714, second Edition. More News from Salisbury, viz. I. An Examination of some Parts of the Bishop of Sarum's Sermon and Charge, &c. 8vo. 1714. The Reasons for writing against the Bishop of Salisbury, 8vo. 1714. The Life of Mr. John Philips, Author of the Poem on Cyder. Dr. Sewel died at Hampstead in Middlesex, where, in the latter part of his life, he had practised physic, on the 8th of February 1726, and was buried there. He seems to have been a man of an amiable disposition, and to have possessed a very considerable genius. * * * * * ANTHONY HAMMOND, Esq; This gentleman was descended from a good family, of Somersham-Place, in the county of Huntingdon, and was born in the year 1668[A]. When he arrived at a proper age, he was chosen member of Parliament, and did not remain long in the house before he distinguished himself as a very eminent speaker. Having espoused the court interest, his zeal and merit recommended him to very considerable public employments, particularly that of being one of the commissioners of the royal navy, which place he quitted in the year 1712. The ingenious Mr. Southern in his dedication of his Innocent Adultery, to Mr. Hammond, speaks thus of him. 'If generosity with friendship, learning with good sense, true wit and humour, with good-nature, be accomplishments to qualify a gentleman for a patron, I am sure I have hit right in Mr. Hammond.' Our author obliged the public with a Miscellany of Original Poems, by the Most Eminent Hands; in which himself had no small share. In this miscellany are several poetical performances of Mrs. Martha Fowkes, a lady of exquisite taste in the belle accomplishments. As to Mr. Hammond's own pieces, he acknowleges in his preface, that they were written at very different times, and particularly owned by him, lest they should afterwards be ascribed to other persons; as the Ode on Solitude, was falsely ascribed to the earl of Roscommon, and other pieces of his, were likewise given to other authors. This author wrote the Life of Walter Moyle Esq; prefixed to his works.----Mr. Hammond died about the year 1726. [Footnote A: Coxeter's Miscellaneous Notes.] * * * * * The Revd. Mr. LAWRENCE EUSDEN. This gentleman was descended from a very good family in the kingdom of Leland, but received his education at Trinity college in Cambridge. He was honoured with the encouragement of that eminent patron of the poets the earl of Halifax, to whom he consecrated the first product of his Muse. He enjoyed likewise the patronage of the duke of Newcastle, who being lord chamberlain, at the death of Mr. Rowe, preferred him to the Bays. Mr. Eusden was for some part of his life chaplain to Richard lord Willoughby de Brook: In this peaceful situation of life, one would not expect Mr. Eusden should have any enemies, either of the literary, or any other sort. But we find he has had many, amongst whom Mr. Pope is the most formidable both in power and keenness. In his Dunciad, Book I. Line 101. where he represents Dulness taking a view of her sons, he says She saw old Pryn, in restless Daniel shine, And Eusden eke out Blackmore's endless line. Mr. Oldmixon likewise in his Art of Logic and Rhetoric, page 413, affirms, 'That of all the Galimatias he ever met with, none comes up to some verses of this poet, which have as much of the ridiculum and the fustian in them, as can well be jumbled together, and are of that sort of nonsense, which so perfectly confounds all ideas, that there is no distinct one left in the mind. Further he says of him, that he hath prophesy'd his own poetry shall be sweeter than Catullus, Ovid and Tibullus; but we have little hope of the accomplishment of it from what he hath lately published.' Upon which Mr. Oldmixon has not spared a reflexion, that the placing the laurel on the head of one who wrote such verses, will give posterity a very lively idea of the justice and judgment of those who bestowed it. Mr. Oldmixon no doubt by this reflexion insinuates, that the laurel would have better become his own brows than Eusden's; but it would perhaps have been more decent for him to acquiesce in the opinion of the duke of Buckingham (Sheffield) who in his Session of the Poets thus mentions Eusden. --In rush'd Eusden, and cry'd, who shall have it, But I the true Laureat to whom the king gave it? Apollo begg'd pardon, and granted his claim, But vow'd that till then, he ne'er heard of his name. The truth is, Mr. Eusden wrote an Epithalamium on the marriage of his grace the duke of Newcastle, to the right honourable the lady Henrietta Godolphin; which was considered as so great a compliment by the duke, that in gratitude for it, he preferred him to the laurel. Nor can I at present see how he could have made a better choice: We shall have occasion to find, as we enumerate his writings, that he was no inconsiderable versifier, and though perhaps he had not the brightest parts; yet as we hear of no moral blemish imputed to him, and as he was dignified with holy-orders, his grace acted a very generous part, in providing for a man who had conferred an obligation on him. The first rate poets were either of principles very different from the government, or thought themselves too distinguished to undergo the drudgery of an annual Ode; and in this case Eusden seems to have had as fair a claim as another, at least a better than his antagonist Oldmixon. He succeeded indeed a much greater poet than himself, the ingenious Mr. Rowe, which might perhaps draw some ridicule upon him. Mr. Cooke, in his Battle of the Poets, speaks thus of our author. Eusden, a laurel'd bard, by fortune rais'd By very few was read, by fewer prais'd. A fate which some critics are of opinion must befall the very poet himself, who is thus so ready to expose his brother. The chief of our author's poetical writings are these, To the lord Hallifax, occasioned by the translating into Latin his lordship's Poem on the Battle of the Boyne. On the duke of Marlborough's victory at Oudenaid. A Letter to Mr. Addison. On the king's accession to the throne. To the reverend doctor Bentley, on the opening of Trinity-College Chapel, Cambridge. On a Lady, who is the most beautiful and witty when she is angry. This poem begins with these lines. Long had I known the soft, inchanting wiles, Which Cupid practised in Aurelia's smiles. 'Till by degrees, like the fam'd Asian taught, Safely I drank the sweet, tho' pois'nous draught. Love vex'd to see his favours vainly shown, The peevish Urchin murthered with a frown. Verses at the last public commencement at Cambridge, spoken by the author. The Court of Venus, from Claudian. The Speech of Pluto to Proserpine. Hero and Leander, translated from the Greek of Musaeus. This Piece begins thus, Sing Muse, the conscious torch, whose mighty flame, (The shining signal of a brighter dame) Thro' trackless waves, the bold Leander led, To taste the dang'rous joys of Hero's bed: Sing the stol'n bliss, in gloomy shades conceal'd, And never to the blushing morn reveal'd. A Poem on the Marriage of his grace the duke of Newcastle to the right honourable Henrietta Godolphin, which procured him, as we have observed already, the place of laureat. The lord Roscommon's Essay on translated verse, rendered into Latin. An Epistle to Sir Robert Walpole. Three Poems; I. On the death of the late king; II. On the Accession of his present majesty. III. On the Queen. On the arrival of Prince Frederic. The origin of the Knights of the Bath, inscribed to the Duke of Cumberland. An Ode for the Birth-Day, in Latin and English, printed at Cambridge. He died at his rectory at Conesby in Lincolnshire, the 27th of September, 1730. * * * * * The Revd. MR. LAWRENCE EACHARD, This Gentleman, who has been more distinguished as an historian than a poet, was the son of a clergyman, who by the death of his elder brother, became master of a good estate in Suffolk. He received his education at the university of Cambridge, entered into holy-orders, and was presented to the living of Welton and Elkington in Lincolnshire, where he spent above twenty years of his life; and acquired a name by his writings, especially the History of England. This history was attacked by Dr. Edmund Calamy, in a letter to the author; in which, according to the Dr. the true principles of the Revolution, the Whigs and the Dissenters are vindicated; and many persons of distinction cleared from Mr. Eachard's aspersions. Mr. John Oldmixon, who was of very opposite principles to Eachard, severely animadverted upon him in his Critical History of England, during the reigns of the Stuarts; but as Oldmixon was a hireling, and a man strongly biassed by party prejudices, little credit is due to his testimony: Which is moreover accompanied with a perpetual torrent of abuse. Mr. Eachard's general Ecclesiastical History, from the nativity of Christ to the first establishment of Christianity by human laws, under the emperor Constantine the Great, has been much esteemed. Our author was in the year 1712 installed archdeacon of Stowe, and prebend of Lincoln. He published a translation of Terence's Comedies, translated by himself and others; but all revised and corrected by him and Sir Roger L'Estrange: To which is prefixed the life of Terence. Besides these, Mr. Eachard has translated three Comedies from Plautus, viz. AMPHITRYON, EPIDICUS. RUDENS. With critical remarks upon each play. To which he has prefixed a judicious parallel between Terence and Plautus; and for a clearer decision of the point, that Terence was the more polite writer of Comedy, he produces the first act of Plautus's Aulularia, and the first act of his Miles Gloriosus, against the third act of Terence's Eunuch. It ought to be observed (says Mr. Eachard) 'That Plautus was somewhat poor, and made it his principal aim to please, and tickle the common people; and since they were almost always delighted with something new, strange, and unusual, the better to humour them, he was not only frequently extravagant in his expressions, but likewise in his characters too, and drew them often more vicious, more covetous, and more foolish than they really were, and this so set the people a gazing and wondering. With these sort of characters many of our modern Comedies abound, which makes them too much degenerate into farce, which seldom fails of pleasing the mob.' Mr. Eachard has, in justice to Mr. Dryden, given us some instances of his improvement of Amphitryon, and concludes them with this just remark in compliment to our nation; 'We find that many fine things of the ancients, are like seeds, that when planted on English ground, by a poet's skilful hand, thrive and produce excellent fruit.' These three plays are printed in a pocket-volume, dedicated to Sir Charles Sedley; to which is prefixed a recommendatory copy of verses, by Mr. Tate. Mr. Eachard died in the year 1730. * * * * * Mr. JOHN OLDMIXON, Was descended from the ancient family of the Oldmixons, of Oldmixon near Bridgewater in Somersetshire[A]. We have no account of the education of this gentleman, nor the year in which he was born. The first production we meet with of his was Amyntas, a pastoral, acted at the Theatre-Royal, taken from the Amynta of Tasso. The preface informs us, that it met with but ill success, for pastoral, though never so well written, is not fit for a long entertainment on the English Theatre: But the original pleased in Italy, where the performance of the musical composer is generally more regarded than that of the poet. The Prologue was written by Mr. Dennis. Mr. Oldmixon's next piece was entitled the Grave, or Love's Paradise; an Opera represented at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, 1700. In the preface, the author acquaints the critics, 'That this play is neither translation, nor parody; that the story is intirely new; that 'twas at first intended for a pastoral, tho' in the three last acts the dignity of the character raised it into the form of a tragedy.' The scene a Province of Italy, near the Gulph of Venice. The Epilogue was written by Mr. Farquhar. Our author's next dramatic piece is entitled: The Governor of Cyprus, a Tragedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, dedicated to her grace the duchess of Bolton. Mr. Oldmixon, in a Prose Essay on Criticism, unjustly censures Mr. Addison, whom also, in his imitation of Bouhour's Arts of Logic and Rhetoric, he misrepresents in plain matter of fact: For in page 45 he cites the Spectator, as abusing Dr. Swift by name, where there is not the least hint of it; and in page 304 is so injurious as to suggest, that Mr. Addison himself wrote that Tatler, Numb. XLIII. which says of his own simile, 'That it is as great as ever entered into the mind of man.' This simile is in Addison's poem, entitled the Campaign. Where, says the author of the Letter, 'The simile of a ministering Angel, sets forth the most sedate and the most active courage, engaged in an uproar of nature, a confusion of elements, and a scene of divine vengeance.' 'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was prov'd, That, in the shock of charging hosts unmov'd, Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war; In peaceful thought, the field of death survey'd To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage, And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. So when an Angel by divine command, With rising tempests shakes a guilty hand, Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, Calm and serene, he drives the furious blast, And, pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. That this letter could not be written by Mr. Addison, there is all the evidence the nature of the thing will admit, to believe; for first, Sir Richard Steele avow'd it to be his, and in the next place, it is not probable that Mr. Addison himself had so high an opinion of this simile, as to call it as great as ever entered into the thought of man; for it has in reality no uncommon greatness in it. The image occurs a thousand times in the book of Psalms; so that it has not novelty to recommend it, and the manner of its being expressed, is no way extraordinary. The high terms in which it is celebrated, is the language of friendship, not of judgment. It is very probable Sir Richard Steele, warm'd with a favourite subject, and zealous for the fame of Addison, might express himself thus hyperbolically concerning it; but Mr. Addison was too judicious a critic, to think or speak of it in these terms, and was besides too cautious to run the risk of doing it himself in so public a manner. In a word, Mr. Oldmixon was an envious man, and we have seen with how little ground of resentment he railed against Eusden, because that gentleman was preferred to the Laurel. Mr. Oldmixon joined the general cry of the underling writers against Mr. Pope; and wrote many letters in the Flying Post, with an intention to reduce his reputation, with as little success as his other antagonists had done. In his prose Essay on Criticism, and in the Arts of Logic and Rhetoric, he frequently reflects on Pope, for which he has received a place in his Dunciad. When that eminent satyrist in his second Book, line 270, represents the Dunces diving for the Prize of Dulness, he in a particular manner dignifies Oldmixon, for he makes him climb a lighter, that by leaping from it, he may sink the deeper in the mud. In naked majesty Oldmixon stands, And, Milo-like, surveys his arms and hands, Then sighing thus: 'And am I now threescore? 'Ah why, ye Gods! should two and two make 'four? He said and climb'd a stranded lighter's height, Shot to the black abyss, and plung'd down-right. The Senior's judgment all the crowd admire, Who but to sink the deeper, rose the higher. Mr. Oldmixon wrote a history of the Stuarts in folio, and a Critical History of England, in two volumes octavo. The former of these pieces was undertaken to blacken the family of the Stuarts. The most impartial writers and candid critics, on both sides, have held this work in contempt, for in every page there breathes a malevolent spirit, a disposition to rail and calumniate: So far from observing that neutrality and dispassionate evenness of temper, which should be carefully attended to by every historian, he suffers himself to be transported with anger: He reviles, wrests particular passages and frequently draws forced conclusions. A history written in this spirit has no great claim to a reader's faith. The reigns of the Stuarts in England were no doubt chequer'd with many evils; and yet it is certainly true, that a man who can fit deliberately down to search for errors only, must have a strong propension to calumny, or at least take delight in triumphing over the weakness of his fellow creatures, which is surely no indication of a good heart. Mr. Oldmixon, being employ'd by bishop Kennet, in publishing the Historians in his collection, he perverted Daniel's Chronicle in numberless places. Yet this very man, in the preface to the first of these, advanced a particular fact, to charge three eminent persons of interpolating the lord Clarendon's History, which fact has been disproved by the bishop of Rochester, Dr. Atterbury, then the only survivor of them; and the particular part he pretended to be falsifed produced since, after almost ninety years, in that noble author's own hand. He was all his life a virulent Party-Writer, and received his reward in a small part in the revenue at Liverpool, where he died in an advanced age, but in what year we cannot learn. Mr. Oldmixon, besides the works we have mentioned, was author of a volume of Poems, published in 1714. The Life of Arthur Maynwaring, Esq; prefixed to the works of that author, by Mr. Oldmixon. England's Historical Epistles (Drayton's revived). The Life of queen Anne. [Footnote A: See Jacob's Lives of the Poets, p. 197.] * * * * * LEONARD WELSTED, Esq; This gentleman was descended from a very good family in Leicestershire, and received the rudiments of his education in Westminster school. We are informed by major Cleland, author of a Panegyric on Mr. Pope, prefixed to the Dunciad, that he was a member of both the universities. In a piece said to have been written by Mr. Welsted, called The Characters of the Times, printed in 8vo. 1728, he gives this account of himself; 'Mr. Welsted had in his youth raised so great expectations of his future genius, that there was a kind of struggle between the two universities, which should have the honour of his education; to compound this, he civilly became a member of both, and after having passed some time at the one, he removed to the other. From thence he returned to town, where he became the darling expectation of all the polite writers, whose encouragement he acknowledged in his occasional poems, in a manner that will make no small part of the fame of his protectors. It also appears from his works, that he was happy in the patronage of the most illustrious characters of the present age. Encouraged by such a combination in his favour, he published a book of poems, some in the Ovidian, some in the Horatian manner, in both which the most exquisite judges pronounced he even rivalled his masters. His love verses have rescued that way of writing from contempt. In his translations he has given us the very soul and spirit of his author. His Odes; his Epistles; his Verses; his Love Tales; all are the most perfect things in all poetry.' If this representation of our author's abilities were just, it would seem no wonder, if the two universities should strive with each other for the honour of his education, but it is certain the world have not coincided with this opinion of Mr. Welsted; who, by the way, can hardly be thought the author of such an extravagant self-approbation, unless it be an irony, which does not seem improbable. Our author, however, does not appear to have been a mean poet; he had certainly from nature an exceeding fine genius, but after he came to town he became a votary to pleasure, and the applauses of his friends, which taught him to overvalue his talents, perhaps slackened his diligence, and by making him trust solely to nature, flight the assistance of art. In the year 1718 he wrote the Triumvirate, or a Letter in Verse from Palemon to Celia from Bath, which was meant as a satire against Mr. Pope. He wrote federal other occasional pieces against this gentleman, who, in recompence of his enmity, has mentioned him twice in his Dunciad. In book ii. 1. 200 where he represents the poets flattering their patrons with the fulsome strains of panegyric, in order to procure from them that which they very much wanted, viz. money, he shews Welsted as unsuccessful. But Welsted most the poet's healing balm, Strives to extract from his soft giving palm; Unlucky Welsted! thy unfeeling master, The more thou ticklest, gripes his fist the faster. Mr. Welsted was likewise characterised in the Treatise of the Art of Sinking, as a Didapper, and after as an Eel. He was likewise described under the character of another animal, a Mole, by the author of the following simile, which was handed about at the same time. Dear Welsted, mark in dirty hole That painful animal a Mole: Above ground never born to go, What mighty stir it keeps below? To make a molehill all this strife! It digs, pukes, undermines for life. How proud a little dirt to spread! Conscious of nothing o'er its head. 'Till lab'ring on, for want of eyes, It blunders into light--and dies. But mentioning him once was not enough for Mr. Pope. He is again celebrated in the third book, in that famous Parody upon Benham's Cooper's Hill, O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme; Tho' deep, yet clear; tho' gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage; without o'er flowing full. Denham. Which Mr. Pope has thus parodied; Flow Welsted, flow; like thine inspirer, beer, Tho' stale, not ripe; tho' thin, yet never clear; So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull; Heady, not strong; and foaming, tho' not full. How far Mr. Pope's insinuation is true, that Mr. Welsted owed his inspiration to beer, they who read his works may determine for themselves. Poets who write satire often strain hard for ridiculous circumstances, in order to expose their antagonists, and it will be no violence to truth to say, that in search of ridicule, candour is frequently lost. In the year 1726 Mr. Welsted brought upon the stage a comedy called The Dissembled Wantons or My Son get Money. He met with the patronage of the duke of Newcastle, who was a great encourager of polite learning; and we find that our author had a very competent place in the Ordnance-Office. His poetical works are chiefly these, The Duke of Marlborough's Arrival, a Poem printed in fol. 1709, inscribed to the Right Hon the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex. A Poem to the Memory of Mr. Philips, inscribed to Lord Bolingbroke, printed in fol. 1710. A Discourse to the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole; to which is annexed Proposals for Translating the whole Works of Horace, with a Specimen of the Performance, viz. Lib. Ist. Ode 1, 3, 5 and 22, printed in 4to. 1727. An Ode to the Hon. Major General Wade, on Occasion of his disarming the Highlands, imitated from Horace. To the Earl of Clare, on his being created Duke of Newcastle. An Ode on the Birth-Day of his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. To the Princess, a Poem. Amintor and the Nightingale, a Song. These four were printed together in 1716. Of False Fame, an Epistle to the Right Hon. the Earl of Pembroke, 8vo. 1732. A Letter to his Grace the Duke of Chandois. To the Duke of Buckingham, on his Essay on Poetry. Several small pieces in the Free Thinker. Epistles, Odes, &c. written on several Subjects; with a Disseration concerning the Perfection of the English Language. Mr. Welsted has translated Longinus's Treatise on the Sublime. * * * * * JAMES MORE SMYTH, Esq; This gentleman was son of Arthur More, esq; one of the lords commissioners of trade, in the reign of Queen Anne; his mother was the daughter of Mr. Smyth, a man of considerable fortune, who left this his grandson a handsome estate, on which account he obtained an Act of Parliament to change his name to Smyth. Our author received his education at Oxford, and while he remained at the university he wrote a comedy called The Rival Modes, his only dramatic performance. This play was condemned in the representation, but he printed it in 1727, with the following motto, which the author of the Notes to the Dunciad, by way of irony, calls modest. Hic coestus, artemque repono. Upon the death of our author's grandfather, he enjoyed the place of paymaster to the band of gentlemen-pensioners, in conjunction with his younger brother, Arthur More; of this place his mother procured the reversion from his late Majesty during his father's lifetime. Being a man of a gay disposition, he insinuated himself into the favour of his grace the duke of Wharton, and being, like him, destitute of prudence, he joined with that volatile great man in writing a paper called the Inquisitor, which breathed so much the spirit of Jacobitism, that the publisher thought proper to sacrifice his profit to his safety, and discontinue it. By using too much freedom with the character of Pope, he provoked that gentleman, who with great spirit stigmatized him in his Dunciad. In his second book Mr. Pope places before the eyes of the dunces the phantom of a poet. He seems willing to give some account of the possibility of dulness making a wit, which can be done no otherwise than by chance. The lines which have relation to Mr. More are so elegantly satyric, that it probably will not displease our readers to find them inserted here. A poet's form she plac'd before their eyes, And bad the nimblest racer seize the prize; No meagre muse-rid mope, adult and thin, In a dun night gown of his own loose skin, But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, Twelve starv'ling bards of these degenerate days. All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair, She form'd this image of well-bodied air, With pert, slat eyes, she window'd well its head, A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead, And empty words she gave, and sounding strain, But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain! Never was dash'd out at one lucky hit, A fool so just a copy of a wit; So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore, A wit it was, and call'd the phantom More. Though these lines of Pope are sufficiently satirical, yet it seems they very little affected Mr. More. A gentleman intimately acquainted with him informs us, that he has heard Mr. More several times repeat those lines, without discovering any chagrin; and he used to observe, that he was now secure of being transmitted to posterity: an honour which, says he, I could never have arrived at, but by Pope's means. The cause of the quarrel between this gentleman and that great poet seems to have been this. In a letter published in the Daily Journal March 18, 1728, written by Mr. More, he has the following words, 'Upon reading the third volume of Pope's Miscellanies, I found five lines which I thought excellent, and happening to praise them, a gentleman produced a modern comedy, the Rival Modes, published last year, where were the same verses to a tittle. These gentlemen are undoubtedly the first plagiaries that pretend to make a reputation, by stealing from a man's works in his own life-time, and out of a public print.' But it is apparent from the notes to the Dunciad, that Mr. More himself borrowed the lines from Pope; for in a letter dated January 27, 1726, addressed to Mr. Pope, he observes, 'That these verses which he had before given him leave to insert in the Rival Modes, would be known for his, some copies being got abroad. He desires, nevertheless, that since the lines in his comedy have been read to several, Mr. Pope would not deprive it of them.' As a proof of this circumstance, the testimony of lord Bolingbroke is adduced, and the lady of Hugh Bethel, esq; to whom the verses were originally addressed, who knew them to be Mr. Pope's long before the Rival Modes was composed. Our author further charges Mr. Pope with being an enemy to the church and state. 'The Memoirs of a Parish Clerk, says he, was a very dull, and unjust abuse of the bishop of Sarum (who wrote in defence of our religion and constitution) who has been dead many years.' 'This also, continues the author of the Notes to the Dunciad, is likewise untrue, it being known to divers, that these Memoirs were written at the seat of the lord Harcourt in Oxfordshire, before the death of bishop Burnet, and many years before the appearance of that history, of which they are pretended to be an abuse. Most true it is that Mr. More had such a design, and was himself the man who pressed Dr. Arbuthnot, and Mr. Pope to assist him therein; and that he borrowed those Memoirs of the latter, when that history came forth, with intent to turn them to such abuse, but being able to obtain from Pope but one single hint, and either changing his mind, or having more mind than ability, he contented himself to keep the said Memoirs, and read them as his own to all his acquaintance. A noble person there is, into whose company Pope once chanced to introduce him, who well remembered the conversation of Mr. More to have turned upon the contempt he had for that reverend prelate, and how full he was of a design he declared himself to have of exposing him; this noble person is the earl of Peterborough.' Thus Mr. Pope was obliged to represent this gentleman as a plagiary, or to pass for one himself. His case indeed, as the author of the notes to the Dunciad observes, was like that of a man who, as he was sitting in company, perceived his next neighbour had stolen his handkerchief. 'Sir, said the thief, finding himself detected, do not expose me, I did it for mere want; be so good but to take it privately out of my pocket again, and say nothing.' The honest man did so, but the other cried out, See, gentlemen! what a thief we have among us! look, he is stealing my handkerchief.' The plagiarism of this person gave occasion to the following epigram; More always smiles whenever he recites; He smiles (you think) approving what he writes; And yet in this no vanity is shown; A modest man may like what's not his own. The smaller pieces which we have heard attributed to this author, are, An Epigram on the Bridge at Blenheim, by Dr. Evans; Cosmelia, by Mr. Pitt, Mr. Jones, &c. The Saw-Pit, a Simile, by a Friend; and some unowned Letters, Advertisements, and Epigrams against Mr. Pope in the Daily Journal. He died in the year 1734, and as he wrote but one comedy unsuccessfully, and no other pieces of his meeting with any applause, the reader will probably look upon him as a man of little genius; he had a power however of rendering his conversation agreeable by a facetious and gentleman-like manner, without any of the stiffness of the scholar, or the usual petulance of a poet. He always lived in affluent circumstances, and by mixing with genteel company, his habit of elegance was never lost, a fate which too frequently happens to those, who, notwithstanding the brightest parts, are excluded the circle of politeness by the oppressions of poverty. In this light Mr. Pope must have considered him, or he, who was one of the politest men of the age, as well as the greatest poet, would never have introduced him to the earl of Peterborough. It does not appear that Mr. More had parts otherwise sufficient to entitle him to the notice of Pope, and therefore he must have considered him only as a gentleman. Had he possessed as much prudence, as politeness, he would have avoided by all means incurring the displeasure of Pope, who, as he was the warmest friend, was likewise a very powerful and implacable enemy. In this controversy, however, it is evident enough that Mr. Moore was the aggressor, and it is likewise certain that his punishment has been equal to his offence. He died October 18, 1734, at Whister, near Isleworth in Middlesex, for which county he was a justice of peace. * * * * * Mr. JOHN DENNIS, This celebrated critic was born in London in the year 1657, his father being a Sadler, and an eminent citizen[A]. He received his early education at Harrow on the Hill, under the pious and learned Dr. William Horn, having for his schoolfellows many young noblemen, who afterwards made a considerable figure in the state. He removed from Harrow to Caius College in Cambridge, where he was admitted January 13, 1675, in the 18th year of his age. In due time Mr. Dennis took the degree of bachelor of arts, and after quitting the university he indulged a passion which he had entertained for travelling, and set out for France and Italy. In the course of his travels he, no doubt, made such observations upon the government and genius of the people whom he visited, as enabled him to make a just comparison between foreign states and his own country. In all probability, while he was in France and Italy, he conceived an abhorrence of despotic government, the effects of which he then had an opportunity more intimately to discern; for he returned home still more confirmed in Whig principles, by which his political conduct was ever governed. Our author in his early years became acquainted with some of the brightest geniuses which then illuminated the regions of wit, such as Dryden, Wycherly, Congreve, and Southern. Their conversation was in itself sufficient to divert his mind from the acquisition of any profitable art, or the exercise of any profession. He ranked himself amongst the wits, and from that moment held every attainment in contempt, except what related to poetry, and taste. Mr. Dennis, by the instances of zeal which he gave for the Protestant succession in the reign of King William, and Queen Anne, obtained the patronage of the duke of Marlborough, who procured him the place of one of the Queen's waiters in the Custom-house, worth 120 l. per annum, which Mr. Dennis held for six years. During the time he attended at the Custom-house, he lived so profusely, and managed his affairs with so little economy, that in order to discharge some pressing demands, he was obliged to dispose of his place. When the earl of Hallifax, with whom he had the honour of being acquainted, heard of Mr. Dennis's design, he sent for him, and in the most friendly manner, expostulated with him upon the folly, and rashness of disposing of his place, by which (says his lordship) you will soon become a beggar. Mr. Dennis represented his exigences, and the pressing demands that were then made upon him: which did not however satisfy his lordship, who insisted if he did sell it, it should be with some reversion to himself for the space of forty years, a term which the earl had no notion Mr. Dennis could exceed. But he was mistaken in his calculation upon our poet's constitution, who out-lived the term of forty years stipulated when he sold his place, and fulfilled in a very advanced age, what his lordship had prophesied would befal him. This circumstance our author hints at in his dedication of his poem on the Battle of Ramellies, to lord Hallifax, 'I have lately, says he, had very great obligations to your lordship, you have been pleased to take some care of my fortune, at a time when I most wanted it, and had the least reason to expect it from you.' This poem on the Battle of Ramellies is a cold unspirited performance; it has neither fire, nor elevation, and is the true poetical sister of another poem of his, on the Battle of Blenheim, addressed to Queen Anne, and for which the duke of Marlborough rewarded him, says Mr. Coxeter, with a present of a hundred guineas. In these poems he has introduced a kind of machinery; good and bad angels interest themselves in the action, and his hero, the duke of Marlborough, enjoys a large share of the celestial protection. Mr. Dennis had once contracted a friendship[B] with Sir Richard Steele, whom he afterwards severely attacked. Sir Richard had promised that he would take some opportunity of mentioning his works in public with advantage, and endeavour to raise his reputation. When Sir Richard engaged in a periodical paper, there was a fair occasion of doing it, and accordingly in one of his Spectators he quotes the following couplet, which he is pleased to call humorous, but which however is a translation from Boileau. One fool lolls his tongue out at another, And shakes his empty noddle at his brother. The citation of this couplet Mr. Dennis imagined, was rather meant to affront him, than pay a compliment to his genius, as he could discover nothing excellent in the lines, and if there was, they being only a translation, in some measure abated the merit of them. Being fired with resentment at this affront, he immediately, in a spirit of fury, wrote a letter to the Spectator, in which he treated him with very little ceremony, and informed him, that if he had been sincere in paying a compliment to him, he should have chosen a quotation from his poem on the Battle of Ramellies; he then points out a particular passage, of which he himself had a very high opinion, and which we shall here insert as a specimen of that performance. A coelestial spirit visits the duke of Marlborough the night before the battle, and after he has said several other things to him, goes on thus, A wondrous victory attends thy arms, Great in itself, and in its sequel vast; Whose ecchoing sound thro' all the West shall run, Transporting the glad nations all around, Who oft shall doubt, and oft suspend their joy, And oft imagine all an empty dream; The conqueror himself shall cry amaz'd, 'Tis not our work, alas we did it not; The hand of God, the hand of God is here! For thee, so great shall be thy high renown, That same shall think no music like thy name, Around the circling globe it shall be spread, And to the world's last ages shall endure; And the most lofty, most aspiring man, Shall want th' assurance in his secret prayers To ask such high felicity and fame, As Heav'n has freely granted thee; yet this That seems so great, so glorious to thee now, Would look how low, how vile to thy great mind, If I could set before th' astonished eyes, Th' excess of glory, and th' excess of bliss That is prepar'd for thy expiring soul, When thou arriv'st at everlasting day. The quotation by Mr. Dennis is longer, but we are persuaded the reader will not be displeased that we do not take the trouble to transcribe the whole, as it does not improve, but rather grows more languid. How strangely are people deceived in their own productions! In the language of sincerity we cannot discover a poetical conception, one striking image, or one animated line in the above, and yet Mr. Dennis observes to Sir Richard Steele, that these are the lines, by quoting which, he would really have done him honour. But Mr. Dennis's resentment did not terminate here; he attempted to expose a paper in the Spectator upon dramatic conduct, in which the author endeavours to shew that a poet is not always obliged to distribute poetical justice on this very reasonable account, that good and evil happen alike to all men on this side the grave. To this proposition our critic objects, 'that it is not only a very false, but a dangerous assertion, that we neither know what men really are, nor what they suffer. Besides, says he, let it be considered, that a man is a creature, who is created immortal, and a creature consequently that will find a compensation in futurity, for any seeming inequality in his destiny here; but the creatures of a poetical creator, are imaginary, and transitory; they have no longer duration than the representation of their respective fables, and consequently if they offend, they must be punished during that representation, and therefore we are very far from pretending, that poetical justice is an equal representation of the justice of the Almighty.' In support of this opinion our critic produces the example of Euripides, and the best poets amongst the ancients, who practised it, and the authority of Aristole, who established the rule. But nature, or Shakespear, which is another word for nature, is by no means in favour of this equal distribution. No character can be represented in tragedy absolutely perfect, as no such character exists; but a character which possesses more virtues than vices, may be upon the whole amiable, and yet with the strictest propriety may be made the chief sufferer in the drama. If any passion strongly predominates in the heart of man, it will often expose him to such snares, entangle him in such difficulties, and oppress him with such wants, that in the very nature of things, he must sink under the complicated weight of misery. This may happen to a character extremely amiable, the passion which governs him may be termed unhappy, but not guilty, or if it should partake the nature of guilt, fallible creatures cannot always combat with success against guilty passions. The drama being an imitation of nature, the poet causes a composition of characters formed in his imagination to be represented by players; these characters charm, or displease, not only for what they do; during the representation of the fable, but we love, or hate them for what they have done before their appearance; and we dread, or warmly expect the consequences of their resolutions after they depart the stage. The illusion would not be sufficiently strong, if we did not suppose the dramatic persons equally accountable to the powers above us, as we are ourselves. This Shakespear has taken care forcibly to impress upon his audience, in making the ghost of the murthered king of Denmark, charge his son not to touch his mother's life, but leave her to heaven; and the reflexions of her own conscience to goad and sting her. Mr. Dennis's reasoning, upon the whole amounts to this, that no perfect character should suffer in the drama; to which it may be answered, that no perfect character ever did suffer in the drama; because no poet who draws from nature, ever introduced one, for this very good reason, that there are none in existence. Mr. Dennis, who was restless in attacking those writers, who met with success, levelled some more criticisms against the Spectators; and amongst the rest endeavoured to expose Mr. Addison's Illustrations of the Old Ballad, called Chevy Chace; of which we shall only say, that he performed this talk more successfully than he executed his Animadversions upon Poetical Justice. We have already taken notice of the warm attachment Mr. Dennis always had to the Whig-Interest, and his particular zeal for the Hanoverian succession. Ht wrote many letters and pamphlets, for the administration of the earl of Godolphin, and the duke of Marlborough, and never failed to lash the French with all the severity natural to him. When the peace (which the Whigs reckoned the most inglorious that ever was made) was about to be ratified, Mr. Dennis, who certainly over-rated his importance, took it into his imagination, that when the terms of peace should be stipulated, some persons, who had been most active against the French, would be demanded by that nation as hostages; and he imagined himself of importance enough to be made choice of, but dreaded his being given up to the French, as the greatest evil that could befall him. Under the influence of this strong delusion, he actually waited on the duke of Marlborough, and begg'd his grace's interposition, that he might not be sacrificed to the French, for says he, 'I have always been their enemy.' To this strange request, his grace very gravely replied, 'Do not fear, Mr. Dennis, you shall not be given up to the French; I have been a greater enemy to them than you, and you see I am not afraid of being sacrificed, nor am in the least disturbed.' Mr. Dennis upon this retired, well satisfied with his grace's answer, but there still remained upon his spirits a dread of his becoming a prey to some of the enemies of Great Britain. He soon after this retired into the country, to spend some time at a friend's house. While he was walking one day by the sea side, he saw a ship in full sail approaching towards the shore, which his distracted imagination dictated, was a French ship sent to carry him off. He hurried to the gentleman's house with the utmost precipitation, upbraided him with treachery, as being privy to the attempts of the French against his life, and without ceremony quitted his house, and posted to London, as fast as he could. Mr. Dennis, who never cared to be an unconcerned spectator, when any business of a public or important nature was in agitation, entered the lists with the celebrated Mr. Sacheverel, who in the year 1702 published at Oxford a piece called the Political Union, the purport of which was to shew, that the Church and the State are invariably connected, and that the one cannot subsist without the other. Mr. Dennis in answer to this, in a letter to a member of parliament, with much zeal, force of argument, and less ferocity than usual, endeavours to overthrow the proposition, and shew the danger of priestcraft, both to religion and government. In this letter he very sensibly observes, 'That since the very spirit of the christian religion, is the spirit of union and charity, it follows by consequence, that a spirit of division, is a spirit of malice, and of the Devil. A true son of the church, is he who appears most for union, who breathes nothing but charity; who neglects all worldly greatness to bear his master's yoke; and, who has learned of him to be meek and lowly of heart.' He shews that the moderate part of the Church of England are the truest church; and that violent party which differs from the moderate ought to be called Dissenters, because they are at a greater distance from charity, which is the characteristic of a true church, than any Dissenters. By which, says he, 'It appears that Mr. Sacheverel has made a rod to whip himself, for if only the true Church of England is to remain, and if the moderate part is the true church, the most violent ought the least to be tolerated, because they differ from charity; and consequently are more ready to disturb the public peace.' In 1703 he published proposals for putting a speedy end to the war, by ruining the commerce of the French and Spaniards, and securing our own without any additional expence to the nation. This was thought a very judicious, and well designed plan. In 1706 our author published an Essay on the Italian Opera, in which, with an irresistable force, he shews the extreme danger that a generous nation is exposed to, by too much indulging effeminate music. In the preface he quotes a passage from Boileau, in which that satirist expresses himself with much severity against emasculating diversions; and the Italian music in particular. He observes, 'That the modern Italians have the very same sun and soil with the antient Romans, and yet are their manners directly opposite. Their men are neither virtuous, wise, or valiant, and they who have reason to know their women, never trust them out of their sight. 'Tis impossible to give any reason for so great a difference between the ancient Romans, and the modern Italians, but only luxury; and the reigning luxury of modern Italy, is that soft and effeminate music, which abounds in the Opera.' In this Essay Mr. Dennis remarks, that entertainments entirely made up of music can never instruct the mind, nor promote one excellent purpose in human nature. 'Perhaps, says he, the pride and vanity that is in mankind, may determine the generality to give into music, at the expence of poetry. Men love to enjoy their pleasures entirely, and not to have them restrained by awe, or curbed by mortification. Now there are but few judicious spectators at our dramatic representations, since none can be so, but who with great endowments of nature have had a very generous education; and the rest are frequently mortified, by passing foolish judgments: But in music the case is vastly different; to judge of that requires only use, and a fine ear, which the footman oft has a great deal finer than his master. In short, a man without common sense may very well judge of what a man writes without common sense, and without common sense composes.' He then inquires what the consequence will be if we banish poetry, which is, that taste, politeness, erudition and public spirit will fall with it, and all for a Song. The declension of poetry in Greece and Rome was soon followed by that of liberty and empire; according to Roscommon in his Essay on Translated Verse. True poets are the guardians of a state, And when they fail, portend approaching fate: For that which Rome to conquest did inspire, Was not the Vestal, but the Muses fire; Heav'n joins the blessings, no declining age E'er felt the raptures of poetic rage. In 1711 Mr. Dennis published an Essay upon Public Spirit, being a satire in prose, upon the Manners and Luxury of the Times, the chief sources of our present Parties and Divisions. This is one of the most finished performances of our author; the intention is laudable, and the execution equal to the goodness of the design. He begins the Essay, with a definition, of the love of our country, shews how much the phrase has been prostituted, and how seldom understood, or practised in its genuine sense. He then observes how destructive it is to indulge an imitation of foreign fashions; that fashions are often followed by the manners of a people from whom they are borrowed; as in the beginning of king Charles the IId's reign. After the general distraction which was immediately consequent upon the Restoration, lord Halifax informs us, the people began to shake off their slavery in point of dress, and to be ashamed of their servility in that particular; 'and that they might look the more, says his lordship, like a distinct people, they threw off their fashions, and put on vests: The French did not like this independence, this slight shewn to their taste, as they thought it portended no good to their politics, considering that it is a natural introduction, first to make the world their asses, that they may afterwards make them their slaves. They sent over the duchess of Portsmouth, who, besides many other commissions, bore one to laugh us out of our vests, which she performed so effectually, that in a moment we were like so many footmen, who had quitted their masters livery, we took it again, and returned to our old service. So that the very time of doing this gave a very critical advantage to France, since it looked like an evidence or returning to their interests, as well as their fashions.' After giving this quotation from the marquis of Halifax, he proceeds to inveigh against the various kinds of luxury, in which people of fashion indulge themselves. He observes that luxury has in a particular manner been destructive to the ladies: 'That artificial dainties raise in their constitutions fierce ebullitions, and violent emotions, too rude for the delicate texture of their fibres; and for half the year together, they neither take any air, nor use any exercise to remove them. From hence distempers of body and mind; from hence an infinity of irregular desires, unlawful amours, intrigues, vapours, and whimsies, and all the numerous, melancholy croud of deep hysterical symptoms; from hence it comes to pass that the fruit of their bodies lie in them like plants in hot-beds; from hence it proceeds that our British maids, who in the time of our Henrys, were not held marriageable till turned of twenty, are now become falling ripe at twelve, and forced to prematureness, by the heat of adventitious fire. Nor has luxury only changed our natures, but transformed our sexes: We have men that are more soft, more languid, and more passive than women. On the other side we have women, who, as it were in revenge, are masculine in their desires, and masculine in their practices.' In a pretty advanced age Mr. Dennis, who then laboured under severe necessities, published two volumes of Letters, by subscription, which are by far the most entertaining part of his writings. They have more sprightliness and force in them than, from reading his other works, we would be disposed to imagine. They are addressed to persons distinguished by their fortune, genius, and exalted station; the duke of Marlborough, the Lord Lansdowne, earl of Godolphin, earl of Halifax, Mr. Dryden, Mr. Prior, Mr. Wycherley, Henry Cromwel, Esq; Walter Moyle, Esq; and Sir Richard Blackmore. He entitles them Letters, Moral and Critical. The Critical are chiefly imployed upon Mr. Addison's Cato, which he censures in some places with great justice, and critical propriety: In other places he only discovers spleen, and endeavours to burlesque noble passages, merely from resentment to the author. There is likewise published amongst these letters, an enquiry into the genius and writings of Shakespear. He contends for Shakespear's ignorance of the ancients, and observes, that it would derogate much from his glory to suppose him to have read, or understood them, because if he had, his not practicing their art, and not restraining the luxuriance of his imagination would be a reproach to him. After bestowing the highest panegyric upon Shakespear, he says, 'That he seems to have been the very original of our English tragical harmony; that is the harmony of blank verse, diversified often by dissyllable and trisyllable terminations. For that diversity distinguishes it from heroic harmony, and bringing it nearer to common use, makes it more proper to gain attention, and more fit for action, and dialogue. Such verses we make when we are writing prose, we make such verse in common conversation.' One of the reasons Mr. Dennis assigns for Shakespear's want of learning, is, that Julius Cæsar, in the play which goes by his name, makes but a third rate figure, and had he (says the author) consulted the Latin writers, he could not have been guilty of such an error; but this is far from being conclusive, which might us well be owing to his having a contempt for Cæsar's character, and an enthusiastic admiration for those of Brutus and Cassius. Another prose Essay of Mr. Dennis's, which does him very great honour, is his Grounds of Criticism in Poetry. Amongst many masterly things, which he there advances, is the following. 'The antient poets (says he) derived that advantage which they have over the moderns, to the constituting their subjects after a religious manner; and from the precepts of Longinus, it appears that the greatest sublimity is to be derived from religious ideas.' Mr. Dennis then observes, that one of the principal reasons, that has made the modern poetry so contemptible, is that by divesting itself of religion, it is fallen from its dignity, and its original nature and excellence; and from the greatest production in the mind of man, it is dwindled to an extravagant, and vain amusement. When subjects are in themselves great, the ideas of the writer must likewise be great; and nothing is in its nature so dignified as religion. This he illustrates by many examples from Milton, who when he raises his voice to heaven, and speaks the language of the divinity, then does he reach the true sublime; but when he descends to the more trifling consideration of human things, his wing is necessarily depressed, and his strains are less transporting. We shall now take a view of Mr. Dennis, in that part of his life and writings, in which he makes a less considerable figure, by exposing himself to the resentment of one so much his superior; and who, after a long provocation, at last, let loose his rage against him, in a manner that no time can obliterate. Mr. Dennis we have already observed, waged a perpetual war with successful writers, except those few who were his friends; but never engaged with so much fury, and less justice, against the writings of any poet, as those of Mr. Pope. Some time after the death of Dryden, when Pope's reputation began to grow, his friends who were sanguine in his interest, were imprudent enough to make comparisons, and really assert, that Pope was the greatest poet of the two: Dennis, who had made court to Dryden, and was respected by him, heard this with indignation, and immediately exerted all the criticism and force of which he was master, to reduce the character of Pope. In this attempt he neither has succeeded, nor did he pursue it like a gentleman. In his reflexions on Pope's Essay on Criticism, he uses the following unmannerly epithets. 'A young squab, short gentleman, whose outward form tho' it should be that of a downright monkey, would not differ so much from human shape, as his unthinking, immaterial part does from human understanding.--He is as stupid and as venomous as an hunch-backed toad.--A book through which folly and ignorance, those brethren so lame, and impotent, do ridiculously look very big, and very dull, and strut, and hobble cheek by jowl, with their arms on kimbo, being led, and supported, and bully-backed, by that blind Hector impudence.' The reasons which our critic gives for this extraordinary fury are equally ridiculous. 'I regard him (says he) as an enemy, not so much to me, as to my king, to my country, and to my religion. The epidemic madness of the times has given him reputation, and reputation is power; and that has made him dangerous. Therefore I look on it as my duty to king George, and to the liberties of my country, more dear than life to me, of which I have now been 40 years a constant assertor, &c. I look upon it as my duty I say to do,--Reader observe what,--To pull the lion's skin from this little ass, which popular error has thrown round him, and shew that this little author, who has been lately so much in vogue, has neither sense in his thoughts, nor English in his expressions. See his Remarks on Homer, Pref. p. 2. and p. 91. Speaking of Mr. Pope's Windsor-Forrest, he says, 'It is a wretched rhapsody, impudently writ in emulation of Cooper's-Hill. The author of it is obscure, is ambiguous, is affected, is temerarious, is barbarous.' After these provocations, it is no wonder that Pope should take an opportunity of recording him in his Dunciad; and yet he had some esteem for our author's learning and genius. Mr. Dennis put his name to every thing he wrote against him, which Mr. Pope considered as a circumstance of candour. He pitied him as a man subject to the dominion of invidious passions, than which no severer sensations can tear the heart of man. In the first Book of his Dunciad. line 103, he represents Dullness taking a view of her sons; and thus mentions Dennis, She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's poor page, And all the mighty mad in Dennis rage. He mentions him again slightly in his second Book, line 230, and in his third Book, line 165, taking notice of a quarrel between him and Mr. Gildon, he says, Ah Dennis! Gildon ah! what ill-starr'd rage Divides a friendship long confirm'd by age? Blockheads, with reason, wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool, is barbr'ous civil war, Embrace, embrace, my sons! be foes no more! Nor glad vile poets, with true critic's gore. Our author gained little by his opposition to Pope, in which he must either have violated his judgment, or been under the influence of the strongest prejudice that ever blinded the eyes of any man; for not to admire the writings of this excellent poet, is an argument of a total deprivation of taste, which in other respects does not appear to be the case of Mr. Dennis. We shall now take a view of our author in the light of a dramatist. In the year 1697 a comedy of his was acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, called A Plot and No Plot, dedicated to the Earl of Sunderland. The scope of this piece is to ridicule the credulity and principles of the Jacobites, the moral of which is this, 'That there are in all parties, persons who find it their interest to deceive the rest, and that one half of every faction makes a property in fee-simple of the other, therefore we ought never to believe any thing will, or will not be, because it is agreeable, or contrary to our humours, but because it is in itself likely, or improbable. Credulity in men, engaged in a party, proceeds oftner from pride than weakness, and it is the hardest thing in the world to impose upon a humble man.' In 1699 a tragedy called Rinaldo and Armida was acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, dedicated to the Duke of Ormond. Scene the top of a mountain in the Canaries. The hint of the chief characters is owing to Tasso's Gierusalemme, but the manners of them being by our author thought unequal in that great Italian, he has taken the liberty to change them, and form his characters more agreeable to the subject. The reasons for doing it are expressed in the preface and prologue to the play. Our author's next tragedy was upon the subject of Iphigenia, daughter to Agamemnon King of Argos, acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn 1704. Iphigenia was to have been sacrificed by her father, who was deluded by the fraud of Calchas, who proclaimed throughout the Grecian fleet, that the offended gods demanded of Agamemnon the sacrifice of his daughter to Lucina, and till, that oblation was offered, the fleet would remain wind-bound. Accordingly, under pretence of marrying her to Achilles, she was betrayed from Argos, but her mother, Clytemnestra, discovering the cheat, by a stratagem prevented its execution, and effected her rescue without the knowledge of any one but her husband Agamemnon. A Grecian virgin being sacrificed in her place, Iphigenia is afterwards wrecked on the Coast of Scythia, and made the Priestess of Diana. In five years time her brother Orestes, and his friend Pylades, are wrecked on the same shore, but saved from slaughter by the Queen of Scythia, because she loved Orestes. Orestes, on the other hand, falls in love with the Priestess of Diana; they attempt an escape, and to carry off the image of the Goddess, but are prevented. The Queen then dooms Orestes to the altar, but Pylades, from his great friendship, personates Orestes, and disconcerts the design. The story and incidents of this play are interesting and moving, but Mr. Dennis has not wrought the scenes much in the spirit of a tragedian: This was a subject admirably suited for the talents of Otway. The discovery of Orestes's being the brother of Iphigenia is both surprizing and natural, and though the subject is not well executed, yet is this by far the most affecting tragedy of our author; it is almost impossible to read it without tears, though it abounds with bombast. The fourth play introduced upon the stage by Mr. Dennis, 1704, was, a tragedy called Liberty Asserted, dedicated to Anthony Henley, esq; to whom he says he was indebted for the happy hint upon which it was formed. Soon after this he wrote another tragedy upon the story of Appius and Virginia, which Mr. Maynwaring, in a letter to Mr. Dennis, calls one of our best modern tragedies; it is dedicated to Sidney Earl of Godolphin. He altered Shakespear's Merry Wives of Windsor, and brought it on the stage under the title of The Comical Gallant. Prefixed to this, is a large account of Taste in Poetry, and the Causes of its Degeneracy addressed to the Hon. George Granville, Esq; afterwards Lord Lansdowne. Our author's next dramatic production was Coriolanus, the Invader of his Country, or the Fatal Resentment, a Tragedy; altered from Shakespear, and acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane. This piece met with some opposition the first night; and on the fourth another play was given out. The second night's audience was very small, though the play was exceedingly well acted. The third night had not the charges in money; the fourth was still worse, and then another play was given out, not one place being taken in the boxes for any ensuing night. The managers were therefore obliged to discontinue it. This usage Mr. Dennis highly resented; and in his dedication to the duke of Newcastle, then lord chamberlain, he makes a formal complaint against the managers. To this play Mr. Colley Cibber took the pains to write an epilogue, which Mrs. Oldfield spoke with universal applause, and for which poor peevish, jealous Dennis, abused them both. Mr. Dennis happened once to go to the play, when a tragedy was acted, in which the machinery of thunder was introduced, a new artificial method of producing which he had formerly communicated to the managers. Incensed by this circumstance, he cried out in a transport of resentment, 'That is my thunder by G--d; the villains will play my thunder, but not my plays.' This gave an alarm to the pit, which he soon explained. He was much subject to these kind of whimsical transports, and suffered the fervor of his imagination often to subdue the power of his reason; an instance of which we shall now relate. After he was worn out with age and poverty, he resided within the verge of the court, to prevent danger from his creditors. One Saturday night he happened to saunter to a public house, which he discovered in a short time was out of the verge. He was sitting in an open drinking room, and a man of a suspicious appearance happened to come in. There was something about the man which denoted to Mr. Dennis that he was a Bailiff: this struck him with a panic; he was afraid his liberty was now at an end; he sat in the utmost solicitude, but durst not offer to stir, lest he should be seized upon. After an hour or two had passed in this painful anxiety, at last the clock struck twelve, when Mr. Dennis, in an extasy, cried out, addressing himself to the suspected person, 'Now sir, Bailiff, or no Bailiff, I don't care a farthing for you, you have no power now.' The man was astonished at this behaviour, and when it was explained to him, he was so much affronted with the suspicion, that had not Mr. Dennis found his protection in age, he would have smarted for his mistaken opinion of him. In the year 1705 a comedy of Mr. Dennis's called Gibraltar, or The Spanish Adventure, was acted unsuccessfully at Drury-Lane Theatre. He was also author of a masque called Orpheus and Euridice. Mr. Dennis, considered as a dramatic writer, makes not so good a figure as in his critical works; he understood the rules of writing, but it is not in the power of every one to carry their own theory into execution. There is one error which he endeavoured to reform, very material for the interest of dramatic poetry. He saw, with concern, that love had got the entire possession of the tragic stage, contrary to the authority of the ancients, and the example of Shakespear. He resolved therefore to deviate a little from the reigning practice, and not to make his heroes such whining slaves in their amours, which not only debases the majesty of tragedy, but confounds most of the principal characters, by making that passion the predominant quality in all. But he did not think it safe at once to shew his principal characters wholly exempt from it, lest so great and sudden a transition should prove disagreeable. He rather chose to steer a middle course, and make love appear violent, but yet to be subdued by reason, and give way to the influence of some other more noble passion; as in Rinaldo, to Glory; in Iphigenia, to Friendship; and in Liberty Asserted, to the Public Good. He thought by these means an audience might be entertained, and prepared for greater alterations, whereby the dignity of tragedy might be supported, and its principal characters justly distinguished. Besides the works which we have already mentioned, Mr. Dennis is author of the following pieces, mostly in the Pindaric way. Upon our Victory at Sea, and burning the French Fleet at La Hogne in 1692. Part of the Te Deum Paraphrased, in Pindaric Verse. To Mr. Dryden, upon his Translation of the Third Book of Virgil's Georgics. Pindaric Ode. A Pindaric Ode on the King, written in the beginning of August 1691; occasioned by the Victory at Aghrim. To a Painter drawing a Lady's Picture, an Epigram. Prayer for the King's Safety in the Summer's Expedition in 1692, an Epigram. The Court of Death, a Pindaric Poem; dedicated to the Memory of her Most Sacred Majesty Queen Mary. The Passion of Byblis, made English from the Ninth Book of Ovid's Metamorphosis. The Monument, a Poem; sacred to the Memory of the best, and greatest of Kings, William III. Britannia Triumphans, or A Poem on the Battle of Blenheim; dedicated to Queen Anne. On the Accession of King George to the Imperial Crown of Great Britain. The following specimen, which is part of a Paraphrase on the Te Deum, serves to shew, that Mr. Dennis wrote with more elegance in Pindaric odes, than in blank verse. Now let us sing a loftier strain, Now let us earth and earthly things disdain, Now let our souls to Heaven repair, Direct their most aspiring flight, To fields of uncreated light, And dare to draw empyreal air. 'Tis done, O place divinely bright! O Sons of God divinely fair! O sight! unutterable sight! O unconceivable delight! O joy which only Gods can bear! Heark how their blissful notes they raise, And sing the Great Creator's praise! How in extatic song they cry, Lo we the glorious sons of light, So great, so beautiful, so bright, Lo we the brightest of created things, Who are all flame, all force, all spirit, and all eye, Are yet but vile, and nothing in thy sight! Before thy feet O mighty King of kings, O Maker of this bounteous all! Thus lowly reverent we fall. After a life exposed to vicissitudes, habituated to many disappointments, and embroiled in unsuccessful quarrels, Mr. Dennis died on the 6th of January 1733, in the 77th year of his age. We have observed that he outlived the reversion of his place, after which he fell into great distress, and as he had all his life been making enemies, by the ungovernable fury of his temper, he found few persons disposed to relieve him. When he was near the close of his days, a play was acted for his benefit. This favour was procured him by the joint interest of Mr. Thomson, Mr. Martin, Mr. Mallet, and Mr. Pope. The play was given by the company then acting at the little Theatre in the Hay-market, under the direction of Mr. Mills sen. and Mr. Cibber jun. the latter of whom spoke a prologue on the occasion, written by Mr. Pope. Mr. Dennis was less happy in his temper, than his genius; he possessed no inconsiderable erudition, which was joined to such natural parts, as if accompanied with prudence, or politeness, might have raised him, not only above want, but even to eminence. He was happy too in having very powerful patrons, but what could be done for a man, who declared war against all the world? Dennis has given evidence against himself in the article of politeness; for in one of his letters he says, he would not retire to a certain place in the country, lest he should be disturbed in his studies by the ladies in the house: for, says he, I am not over-fond of the conversation of women. But with all his foibles, we cannot but consider him as a good critic, and a man of genius. His perpetual misfortune was, that he aimed at the empire of wit, for which nature had not sufficiently endowed him; and as his ambition prompted him to obtain the crown by a furious opposition to all other competitors, so, like Cæsar of old, his ambition overwhelmed him. [Footnote A: Jacob's Lives of the Poets.] [Footnote B: Which friendship he ill repaid. Sir Richard once became bail for Dennis, who hearing that Sir Richard was arrested on his account, cried out; "'Sdeath! Why did not he keep out of the way, as I did?"] * * * * * G. GRANVILLE, L. LANSDOWNE, Was descended from an illustrious family, which traced their ancestry from Rollo, the first duke of Normandy. He was second son of Bernard Granville, and grandson of the famous Sir Bevil Granville, killed at the battle of Lansdowne 1643. This nobleman received the first tincture of his education in France, under the tuition of Sir William Ellis, a gentleman, who was eminent afterwards in many public employments. When our author was but eleven years of age, he was sent to Trinity College in Cambridge, where he remained five years, but at the age of thirteen was admitted to the degree of master of arts, having, before he was twelve years old, spoken a copy of English verses, of his own composition, to the Duchess of York, when her Royal Highness paid a visit to that university. At the time when the nation was embroiled by the public distractions, occasioned by the efforts of King James II. to introduce Popery, lord Lansdowne did not remain an unconcerned spectator. He had early imbibed principles of loyalty, and as some of his forefathers had fallen in the cause of Charles I. he thought it was his duty to sacrifice his life also, for the interest of his Sovereign. However mistaken he might be in this furious zeal for a Prince, the chief scope of whose reign was to overthrow the law, and introduce absolute dominion, yet he appears to be perfectly sincere. In a letter he wrote to his father upon the expected approach of the Prince of Orange's fleet, he expresses the most ardent desire to serve the King in person[A]. This letter we shall insert, but beg our readers patience to make a digression, which will justify what we have said concerning James II. The genuine mark of a tyrant is cruelty, and it is with concern we can produce an instance of the most inhuman barbarity in that Prince, which ever stained the Annals of any reign. Cruelty should be the badge of no party; it ought to be equally the abhorrence of all; and whoever is tainted with it, should be set up to view, as a terror to the world, as a monster, whom it is the interest of mankind to destroy. After the suppression of Monmouth's rebellion, many of the unfortunate persons engaged In it fled to London, and took shelter there, 'till the Act of Indemnity should be published. They who afforded them shelter, were either of the Monmouth faction, or induced from principles of humanity, to administer to their safety: what would become of the world, if our friends were always to forsake us in distress? There lived then in London an amiable lady, attached to no party, who enjoyed a large fortune, which she spent in the exercise of the most extensive beneficence. She made it her business to visit the Jails, and the prisoners who were most necessitous and deserving, she relieved. Her house was an asylum for the poor; she lived but for charity, and she had every hour the prayers of the widow and orphan poured out to her. It happened that one of the rebels found shelter in her house; she suffered him to be screened there; she fed and cloathed him. The King had often declared that he would rather pardon those who were found in arms against him, than the people who harboured, or secretly encouraged them. This miscreant, who sometimes ventured out at night to a public house, was informed, that the King had made such a declaration, and it entered into his base heart to betray his benefactress. He accordingly went before a magistrate, and lodged an information, upon which the lady was secured, brought to a trial, and upon the evidence of this ungrateful villain, cast for her life. She suffered at a stake with the most resigned chearfulness, for when a woman is convicted of treason, it seems, she is sentenced to be burnt[B]. The reader will easily judge what sort of bowels that King must have, who could permit such a punishment to take place upon a woman so compleatly amiable, upon the evidence of a villain so consummately infamous, and he will, we are persuaded, be of opinion that had his Majesty possessed a thousand kingdoms, he deserved to lose them all for this one act of genuine barbarity. Lord Lansdowne. who did not consider, or was not then capable of discovering, the dangers to which this prince exposed his people, wrote the following letter to his father, earnestly pressing him to permit his entering voluntarily into king James's service. 'SIR, 'Your having no prospect of obtaining a commission for me, can no way alter, or cool my desire at this important juncture, to venture my life, in some manner or other, for my King and country. I cannot bear to live under the reproach of lying obscure and idle in a country retirement, when every man, who has the least sense of honour, should be preparing for the field. You may remember, sir, with what reluctance I submitted to your commands upon Monmouth's rebellion, when no importunity could prevail with you to permit me to leave the academy; I was too young to be hazarded; but give me leave to say, it is glorious, at any age, to die for one's country; and the sooner, the nobler sacrifice; I am now older by three years. My uncle Bath was not so old, when he was left among the slain at the battle of Newberry, nor you yourself, sir, when you made your escape from your Tutors, to join your brother in the defence of Scilly. The same cause is now come round about again. The King has been misled, let those who misled him be answerable for it. Nobody can deny but he is sacred in his own person, and it is every honest man's duty to defend it. You are pleased to say it is yet doubtful, if the Hollanders are rash enough to make such an attempt. But be that as it will, I beg leave to be presented to his Majesty, as one, whose utmost ambition is to devote his life to his service, and my country's, after the example of all my ancestors. The gentry assembled at York, to agree upon the choice of representatives for the county, have prepared an Address to assure his Majesty they are ready to sacrifice their lives and fortunes for him upon this, and all other occasions, but at the some time they humbly beseech him to give them such magistrates as may be agreeable to the laws of the land, for at present there is no authority to which they can legally submit. By what I can hear, every body wishes well to the King, but would be glad his ministers were hanged. The winds continue so contrary, that no landing can be so soon as was apprehended, therefore I may hope, with your leave and assistance, to be in readiness before any action can begin; I beseech you, sir, most humbly, and most earnestly, to add this one act of indulgence more, to so many testimonies I have so constantly received of your goodness, and be pleased to believe me always with the utmost duty and submission, 'Yours, &c.' We are not told whether his father yielded to his importunity, or whether he was presented to his Majesty; but if he really joined the army, it was without danger to his person, for the revolution was effected in England without one drop of blood. In the year 1690 Lord Lansdowne wrote a copy of verses addressed to Mrs. Elizabeth Higgins, in answer to a poetical Address sent him by that lady in his retirement. The verses of the lady are very elegant, and are only exceeded by the polite compliments his lordship wrote in answer to them. They both deserve a place here, I. Why Granville is thy life to shades confin'd, Thou whom the Gods design'd In public to do credit to mankind? Why sleeps the noble ardour of thy blood, Which from thy ancestors so many ages past, From Rollo down to Bevil flowed, And then appeared again at last, In thee when thy victorious lance Bore the disputed prize from all the youth of France. II. In the first trials which are made for fame, Those to whom fate success denies, If taking council from their shame, They modestly retreat are wise; But why should you, who still succeed, Whether with graceful art you lead The fiery barb, or with a graceful motion tread In shining balls where all agree To give the highest praise to thee? Such harmony in every motion's sound, As art could ne'er express by any sound. III. So lov'd and prais'd whom all admire, Why, why should you from courts and camps retire? If Myra is unkind, if it can be That any nymph can be unkind to thee; If pensive made by love, you thus retire, Awake your muse, and string your lyre; Your tender song, and your melodious strain Can never be address'd in vain; She needs must love, and we shall have you back again. His lordship's Answer thus begins. Cease, tempting syren, cease thy flattering strain, Sweet is thy charming song, but song in vain: When the winds blow, and loud the tempests roar, What fool would trust the waves, and quit the shore? Early and vain into the world I came, Big with false hopes and eager after fame: Till looking round me, e'er the race began, Madmen and giddy fools were all that ran. Reclaimed betimes, I from the lists retire, And thank the Gods, who my retreat inspire. In happier times our ancestors were bred, When virtue was the only path to tread. Give me, ye Gods, but the same road to fame, Whate'er my father's dar'd, I dare the same. Changed is the scene, some baneful planet rules An impious world contriv'd for knaves and fools. He concludes with the following lines Happy the man, of mortals happiest he, Whose quiet mind of vain desires is free; Whom neither hopes deceive, nor fears torment, But lives at peace, within himself content, In thought or act accountable to none But to himself, and to the Gods alone. O sweetness of content, seraphic joy! Which nothing wants, and nothing can destroy. Where dwells this peace, this freedom of the mind? Where but in shades remote from human kind; In flow'ry vales, where nymphs and shepherds meet, But never comes within the palace-gate. Farewel then cities, courts, and camps farewel, Welcome ye groves, here let me ever dwell, From care and bus'ness, and mankind remove, All but the Muses, and inspiring love: How sweet the morn, how gentle is the night! How calm the evening, and the day how bright! From thence, as from a hill, I view below The crowded world, a mighty wood in shew, Where several wand'rers travel day and night, By different paths, and none are in the right. In 1696 his Comedy called the She Gallants was acted at the Theatre-Royal[C] in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. He afterwards altered this Comedy, and published it among his other works, under the title of Once a Lover and Always a Lover, which, as he observes in the preface, is a new building upon an old foundation. 'It appeared first under the name of the She-Gallants, and by the preface then prefixed to it, is said to have been the Child of a Child. By taking it since under examination; so many years after, the author flatters himself to have made a correct Comedy of it; he found it regular to his hand; the scene constant to one place, the time not exceeding the bounds prescribed, and the action entire. It remained only to clear the ground, and to plant as it were fresh flowers in the room of those which were grown into weeds or were faded by time; to retouch and vary the characters; enliven the painting, retrench the superfluous; and animate the action, where it appeared the young author seemed to aim at more than he had strength to perform.' The same year also his Tragedy, intitled Heroic Love, was acted at the Theatre. Mr. Gildon observes, 'that this Tragedy is written after the manner of the antients, which is much more natural and easy, than that of our modern Dramatists.' Though we cannot agree with Mr. Gildon, that the antient model of Tragedy is so natural as the modern; yet this piece shall have very great merit, since we find Mr. Dryden addressing verses to the author upon this occasion, which begin thus, Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend, How could I envy, what I must commend! But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit, That youth should reign, and with'ring age submit, With less regret, those laurels I resign, Which dying on my brow, revive on thine. Our author wrote also a dramatic poem, called the British Enchanters[D], in the preface to which he observes, 'that it is the first Essay of a very infant Muse, rather as a task at such hours as were free from other exercises, than any way meant for public entertainment. But Mr. Betterton having had a casual sight of it, many years after it was written, begged it for the stage, where it met with so favourable a reception as to have an uninterrupted run of upwards of forty nights. To this Mr. Addison wrote the Epilogue.' Lord Lansdowne altered Shakespear's Merchant of Venice, under the title of the Jew of Venice, which was acted with applause, the profits of which were designed for Mr. Dryden, but upon that poet's death were given to his son. In 1702 he translated into English the second Olynthian of Demosthpracticewas returned member for the county of Cornwall, in the parliament which met in November 1710, and was soon after made secretary of war, next comptroller of the houshold, and then treasurer, and sworn one of the privy council. The year following he was created baron Lansdowne of Biddeford in Devonshire[E]. In 1719 he made a speech in the house of lords against the practicee of occasional conformity, which is printed among his works, and among other things, he says this. 'I always understood the toleration to be meant as an indulgence to tender consciences, not a licence for hardened ones; and that the act to prevent occasional conformity was designed only to correct a particular crime of particular men, in which no sect of dissenters was included, but these followers of Judas, which came to the Lord's-Supper, from no other end but to sell, and betray him. This crime however palliated and defended, by so many right reverend fathers in the church, is no less than making the God of truth, as it were in person subservient to acts of hypocrisy; no less than sacrificing the mystical Blood and Body of our Saviour to worldly and sinister purposes, an impiety of the highest nature! which in justice called for protection, and in charity for prevention. The bare receiving the holy Eucharist, could never be intended simply as a qualification for an office, but as an open declaration, an undubitable proof of being, and remaining a sincere member of the church. Whoever presumes to receive it with any other view profanes it; and may be said to seek his promotion in this world, by eating and drinking his own damnation in the next.' This accomplished nobleman died in February, Anno 1735. By his lady, Mary, widow of Thomas Thynne, Esq; (father of Thomas lord viscount Weymouth) and daughter of Edward Villiers, earl of Jersey, he had issue, four daughters, Anne, Mary, Grace and Elizabeth. His lady died but a few days before him. Mr. Pope, with many other poets of the first eminence, have celebrated lord Lansdowne, who seems to have been a good-natur'd agreeable nobleman. The lustre of his station no doubt procured him more incense, than the force of his genius would otherwise have attracted; but he appears not to have been destitute of fine parts, which were however rather elegantly polished, than, great in themselves. Lord Landsdowne likewise wrote a Masque, called Peleus and Thetis. His lordship's works have been often printed both in quarto and in duo-decimo. [Footnote A: Gen. Dict. Art. Granville.] [Footnote B: See Burnet's History of his own Times.] [Footnote C: General Dictionary, ubi supra.] [Footnote D: It was called a Dramatic Opera, and was decorated at a great expence, and intermixed with Songs, Dances, &c.] [Footnote E: Upon the accession of King George the 1st, the lord Lansdowne was seized, and imprisoned in the Tower, upon an impeachment of high treason; but was soon after honourably discharged, without being brought to a trial.] * * * * * Mr. JOHN GAY, This eminent Wit was descended of an ancient family in Devonshire, and educated at the free-school of Barnstaple in the same county, under the care of Mr. William Rayner, an excellent master[A]. Mr. Gay had a small fortune at his disposal, and was bred, says Jacob, a Mercer in the Strand; but having a genius for high excellences, he considered such an employment as a degradation to it, and relinquished that occupation to reap the laurels of poetry. About the year 1712 he was made secretary to the duchess of Monmouth, and continued in that station 'till he went over to Hanover, in the beginning of the year 1714, with the earl of Clarendon, who was sent there by Queen Anne; upon whose death he returned to England, and lived in the highest esteem and friendship with persons of the first quality and genius. Upon Mr. Gay's arrival from Hanover, we find among Mr. Pope's letters one addressed to him dated September 23, 1714, which begins thus, Dear GAY, 'Welcome to your native soil! welcome to your friends, thrice welcome to me! whether returned in glory, blessed with court-interest, the love and familiarity of the great, and filled with agreeable hopes; or melancholy with dejection, contemplative of the changes of fortune, and doubtful for the future. Whether returned a triumphant Whig, or a desponding Tory, equally all hail! equally beloved and welcome to me! If happy, I am to share in your elevation; if unhappy, you have still a warm corner in my heart, and a retreat at Binfield in the worst of times at your service. If you are a Tory, or thought so by any man, I know it can proceed from nothing but your gratitude to a few people, who endeavoured to serve you, and whose politics were never your concern. If you are a Whig, as I rather hope, and as I think your principles and mine, as brother poets, had ever a bias to the side of liberty, I know you will be an honest man, and an inoffensive one. Upon the whole, I know you are incapable of being so much on either side, as to be good for nothing. Therefore, once more, whatever you are, or in whatever state you are, all hail!'[B] In 1724 his tragedy entitled the Captives, which he had the honour to read in MS. to Queen Caroline, then Princess of Wales, was acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury Lane. In 1726 he published his Fables, dedicated to the Duke of Cumberland, and the year following he was offered the place of gentleman usher to one of the youngest Princesses, which, by reason of some slight shewn him at court, he thought proper to refuse. He wrote several works of humour with great success, particularly The Shepherd's Week, Trivia, The What d'ye Call It, and The Beggars Opera, which was acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1728. The author of the Notes on this line of the Dunciad, b. iii. I. 326. Gay dies unpensioned with a hundred friends; observes that this opera was a piece of satire, which hits all tastes and degrees of men, from those of the highest quality to the very rabble. "That verse of Horace Primores populi arripuit populumque tributim, could never be so justly applied as in this case. The vast success of it was unprecedented, and almost incredible. What is related of the wonderful effects of the ancient music, or tragedy, hardly came up to it. Sophocles and Euripides were less followed and famous; it was acted in London sixty three days uninterrupted, and renewed the next season with equal applause. It spread into all the great towns of England, was played in many places to the thirtieth and fortieth time; at Bath and Bristol fifty. It made its progress into Wales, Scotland and Ireland, where it was performed twenty-four days together. It was lastly acted in Minorca. The fame of it was not confined to the author only; the ladies carried about with them the favourite songs of it in fans; and houses were furnished with it in screens. The girl who acted Polly, 'till then obscure, became all at once the favourite of the town, her pictures were engraved, and sold in great numbers; her life written; books of letters and verses to her, published; and pamphlets made even of her sayings and jests. Furthermore, it drove out of England, for that season, the Italian Opera, which had carried all before it for ten years; that idol of the nobility and the people, which Mr. Dennis by the labours and outcries of a whole life, could not overthrow, was demolished by a single stroke of this gentleman's pen." Dr. Swift in his Intelligencer Numb. 3. has given us a vindication of Mr. Gay, and the Beggars Opera; he observes, 'that though an evil taste be very apt to prevail both in Dublin and in London; yet, there is a point which whoever can rightly touch, will never fail of pleasing a very great majority; so great that the dislikers, out of dullness, or affectation, will be silent, and forced to fall in with the herd; the point I mean is, what we call humour, which, in its perfection, is allowed to be much preferable to wit, if it he not rather the most useful, and agreeable species of it.----Now I take the comedy, or farce (or whatever name the critic will allow it) called The Beggar's Opera, to excel in this article of humour, and upon that merit to have met with such prodigious success, both here and in England.' The dean afterwards remarks, 'that an opinion obtained, that in this opera, there appears to be some reflexions on courtiers and statesmen. It is true indeed (says he) that Mr. Gay hath been somewhat singular in the course of his fortunes, attending the court with a large stock of real merit, a modest and agreeable conversation, a hundred promises, and five hundred friends, hath failed of preferment, and upon a very weighty reason; he lay under the suspicion of having written a Libel, or Lampoon, against a great minister, it is true that great minister was demonstratively convinced, and publickly owned his conviction, that Mr. Gay was not the author, but having laid under the suspicion, it seemed very just that he should suffer the punishment, because in this most reformed age the virtues of a great minister are no more to be suspected, than the chastity of Caesar's wife.' The dean then tells us, that our author in this piece has, by a turn of humour entirely new, placed vices of all kinds in the strongest, and most odious light, and thereby done eminent service both to religion and morality. 'This appears from the unparalleled success he has met with; all ranks, parties, and denominations of men, either crowding to see his Opera, or reading it with delight in their closets; even ministers of state, whom he is thought most to have offended, appearing frequently at the Theatre, from a consciousness of their own innocence, and to convince the world how unjust a parallel, malice, envy and disaffection to the government have made.----In this happy performance of Mr. Gay, all the characters are just, and none of them carried beyond nature, or hardly beyond practice. It discovers the whole system of that commonwealth, or that imperium in imperio of iniquity established among us, by which, neither our lives, nor our properties are secure, either in highways, or in public assemblies, or even in our own houses; it shews the miserable lives and constant fate of those abandoned wretches; for how small a price they sell their souls, betrayed by their companions, receivers, and purchasers of those thefts and robberies. This comedy contains likewise a satire, which though it doth by no means affect the present age, yet might have been useful in the former, and may possibly be so in ages to come, I mean where the author takes occasion of comparing those common robbers of the public, and their several stratagems of betraying, undermining, and hanging each other, to the several acts of politicians in the time of corruption. This comedy likewise exposes, with great justice, that unnatural taste for Italian music among us, which is wholly unsuitable to our Northern climate, and the genius of the people, whereby we are overrun with Italian effeminacy. An old gentleman said to me many years ago, when the practice of an unnatural vice grew so frequent in London, that many were prosecuted for it; he was sure it would be the forerunner of Italian operas and singers, and then we would want nothing but stabbing, or poisoning, to make us perfect Italians. Upon the whole I deliver my judgment; that nothing but servile attachment to a party, affectation of singularity, lamentable dullness, mistaken zeal, or studied hypocrisy, can have any objection against this excellent moral performance of Mr. Gay[C].' The astonishing success of the Beggar's Opera induced our author to add a second part, in which, however, he was disappointed, both in profit and fame. His opera entitled Polly, designed as a sequel of the former, was prohibited by the lord chamberlain from being represented on the stage, when every thing was ready for the rehearsal of it, but was soon after printed in 4to. to which the author had a very large subscription. In the preface Mr. Gay gives a particular account of the whole affair in the following manner; 'On Thursday December 12 (says he) I received this answer from the chamberlain, that it should not be allowed to be acted, but suppressed. This was told me in general without any reasons assigned, or any charge against me of my having given any particular offence. Since this prohibition I have been told, that I am accused, in general terms, of having written many disaffected libels, and seditious pamphlets. As it hath ever been my utmost ambition (if that word may be used upon this occasion) to lead a quiet and inoffensive life, I thought my innocence in this particular would never have needed a justification; and as this kind of writing is what I ever detested, and never practiced, I am persuaded so groundless a calumny can never be believed, but by those who do not know me. But when general aspersions of this sort have been cast upon me, I think myself called upon to declare my principles, and I do with the strictest truth affirm, that I am as loyal a subject, and as firmly attached to the present happy establishment, as any of those who have the greatest places or pensions. I have been informed too, that in the following play I have been charged with writing immoralities; that it is filled with slander and calumny against particular great persons, and that Majesty itself is endeavoured to be brought into ridicule and contempt. As I know that every one of these charges was in every point absolutely false, and without the least grounds, at first I was not at all affected by them; but when I found they were still insisted upon, and that particular passages which were not in the play were quoted, and propagated to support what had been suggested, I could no longer bear to lye under those false accusations; so by printing it, I have submitted, and given up all present views of profit, which might accrue from the stage, which will undoubtedly be some satisfaction to the worthy gentlemen, who have treated me with so much candour and humanity, and represented me in such favourable colours. But as I am conscious to myself, that my only intention was to lash in general the reigning and fashionable vices, and to recommend, and set virtue in as amiable a light as I could; to justify and vindicate my own character, I thought myself obliged to print the opera without delay, in the manner I have done.' The large subscription Mr. Gay had to print it, amply recompens'd any loss he might receive from it's not being acted. Tho' this was called the Sequel to the Beggar's Opera, it was allowed by his best friends, scarce to be of a piece with the first part, being in every particular, infinitely beneath it. Besides the works which we have already mentioned, Mr. Gay wrote several poems, printed in London in 2 vol. 12mo. A Comedy called The Wife of Bath, first acted 1715, and afterwards revived, altered, and represented at the Theatre Royal in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. Three Hours after Marriage, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal, in which he was assisted by Pope and Arbuthnot, but had the mortification to see this piece very ill received, if not damned the first night. He wrote likewise Achilles, an Opera; acted at the Theatre in Covent Garden. This was brought on the stage after his death, and the profits were given to his Sisters. After experiencing many vicissitudes of fortune, and being for some time chiefly supported by the liberality of the duke and duchess of Queensberry, he died at their house in Burlington Gardens, of a violent inflammatory fever, in December 1732, and was interred in Westminster, by his noble benefactors just mentioned, with the following epitaph written by Mr. Pope, who had the sincerest friendship for him on account of his amiable qualities. 'Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit a man, simplicity a child; Above temptation in a low estate, And uncorrupted even amongst the great; A safe companion, and an easy friend, Unblamed thro' life, lamented in thy end: These are thy honours! not that here thy bust Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust, But that the worthy and the good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms--here lies GAY;' Then follows this farther inscription, Here lie the ashes of Mr. John Gay; The warmest friend; The most benevolent man: Who maintained Independency In low circumstances of fortune; Integrity In the midst of a corrupt age; And that equal serenity of mind, Which conscious goodness alone can give Thro' the whole course of his life. Favourite of the muses He was led by them to every elegant art; Refin'd in taste And fraught with graces all his own: In various kinds of poetry Superior to many, Inferior to none, His works continue to inspire what his example taught, Contempt of folly, however adorned; Detestation of vice, however dignified; Reverence of virtue, however disgraced. Charles and Catherine, duke and duchess of Queensberry, who loved this excellent man living, and regret him dead, have caused this monument to be erected to his memory. Mr. Gay's moral character seems to have been very amiable. He was of an affable, sweet disposition, generous in his temper, and pleasant in his conversation. His chief failing was an excessive indolence, without the least knowledge of economy; which often subjected him to wants he needed not otherwise have experienced. Dean Swift in many of his letters entreated him, while money was in his hands, to buy an annuity, lest old age should overtake him unprepared; but Mr. Gay never thought proper to comply with his advice, and chose rather to throw himself upon patronage, than secure a competence, as the dean wisely advised. As to his genius it would be superfluous to say any thing here, his works are in the hands of every reader of taste, and speak for themselves; we know not whether we can be justified in our opinion, but we beg leave to observe, that of all Gay's performances, his Pastorals seem to have the highest finishing; they are perfectly Doric; the characters and dialogue are natural and rurally simple; the language is admirably suited to the persons, who appear delightfully rustic. [Footnote A: See Jacob.] [Footnote B: General Dictionary, Article Gay.] [Footnote C: Swift, ubi supra.] * * * * * PHILIP Duke of WHARTON, The unhappy nobleman, the memoirs of whose life we are now about to relate, was endowed by nature with all those shining qualifications by which a great man can be formed. He possessed a most extensive memory, a strong and lively imagination, and quick and ready apprehension. By the immediate authority of his father, our noble author's studies were confined to one particular branch of learning; with a view, no doubt, that his son's uncommon genius might make the greater progress, and shine with a superior lustre in that species of erudition he had made choice of for him. On this account it was, that the earl his father would not permit the young lord to go to public or private schools, or to any college, or university, but had him carefully instructed by domestic tutors; and as he gave an early display of the most astonishing parts, the earl bent all his thoughts how to improve them in the best manner, for his son's future advantage. As soon as this sprightly genius, had laid a sufficient foundation in classical learning, he studied history, particularly that of his own country, by which he was able to discern the principles of the constitution, the revolutions it has undergone, the variety of accidents by which it may be endangered, and the true policy by which it can be preserved. While he thus read history, he became a politician; and as he did not neglect other sciences, he acquired a general knowledge both of life and things, before most other persons of distinction begin to read, or think at all. By his not receiving an academical education, he escaped that stiffness and moroseness of temper frequently contracted by those who have been for some time condemned to a collegiate obscurity. Neither had he the least tincture of a haughty superiority, arising from the nobleness of his birth, and the lustre of his abilities. His conversation was easy, pleasant, and instructive, always suited to his company, of whatever quality, humour, or capacity they were. As it was the earl of Wharton's view, to qualify his son to fill that high station, in which his birth would one day place him with advantage to his country; his great care was to form him a compleat orator. For this purpose some of the principal parts in the best English Tragedies were assign'd him at times to study, particularly those of Shakespear, which he used to repeat before a private audience. Sometimes his father gave him speeches which had been uttered in the house of peers, and which the young lord got by heart, and delivered with all the graces of action and elocution; with so much propriety of expression, emphasis of voice, and pronunciation wherever it was requisite, as shewed his lordship was born for this arduous province. Nor did the excellency of these performances receive a small additional beauty from the gracefulness of his person, which was at once soft and majestic. Thus endowed by nature to charm and persuade, what expectations might not have been formed on him? A youth of a noble descent, who added to that advantage the most astonishing parts ever man possessed, improved by an uncommon and well regulated education. What pity is it, this illustrious young man, born to have dictated to the senate, and directed the business of a state, with the eyes of a people fixed upon him, should fall so exceedingly short of those fair hopes, he had so justly raised in every breath. He wanted one quality, without which birth, fortune, and abilities, suffer a considerable diminution. That quality is prudence; of which the duke of Wharton was so destitute, that all his parts were lost to the world, and the world lost to him. The first prelude to his misfortunes, may justly be reckoned his falling in love, and privately marrying a young lady, the daughter of major general Holmes; a match by no means suited to his birth, fortune and character; and far less to the ambitious views his father had of disposing of him in such a marriage, as would have been a considerable addition to the fortune and grandeur of his illustrious family. However disappointed the earl of Wharton might be, in his son's marrying beneath his quality; yet that amiable lady who became his daughter-in-law deserved infinitely more felicity than she met with by an alliance with his family; and the young lord was not so unhappy through any misconduct of hers, as by the death of his father, which this precipitate marriage is thought to have hastened. The duke being so early freed from paternal restraints, plunged himself into those numberless excesses, which became at last fatal to him; and he proved, as Pope expresses it, A tyrant to the wife his heart approv'd; A rebel to the very king he lov'd. The young lord in the beginning of the year 1716 indulged his desire of travelling and finishing his education abroad; and as he was designed to be instructed in the strictest Whig principles, Geneva was judged a proper place for his residence. On his departure from England for this purpose, he took the rout of Holland, and visited several courts of Germany, and that of Hanover in particular. Though his lordship was now possessed of his family estate, as much as a minor could be; yet his trustees very much limited his expences, and made him too moderate remittances, for a person of his rank and spirit. This gave him great uneasiness, and embarrassed him much in his way of living, which ill suited with the profusion of his taste. To remove these difficulties, he had recourse to mortgaging, and by premiums and large interest paid to usurers, supplied his present necessities, by rendering his affairs still worse. The unhappy divisions which reigned in England at the time this young peer made his first entry into public life, rendered it almost impossible for him to stand neuter, and on whatever side he should declare himself, still there was danger. The world generally expected he would follow the steps of his father, who was one of the first English gentlemen who joined the prince of Orange, and continued firm to the Revolution principles, and consequently approved the Hanoverian succession, upon whose basis it was built. But whatever motives influenced the young marquis (for king William had bestowed this title on his father) he thought proper to join the contrary party. The cause of his abandoning the principles of the Whigs is thought to be this. The marquis being arrived at Geneva, he conceived so great a disgust at the dogmatical precepts of his governor, the restraints he endeavoured to lay upon him, and the other instances of strict discipline exercised in that meridian of Presbyterianism, that he fell upon a scheme of avoiding these intolerable incumbrances; so, like a torrent long confined within its bounds by strong banks, he broke loose, and entered upon engagements, which, together with the natural impetuosity of his temper, threw him into such inconveniencies, as rendered the remaining part of his life unhappy. His lordship, as we have already observed, being very much disgusted with his governor, left him at Geneva, and as if he had been flying from a pestilence, set out post for Lyons, where he arrived about the middle of October 1716. The author of the duke of Wharton's life has informed us, that the reason of his lordship's leaving his governor so abruptly, was on account of the freedom with which that gentleman treated him, a circumstance very disgustful to a person of his quality. He took leave of him in the following manner. His lordship somewhere in his travels had picked up a bear's cub, of which he was very fond, and carried it about with him; but when he was determined to abandon his tutor, he left the cub behind him, with the following note addressed to him. 'Being no longer able to bear with your ill-usage, I think proper to be gone from you; however, that you may not want company, I have left you the bear, as the most suitable companion in the world, that could be picked out for you.' When the marquis was at Lyons he took a very strange step, little expected from him. He wrote a letter to the Chevalier de St. George, then residing at Avignon, to whom he presented a very fine stone-horse. Upon receiving this present, the Chevalier sent a man of quality to the marquis, who carried him privately to his court, where he was received with the greatest marks of esteem, and had the title of duke of Northumberland conferred upon him. He remained there however but one day, and then returned post to Lyons; from whence he set out for Paris. He likewise made a visit to the queen dowager of England, consort to king James the IId. then residing at St. Germains, to whom he paid his court, pursued the same rash measures as at Avignon. During his stay at Paris, his winning address, and astonishing parts, gained him the esteem and admiration of all British subjects of both parties who happened to be there. The earl of Stair, then ambassador at the court of France from the king of Great Britain, notwithstanding all the reports to the marquis's disadvantage, thought proper to shew some respect to the representative of so great a family, which had so resolutely supported the present administration, especially as he was a young man of such great personal accomplishments, both natural and acquired, and blest with a genius so capable of serving his country even in the most eminent station. These considerations induced lord Stair, who was a prudent, discerning minister, to countenance the young marquis, give him frequent invitations to his table, and to use him with distinguishing civility. The earl was likewise in hopes, by these gentle measures, and this insinuating behaviour, to win him to his party, which he had good reason to think he hated. His excellency never failed to lay hold of every opportunity, to give him some admonitions, which were not always agreeable to the vivacity of his temper, and sometimes provoked him to great indiscretions. Once in particular, the ambassador extolling the merit, and noble behaviour of the marquis's father, added, 'That he hoped he would follow so illustrious an example of fidelity to his prince, and love to his country, by treading in the same steps.'--Upon which the marquis immediately answered, 'That he thanked his excellency for his good advice, and as his excellency had also a worthy and deserving father, he hoped he would likewise copy so bright an original and tread in all his steps.' This was a severe sarcasm, as the ambassador's father had betrayed his master in a manner that was quite shameful. He acted the same part in Scotland, which Sunderland did in England. They pushed on king James the IId. to take violent and unconstitutional measures, to make his ruin certain: They succeeded in their scheme, and after the Revolution, boasted their conduct as meritorious; but however necessary it might be for king William, upon principles of policy to reward the betrayers, he had yet too good a heart to approve the treachery.--But to return to the marquis, we shall mention another of his juvenile fights, as an instance to what extravagant and unaccountable excesses, the inconstancy of his temper would sometimes transport him. A young English surgeon, who went to Paris, to improve himself in his business, by observing the practice in the celebrated hospitals, passing by the embassador's house on the 10th of June at night, took the liberty to break his excellency's windows because there was no bonfire before his door. Upon this outrage he was seized and committed prisoner to Fort L'Eveque. This treatment of the young surgeon was resented by the marquis; but he fought for no other satisfaction than to break the ambassador's windows a second time. Accordingly his lordship proposed it to an Irish lieutenant-general, in the service of France, a gentleman of great honour and of the highest reputation for abilities in military affairs, desiring his company and assistance therein. The general could not help smiling at the extravagance of the proposal, and with a great deal of good-nature advised his lordship by all means not to make any such attempts; 'but if he was resolutely bent upon it, he begg'd to be excused from being of the party, for it was a method of making war to which he had never been accustomed.' We might here enumerate more frolics of the same kind which he either projected, or engaged in, but we chuse rather to omit them as they reflect but little honour on the marquis.--We shall only observe, that before he left France, an English gentleman of distinction expostulating with him, for swerving so much from the principles of his father and his whole family, his lordship answered, 'That he had pawned his principles to Gordon the Pretender's banker for a considerable sum; and till he could repay him, he must be a Jacobite, but that when that was done he would again return to the Whigs.' About the latter end of December 1716, the marquis arrived in England, where he did not remain long, till he set out for Ireland; in which kingdom, on account of his extraordinary qualities, he had the honour done him of being admitted, though under age, to take his seat in that august assembly of the house of peers, to which he had a right as earl of Rathfarnam, and marquis of Catherlough. Here he espoused a very different interest from that which he had so lately embraced. He distinguished himself on this occasion as a violent partizan for the ministry; and acted in all other respects, as well in his private as public capacity, with the warmest zeal for the government. The speeches which he made in the house upon many occasions, uttered with so much force of expression, and propriety of emphasis, were an irrefutable demonstration of his abilities, and drew upon him the admiration of both kingdoms. The marquis's arguments had very great influence on which side of the question soever he happened to be.--No nobleman, either in that or the English house of peers, ever acquitted himself with greater reputation, or behaved with a more becoming dignity than he did during this session of the Irish parliament. In consequence of this zeal for the new government, shewn at a time when they stood much in need of men of abilities, and so little expected from the young marquis, the king who was no stranger to the most refined rules of policy, created him a duke, the highest degree of a subject. In the preamble to his patent, after a detail of the merit of his father, and his services to the government are illustrated, his lordship's behaviour in Ireland and his early endowments are thus mentioned. 'When we see the son of that great man, forming himself by so worthy an example, and in every action exhibiting a lively resemblance of his father; when we consider the eloquence he has exerted with so much applause in the parliament of Ireland, and his turn and application, even in early youth to the serious and weighty affairs of the public, we willingly decree him honours which are neither superior to his merits, nor earlier than the expectation of our good subjects.' As soon as the duke of Wharton came of age, he was introduced to the house of lords in England, with the like blaze of reputation, and raised jealousies in the breasts of the most consummately artful, and best qualified in the house of peers. A little before the death of lord Stanhope, his grace, who was constant in nothing but inconstancy, again changed sides, opposed the court, and endeavoured to defeat all the schemes of the ministry. He appeared one of the most forward and vigorous in the defence of the bishop of Rochester, and in opposing the bill for inflicting pains and penalties on that prelate. The judicious observations he made on the trial of the bishop, and the manner in which he summed up and compared a long and perplexed kind of evidence, with inimitable art and perspicuity, may be seen in the duke's speech upon that extraordinary occasion, which is a lasting proof of his amazing abilities in the legislative capacity, as well as of his general knowledge of public business. He, however, did not confine this spirit of opposition to the house of lords, but exerted it both in city and country, promoting in all kinds of elections such persons as were supposed to be no fautors of the court. Such was the hatred he now conceived to the ministry, and such his desire of becoming eminent; that he even pushed himself into the city of London; was invested with the rights and privileges of a citizen, and was entered a member of the wax-chandler's company; by virtue of which he appeared at all meetings, charmed all societies, and voted in his own right upon all occasions. Notwithstanding his astonishing activity in opposition to the court, he was not yet satisfied that he had done enough. He could not be in all places, and in all companies at once. As much an orator as he was, he could not talk to the whole nation, and therefore he printed his thoughts twice a week, in a paper called the True-Briton, several thousands of which being dispersed weekly, the duke was pleased to find the whole kingdom giving attention to him, and admiring him as an author, though they did not at all approve his reasoning. Those political papers, which were reckoned by some the standard of good sense, and elegant writing, were collected together in his life-time, and reprinted by his order, with a preface, in which he gives his reasons for engaging in an undertaking so uncommon to a person of his distinction. Here it will not be improper to remark, that notwithstanding all those instances of the duke's zeal, his sincerity in opposing the ministry was yet suspected, as his former behaviour was so very inconsistent with it; but he never failed to justify himself throughout the different and contrary courses of his conduct, pretending always to have acted consistently with the honour and interest of the realm. But he never was able in this particular to obtain the public judgment in his favour. It is impossible to reconcile all the various actions of this noble-man. He was certainly too much governed by whim and accident. From this time forward, however, though he might deviate from the strict rules of a moral life, he cannot be said to have done so with respect to his politics. The same principles on which he set out, he carried to his grave, with steadiness through all the events of fortune, and underwent such necessities, as few of his quality ever experienced, in a cause, the revival and success of which had long been desperate, before he engaged in it. The duke's boundless profusion had by this time so burthened his estate, that a decree of chancery took hold on it, and vested it in the hands of trustees for the payment of his debts, but not without making a provision of 1200 l. per annum for his subsistence. This allowance not being sufficient to support his title with suitable dignity at home, he proposed to go abroad for some years, 'till his estate should clear itself of incumbrances. His friends, for his own sake, were pleased with this resolution, and every body considered this course as the most prudent, that in such circumstances could be taken. But in this the world was deceived, for he went abroad from no such prudent motive, oeconomy being a virtue of which he never had the least notion in any part of his life. His business at Vienna was to execute a private commission, not in favour of the English ministry, nor did he ever shine to greater advantage, as to his personal character, than at the Imperial court. From Vienna his grace made a tour to the court of Spain, where his arrival alarmed the English minister so much, that two expresses were sent from Madrid to London, upon the apprehension that his grace was received there in the character of an ambassador, upon which the duke received a summons under the Privy Seal to return home. His behaviour on this occasion was a sufficient indication that he never designed to return to England, whilst affairs remained in the same state, and the administration in the same hands they then were in. This he often declared from his going abroad the second time, which, no doubt, was the occasion of his treating that solemn order with so much indignity, and endeavouring to enflame the Spanish court, not only against the person who delivered the warrant, but against the court of Great Britain itself, for exercising an act of power, as he was pleased to call it, within the jurisdiction of his Catholic Majesty. After this he acted openly in the service of the Pretender, and appeared at his court, where he was received with great marks of favour. While his grace was thus employed abroad, his duchess, who had been neglected by him, died in England, on the 14th of April 1726, and left no issue behind her. The lady's death gave the duke no great shock. He was disencumbered of her and had now an opportunity of mending his fortune by marriage. Soon after this, the duke fell violently in love with Mademoiselle Obern, a beautiful young lady at the Spanish court, who was then one of the maids of honour to the Queen of Spain. She was daughter of an Irish colonel in that service, who being dead, her mother lived upon a pension the King allowed her, so that this lady's fortune consisted chiefly in her personal accomplishments. Many arguments were used by their friends on both sides to dissuade them from the marriage. The Queen of Spain, when the duke asked her consent, represented to him in the most lively terms, that the consequence of the match would be misery to both, and absolutely refused her consent. Having now no hopes of obtaining her, he fell into a violent melancholy, which introduced a lingering fever, of which he languished 'till he was almost ready to drop into the ground. This circumstance reaching her Majesty's ear, she was moved with his distress, and sent him word to endeavour the recovery of his health, and as soon as he was able to appear abroad, she would speak to him in a more favourable manner, than at their last interview. The duke upon receiving this news, imagined it the best way to take the advantage of the kind disposition her Majesty was in; and summoning to his assistance his little remaining strength, he threw himself at her Majesty's feet, and begged of her either to give him Mademoiselle Obern, or not to order him to live, assuring her, in the language of tragedy, that she was to pronounce the sentence of his life, or death. The Queen consented, but told him he would soon repent it, and the young lady being dazzled with the lustre of a ducal title, and besides having a real value for her lover, they were soon united by an indissoluble bond. After the solemnization of his marriage, he passed some time at Rome, where he accepted of a blue garter, affected to appear with the title of duke of Northumberland, and for awhile enjoyed the confidence of the exiled Prince. But as he could not always keep himself within the bounds of the Italian gravity, and having no employment to amuse his active temper, he ran into his usual excesses, which giving offence, it was thought proper for him to remove from that city for the present, lest he should fall into actual disgrace. Accordingly the duke quitted Rome, and went by sea to Barcelona, where hearing that the trenches were opening before Gibraltar, he resolved upon a new scene of life, which few suspected he would ever engage in. He wrote a letter to the King of Spain, acquainting him, 'That he designed to take up arms in his Majesty's service, and apprehending that his forces were going to reduce the town of Gibraltar under his obedience, he hoped he should have his permission to assist at the siege as a volunteer.' This done, he went to the camp, taking his duchess along with him, and was received with all the marks of respect due to his quality. The Conde de la Torres, who commanded there, delivered him an obliging letter from the King his master, thanking him for the honour he intended him, by serving in his troops, and during that siege, appointed him his aid-de-camp, by which, post the duke was to give an account of all transactions to his Majesty himself, which obliged him to be often in the trenches, and to expose his person to imminent danger. During this siege want of courage was never imputed to him; on the contrary, he was often guilty of the most imprudent rashness. One evening he went close to the walls, near one of the posts of the town, and threatened the soldiers of the garrison. They asked who he was? he readily answered, the duke of Wharton; and though he appeared there as an enemy, they suffered him to return to the trenches without firing one shot at him. This siege was ended, and the duke received no other hurt, than a wound in his foot by the bursting of a grenade, and when nothing more was to be done in the camp, he went to court, where he was held in the utmost respect by the principal nobility. The King likewise, as a mark of his favour, was pleased to give him a commission of Colonel Agregate (that was the term) to one of the Irish regiments, called Hibernia, and commanded by the marquis de Castelar. Could the duke have been satisfied with that state of life, and regulated his expences according to his income, he had it then in his power to live, if not affluently, at least easily. But in a short time he was for changing the scene of action; he grew weary of Madrid, and set his heart on Rome. In consequence of this resolution, he wrote a letter to the Chevalier de St. George, full of respect and submission, expressing a desire of visiting his court; but the Chevalier returned for answer, that he thought it more advisable for his grace to draw near England, than make a tour to Rome, that he might be able to accommodate matters with the government at home, and take some care of his personal estate. The Chevalier very prudently judged, that so wretched an oeconomist as the duke, would be too great a burden to a person, whose finances were not in a much better condition than his own. Be that as it may, the duke seemed resolved to follow his advice, and accordingly set out for France, in company with his duchess, and attended by two or three servants, arrived at Paris in May 1728. He sent a letter to Mr. Walpole then embassador there, to let him know he designed to visit him. That gentleman returned the duke a civil answer, importing, 'that he should be glad to see his grace at his own time, if he intended it a public visit; if a private one, they would agree upon an hour, that should be most convenient.' The duke declared that he would come publicly, which he did next day, and his discourse with that minister was suitable to the usual gaiety of his temper; for though he spoke of returning home, it was in such an undetermined way, that Mr. Walpole could not guess his real intentions. He received the duke however with his usual complaisance, and with a respect agreeable to his quality, but was not a little surprized, when, at parting, his grace told him, he was going to dine with the bishop of Rochester. Mr. Walpole answered, 'That if he had a design of making that prelate a visit, there was no manner of occasion for telling him of it.' Thus they parted, and never again had another interview. The duke made little stay at Paris, but proceeded to Rouen in his way, as some imagined, to England; but there he stopt, and took up his residence, without reflecting in the least on the business that brought him to France. He was so far from making any concession to the government in order to make his peace, that he did not give himself the least trouble about his personal estate, or any other concern in England. The duke had about 600 l. in his possession, when he arrived at Rouen, where more of his servants joined him from Spain. There he formed his houshold, and made a calculation, in which there appeared to be but one mistake, that is, he proportioned his expences, not according to his income, but quality; and though every argument was used to convince him of this error, at once so obvious and fatal, yet he would hearken to no admonition while he had one crown left. At Rouen, as in every other place, the duke charmed all those who conversed with him; he was warmly received by persons of the first distinction in that province, with whom he took the diversion of hunting twice a week, 'till some news arrived, which would have given interruption to the mirth of any other man; but the alteration was scarce to be perceived in him. This was a Bill of Indictment preferred against Philip duke of Wharton, for high treason. The fact laid to his charge was, appearing in arms before, and firing off cannon against, his Majesty's town of Gibraltar. Here we cannot omit an anecdote, from which the reader may draw what conclusion he pleases. During the time the proceedings against the duke were at a stand in the long vacation, a gentleman of character, intimately acquainted with the duke, and also with his affairs in England; one who enjoyed the sunshine of court favour, and was a Member of Parliament, went over to Rouen to visit his grace, in company with another gentleman. These two visitants took a great deal of pains to persuade him to submit to the government, and return to his estate, which they assured him he might do, by writing a letter to the King, or the ministry. This alone, without any other pretensions to favour, was to re-establish him, and leave him the free enjoyment of his estate, which, notwithstanding all the reductions, would even then have yielded 6000 l. a year. This point they sollicited incessantly, and their words of honour were given, to remove all scruples his grace might have about the performance of the conditions. Their interpositions were however in vain; he refused to submit to the ministry, or write to the King, and thought it beneath him to ask a favour. This conduct of the duke may be imputed, by some, to pride and obstinacy, but a more natural construction is, that he was afraid of treachery. He could not discover upon what motives, two persons whom he looked upon as creatures of the court, would give themselves the trouble to come to Rouen, in order to persuade him to act for his own interest, unless they had some concealed views of such a nature, perhaps, as would prove fatal to him, should he submit. He soon after this received advice from England, that his trustees could remit him no more of his annuity, on account of the indictment preferred against him. There was now a dreadful prospect before him; his money was wasted; all future supplies cut off; and there was a large family to support, without any hopes of relief. He began now to feel the effects of the indictment, which he before held in so much contempt; he complained of it as a rigorous proceeding, because it laid him under a necessity of asking a favour, and receiving it in a public manner, which he fancied neither consistent with his honour, or reputation. Thus exasperated against the government, he wrote the memorable paper which he contrived to get printed in Mist's Journal, under the colour of an account of Mirevais and Sultan Ezref, which contained severe reflexions on the administration. Mean time the duke's credit at Rouen began to sink; he was attended every morning with a considerable levee, consisting of the tradesmen of that city, who came with importunate faces to demand payment of their bills, which he discharged by quitting Rouen, leaving his horses and equipage to be sold, and the money to be divided among them. The duke, before this event, had thrown himself at the feet of the Chevalier de St. George, as the only possible resource he had left. Accordingly he wrote him a most moving letter, giving him a detail of his present sufferings, very pathetically representing the distress to which he was reduced, and humbly imploring his protection, with what little assistance might be necessary to enable him to support such a burthen of calamities, as he found otherwise too heavy to bear. * * * * * The duke having now returned to Paris, made a considerable reformation in his houshold affairs, and placed himself in a private family, while the duchess went to a relation's at St. Germains. In the mean while the answer of the letter sent to Rome came in its proper time, in which his imprudent conduct was represented; but at the same time was touched with so light and delicate a hand, that it gave the duke but little uneasiness. No hopes were given him, that he should be gratified in his extravagancies, or flattered in his levities; on the contrary he was told, 'That as his past conduct had not merited any favour, nothing but his future behaviour could recommend him to it.' The duke had sufficient penetration to discover by this hint, that he was not likely to be abandoned, which was consolation enough to one of his sanguine temper, in the then desperate situation of his affairs.--The Chevalier de St. George soon after sent him 2000 l. for his support, of which he was no sooner in possession, than he squandered it away in a course of extravagance. In reality, money seemed to be such a burthen to him, that he bent all his thoughts to get rid of it as fast as possible; and he was as unwilling his companions should be troubled with it as himself. As a proof of this strange temper we shall quote one instance amongst many in the words of the writer of his life, which will serve to shew the heedless profusion of that unaccountable nobleman. 'A young Irish lord of the duke's acquaintance, of a sweet obliging and generous disposition, happening to be at St. Germains, at the time his grace was paying a visit to his lady; the duke came to him one night, with an air of business, and told his lordship that an affair of importance called him instantly to Paris, in which no time was to be lost, wherefore he begged the favour of his lordship's coach. The young nobleman lent it very readily, but as the duke was stepping into it, he added, that he should reckon it an additional obligation, if his lordship would give him, his company: As the duke was alone, the young lord either could not, or would not, refuse him. They went together for Paris, where they arrived about midnight. The duke's companion then supposing his grace's business might demand privacy, offered to leave him and come again, when it should be finished; but he assured his lordship it was not necessary; upon which they went upon the following frolic together. The first thing to be done, was to hire a coach and four horses; the next to find out the music belonging to the Opera, six or eight of which his grace engaged at a set price: The young lord could not imagine in what this would end; till they returned to St. Germains, which was at five the next morning when the duke marching directly with his troop to the castle, ordered them to strike upon the stairs. Then the plot broke out into execution, being no more than to serenade some young ladies, near whose apartments they then were. 'This piece of extravagant gallantry being over, the duke persuaded the young lord to go about a mile off, to Poissy, where an English gentleman 'of their acquaintance lived: His lordship consenting, the duke took with him a pair of trumpets, and a kettle-drum, to give the music a more martial air: But to this the Opera music made an objection at first, because as they should be wanted that night in their posts, they should forfeit half a louis d' or each, for non-appearance. Half a louis d' or! says his grace, follow the duke of Wharton, and all your forfeitures shall be paid. They did so, and entered Poissy in such a musical manner, that they alarmed the whole town, and their friend did not know whether he had best keep his house, or fly for it; but the affair was soon explained, and the musical troop was entertained by the gentleman their friend, in a very handsome manner. This frolic being now finished, there was one thing more absolutely necessary, viz. to discharge the reckoning, upon which occasion the duke in a very laconic manner addressed himself to the young lord.' My lord, says he, 'I have not one livre in my pocket, wherefore I must desire you to pay these fellows, and I'll do as much for you whenever I am able. Upon this his lordship with great chearfulness, paid all demands, amounting to 25 louis d' ors.' It may seem a strange observation, but it is certainly true, that the brute creation differs not more from the rational in many respects, than a man from himself: That by suffering passions to usurp the dominion of the soul, human nature is stript of its dignity, debased to the beasts that perish, and still rendered more ignominious by the complications of guilt. We have already seen the duke of Wharton set up as the idol of an admiring people; an august senate listened to the enchantments of his eloquence; a powerful ministry dreading his resolutions; he was courted, flattered, feared; and obeyed. View him now, and the scene is shifted. Observe him descending to the most abject trifling, stooping to the meanest expedients, and the orator and statesman transformed to the vagabond and the wanderer. No incident in this nobleman's life has been represented more to his disadvantage, and is in itself more interesting than the following. The account which is here inserted was sent to a friend by the duke's express order. A Scots peer with whom both the duke, and the duchess lived in great intimacy in Italy, happening to come to Paris, when the duke was there, they renewed their acquaintance and friendship, and for some time continued with mutual freedom, till the duke had reason to believe from what he heard from others, that the peer had boasted favours from the duchess of Wharton. This instance of wanton vanity, the duke could not help resenting, though he often declared since the quarrel, that he never had the least suspicion of the duchess's honour. He resolved therefore very prudently to call the Scots lord to an account, without letting him know it was for the duchess or so much as mentioning her name; accordingly he took occasion to do it in this manner. It happened that the duke of Wharton and his lordship met at a lady's whom they mutually visited, and the duke dropping his glove by chance, his lordship took it up, and returned it to the duke; who thereupon asked him if he would take it up in all it's forms? To which his lordship answered, yes, my lord, in all its forms. Some days after, the duke gave a ball at St. Germains, to which he invited the Scots nobleman, and some person indiscretely asked his grace whether he had forbid the duchess's dancing with lord C----. This gave the duke fresh reason to believe that the Scots peer had been administring new grounds for his resentment, by the wantonness of calumny. He dissembled his uneasiness for the present, and very politely entertained the company till five o'clock in the morning, when he went away without the ceremony of taking leave; and the next news that was heard of him was from Paris, from whence he sent a challenge to lord C----d, to follow him to Flanders. The challenge was delivered by his servant, and was to this effect: 'That his lordship might remember his saying he took up his glove in all its forms, which upon mature reflexion, his grace looked upon to be such an affront, as was not to be born, wherefore he desired his lordship to meet him at Valenciennes, where he would expect him with a friend and a pair of pistols; and on failure of his lordship's coming his grace would post him, &c. The servant who delivered the letter, did not keep its contents a secret; and lord C----d was taken into custody, when he was about setting out to meet his grace. All that remained then for his lordship to do, was to send a gentleman into Flanders, to acquaint the duke with what happened to him. His grace upon seeing the gentleman, imagining him to be his lordship's second, spoke to him in this manner; 'Sir, I hope my lord will favour me so far as to let us use pistols, because the wound I received in my foot before Gibraltar, in some measure disables me from the sword.' Hereupon the gentleman replied with some emotion, 'My lord duke, you might chuse what you please; my lord C----d will fight you with any weapon, from a small pin to a great cannon; but this is not the case, my lord is under an arrest, by order of the duke of Berwick.' His grace being thus disappointed in the duel, and his money being almost spent, he returned to Paris, and was also put under an arrest till the affair was made up by the interposition of the duke of Berwick, under whose cognizance it properly came as Marshal of France. The duke's behaviour on this occasion, so far from being reproachable, seems to be the most manly action of his whole life. What man of spirit would not resent the behaviour of another, who should boast of favours from his wife, especially when in all probability he never received any? His grace's conducting the quarrel, so as to save the reputation of his duchess, by not so much as having her name called in question, was at once prudent, and tender; for whether a lady is guilty or no, if the least suspicion is once raised, there are detractors enough in the world ready to fix the stain upon her. The Scots lord deserved the severest treatment, for living in strict friendship with two persons of quality, and then with an insidious cruelty endeavouring to sow the seeds of eternal discord between them, and all to gratify a little vanity: Than such a conduct nothing can be more reproachable. Not long after this adventure, a whim seized the duke of going into a convent, in order to prepare for Easter; and while he was there, he talked with so much force and energy upon all points of religion, that the pious fathers beheld him with admiration. Mankind were for some time in suspense, what would be the issue of this new course of life; but he soon put an end to their speculations by appearing again in the world, and running headlong into as wild courses of vice and extravagance, as he had ever before done. He had for a companion, a gentleman for whom he entertained a very high esteem; but one who was as much an enemy as possible to such a licentious behaviour. In another situation, our noble author would have found it a happiness to be constantly attended by a person of his honour, probity, and good sense; but the duke's strange and unaccountable conduct, rendered the best endeavours to serve him ineffectual. In a letter which that gentleman wrote to a friend in London, he concludes with a melancholy representation of the duke's present circumstances; ----'However, notwithstanding what I have suffered, and what my brother 'madman' has done to undo himself, and every body who was so unlucky as to have the least concern with him, I could not help being sensibly moved on so extraordinary a vicissitude of fortune, to see a great man fallen from that shining light, in which I have beheld him in the house of lords, to such a degree of obscurity, that I have beheld the meanest commoner here decline his company; and the Jew he would sometimes fasten on, grow tired of it, for you know he is a bad orator in his cups, and of late he has been seldom sober. A week before he left Paris, he was so reduced, that he had not one single crown at command, and was forced to thrust in with any acquaintance for a lodging: Walsh and I have had him by turns, all to avoid a crowd of duns, which he had of all sizes, from 1400 livres to 4, who hunted him so close, that he was forced to retire to some of the neighbouring villages for safety. I, sick as I was, hurried about Paris to get him money, and to St. Germains to get him linen. I bought him one shirt and a cravat, which, with 500 livres, his whole stock, he and his duchess, attended by one servant, set out for Spain. All the news I have heard of him since, is, that a day or two after he sent for captain Brierly, and two or three of his domestics to follow him; but none but the captain obeyed the summons. Where they are now I cannot tell, but I fear they must be in great distress by this time, if he has had no other supplies; and so ends my melancholy story.' In this deplorable situation did the duke leave Paris, an instance indeed of the strange reverse of fortune, but for which he could not blame the severity of providence, or the persecution of enemies, but his own unbounded profusion, a slave to which he seems to have been born. As a long journey did not very well suit with his grace's finances, so he went for Orleans, thence fell down the river Loire to Nantz in Britany, and there he stopt some time 'till he got a remittance from Paris, which was squandered almost as soon as received. At Nantz some of his ragged servants rejoined him, and from thence he took shipping with them from Bilboa, as if he had been carrying recruits to the Spanish regiment. From Bilboa he wrote a humorous letter to a friend at Paris, such as his fancy, not his circumstances, dictated, giving a whimsical account of his voyage, and his manner of passing away his time. But at the end, as if he had been a little affected with his late misconduct, he concludes thus, 'notwithstanding what the world may say of me, 'Be kind to my remains, and O! defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend[A].' When the duke arrived at Bilboa, he had neither friends, money, nor credit, more than what the reputation of his Spanish commission procured him. Upon the strength of that he left his duchess and servant there, and went to his regiment, where he was obliged to support himself upon the pay of 18 pistoles a month, but could get no relief for the poor lady and family he left behind him. The distress of the duchess was inexpressible, nor is it easy to conceive what would have been the consequence, if her unhappy circumstances had not reached the ear of another exiled nobleman at Madrid, who could not hear of her sufferings without relieving her. This generous exile, touched with her calamities, sent her a hundred Spanish pistoles, which relieved her grace from a kind of captivity, and enabled her to come to Madrid, where she lived with her mother and grandmother, while the duke attended his regiment. Not long after this, the duke's family had a great loss in the death of his lady's mother, by which they were deprived of a pension they before enjoyed from the crown of Spain; but this was fortunately repaired by the interest of a nobleman at court, who procured the duchess's two sisters to be minuted down for Maids of Honour to the Queen of Spain, whenever a vacancy should happen, but to enter immediately upon the salary of these places. Her Majesty likewise took the duchess to attend her person. There have been many instances of people, who have sustained the greatest shocks which adversity can inflict, through a whole life of suffering, and yet at last have yielded to the influence of a trifling evil: something like this was the case of the duke of Wharton, which the following story will illustrate. He was in garrison at Barcelona, and coming from a ball one night, in company with some ladies, a man in a masque, whom he did not know, was guilty of some rudeness to him. The duke enquired who he was, and being informed that he was valet de chambre to the marquis de Risbourg, governour of Catalonia, he suffered himself to be transported by the first motions of his passion, and caned him. The fellow complained of this usage to his master, who at first took no notice of it, imagining his grace would make some excuse to him for such a procedure, but whether the duke thought it beneath his quality to make any apology for beating a menial servant, who had been rude to him, or would not do it upon another account, he spoke not a word about it. The marquis resenting this behaviour, two days after ordered the duke to prison. He obeyed, and went to Fort Montjuich: as soon as he arrived there, the marquis sent him word, he might come out when he pleased; the duke answered, he scorned to accept liberty at his hands, and would not stir without an order from the court, imagining they would highly condemn the governour's conduct; but the marquis had too much credit with the minister, to suffer any diminution of his power on that account; he received only a sharp rebuke, and the duke had orders to repair to his quarters, without entering again into Barcelona. This last mortification renewed the remembrance of all his misfortunes; he sunk beneath this accident, and giving way to melancholy, fell into a deep consumption. Had the duke maintained his usual spirit, he would probably have challenged the marquis, and revenged the affront of the servant upon the master, who had made the quarrel his own, by resenting the valet's deserved correction. About the beginning of the year 1731 he declined so fast, being in his quarters, at Lerida, that he had not the use of his limbs, so as to move without assistance; but as he was free from pain, he did not lose all his gaiety. He continued in this ill state of health for two months, when he gained a little strength, and found some benefit from a certain mineral water in the mountains of Catalonia; but his constitution was too much spent to recover the shocks it had received. He relapsed the May following at Terragana, whither he removed with his regiment; and going to the above mentioned waters, the benefit whereof he had already experienced, he fell into one of those fainting fits, to which he had for some time been subject, in a small village, and was utterly destitute of all the necessaries of life, 'till some charitable fathers of a Bernardine convent, offered him what assistance their house afforded. The duke accepted their kind proposal, upon which they removed him to their convent, and administered all the relief in their power. Under this hospitable roof, after languishing a week, died the duke of Wharton, without one friend, or acquaintance to close his eyes. His funeral was performed in the same manner in which the fathers inter those of their own fraternity. Thus we have endeavoured to exhibit an adequate picture of the duke of Wharton, a man whose life was as strongly chequered with the vicissitudes of fortune, as his abilities were various and astonishing. He is an instance of the great imbecility of intellectual powers, when once they spurn the dictates of prudence, and the maxims of life. With all the lustre of his understanding, when his fortune was wasted, and his circumstances low, he fell into contempt; they who formerly worshipped him, fled from him, and despised his wit when attended with poverty. So true is it that, Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool, And wit in rags is turn'd to ridicule. The duke of Wharton seems to have lived as if the world should be new modelled for him; for he would conform to none of the rules, by which the little happiness the world can yield, is to be attained. But we shall not here enlarge on his character, as we can present it to the reader, drawn in the most lively manner, by the masterly touches of Pope, who in one of his familiar epistles, thus characterizes him. POPE's Epistle on the KNOWLEDGE and CHARACTERS of MEN. Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days, Whose darling passion was the lust of praise: Born with whate'er could win it from the wise, Women and fools must like him, or he dies; Tho' wond'ring senates hung on all he spoke, The club must hail him master of the joke. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new? He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too; Then turns repentant, and his God adores, With the same spirit that he drinks and whores; Enough if all around him but admire, And now the Punk applaud, and now the Friar. Thus with each gift of nature and of art, And wanting nothing but an honest heart; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt; And most contemptible, to shun contempt; His passion still to covet gen'ral praise, His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways; A constant bounty which no friend has made; An angel tongue which no man can persuade; A fool, with more of wit than half mankind, Too rash for thought, for action too refin'd: A tyrant to the wife his heart approves; A rebel to the very King he loves; He dies, sad out-cast of each church and state, And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great. Ask you why Wharton broke thro' ev'ry rule? 'Twas all for fear the Knaves should call him Fool. Pope's Works, Vol. III. The duke is author of two volumes of poems, of which we shall select the following as a specimen. The FEAR of DEATH. Say, sov'reign queen of awful night, Dread tyrant say! Why parting throes this lab'ring frame distend, Why dire convulsions rend, And teeming horrors wreck th' astonish'd sight? Why shrinks the trembling soul, Why with amazement full Pines at thy rule, and sickens at thy sway? Why low'r the thunder of thy brow, Why livid angers glow, Mistaken phantom, say? Far hence exert thy awful reign, Where tutelary shrines and solemn busts Inclose the hallow'd dust: Where feeble tapers shed a gloomy ray, And statues pity feign; Where pale-ey'd griefs their wasting vigils keep, There brood with sullen state, and nod with downy sleep. Advance ye lurid ministers of death! And swell the annals of her reign: Crack every nerve, sluice every vein; And choak the avenues of breath. Freeze, freeze, ye purple tides! Or scorch with seering flames, �ra's nature flows in tepid streams, And life's meanders glide. Let keen despair her icy progress make, And slacken'd nerves their talk forsake; Years damp the vital fire. Yawn all ye horrors of the flood; And curl your swelling surges higher. Survey the road! Where desolating storms, and vengeful fates, The gawdy scene deface; Ambition in its widest havock trace Thro' widow'd cities, and unpeopl'd states. And is this all! Are these the threaten'd terrors of your reign? O dream of fancy'd power! Quit, quit, th' affected shew, This pageantry of grief, and labour'd pomp of woe. Draw the pleasing scene, Where dreadful thunders never rowl, nor giddy tempests low'r. Scenes delighting! Peace inviting, Passions sooth'd, and tumult dying; Aera's rowling, Fears controuling, Always new, and always flying. We dread we know not what, we fear we know not why, Our cheated fancy shrinks, nor sees to die Is but to slumber into immortality. All reconciling name! In space unbounded as in power; Where fancy limits cannot frame; Nor reason launch beyond the shore: An equal state from all distinction free, Spread like the wide expanse of vast immensity. Seditious tumults there obey, And feuds their zeal forget: Debated empires own one common sway, There learn'd disputes unite; Nor crowded volumes the long war maintain: There rival chiefs combine To fill the gen'ral chorus of her reign. So streams from either pole, Thro' diff'rent tracks their wat'ry journies rowl; Then in the blending ocean lose their name, And with consenting waves and mingl'd tides forever flow the same. [Footnote A: These two lines are taken from Dryden, who addressed them to Congreve, when he recommended to him the care of his works.] * * * * * Colonel CODRINGTON, This gentleman was of the first rank of wit and gallantry. He received his education at All Souls College in the university of Oxford, to which he left a donation of 30,000 l. by his will, part of which was to be appropriated for building a new library[A]. He was many years governour of the Leeward Islands, where he died, but was buried at Oxford. He is mentioned here, on account of some small pieces of poetry, which he wrote with much elegance and politeness. Amongst these pieces is an epilogue to Mr. Southern's tragedy called The Fate of Capua, in which are the following verses; Wives still are wives, and he that will be billing, Must not think cuckoldom deserves a killing. What if the gentle creature had been kissing, Nothing the good man married for was missing. Had he the secret of her birth-right known, 'Tis odds the faithful Annals would have shewn The wives of half his race more lucky than his own. [Footnote A: Jacob.] * * * * * EDWARD WARD, A man of low extraction, and who never received any regular education. He was an imitator of the famous Butler, and wrote his Reformation, a poem, with an aim at the same kind of humour which has so remarkably distinguished Hudibras. 'Of late years, says Mr. Jacob, he has kept a public house in the city, but in a genteel way.' Ward was, in his own droll manner, a violent antagonist to the Low Church Whigs and in consequence, of this, drew to his house such people as had a mind to indulge their spleen against the government, by retailing little stories of treason. He was thought to be a man of strong natural parts, and possessed a very agreeable pleasantry of temper. Ward was much affronted when he read Mr. Jacob's account, in which he mentions his keeping a public house in the city, and in a book called Apollo's Maggot, declared this account to be a great falsity, protesting that his public house was not in the City, but in Moorfields[A]. The chief of this author's pieces are, Hudibras Redivivus, a political Poem. Don Quixote, translated into Hudibrastic Verse. Ecclesiae & Fastio, a Dialogue between Bow-steeple Dragon, and the Exchange Grasshopper. A Ramble through the Heavens, or The Revels of the Gods. The Cavalcade, a Poem. Marriage Dialogues, or A Poetical Peep into the State of Matrimony. A Trip to Jamaica. The Sots Paradise, or The Humours of a Derby Alehouse. A Battle without Bloodshed, or Military Discipline Buffoon'd. All Men Mad, or England a Great Bedlam, 4to. 1704. The Double Welcome, a Poem to the Duke of Marlborough. Apollo's Maggot in his Cups, or The Whimsical Creation of a Little Satirical Poet; a Lyric Ode, dedicated to Dickey Dickenson, the witty, but deformed Governor of Scarborough Spaw, 8vo. 1729. The Ambitious Father, or The Politician's Advice to his Son; a Poem in five Cantos, 1733, the last work he left finished. Mr. Ward's works, if collected, would amount to five volumes in 8vo. but he is most distinguished by his London Spy, a celebrated work in prose. [Footnote A: Notes on the Dunciad.] * * * * * Sir ROGER L'ESTRANGE, This gentleman was second son of Sir Hammon L'Estrange of Hunston in Norfolk, knt. and was born anno 1617[A]. In the year 1644 Sir Roger having obtained a commission from King Charles I. for reducing Lynne in Norfolk, then in possession of the Parliament, his design was discovered to colonel Walton the governour, and his person seized. Upon the failing of this enterprize he was tried by a court-martial at Guildhall, London, and condemned to lose his life as a spy, coming from the King's quarters without drum, trumpet, or pass; but was afterwards reprieved, and continued in Newgate several years. Sir Roger in a work of his, called Truth and Loyalty Vindicated, has informed us, that, when he received sentence of death, which was pronounced against him by Dr. Mills, then judge advocate, and afterwards chancellor to the bishop of Norwich, he was cast into Newgate, where he was visited by Mr. Thorowgood and Mr. Arrowsmith, two members of the assembly of divines, who kindly offered him their utmost interest if he would make some petitionary acknowledgment, and submit to take the covenant, which he refused. But that he might obtain a reprieve, he wrote several letters to the earl of Northumberland, the earl of Stamford, and others of the nobility, from whom he received favours. In the House of Commons he was particularly obliged to Sir John Corbet, and Sir Henry Cholmondley. He was reprieved in order to a further hearing; but after almost thirty months spent in vain endeavours, either to come to a hearing, or to put himself into an exchangeable condition, he printed a state of his case, as an Appeal from the Court-martial to the Parliament, dated at Newgate in 1647. After almost four years imprisonment, with his keeper's privity, he slipt into Kent, and then with much difficulty got beyond sea. About the latter end of August 1653, upon the dissolution of the Long Parliament, by Cromwel, he returned into England, and presently acquainted the council, then sitting at Whitehall, that finding himself within the Act of Indemnity, he thought it his duty to give them notice of his return. Soon after this he was served with the following order, Wednesday September 7, 1655, Ordered, That Roger L'Estrange be sent unto, to attend the committee of this council for examination. JOHN THURLOE, Secretary. This order laid him under a necessity of attending for his discharge, but perceiving his business to advance very slowly, and his father at that time lying upon his death-bed, he was sollicitous to have his discharge as much hastened as possible, that he might pay his duty to his father, whom he had not seen for many years before. Mr. Strickland was one of the commissioners appointed to examine him, and the person from whom, in the judgment of his friends, he was to expect the least favour. Mr. L'Estrange therefore to render him more propitious to his purpose, paid him the compliment of a visit, telling him frankly that he was returned upon the invitation of the Act of Indemnity; and laying before him how much it concerned him, both in comfort and interest, to see his dying father. Mr. Strickland, in place of complying with Mr. L'Estrange's proposition, answered, that he would find himself mistaken, and that his case was not included in that Act. Mr. L'Estrange's reply to him was, 'that he might have been safe among the Turks upon the same terms; and so he left him. From that time matters beginning to look worse and worse, he considered it, as his last expedient, to address Cromwel himself. After several disappointments, for want of opportunity, he spoke to him at last in the Cock-pit, and the sum of his desire was, either a speedy examination, or that it might be deferred 'till he had seen his father. Cromwel remonstrated against the restlessness of his party, observed, 'that rigour was not his inclination, but that he was but one man, and could do little by himself; and that Mr. L'Estrange's party would do well to give some better testimony of their quiet, and peaceable intentions.' Mr. L'Estrange told him, 'that every man was to answer for his own actions, at his own peril;' and so Cromwel took his leave. Some time after this Mr. L'Estrange was called, and Mr. Strickland, with another gentleman, were his examiners; but the latter pressed nothing against him. Mr. Strickland indeed insisted upon his condemnation, and would have deprived him of the benefit of the Act of Indemnity, telling him at last, 'that he had given no evidence of the change of his mind, and consequently was not to be trusted.' Mr. L'Estrange's final answer was to this effect, 'that it was his interest to change his opinion, if he could, and that whenever he found reason so to do, he would obey the sense of his own mind.' Some few days after this he was discharged[B]. 'During the dependency of this affair (says Mr. L'Estrange) I might well be seen at Whitehall, but that I spake to Cromwel on any other business than this, that I either sought, or pretended to, any privacy with him, or that I ever spake to him after this time, I absolutely disown. Concerning the story of the fiddle[C], this I suppose might be the rise of it: being in St. James's Park, I heard an organ touched in a little low room of one Mr. Henckson's; I went in, and found a private company of some five or six persons. They desired me to take up a Viol, and bear a part. I did so, and that part too, not much advance to the reputation of my cunning. By and by, without the least colour of design, or expectation, in comes Cromwel. He found us playing, and, as I remember, so he left us.--As to bribing of his attendants, I disclaim it. I never spake to Thurloe, but once in my life, and that was about my discharge. Nor did I ever give bribe, little or great, in the family.' The above declaration Sir Roger was obliged to make, as some of his enemies wanted to turn those circumstances of favour he received from the Oliverian government to his disadvantage, and prevent his rising in court distinction. Sir Roger having little paternal fortune, and being a man rather profuse than oeconomical, he had recourse to writing for bread. After the restoration he set up a news-paper, which was continued 'till the Gazette was first set on foot by Sir Joseph Williamson, under secretary of state, for which, however, the government allowed Mr. L'Estrange a consideration. Mr. Wood informs us, that our author published his paper twice every week in 4to. under the title of The Public Intelligence and News; the first of which came out August the 31st, 1663, and the other September the 3d, the same year. 'These continued till the 9th of January 1665, at which time Mr. L'Estrange desisted, because in the November before, there were other News-Papers published twice every week, in half a sheet in folio. These were called The Oxford Gazettes, and commenced the 7th of November, 1665, the king and queen, with their courts being then at Oxford. These for a little while were written by one Henry Muddeman; but when the court removed to London, they were called the London Gazette. Soon after Mr. Joseph Williamson, under secretary of State, procured the writing of them for himself; and thereupon employed Charles Perrot, M.A. and fellow of Oriel College in Oxford, who had a good command of his pen, to do that office under him, and so he did, though not constantly, till about 1671; after which time they were constantly written by under secretaries, belonging to those that are principal, and do continue so to this day.' Soon after the popish plot, when the Tories began to gain the ascendant over the Whigs, Mr. L'Estrange became a zealous promoter of the Tory interest. He set up a paper called the Observator, in which he defended the court, and endeavoured to invalidate those evidences which were given by Oates's party against the Jesuits. He likewise wrote a pamphlet, in which he attempts to prove, that Sir Edmundbury Godfrey's murther, for which so many suffered, and so great a flame was raised in the nation, was really perpetrated by himself. He attempts to shew that Sir Edmundbury was a melancholy enthusiastic man; that he was weak in his undemanding, and absurd in his conduct. The activity he discovered in Oates's plot, had raised him to such reputation, that he was unable to bear it, and therefore the natural enthusiasm of his temper prompted him to make himself a sacrifice, from a view of advancing the Protestant cause, as he knew his murther would be charged upon the Papists. Mr. L'Estrange's reasoning, being only conjectural, and very improbable, is therefore far from conclusive: It is certain that there never was a more intricate affair than this. We have read the trials of all those who suffered for this murther, chiefly upon the evidence of one Prance, and one Bedloe, who pretended to have been accomplices; but their relation is so inconsistent; their characters so very infamous, and their reward for being evidences supposed to be so considerable, that the most candid enquirer after truth, can determine nothing positively concerning it. All who suffered for the popish plot, denied their knowledge of it; the four men who were executed, as being the perpetrators persisted to the last in protesting their innocence of it. After all, the murther of Sir Edmundbury Godfrey is perhaps one of those secrets, which will ever remain so, till the hearts of all men are laid open. The services, which Mr. L'Estrange rendered the court, procured him the honour of knighthood; and he served as a member for Winchester, in the parliament called by king James the IId. 1685. But things taking quite a different turn in that prince's reign, in point of liberty of conscience, to what most people expected, our author's Observators were dropt, as not being suitable to the times. However he continued licenser of the press 'till the accession of the prince of Orange to the throne; in whose reign, on account of his Tory principles, and his attachment to his late master, he met with some troubles. He was suffered however to descend to the grave in peace, though he had in a manner survived his understanding. He died December 12, 1705, in the 88th year of his age. [D]Besides his Observators, which make three volumes in folio, he published a great number of poetical and other works. Winstanley, in his Lives of the Poets, says, 'That those who shall consider the number and greatness of his books, will admire he should ever write so many; and those who have read them, considering the skill and method they are written in, will admire he should write so well. Nor is he less happy in verse than prose, which for elegance of language, and quickness of invention, deservedly entitles him to the honour of a poet.' The following are the titles of some of his works, viz. Collections in Defence of the King. Toleration Discussed. Relapsed Apostate. Apology for Protestants. Richard against Baxter. Tyranny and Popery. Growth and Knavery. Reformed Catholic. Free-born Subjects. The Case Put. Seasonable Memorials. Answer to the Appeal. L'Estrange no Papist; in answer to a Libel, intitled L'Estrange a Papist, &c. with Notes and Animadversions upon Miles Prance, Silver-Smith, cum multis aliis. The Shammer Shamm'd. Account Cleared. Reformation Reformed. Dissenters Sayings, in two Parts. Notes on Colledge, the Protestant Joiner. Citizen and Bumpkin, in two Parts. Further Discovery in the Plot. Discovery on Discovery. Narrative of the Plot. Zekiel and Ephraim. Appeal to the King and Parliament. Papist in Masquerade. Answer to the second Character of a Popish Successor. Confederations upon a Printed Sheet intitled, The Speech of Lord Russel to the Sheriffs: Together with the Paper delivered by him to them at the place of execution, on July 1683. These pieces with many more, were printed in quarto; besides which he wrote the following, viz. The History of the Plot in Folio. Caveat to the Cavaliers. He translated into English Cicero's Offices; Seneca's Mora's, Erasmus's Colloquies; Quevedo's Visions; Bona's Guide to Eternity; Five Love Letters from a Nun to a Cavalier; Josephus's Works; Aesop's Fables. * * * * * Mr. Gordon, author of the Independent Whig, and translator of Tacitus, has very freely censured L'Estrange. He bestows very freely upon him the epithet of a buffoon, an ignorant droll, &c.----He charges him with having no knowledge of the Latin tongue; and says, he is unfit to be read by any person of taste. That his stile is full of technical terms, and of phrases picked up in the streets, from apprentices and porters. * * * * * Sir Roger L'Estrange translated the third Book of Tacitus, an author of whom Mr. Gordon made an entire translation. To raise the reputation of his own performance, he has abused that of L'Estrange, in terms very unfit for a gentleman to use, supposing the censure had been true. Sir Roger's works indeed are often calculated for the meanest capacities, and the phrase is consequently low; but a man must be greatly under the influence of prejudice, who can discover no genius in his writings; not an intimate acquaintance with the state of parties, human life, and manners. * * * * * Sir Roger was but ill-rewarded by the Tories, for having been their champion; the latter part of his life was clouded with poverty, and though he descended in peace to the grave, free from political turmoils, yet as he was bowed down with age and distress, he cannot be said to have died in comfort. He had seen much of the world, examined many characters, experienced the vicissitudes of fortune, and was as well instructed as any man that ever lived, in the important lesson of human life, viz. That all things are vanity. [Footnote A: See Gen. Dict. Art. L'Estrange.] [Footnote B: Truth and Loyalty, ubi supra.] [Footnote C: Sir Roger L'Estrange was called, by way of derision, Cromwell's Fidler.] [Footnote D: General Dictionary.] * * * * * Mr. EDMUND SMITH, This distinguished poet was son of an eminent merchant, one Mr. Neal, by a daughter of baron Lechemere[A]. Some misfortunes of his father, which were soon followed by his death, occasioned our author's being left very young in the care of a near relation (one who married Mr. Neal's mother, whose name was Smith). This gentleman treated him with as much tenderness as if he had been his own child, and placed him at Westminster-school, under the care of Dr. Busby. After the death of his generous guardian (whose name in gratitude he thought proper to assume) he was removed to Christ's Church in Oxford, and was there by his aunt handsomely supported till her death; after which he continued a member of that learned society, till within five years of his own. Some time before his leaving Christ-Church, he was sent for by his mother to Worcester, and acknowledged by her as a legitimate son. We chuse to mention this circumstance, in order to wipe off the aspersion which folly and ignorance cast upon; his birth[B]. In honour to Mr. Smith it should be remembered, that when he stood a candidate for one of the universities, at the Westminster election, he so peculiarly distinguished himself by his conspicuous performances, that there arose no small contention between the representative electors of Trinity College in Cambridge, and Christ-Church College in Oxon, which of those two illustrious societies should adopt him as their own. But the electors of Trinity College having the preference of choice that year, they resolutely elected him; but being invited at the same time to Christ-Church, Mr. Smith chose to accept of a studentship there. He passed through the exercises of the college, and the university, with unusual applause; and tho' he often suffered his friends to call him off from his retirement; yet his return to his studies was so much the more passionate, and his love of reading and thinking being so vehement, the habit grew upon him, and the series of meditation and reflexion being kept up whole weeks together, he could better arrange his ideas, and take in sundry parts of a science at one view without interruption or confusion. Some of his acquaintance, who were pleased to distinguish between the wit and the scholar, extoll'd him altogether on account of the first of these excellencies; but others, who were more candid, admired him as a prodigy in both. He had acquired reputation in the schools, both as a philosopher and polemic of extensive knowledge, and deep penetration, and went through all the courses with a proper regard to the dignity, and importance of each science. Mr. Smith had a long and perfect intimacy with all the Greek and Latin Classics; with whom he had industriously compared whatever was worth perusing in the French, Spanish, and Italian, and all the celebrated writers in his own country. He considered the antients and moderns, not as parties, or rivals for fame, but as architects upon one and the same plan, the Art of Poetry. If he did not always commend the compositions of others, it proceeded not from ill-nature (for that was foreign to his temper) but a strict regard to justice would not suffer him to call a few flowers elegantly adorned, without much art, and less genius, by so distinguished a name as poetry. He was of Ben Johnson's opinion, who could not admire, ----Verses, as smooth and soft as cream, In which their was neither depth nor stream. Mr. Smith's Bodleian Oration, printed with his other works, though taken from a remote and imperfect copy, has shewn the world, how great a matter he was of Ciceronian Eloquence. Since Temple and Roscommon (says Mr. Oldisworth) 'No man understood Horace better, especially as to his happy diction, rolling numbers, beautiful imagery, and alternate mixture of the soft and sublime. His friend Mr. Philips's Ode to Mr. St. John, after the manner of Horace's Lusory, or Amatorian Odes, is certainly a master-piece: But Mr. Smith's Pocockius is of the sublimer kind; though like Waller's writings upon Cromwell, it wants not the most delicate and surprizing turns, peculiar to the person praised.' He was an excellent judge of humanity, and so good a historian, that in familiar conversation, he would talk over the most memorable fads in antiquity; the lives, actions, and characters of celebrated men, with amazing facility and accuracy. As he had carefully read and distinguished Thuanus's Works, so he was able to copy after him: And his talent in this kind was so generally confess'd, that he was made choice of by some great men, to write a history, which it was their interest to have executed with the utmost art, and dexterity; but this design was dropp'd, as Mr. Smith would not sacrifice truth to the caprice, and interested views of a party. * * * * * Our author's Poem, condoling the death of Mr. Philips, is full of the noblest beauties, and pays a just tribute to the venerable ashes of that great man. Mr. Smith had contracted for Mr. Philips the most perfect friendship, a passion of which he was very susceptible, and whole laws he considered as sacred and inviolable. * * * * * In the year 1707 Mr. Smith's Tragedy called Phaedra and Hippolitus was acted at the Theatre-Royal. This play was introduced upon the stage, at a time when the Italian Opera so much engrossed the attention of the polite world, that sense was sacrificed to sound. It was dress'd and decorated, at an extraordinary expence:----and inimitably perform'd in all its parts, by Betterton, Booth, Barry, and Oldfield. Yet it brought but few, and slender audiences.----To say truth, 'twas a fine Poem; but not an extraordinary Play. Notwithstanding the intrinsic merit of this piece, and the countenance it met with from the most ingenious men of the age, yet it languished on the stage, and was soon neglected. Mr. Addison wrote the Prologue, in which he rallies the vitiated taste of the public, in preferring the unideal entertainment of an Opera, to the genuine sense of a British Poet. The PROLOGUE. Long has a race of Heroes fill'd the stage, That rant by note, and thro' the gamut rage; In songs, and airs, express their martial fire, Combat in trills, and in a feuge expire; While lull'd by sound, and undisturb'd by wit, Calm and serene, you indolently fit; And from the dull fatigue of thinking free, Hear the facetious fiddle's rapartee; Our home-spun authors must forsake the field, And Shakespear to the soft Scarlatti yield. To your new taste, the poet of this day, Was by a friend advis'd to form his play; Had Valentini musically coy, Shun'd Phaedra's arms, and scorn'd the proffer'd joy, It had not mov'd your wonder to have seen, An Eunuch fly from an enamour'd queen. How would it please, should me in English speak, And could Hippolitus reply in Greek? We have been induced to transcribe these lines of Mr. Addison, in order to have the pleasure of producing so great an authority in favour of the English drama, when placed in contradistinction to an entertainment, exhibited by Eunuchs and Fidlers, in a language, of which the greatest part of the audience are ignorant; and from the nature of which no moral instruction can be drawn. The chief excellence of this play certainly consists in the beauty and harmony of the verification. The language is luxuriantly poetical. The passion of Phaedra for her husband's son has been considered by some critics as too unnatural to be shewn on the stage; and they have observed that the poet would have written more successfully if he had converted the son into a brother. Poetical justice is carefully distributed; Phaedra and Lycon are justly made the sufferers, while Hippolitus and Ismena escape the vengeance of Theseus. The play is not destitute of the pathetic, tho' much more regard is paid to the purity and elegance of the language, than a poet more acquainted with the workings of the heart would have done. We shall give an example to illustrate this observation. When Theseus reproaches Hippolitus for his love to Ismena, and at the same time dooms him as the victim, of his revenge and jealousy, he uses these words, Canst thou be only clear'd by disobedience, And justified by crimes?--What! love my foe! Love one descended from a race of tyrants, Whose blood yet reeks on my avenging sword! I'm curst each moment I delay thy fate: Haste to the shades, and tell, the happy Pallas, Ismena's flames, and let him taste such joys As thou giv'st me; go tell applauding Minos, The pious love you bore his daughter Phaedra; Tell it the chatt'ring ghosts, and hissing furies, Tell it the grinning fiends, till Hell found nothing To thy pleas'd ears, but Phaedra and Ismena. We cannot suppose that a man wrought up to fury, by the flame of jealousy, and a sense of afronted dignity, could be so particular in giving his son directions how to behave in hell, and to whom he should relate the story of his fate. When any passion violently overwhelms the soul, the person who feels it, always speaks sententiously, avoids repetitions, and is not capable of much recollection, at least of making a minute detail of circumstances. In how few words, and with greater force would Shakespear have conduced this speech of Theseus. An example will prove it: when Othello is informed that Cassio is slain, he replies, Had all his hairs been lives, My great revenge had stomach for them all. When Phaedra is made acquainted with the ruin of Hyppolitus, the poet makes her utter the following beautiful speech, which, however, is liable to the same objection as the former, for it seems rather a studied declamation, than an expression of the most agonizing throes she is then supposed to experience. What's life? Oh all ye Gods! can life attone For all the monstrous crimes by which 'tis bought? Or can I live? when thou, O Soul of honour! O early hero! by my crimes art ruin'd. Perhaps even now, the great unhappy youth, Falls by the sordid hands of butchering villains; Now, now he bleeds, he dies,--O perjur'd traitor! See his rich blood in purple torrents flows, And nature sallies in unbidden groans; Now mortal pangs distort his lovely form, His rosy beauties fade, his starry eyes Now darkling swim, and fix their closing beams; Now in short gasps his lab'ring spirit heaves, And weakly flutters on his falt'ring tongue, And struggles into sound. Hear, monster hear, With his last breath, he curses purjured Phaedra: He summons Phaedra to the bar of Minos; Thou too shalt there appear; to torture thee Whole Hell shall be employ'd, and suff'ring Phaedra Shall find some care to see thee still more wretched. No man had a juster notion of the difficulty of composing, than Mr. Smith, and he sometimes would create greater difficulties than he had reason to apprehend. Mr. Smith had, indeed, some defects in his conduct, which those are more apt to remember, who could imitate him in nothing else. Amongst the blemishes of an innocent kind, which attended Mr. Smith, was his extreme carelessness in the particular of dress; this oddity procured him the name of Captain Ragg. His person was so well formed, and he possessed so much natural gracefulness, that notwithstanding the disadvantage of his appearance, he was called, by the Ladies, the Handsome Sloven. It is to be wondered at (says Mr. Oldisworth) that a man under poverty, calamities, and disappointments, could make so many friends, and those so truly valuable. He had, indeed, a noble idea of the passion of friendship, in the success of which, consisted the greatest, if not the only happiness of his Life. He was serene and chearful under the dispensations of providence; he avoided having any dealings with mankind in which he could not be just, and therefore refused to embrace some opportunities of amending his fortune. Upon Mr. Smith's coming to town, no man was more surrounded by all those who really had, or pretended to wit, or more courted by the great men, who had then a power and opportunity of encouraging arts and sciences. Mr. Smith's character grew upon his friends by intimacy, and exceeded the strongest prepossessions which had been conceived in his favour. A few years before his death, Mr. Smith engaged in some considerable Undertakings; in all which he raised expectations in the world, which he lived not to gratify. Mr. Oldisworth observes, that he had seen about ten sheets of Pindar translated into English, which, he says, exceeded any thing of that kind, he could ever hope for in our language. He had drawn out a plan for a tragedy of Lady Jane Grey, and had written several scenes of it: a subject afterwards nobly executed by Mr. Rowe. His greatest undertaking was Longinus, which he executed in a very masterly manner. He proposed a large addition to this work, of notes and observations of his own, with an intire system of the art of poetry in three books, under the title of Thoughts, Action, and Figure; in this work he proposed to reform the art of Rhetoric, by reducing that confused heap of Terms, with which a long succession of Pedants had incumbered the world, to a very narrow compass; comprehending all that was useful and ornamental in poetry under each head, and chapter. He intended to make remarks upon all the ancients and moderns, the Greek, Latin, English, French, Spanish, and Italian poets, and to anamadvert upon their several beauties and defects. Mr. Smith died in the year 1710, in the 42d of his age, at the seat of George Ducket esq; called Hartham, in Wiltshire; and was buried in the parish church there. We shall give the character of this celebrated poet in the words of Mr. Oldisworth:--"He had a quickness of apprehension and vivacity of understanding, which easily took in, and surmounted, the most knotty parts of mathematics and metaphysics. His wit was prompt and flowing, yet solid and piercing; his taste delicate, his head clear, and his manner of expressing his thoughts perspicuous, and engaging; an eager, but generous, emulation grew up in him, which push'd him upon striving to excel in every art and science, that could make him a credit to his college: and it was his happiness to have several cotemporaries, and fellow students, who exercised and excited this virtue in themselves and others: his judgment naturally good, soon ripened into an exquisite fineness, and distinguishing sagacity, which as it was active and busy, so it was vigorous and manly, keeping even pace with a rich and strong imagination, always on the wing, and never tired with aspiring; there are many of his first essays in oratory, in epigram, elegy and epic, still handed about the university in manuscript, which shew a masterly hand, and though maimed and injured by frequent transcribing, make their way into our most celebrated miscellanies, where they mine with uncommon lustre. As his parts were extraordinary, so he well knew how to improve them; and not only to polish the diamond, but enchase it in the most solid and durable metal. "Though he was an academic the greatest part of his life, yet he contracted no sourness of temper, no tincture of pedantry, no itch of disputation, or obstinate contention for the old, or new philosophy, no assuming way of dictating to others, which are faults which some are insensibly led into, who are constrained to dwell within the walls of a private college." Thus far Mr. Oldisworth, who has drawn the character of his deceased friend, with a laudable fondness. Mr. Smith, no doubt, possessed the highest genius for poetry; but it is certain he had mixed but too little in life. His language, however luxuriously poetical, yet is far from being proper for the drama, and there is too much of the poet in every speech he puts in the mouths of his characters, which produces an uniformity, that nothing could teach him to avoid, but a more general knowledge of real life and characters. It is acknowledged that Mr. Smith was much inclined to intemperance, though Mr. Oldisworth has glossed it over with the hand of a friend; nor is it improbable, that this disposition sunk him in that vis inertiae, which has been the bane of many of the brightest geniuses of the world. Mr. Smith was, upon the whole, a good natured man, a great poet, a finished scholar, and a discerning critic. [Footnote A: See the Life and Character of Mr. Smith, by Mr. Oldisworth, prefixed to his Phaedra and Hippolitus, edit. 1719.] [Footnote B: Oldisworth, ubi supra.] * * * * * DANIEL DE FOE, This gentleman acquired a very considerable name by his political and poetical works; his early attachment to the revolution interest, and the extraordinary zeal and ability with which he defended it. He was bred, says Mr. Jacob, a Hosier, which profession he forsook, as unworthy of him, and became one of the most enterprizing authors this, or any other age, ever produced. The work by which he is most distinguished, as a poet, is his True Born Englishman, a Satire, occasioned by a poem entitled Foreigners, written by John Tutchin, esq;[A]. This gentleman (Tutchin) was of the Monmouth faction, in the reign of King Charles II. and when that unhappy prince made an attempt upon his uncle's crown, Mr. Tutchin wrote a political piece in his favour, for which, says Jacob, he was so severely handled by Judge Jeffries, and his sentence was so very uncommon, and so rigorously executed, that he petitioned King James to be hanged. Soon after the revolution, the people, who are restless in their inclinations, and loath that, to-day, for which they would yesterday have sacrificed their lives, began to be uneasy at the partiality their new King discovered to his countrymen. The popular discontent rose to such a heighth, that King William was obliged to dismiss his Dutch guards, and though he died in possession of the crown of England, yet it proved to him a crown of thorns, and he spent fewer peaceful moments in his regal station, than before his head was envisioned with an uneasy diadem. De Foe, who seems to have had a very true notion of civil liberty, engaged the enemies of the new government, and levelled the force of his satire against those, who valued themselves for being true-born Englishmen. He exposes the fallacy of that prepossession, by laying open the sources from whence the English have sprung. 'Normans, Saxons, and Danes, says he, were our forefathers; we are a mixed people; we have no genuine origin; and why should not our neighbours be as good as we to derive from? and I must add[B], that had we been an unmixed nation, I am of opinion, it had been to our disadvantage: for to go no farther, we have three nations about us clear from mixture of blood, as any in the world, and I know not which of them we could wish ourselves to be like; I mean the Scotch, Welsh, and Irish, and if I were to write a reverse to the satire, I would examine all the nations of Europe, and prove, that these nations which are the most mixed, are the best, and have least of barbarism and brutality amongst them.' Mr. De Foe begins his satire with the following lines, Wherever God erects a house of pray'r, The devil always builds a chapel there: And 'twill be found upon examination, The latter has the largest congregation. After passing a general censure on the surrounding nations, Italy, Germany, France, &c. he then takes a view of England, which he charges with the black crime of ingratitude. He enumerates the several nations from whence we are derived, Gauls, Saxons, Danes, Irish, Scots, &c. and says, From this amphibious ill-born mob began _That vain ill-natur'd thing,_ an Englishman. This satire, written in a rough unpolished manner, without art, or regular plan, contains some very bold and masculine strokes against the ridiculous vanity of valuing ourselves upon descent and pedigree. In the conclusion he has the following strong, and we fear too just, observation. Could but our ancestors retrieve their fate, And see their offspring thus degenerate; How we contend for birth, and names unknown, And build on their past actions, not our own; They'd cancel records, and their tombs deface, And openly disown the vile degenerate race: For fame of families is all a cheat, 'Tis pers'nal virtue only makes us great. The next satire of any consequence which De Foe wrote, was entitled Reformation of Manners, in which some private characters are severely attacked. It is chiefly aimed at some persons, who being vested with authority to suppress vice, yet rendered themselves a disgrace to their country, encouraging wickedness by that very authority they have to suppress it. Poetry was far from being the talent of De Foe. He wrote with more perspicuity and strength in prose, and he seems to have understood, as well as any man, the civil constitution of the kingdom, which indeed was his chief study. In the first volume of his works there is a prose essay, which he entitles The Original Power of the Collective Body of the People of England, Examined and Asserted; this was intended to refute a very ridiculous opinion, which politicians, more zealous than wise, had industriously propagated, viz. 'That the representatives of the people, i.e. the House of Commons had a right to enact whatever laws, and enter into whatever measures they please, without any dependence on, or even consulting the opinion of, their constituents; and that the collective body of the people have no right to call them to an account, or to take any cognizance of their conduct.' In answer to which Mr. De Foe very sensibly observes, 'that it is possible for even a House of Commons to be in the wrong. They may be misled by factions and parties, and it is as ridiculous to suppose them infallible; as to suppose the Pope of Rome, or the Popish conclave infallible, which have more than once determined against one another. It is possible (says he) for them to be bribed by pensions and places, and by either of those extremes to betray their trust, and abuse the people who entrust them; and if the people should have no redress in such a case, then would the nation be in hazard of being ruined by their own representatives. And it is a wonder to find it asserted in a certain treatise, _That it is not to be supposed, that ever the House of Commons can injure the people who entrust them._ There can be no better way to demonstrate the possibility of a thing, than by proving that it has been already; and we need go no further back than to the reign of King Charles II. in which we have seen lists of 180 members, who received private pensions from the court; and if any body should ask whether that parliament preserved the ballance of power in the three branches of our constitution, in the due distribution some have mentioned? I am not afraid to answer in the negative. And why, even to this day, are gentlemen so fond of spending their estates to sit in the House, that ten thousand pounds have been spent at a time to be chosen, and now that way of procuring elections is at an end, private briberies, and clandestine contrivances are made use of to get into the House? No man would give a groat to sit, where he cannot get a groat himself for sitting, unless there were either parties to gratify, profits to be made, or interest to support. In this case it is plain a people may be ruined by their representatives, and the first law of nature, self-preservation, give the people a right to resent public encroachments upon their valuable liberties.' In the same volume is a tract entitled The Shortest Way with the Dissenters, which contained reflexions against some ecclesiastics in power, for breathing too much a spirit of perfection. He became obnoxious to the ministry on this account, and was obliged to justify himself by writing an explanation of it. Mr. De Foe in his preface to the second volume of his works, collected by himself, takes occasion to mention the severe hardships he laboured under, occasioned by those Printers, more industrious than himself, who make a practice of pirating every work attended with success. As an instance of this kind of oppression, he mentions the True Born Englishman, by which, had he enjoyed the full profit of his own labours, he must have gained near a thousand pounds; for besides nine editions which passed under his own inspection, this poem was twelve times pirated: but the insolence of those fraudulent dealers did not stop here. A Printer of a bad reputation collected a spurious and erroneous copy of several pieces of De Foe, and entitled them The Works of the Author of the True Born Englishman; and though he was then embroiled with the government for one of the pamphlets which this collection contained, yet had this man the impudence to print amongst them the same pamphlets, presuming so far upon the partiality of the public resentment, that he should pass with impunity for publishing that very thing for which the author was to be prosecuted with the utmost severity. This, however, was an irresistible testimony, that the resentment shewn to the author was on some other, and less justifiable account, than the publication of that book; so was it a severe satire on the unwariness of the ministry, who had not eyes to discern their justice plainly exposed, and their general proceedings bantered by a Printer, for publishing in defiance of them that same book for which another man stood arraigned. Mr. De Foe, who possessed a resolute temper, and a most confirmed fortitude of mind, was never awed by the threats of power, nor deterred from speaking truth by the insolence of the great. Wherever he found vice he lashed it, and frequently, as Pope says, he Dash'd the proud gam'ster from his gilded car, Bar'd the mean breast that lurk'd beneath a star. For some vigorous attacks against the measures of a prevailing party, which Mr. De Foe reckoned unconstitutional and unjust, he was prosecuted, and received sentence to stand on the pillory; which punishment he underwent. At the very time he was in the hands of the ministry, to shew the invincible force of his mind, he wrote a Hymn to the Pillory, as a kind of defiance of their power. 'The reader (says he)[C] is desired to observe this poem was the author's declaration, even when in the cruel hands of a merciless, as well as unjust ministry; that the treatment he had from them was unjust, exorbitant, and consequently illegal.' As the ministry did not think proper to prosecute him for this fresh insult against them, that forbearance was construed a confession of guilt in their former proceedings. * * * * * In the second volume of our author's works, is a piece entitled More Reformation, a satire upon himself. We have already taken notice of a satire of his called Reformation of Manners, in which some personal characters are stigmatized, which drew much odium on Mr. De Foe. This satire called More Reformation, is a kind of supplement to the former. In the preface he complains of the severe usage he had met with, but, says he, 'that the world may discern that I am not one of those who practice what they reprove, I began this satire with owning in myself those sins and misfortunes which I am no more exempted from, than other men; and as I am far from pretending to be free from human frailties, but forwarder to confess any of the errors of my life, than any man can be to accuse me; I think myself in a better way to reformation, than those who excuse their own faults by reckoning up mine. 'Some that have heard me complain of this hard usage, have told me, there is something of a retaliation of providence in it, for my being so very free with the character's of other men in a late satire called The Reformation of Manners. To this I answer, first, in that satire, or any other I ever wrote, I have always carefully avoided lashing any man's private infirmities, as being too sensible of my own, but if I have singled out any man by character, it has either been such, as intending to reform others, and execute the laws against vice, have been the greatest examples, and encouragers of it in their own practice; or such as have been entrusted with the executive power of justice, and having been called upon by the laws to reform us, have been a public reproach to the magistracy of this nation, and ought to be punished by the laws they have been protected by. 'Secondly, I have never made any man's disasters, or misfortunes, the subject of my satire. I never reproached any man for having his house burnt, ships cast away, or his family ruined. I never lampooned a man because he could not pay his debts, or for his being a cuckold. 'Thirdly, I never reproached any man for his opinion in religion, or esteemed him the worse for differing in judgment from me. 'If therefore the scandalous treatment I have received is just on me, for abusing others, I must ask such, who is the man? Where is the character I have given that is not just? and where is the retaliation of providence, that these men entitle themselves to in loading me with falsities and lies, as a just punishment for my speaking truth. 'But p-x on him, said a certain sober gentleman, he is a Whig, and what need he have meddled with his own party, could not he have left them out, there were characters enough on the other side? 'Why really I must own, I know no Whig or Tory in vice; the vicious and the virtuous are the only two parties I have to do with; if a vicious, lewd, debauched magistrate happened to be a Whig, what then? let him mend his manners, and he may be a Whig still, and if not, the rest ought to be ashamed of him.' We have been induced to make this extract, as it seems to mew the genius and spirit of the author in a more advantageous light, than we could have otherwise done. Though he was a resolute asserter of Whig principles, and a champion for the cause of liberty, yet was he never blinded by party prejudice, but could discern designing, and selfish men, and strip them of their disguises, though, joined with him in the same political contests. In the conclusion of the Hymn to the Pillory, which is written with great strength of expression, he assigns the reasons for his being doomed to that ignominy. Thou Bugbear of the law stand up and speak, Thy long misconstru'd silence break, Tell us, who 'tis upon thy ridge stands there, So full of fault, and yet so void of fear; And from the paper in his hat. Let all mankind be told for what. Tell them it was because he was too bold, And told those truths which should not ha' been told. Extol the justice of the land Who punish what they will not understand; Tell them that he stands there For speaking what we would not hear; And yet he might ha' been secure, Had he said less, or would he ha' said more. Tell them that it was his reward, And worse is yet for him prepar'd, Because his foolish virtue was so nice As not to tell his friends, according to his friends advice. And thus he's an example made, To make men of their honesty afraid, That from the time to come they may More willingly their friends betray, Tell them the ministers that plac'd him here, Are scandal to the times, Are at a loss to find his guilt, And can't commit his crimes. There are in the same volume many other poetical pieces, and political, and polemical tracts, the greatest part of which are written with great force of thought, though in an unpolished irregular stile. The natural abilities of the author (for he was no scholar) seem to have been very high. He had a great knowledge of men and things, particularly what related to the government, and trade of these kingdoms. He wrote many pamphlets on both, which were generally well received, though his name was never prefixed. His imagination was fertile, strong, and lively, as may be collected from his many works of fancy, particularly his Robinson Crusoe, which was written in so natural a manner, and with so many probable incidents, that, for some time after its publication, it was judged by most people to be a true story. It was indeed written upon a model entirely new, and the success and esteem it met with, may be ascertained by the many editions it has sold, and the sums of money which have been gained by it. Nor was he lest remarkable in his writings of a serious and religious turn, witness his Religious Courtship, and his Family Instructor; both of which strongly inculcate the worship of God, the relative duties of husbands, wives, parents, and children, not in a dry dogmatic manner, but in a kind of dramatic way, which excites curiosity, keeps the attention awake, and is extremely interesting, and pathetic. We have already seen, that in his political capacity he was a declared enemy to popery, and a bold defender of revolution principles. He was held in much esteem by many great men, and though he never enjoyed any regular pod under the government, yet he was frequently employed in matters of trust and confidence, particularly in Scotland, where he several times was sent on affairs of great importance, especially those relative to the union of the kingdoms, of which he was one of the negotiators. It is impossible to arrive at the knowledge of half the tracts and pamphlets which were written by this laborious man, as his name is not prefixed, and many of them being temporary, have perished like all other productions of that kind, when the subjects upon which they were written are forgot. His principal performances, perhaps, are these, A Plan of Commerce, an esteemed Work, in one large vol. 8vo. of which a new edition was lately published. Memoirs of the Plague, published in 1665. Religious Courtship. Family Instructor. Two Volumes. History of Apparitions (under the name of Moreton.) Robinson Crusoe. Two Volumes. Political History of the Devil. History of Magic. Caledonia, a Poem in praise of Scotland. De Jure Divino, a Poem. English Tradesman, &c. History of Colonel Jack. Cleveland's Memoirs, &c. are also said to be his. Considered as a poet, Daniel De Foe is not so eminent, as in a political light: he has taken no pains in verification; his ideas are masculine, his expressions coarse, and his numbers generally rough. He seems rather to have studied to speak truth, by probing wounds to the bottom, than, by embellishing his verification, to give it a more elegant keenness. This, however, seems to have proceeded more from carelessness in that particular, than want of ability: for the following lines in his True Born Englishman, in which he makes Britannia rehearse the praises of her hero, King William, are harmoniously beautiful, and elegantly polished. BRITANNIA. The fame of virtue 'tis for which I found, And heroes with immortal triumphs crown'd. Fame built on solid virtue swifter flies, Than morning light can spread my eastern skies. The gath'ring air returns the doubling sound, And long repeating thunders force it round: Ecchoes return from caverns of the deep; Old Chaos dreamt on't in eternal sleep, Time helps it forward to its latest urn, From whence it never, never shall return; Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long; 'Tis heard by ev'ry ear, and spoke by ev'ry tongue. My hero, with the sails of honour furl'd, Rises like the great genius of the world. By fate, and fame, wisely prepared to be The soul of war, and life of victory. He spreads the wings of virtue on the throne, And every wind of glory fans them on. Immortal trophies dwell upon his brow, Fresh as the garlands he has won but now. What provocation De Foe had given to Pope we cannot determine, but he has not escaped the lash of that gentleman's pen. Mr. Pope in his second book of his Dunciad thus speaks of him; Earless on high flood unabash'd De Foe, And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge below. It may be remarked that he has joined him with Tutchin, a man, whom judge Jeffries had ordered to be so inhumanly whipt through the market-towns, that, as we have already observed, he petitioned the King to be hanged. This severity soured his temper, and after the deposition and death of King James, he indulged his resentment in insulting his memory. This may be the reason why Pope has stigmatized him, and perhaps no better a one can be given for his attacking De Foe, whom the author of the Notes to the Dunciad owns to have been a man of parts. De Foe can never, with any propriety, be ranked amongst the dunces; for whoever reads his works with candour and impartiality, must be convinced that he was a man of the strongest natural powers, a lively imagination, and solid judgment, which, joined with an unshaken probity in his moral conduit, and an invincible integrity in his political sphere, ought not only to screen him from the petulant attacks of satire, but transmit his name with some degree of applause to posterity. De Foe, who enjoyed always a competence, and was seldom subject to the necessities of the poets, died at his house at Islington, in the year 1731. He left behind him one son and one daughter. The latter is married to Mr. Henry Baker, a gentleman well known in the philosophical world. [Footnote A: Jacob, vol. ii. p. 309.] [Footnote B: See Preface to the True Born Englishman.] [Footnote C: See Preface to vol. ii.] * * * * * Mrs. ELIZABETH ROWE, This lady was born at Ilchester in Somersetshire September 11, 1674, being the eldest of three daughters of Mr. Walter Singer, a gentleman of good family, and Mrs. Elizabeth Portnel, both persons of great worth and piety. Her father was not a native of Ilchester, nor an inhabitant, before his imprisonment there for non-conformity in the reign of King Charles II. Mrs. Portnel, from a principle of tenderness, visited those who suffered on that account, and by this accident an acquaintance Commenced, which terminated in the nuptial union. They who were acquainted with the lady, who is the subject of this article, in her early, years, perhaps observed an uncommon display of genius as prophetic of that bright day which afterwards ensued. There is so great a similitude between painting and poetry, that it is no ways surprising, a person, who possessed the latter of these graces in so high a degree, should very easily discover an inclination to the former, which has often the same admirers. Accordingly we find Mrs. Rowe discover a taste for painting; she attempted to carry her taste into execution, when she had hardly steadiness of hand sufficient to guide the pencil. Her father perceiving her fondness for this art, was at the expence of a matter to instruct her in it; and she never failed to make it an amusement 'till her death. Every one acquainted with her writings, and capable of relishing the melifluent flow of her numbers, will naturally suppose, that she had a genius for music, particularly that of a grave and solemn kind, as it was best suited to the grandeur of her sentiments, and the sublimity of her devotion. But her most prevailing propension was to poetry. This superior grace was indeed the most favourite employment of her youth, and in her the most distinguished excellence. So powerful was her genius in this way, that her prose hath all the charms of verse without the fetters; the same fire and elevation; the same richness of imagery, bold figures, and flowing diction. It appears by a life of Mrs. Rowe, prefixed to the first volume of her miscellaneous works, that in the year 1696, the 22d of her age, a Collection of her Poems on various Occasions was published at the desire of two of her friends, which we suppose did not contain all she had by her, since the ingenious author of the preface, Mrs. Elizabeth Johnson, gives the reader room to hope, that Mrs. Rowe might, in a little while, be prevailed upon to oblige the world with a second part, no way inferior to the former. Mrs. Rowe's Paraphrase on the 38th Chapter of Job was written at the request of bishop Kenn, which gained her a great reputation. She had no other tutor for the French and Italian languages, than the honourable Mr. Thynne, son to the lord viscount Weymouth, and father to the right honourable the countess of Hertford, who willingly took the talk upon himself, and had the pleasure to see his fair scholar improve so fast by his lessons, that in a few months she was able to read Tasso's Jerusalem with ease. Her shining merit, with the charms of her person and conversation, had procured her many admirers: among others, the celebrated Mr. Prior made his addresses to her; so that allowing for the double licence of the poet and the lover, the concluding lines in his Answer to Mrs. Singer's Pastoral on Love and Friendship, were not without foundation in truth; but Mr. Thomas Rowe, a very ingenious and learned gentleman, was the person destined to fill the arms of this amiable poetess. As this gentleman was a poet of no inconsiderable rank, a man of learning and genius, we shall here give some account of him, in place of assigning him a particular Article, as the incidents of his life will be more naturally blended with that of his wife.----He was born at London, April the 25th, 1687, the eldest son of the revd. Mr. Rowe: who with a very accurate judgment, and a considerable stock of useful learning, joined the talents in preaching and a most lively and engaging manner in conversation. He was of a genteel descent, both on his father's and mother's side; but he thought too justly to value himself on such extrinsic circumstances. His superior genius, and insatiable thirst after knowledge were conspicuous in his earliest years. He commenced his acquaintance with the Classics at Epsom, while his father resided there, and by the swift advances in this part of learning, quickly became the delight of his master, who treated him with very particular indulgence, in spight of the natural ruggedness and severity of his temper. When his father removed to London, he accompanied him, and was placed under the famous Dr. Walker, master of the Charter-House-School. His exercises here never failed of being distinguished even among those who had the approbation of that excellent master, who would fain have persuaded his father to place him at one of our English universities; but how honourably soever Mr. Rowe might think of the learning of those noble feats of the Muses, yet not having the same advantageous notions of their political principles, he chose to enter him in a private academy in London, and some time before his death sent him to Leyden: Here he studied Jeuriel's Antiquities, civil law, the Belles Lettres, and experimental philosophy; and established a reputation for capacity, application, and an obliging deportment, both among the professors and students. He returned from that celebrated seat of literature, with a great accession of knowledge, entirely incorrupt in his morals, which he had preferred as inviolate, as he could have done under the most vigilant eye, though left without any restraints but those of his own virtue and prudence. The love of liberty had always been one of Mr. Rowe's darling passions. He was very much confirmed therein, by his familiar acquaintance with the history and noble authors of Greece and Rome, whose very spirit was transferred into him: By residing so long at a Republic, he had continual examples of the inestimable value of freedom, as the parent of industry, and the universal source of social happiness. Tyranny of every kind he sincerely detested; but most of all ecclesiastical tyranny, deeming the slavery of the mind the most abject and ignominious, and in its consequences more pernicious than any other. He was a perfect matter of the Greek, Latin and French languages; and, which is seldom known to happen, had at once such a prodigious memory, and unexhaustible fund of wit, as would have singly been admired, and much more united. These qualities, with an easy fluency of speech, a frankness, and benevolence of disposition, and a communicative temper, made his company much sollicited by all who knew him. He animated the conversation, and instructed his companions by the acuteness of his observations. He had formed a design to compile the lives of all the illustrious persons of antiquity, omitted by Plutarch; and for this purpose read the antient historians with great care. This design he in part executed. Eight lives were published since his decease, in octavo, by way of Supplement to that admired Biographer; in which though so young a guide, he strikes out a way like one well acquainted with the dark and intricate paths of antiquity. The stile is perfectly easy, yet concise, and nervous: The reflections just, and such as might be expected from a lover of truth and of mankind. Besides these Lives, he had finished for the press, the Life of Thrasybulus, which being put into the hands of Sir Richard Steele, for his revisal, was unhappily lost, and could never since be recovered. The famous Mr. Dacier, having translated Plutarch's Lives into French, with Remarks Historical and Critical, the Abbé Bellenger added in 1734 a ninth tome to the other eight, consisting of the Life of Hannibal, and Mr. Rowe's Lives made French by that learned Abbé: In the Preface to which version, he transcribes from, the Preface to the English edition, the character of the author with visible approbation; and observes, that the Lives were written with taste; though being a posthumous work, the author had not put his last hand to it. Such is the character of Mr. Rowe, the husband of this amiable lady; and when so accomplished a pair meet in conjugal bonds, what great expectations may not be formed upon them! A friend of Mr. Rowe's upon that occasion wrote the following beautiful Epigram, No more proud Gallia, bid the world revere Thy learned pair, Le Fevre and Dacier: Britain may boast, this happy day unites, Two nobler minds, in Hymen's sacred rites. What these have sung, while all th' inspiring nine, Exalt the beauties of the verse divine, Those (humble critics of th' immortal strain,) Shall bound their fame to comment and explain. Mr. Rowe being at Bath, in the year 1709, was introduced into the company of Miss Singer, who lived in a retirement not far from the city. The idea he had conceived of her from report and her writings, charmed him; but when he had seen and conversed with her, he felt another kind of impression, and the esteem of her accomplishments was heightened into the rapture of a lover. During the courtship, he wrote a poetical Epistle to a friend, who was a neighbour of Mrs. Singer, and acquainted with the family, in which were the following lines. Youth's liveliest bloom, a never-fading grace, And more than beauty sparkles in her face. How soon the willing heart, her empire feels? Each look, each air, each melting action kills: Yet the bright form creates no loose desires; At once she gives and purifies our fires, And passions chaste, as her own soul inspires. Her soul, heav'n's noblest workmanship design'd, To bless the ruined age, and succour lost mankind, To prop abandon'd virtue's sinking cause, And snatch from vice its undeserv'd applause. He married her in the year 1710, and Mrs. Rowe's exalted merit, and amiable qualities, could not fail to inspire the most generous and lading passion. Mr. Rowe knew how to value that treasure of wit, softness and virtue, with which heaven had blessed him; and made it his study to repay the felicity with which she crowned his life. The esteem and tenderness he had for her is inexpressible, and possession seems never to have abated the fondness and admiration of the lover; a circumstance which seldom happens, but to those who are capable of enjoying mental intercourse, and have a relish for the ideal transports, as well as those of a less elevated nature. It was some considerable time after his marriage, that he wrote to her a very tender Ode, under the name of Delia, full of the warmed sentiments of connubial friendship and affection. The following lines in it may appear remarkable, as it pleased Heaven to dispose events, in a manner so agreeable to the wishes expressed in them, ----So long may thy inspiring page, And bright example bless the rising age; Long in thy charming prison mayst thou stay, Late, very late, ascend the well-known way, And add new glories to the realms of day! At least Heav'n will not sure, this prayer deny! Short be my life's uncertain date, And earlier long than thine, the destin'd hour of fate! When e'er it comes, may'st thou be by, Support my sinking frame, and teach me how to die; Banish desponding nature's gloom, Make me to hope a gentle doom, And fix me all on joys to come. With swimming eyes I'll gaze upon thy charms, And clasp thee dying in my fainting arms; Then gently leaning on thy breast; Sink in soft slumbers to eternal rest. The ghastly form shall have a pleasing air, And all things smile, while Heav'n and thou art there. This part of the Ode which we have quoted, contains the most tender breathings of affection, and has as much delicacy and softness in it, as we remember ever to have seen in poetry. As Mr. Rowe had not a robust constitution, so an intense application to study, beyond what the delicacy of his frame could bear, might contribute to that ill state of health which allayed the happiness of his married life, during the greater part of it. In the latter end of the year 1714, his weakness increased, and he seemed to labour under all the symptoms of a consumption; which distemper, after it had confined him some months, put a period to his most valuable life, at Hampstead, in 1715, when he was but in the 28th year of his age. The exquisite grief and affliction, which his amiable wife felt for the loss of so excellent a husband, is not to be expressed. She wrote a beautiful Elegy on his death, and continued to the last moments of her life, to express the highest veneration and affection for his memory, and a particular regard and esteem for his relations. This Elegy of Mrs. Rowe, on the death of her much lamented husband, we shall here insert. An ELEGY, &c. In what soft language shall my thoughts get free, My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee? Ye Muses, Graces, all ye gentle train, Of weeping loves, O suit the pensive train! But why should I implore your moving art? 'Tis but to speak the dictates of my heart; And all that knew the charming youth will join, Their friendly sighs, and pious tears to mine; For all that knew his merit, must confess, In grief for him, there can be no excess. His soul was form'd to act each glorious part Of life, unstained with vanity, or art, No thought within his gen'rous mind had birth, But what he might have own'd to Heav'n and Earth. Practis'd by him, each virtue grew more bright, And shone with more than its own native light. Whatever noble warmth could recommend The just, the active, and the constant friend, Was all his own----But Oh! a dearer name, And softer ties my endless sorrow claim. Lost in despair, distracted, and forlorn, The lover I, and tender husband mourn. Whate'er to such superior worth was due, Whate'er excess the fondest passion knew; I felt for thee, dear youth; my joy, my care, My pray'rs themselves were thine, and only where Thou waft concern'd, my virtue was sincere. When e'er I begg'd for blessings on thy head, Nothing was cold or formal that I said; My warmest vows to Heav'n were made for thee, And love still mingled with my piety. O thou wast all my glory, all my pride! Thro' life's uncertain paths my constant guide; Regardless of the world, to gain thy praise Was all that could my just ambition raise. Why has my heart this fond engagement known? Or why has Heav'n dissolved the tye so soon? Why was the charming youth so form'd to move? Or why was all my soul so turn'd for love? But virtue here a vain defence had made, Where so much worth and eloquence could plead. For he could talk----'Twas extacy to hear, 'Twas joy! 'twas harmony to every ear. Eternal music dwelt upon his tongue, Soft, and transporting as the Muses song; List'ning to him my cares were charm'd to rest, And love, and silent rapture fill'd my breast: Unheeded the gay moments took their flight, And time was only measur'd by delight. I hear the lov'd, the melting accents still, And still the kind, the tender transport feel. Again I see the sprightly passions rise, And life and pleasure sparkle in his eyes. My fancy paints him now with ev'ry grace, But ah! the dear delusion mocks my fond embrace; The smiling vision takes its hasty flight, And scenes of horror swim before my sight. Grief and despair in all their terrors rise; A dying lover pale and gasping lies, Each dismal circumstance appears in view, The fatal object is for ever new. * * * * * For thee all thoughts of pleasure I forego, For thee my tears shall never cease to flow: For thee at once I from the world retire, To feed in silent shades a hopeless fire. My bosom all thy image shall retain; The full impression there shall still remain. As thou hast taught my constant heart to prove; The noblest height and elegance of love; That sacred passion I to thee confine; My spotless faith shall be for ever thine. After Mr. Rowe's decease, and as soon as her affairs would permit, our authoress indulged her inconquerable inclination to solitude, by retiring to Froome in Somersetshire, in the neighbourhood of which place the greatest part of her estate lay. When she forsook the town, she determined to return no more but to spend the remainder of her life in absolute retirement; yet upon some few occasions she thought it her duty to violate this resolution. In compliance with the importunate request of the honourable Mrs. Thynne, she passed some months with her at London, after the death of her daughter the lady Brooke, and upon the decease of Mrs. Thynne herself, she could not dispute the commands of the countess of Hertford, who earnestly desired her company, to soften the severe affliction of the loss of so excellent a mother, and once or twice more, the power which this lady had over Mrs. Rowe, drew her, with an obliging kind of violence, to spend a few months with her in the country. Yet, even on these occasions she never quitted her retreat without sincere regret, and always returned to it, as soon as she could with decency disengage herself from the importunity of her noble friends. It was in this recess that she composed the most celebrated of her works, in twenty Letters from the Dead to the Living; the design of which is to impress the notion of the soul's immortality, without which all virtue and religion, with their temporal and eternal good conferences must fall to the ground. * * * * * Some who pretend to have no scruples about the being of a God, have yet doubts about their own eternal existence, though many authors have established it, both by christian and moral proofs, beyond reasonable contradiction. But since no means should be left untried, in a point of such awful importance, a virtuous endeavour to make the mind familiar with the thoughts of immortality, and contract as it were unawares, an habitual persuasion of it, by writings built on that foundation, and addressed to the affections, and imagination, cannot be thought improper, either as a doctrine or amusement: Amusement, for which the world makes so large a demand, and which generally speaking is nothing but an art of forgetting that immortality, the form, belief, and advantageous contemplation, of which this higher amusement would recommend. In the year 1736, the importunity of some of Mrs. Rowe's acquaintance who had seen the History of Joseph in MS. prevailed on her to print it. The publication of this piece did not long precede the time of her death, to prepare for which had been the great business of her life; and it stole upon her according to her earnest wishes, in her beloved recess. She was favoured with a very uncommon strength of constitution, and had pass'd a long series of years with scarce any indisposition, severe enough to confine her to bed.----But about half a year before her decease, she was attacked with a distemper, which seemed to herself as well as others, attended with danger. Tho' this disorder found her mind not quite so serene and prepared to meet death as usual; yet when by devout contemplation, she had fortified herself against that fear and diffidence, from which the most exalted piety does not always secure us in such an awful hour, she experienced such divine satisfaction and transport, that she said with tears of joy, she knew not that she ever felt the like in all her life, and she repeated on this occasion Pope's beautiful soliloquy of the dying Christian to his soul. An ELEGY, &c. The dying CHRISTIAN to his Soul. I. Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame; Trembling, hoping, lingr'ing, flying; Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. II. Hark! they whisper; Angels say, Sister spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? III. The world recedes; it disappears! Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring; Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting? She repeated the above, with an air of intense pleasure. She felt all the elevated sentiments of pious extasy and triumph, which breath in that exquisite piece of sacred poetry. After this threatening illness she recovered her usual good state of health; and though at the time of her decease she was pretty far advanced in years, yet her exact temperance, and the calmness of her mind, undisturbed with uneasy cares, and turbulent passions, encouraged her friends to hope a much longer enjoyment of so valuable a life, than it pleased heaven to allow them. On the day when she was seized with that distemper, which in a few hours proved mortal, she seemed to those about her to be in perfect health and vigour. In the evening about eight o'clock she converted with a friend, with her usual vivacity, mixed with an extraordinary chearfulness, and then retired to her chamber. About 10 her servant hearing some noise in her mistress's room, ran instantly into it, and found her fallen off the chair on the floor, speechless, and in the agonies of death. She had the immediate assistance of a physician and surgeon, but all the means used were without success, and having given one groan she expired a few minutes before two o'clock, on Sunday morning, February the 20th, 1736-7: Her disease was judged to be an apoplexy. A pious book was found lying open by her, as also some loose papers, on which she had written the following devout ejaculations, O guide, and council, and protect my soul from sin! O speak! and let me know thy heav'nly will. Speak evidently to my list'ning soul! O fill my soul with love, and light of peace, And whisper heav'nly comfort to my soul! O speak celestial spirit in the strain Of love, and heav'nly pleasure to my soul. In her cabinet were found letters to several of her friends, which she had ordered to be delivered to the persons to whom they were directed immediately after her decease. * * * * * Mrs. Rowe lived in friendship with people of the first fashion and distinction in life, by whom she was esteemed and respected. To enumerate them would be needless; let it suffice to remark, that her life was honoured with the intimacy, and her death lamented with the tears, of the countess of Hertford. Many verses were published to celebrate her memory, amongst which a copy written by Mrs. Elizabeth Carter are the best. * * * * * Thus lived honoured, and died lamented, this excellent poetess, whose beauty, though not her highest excellence, yet greatly contributed to set off her other more important graces to advantage; and whose piety will ever shine as a bright example to posterity, and teach them how to heighten the natural gifts of understanding, by true and unaffected devotion.----The conduct and behaviour of Mrs. Rowe might put some of the present race of females to the blush, who rake the town for infamous adventures to amuse the public. Their works will soon be forgotten, and their memories when dead, will not be deemed exceeding precious; but the works of Mrs. Rowe can never perish, while exalted piety and genuine goodness have any existence in the world. Her memory will be ever honoured, and her name dear to latest posterity. * * * * * Mrs. Rowe's Miscellaneous Works were published a few years ago at London, in octavo, and her Devotions were revised and published by the reverend Dr. Watts, under the title of Devout Exercises, to which that worthy man wrote a preface; and while he removes some cavils that wantonness and sensuality might make to the stile and manner of these Devotions, he shews that they contain the most sublime sentiments, the most refined breathings of the soul, and the most elevated and coelestial piety. * * * * * Mrs. Rowe's acquaintance with persons of fashion had taught her all the accomplishments of good-breeding, and elegance of behaviour, and without formality or affectation she practised in the most distant solitude, all the address and politeness of a court. She had the happiest command over her passions, and maintained a constant calmness of temper, and sweetness of disposition, that could not be ruffled by adverse accidents. She was in the utmost degree an enemy to ill-natured satire and detraction; she was as much unacquainted with envy, as if it had been impossible for so base a passion to enter into the human mind. She had few equals in conversation; her wit was lively, and she expressed her thoughts in the most beautiful and flowing eloquence. When she entered into the married state, the highest esteem and most tender affection appeared in her conduct to Mr. Rowe, and by the most gentle and obliging manner, and the exercise of every social and good natured virtue, she confirmed the empire she had gained over his heart. In short, if the most cultivated understanding, if an imagination lively and extensive, a character perfectly moral, and a soul formed for the most exalted exercises of devotion, can render a person amiable, Mrs. Rowe has a just claim to that epithet, as well as to the admiration of the lovers of poetry and elegant composition. * * * * * The Revd. Dr. THOMAS YALDEN. This Gentleman was born in the city of Exeter, and the youngest of six sons of Mr. John Yalden of Sussex. He received his education at a Grammar-school, belonging to Magdalen-College in Oxford. [A]In the year 1690 he was admitted a commoner of Magdalen-Hall, under Mr. John Fallen, who was esteemed an excellent tutor, and a very great master of logic, and the following year he was chosen scholar of Magdalen-College. Here he became a fellow-pupil with the celebrated Mr. Addison and Dr. Henry Sacheverel, and early contracted a particular friendship with those two gentlemen. This academical affection Mr. Addison preserved not only abroad in his travels, but also on his advancement to considerable employments at home, and kept the same easy and free correspondence to the very last, as when their fortunes were more on a level. This preservation of affection is rendered more singular, by Mr. Yalden's having espoused a very opposite interest to that of Mr. Addison, for he adhered to the High-Church party, and was suspected of an attachment to an exiled family, for which he afterwards was brought into very great trouble. In the year 1700 he was admitted actual and perpetual fellow of Magdalen-College, and qualified himself the next year, by taking orders, as the founder's statutes require. After his admission he received two public marks of favour from that society: The first was a presentation to a living in Warwickshire, consistent with his fellowship; and the other, his being elected moral philosophy-reader, an office for life, endowed with a handsome stipend and peculiar privileges. * * * * * In 1706 he was received into the family of his noble and kind patron the duke of Beaufort; with whom he was in very great favour, having in many instances experienced his bounty and generosity. In the following year he compleated his academical degrees, by commencing doctor in divinity: He presented to the society their founder's picture in full length, which now hangs up in the public-hall; and afterwards he delivered in to the president a voluntary resignation of his fellowship, and moral philosophy-lecture. He was afterwards preferred to be rector of Chalten in Cleanville, two adjoining towns and rectories in Hampshire. He was elected by the president and governors of Bridewell, preacher of that hospital, upon the resignation of Dr. Atterbury, afterwards lord bishop of Rochester. * * * * * Having mentioned this prelate, it will be proper here to observe, that upon a suspicion of Dr. Yalden's being concerned with him in a plot to restore the exiled family; and for which the bishop was afterwards banished, he was seized upon by authority, and committed to prison. When he was examined before the council, concerning his correspondence and intimacy with Mr. Kelley the bishop's secretary; he did not deny his knowledge of, and correspondence with, him, but still persisted in averting, that no measures contrary to the constitution were ever canvassed between them. There was found in his pocket book, a copy of verses reflecting on the reigning family, and which might well bear the construction of a libel; but when he was charged with them, he denied that he ever composed such verses, or that the hand-writing was his own, and asserted his innocence in every circumstance relating to the plot. The verses in all probability were put into his pocket-book, by the same person, who with so much dexterity placed a treasonable paper in bishop Atterbury's close-stool, and then pretending to be the discoverer of it, preferred it against his lordship, as an evidence of his disaffection. The particulars of that memorable tryal are recorded in the Life of Atterbury, written by the authors of Biographia Britannica.--The heats raised by Atterbury's tryal subsiding, those who were suspected of being concerned with him, as no evidence appeared strong enough to convict them, were released. Dr. Yalden was still favoured with the patronage of the generous duke of Beaufort, and his residence in that noble family recommended him to the acquaintance of many of the first quality and character in the kingdom, and as he was of a chearful temper, and of a pleasing and instructive conversation, he retained their friendship and esteem till his death, which happened the 16th of July, 1736, in the 66th year of his age. His poetical works are chiefly these. On the Conquest of Namure; A Pindaric Ode, inscribed to his most sacred and victorious majesty, folio 1695. The Temple of Fame; a Poem to the memory of the most illustrious Prince, William Duke of Gloucester, folio 1700. On the late Queen's Accession to the Throne, a Poem. �sop at Court, or State Fables. An Essay on the Character on Sir Willoughby Ashton, a Poem. Fol. 1704. On the Mines of Sir Carbery Price, a Poem; occasioned by the Mine-adventure Company. On the Death of Mr. John Partridge, Professor in Leather, and Astrologer. Advice to a Lover. To Mr. Watson, on his Ephemeris on the Cælestial Motions, presented to Queen Anne. Against Immoderate Grief. The Force of Jealousy. An Ode for St. Cecilia's Day, 1693, set to music by Dr. Purcel. A Hymn to the Morning in Praise of Light. * * * * * We shall extract the following stanza from this Hymn, as a specimen of his poetry. Parent of day! whose beauteous beams of light Spring from the darksome womb of night, And midst their native horrors mow Like gems adorning of the negro's brow. Not Heaven's fair bow can equal thee, In all its gawdy drapery: Thou first essay of light, and pledge of day! Rival of shade! eternal spring! still gay! From thy bright unexhausted womb The beauteous race of days and seasons come. Thy beauty ages cannot wrong, But 'spite of time, thou'rt ever young. Thou art alone Heav'n's modest virgin light. Whose face a veil of blushes hide from human sight. At thy approach, nature erects her head; The smiling universe is glad; The drowsy earth and seas awake And from thy beams new life and vigour take. When thy more chearful rays appear, Ev'n guilt and women cease to fear; Horror, despair, and all the sons of night Retire before thy beams, and take their hasty flight. Thou risest in the fragrant east, Like the fair Phoenix from her balmy nest; But yet thy fading glories soon decay, Thine's but a momentary stay; Too soon thou'rt ravish'd from our fight, Borne down the stream of day, and overwhelm'd with night. Thy beams to thy own ruin haste, They're fram'd too exquisite to last: Thine is a glorious, but a short-liv'd state: Pity so fair a birth should yield so soon to fate; Besides these pieces, this reverend gentleman has translated the second book of Ovid's Art of Love, with several other occasional poems and translations published in the third and fourth volumes of Tonson's Miscellanies. The Medicine, a Tale in the second Volume of the Tatlers, and Mr. Partridge's Appeal to the Learned World, or a Further Account of the Manner of his Death, in Prose, are likewise written by him. [Footnote A: Jacob.] * * * * * Mr. JOSEPH MITCHEL, This gentleman was the son of a Stone-cutter in Scotland, and was born about the year 1684. He received an university education while he remained in that kingdom, and having some views of improving his fortune, repaired to the metropolis. We are not able to recover many particulars concerning this poet, who was never sufficiently eminent to excite much curiosity concerning him. By a dissipated imprudent behaviour he rendered those, who were more intimately acquainted with him, less sollicitous to preserve the circumstances of his life, which were so little to his advantage. We find him enjoying the favour of the earl of Stair, and Sir Robert Walpole, to whom he addresses some of his poems. He received so many obligations from the latter, and was so warm in his interest, that he obtained the epithet of Sir Robert Walpole's Poet, and for a great part of his life had an entire dependence on the bounty of that munificent statesman. Mr. Mitchel, who was a slave to his pleasures, and governed by every gust of irregular appetite, had many opportunities of experiencing the dangerous folly of extravagance, and the many uneasy moments which it occasions. Notwithstanding this, his conduct was never corrected, even when the means of doing it were in his power. At a time when Mr. Mitchel laboured under severe necessities, by the death of his wife's uncle several thousand pounds devolved to him, of which he had no sooner got possession, than he planned schemes of spending it, in place of discharging the many debts he had contracted. This behaviour, as it conveyed to his creditors no high idea of his honesty, so it obliged him to be perpetually skulking, and must consequently have embittered even those hours which he falsly dedidicated to pleasure; for they who live under a perpetual dread of losing their liberty, can enjoy no great comfort even in their most careless moments. Of the many poems which Mr. Mitchel wrote, but few succeeded to any degree, nor indeed much deserved it. At a time when the politicians were engaged in settling the Land-Tax, and various opinions were offered concerning the ability of that branch of the commonwealth, so that a proper medium or standard might be fixed; he versified the Totness Address, much about the time of his present Majesty's accession to the throne; in which it is humourously proposed, that the landed interest should pay twenty shillings in the pound. This poem having a reference to a fashionable topic of conversation, was better received than most of his other pieces. There was likewise a poem of Mr. Mitchel's, called The Shoe-heel, which was much read on account of the low humour it contains. He has addressed to Dr. Watts a poem on the subject of Jonah in the Whale's Belly. In the dedication he observes, 'That it was written for the advancement of true virtue and reformation of manners; to raise an emulation amongst our young poets to attempt divine composures, and help to wipe off the censures which the numerous labours of the muses are justly charged with. If (says he) it shall serve any of these purposes, I shall be satisfied, though I gain no reputation by it among those who read a new poem with no other view, than to pass a judgment on the abilities of the author.' When the antagonists of Pope were threatened with the publication of the Dunciad, Mr. Mitchel had some suspicion that he himself was to be stigmatized in it: conscious that he had never offended Mr. Pope, he took an opportunity to write to him upon that subject. He informed him, that he had been an admirer of his writings; that he declined all connexion with those men, who combined to reduce his reputation, and that when no offence was given, no resentment should be discovered. Mr. Pope, upon receiving this letter from Mitchel, protesting his innocence as to any calumny published against him, was so equitable as to strike him out of his Dunciad, in which, by misrepresentation he had assigned him a place. * * * * * Mr. Mitchel lived in good correspondence with many of the most eminent wits of the time, and was particularly honoured with the friendship of Aaron Hill, esq; a gentleman of so amiable a disposition, that whoever cultivated an intimacy with him, was sure to be a gainer. Once, when Mr. Mitchel was in distress, Mr. Hill, who could not perhaps conveniently relieve him by pecuniary assistance, gave him a higher instance of friendship, than could be shewn by money. He wrote a beautiful dramatic piece in two acts, called The Fatal Extravagant, in which he exposed the hideous vice of gaming. This little dramatic work is planned with such exquisite art, wrought up with so much tenderness, and the scenes are so natural, interesting and moving, that I know not if Mr. Hill has any where touched the passions with so great a mastery. This play met the success it deserved, and contributed to relieve Mr. Mitchel's necessities, who had honour enough, however, to undeceive the world, and acknowledge his obligations to Mr. Hill, by making mankind acquainted with the real author of The Fatal Extravagant. As this was a favour never to be forgotten, so we find Mr. Mitchel taking every proper occasion to express his gratitude, and celebrate his patron. Amongst the first of his poems, is An Ode, addressed to Mr. Hill, which is one of the best of his compositions. The two last stanza's are as follow, Heedless of custom, and the vulgar breath, I toil for glory in a path untrod, Or where but few have dared to combat death, And few unstaggering carry virtue's load. Thy muse, O Hill, of living names, My first respect, and chief attendance claims. Sublimely fir'd, thou look'st disdainful down On trifling subjects, and a vile renown. In ev'ry verse, in ev'ry thought of thine, There's heav'nly rapture and design. Who can thy god-like Gideon view[A], And not thy muse pursue, Or wish, at least, such miracles to do? Sure in thy breast the ancient Hebrew fire Reviv'd, glows hot, and blazes forth, How strong, how fierce the flames aspire! Of thy interior worth, When burning worlds thou sett'st before our eyes[B], And draw'st tremendous judgment from the flues! O bear me on thy seraph wing, And teach my weak obsequious muse to sing. To thee I owe the little art I boast; Thy heat first melted my co-genial frost. Preserve the sparks thy breath did fan, And by thy likeness form me into true poetic man. Mr. Mitchel died in the year 1738. He seems to have been a poet of the third rate; he has seldom reached the sublime; his humour, in which he more succeeded, is not strong enough to last; his verification holds a state of mediocrity; he possessed but little invention, and if he was not a bad rhimester, he cannot be denominated a fine poet, for there are but few marks of genius in his writings. His poems were printed in two vol. 8vo. in the year 1729. He wrote also, The Union of the Clans; or the Highland-Fair. A Scot's Opera. 'Twas acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, about the year 1730; but did not succeed. [Footnote A: An epic poem by Aaron Hill, esq;] [Footnote B: See The Judgment, a poem by Aaron Hill, esq;] * * * * * Mr. John Ozell, This gentleman added considerably to the republic of letters by his numerous translations. He received the rudiments of his education from Mr. Shaw, an excellent grammarian, master of the free school at Ashby De la Zouch in Leicestershire: he finished his grammatical learning under the revd. Mr. Mountford of Christ's Hospital, where having attained the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew tongues, he was designed to be sent to the university of Cambridge, to be trained up for holy Orders. But Mr. Ozell, who was averse to that confinement which he must expect in a college life, chose to be sooner settled in the world, and be placed in a public office of accounts, having previously qualified himself by attaining a knowledge of arithmetic, and writing the necessary hands. This choice of an occupation in our author, could no other reasons be adduced, are sufficient to denominate him a little tinctured with dulness, for no man of genius ever yet made choice of spending his life behind a desk in a compting-house. He still retained, however, an inclination to erudition, contrary to what might have been expected, and by much conversation with travellers from abroad, made himself matter of most of the living languages, especially the French, Italian, and Spanish, from all which, as well as from the Latin and Greek, he has favoured the world with a great[A] many translations, amongst which are the following French plays; 1. Britannicus and Alexander the Great, Two Tragedies from Racine. 2. The Litigant, a Comedy of 3 Acts; Mandated from the French of M. Racine, who took it from the Wasps of Aristophanes, 8vo. 1715. Scene in a city of Lower Normandy. 3. Manlius Capitolinus, a Tragedy from the French of M. La Fosse, 1715. When the earl of Portland was ambassador at the French court, this play was acted at Paris threescore nights running; the subject is related by Livy. This French author studied some time at Oxford, and, upon his return home, applied himself to dramatic poetry, in which he acquired great reputation. He died about the year 1713. 4. The Cid, a Tragedy from Corneille. 5. Cato of Utica, a Tragedy from M. Des Champs; acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1716, dedicated to Count Volkra his Excellency the Imperial Ambassador: to which is added a Parallel between this Play and Mr. Addison's Cato. Besides these, Mr. Ozell has translated all Moliere's plays, which are printed in 6 vol. 12mo. and likewise a collection of some of the best Spanish and Italian plays, from Calderon, Aretin, Ricci, and Lopez de Vega. Whether any of these plays, translated from the Spanish, were ever printed, we cannot be positive. Mr. Ozell's translation of Moliere is far from being excellent, for Moliere was an author to whom none, but a genius like himself, could well do justice. His other works are The History of Don Quixote, translated by several hands, published by Peter Motteux; revised and compared with the best edition, printed at Madrid, by Mr. Ozell, 5th edition, 1725. Reflexions on Learning, by M. de Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambray, made English from the Paris Edition 12mo. 1718. Common Prayer not Common Sense, in several Places of the Portugueze, Spanish, Italian, French, Latin, and Greek Translations of the English Liturgy; Being a Specimen of the Manifold Omissions, &c. in all, or most of the said Translations, some of which were printed at Oxford, and the rest at Cambridge, or London, 1722. Vertot's Revolutions of Rome, translated by Mr. Ozell. Logic, or the Art of Thinking; from the French of M. Nicole, 1723. Mr. Ozell finished a Translation from the Portugueze, begun by Dr. Geddes, of the most celebrated, popish, ecclesiastical Romance; being the Life of Veronica of Milan, a book certified by the heads of the university of Conimbra in Portugal, to be revised by the Angels, and approved of by God. * * * * * These are the works of Mr. Ozell, who, if he did not possess any genius, has not yet lived in, vain, for he has rendered into English some very useful pieces, and if his translations are not elegant; they are generally pretty just, and true to their original. Mr. Ozell is severely touched by Mr. Pope in the first book of the Dunciad, on what account we cannot determine; perhaps that satyrist has only introduced him to grace the train of his Dunces. Ozell was incensed to the last degree by this usage, and in a paper called The Weekly Medley, September 1729, he published the following strange Advertisement[B]. 'As to my learning, this envious wretch knew, and every body knows, that the whole bench of bishops, not long ago, were pleased to give me a purse of guineas for discovering the erroneous translations of the Common Prayer in Portugueze, Spanish, French, Italian, &c. As for my genius, let Mr. Cleland shew better verses in all Pope's works, than Ozell's version of Boileau's Lutrin, which the late lord Hallifax was so well pleased with, that he complimented him with leave to dedicate it to him, &c. &c. Let him shew better and truer poetry in The Rape of the Lock, than in Ozell's Rape of the Bucket, which, because an ingenious author happened to mention in the same breath with Pope's, viz. 'Let Ozell sing the Bucket, Pope the Lock, 'the little gentleman had like to have run mad; and Mr. Toland and Mr. Gildon publicly declared Ozell's Translation of Homer to be, as it was prior, so likewise superior, to Pope's.----Surely, surely, every man is free to deserve well of his country!' John Ozell. This author died about the middle of October 1743, and was buried in a vault of a church belonging to St. Mary Aldermanbury. He never experienced any of the vicissitudes of fortune, which have been so frequently the portion of his inspired brethren, for a person born in the same county with him, and who owed particular obligations to his family, left him a competent provision: besides, he had always enjoyed good places. He was for some years auditor-general of the city and Bridge accounts, and, to the time of his decease, auditor of the accounts of St. Paul's Cathedral, and St. Thomas's Hospital. Though, in reality, Ozell was a man of very little genius, yet Mr. Coxeter asserts, that his conversation was surprizingly pleasing, and that he had a pretty good knowledge of men and things. He possibly possessed a large share of good nature, which, when joined with but a tolerable understanding, will render the person, who is blessed with it, more amiable, than the most flashy wit, and the highest genius without it. [Footnote A: Jacob.] [Footnote B: Notes on the Dunciad.] End of the Fourth Volume. 
10598	----	Proofreaders Anglistica & Americana A Series of Reprints Selected by Bernhard Fabian, Edgar Mertner, Karl Schneider and Marvin Spevack 1968 GEORG OLMS VERLAGSBUCHHANDLUNG HILDESHEIM Theophilus Cibber The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Vol. I 1968 The present facsimile is reproduced from a copy in the possession of the Library of the University of Gottingen. Shelfmark: H. lit. biogr. I 8464. Although the title-page of Volume I announces four volumes, the work is continued in a fifth volume of the same date. Like Volumes II, III, and IV, it is by "Mr. CIBBER, and other Hands" and is "Printed for R. GRIFFITHS". M.S. THE LIVES OF THE POETS OF GREAT BRITAIN and IRELAND, To the TIME of DEAN _SWIFT_. Compiled from ample Materials scattered in a Variety of Books, and especially from the MS. Notes of the late ingenious Mr. COXETER and others, collected for this Design, By Mr. CIBBER. In FOUR VOLUMES. VOL. I. MDCCLIII. VOLUME I. Contains the LIVES O F Chaucer Langland Gower Lydgate Harding Skelton Barclay More Surry Earl Wyat Sackville Churchyard Heywood Ferrars Sidney Marloe Green Spenser Heywood Lilly Overbury Marsten Shakespear Sylvester Daniel Harrington Decker Beaumont and Fletcher Lodge Davies Goff Greville L. Brooke Day Raleigh Donne Drayton Corbet Fairfax Randolph Chapman Johnson Carew Wotton Markham T. Heywood Cartwright Sandys Falkland Suckling Hausted Drummond Stirling Earl Hall Crashaw Rowley Nash Ford Middleton THE LIVES OF THE POETS. * * * * GEOFFRY CHAUCER. It has been observed that men of eminence in all ages, and distinguished for the same excellence, have generally had something in their lives similar to each other. The place of Homer's nativity, has not been more variously conjectured, or his parents more differently assigned than our author's. Leland, who lived nearest to Chaucer's time of all those who have wrote his life, was commissioned by king Henry VIII, to search all the libraries, and religious houses in England, when those archives were preserved, before their destruction was produced by the reformation, or Polydore Virgil had consumed such curious pieces as would have contradicted his framed and fabulous history. He for some reasons believed Oxford or Berkshire to have given birth to this great man, but has not informed us what those reasons were that induced him to believe so, and at present there appears no other, but that the seats of his family were in those countries. Pitts positively asserts, without producing any authority to support it, that Woodstock was the place; which opinion Mr. Camden seems to hint at, where he mentions that town; but it may be suspected that Pitts had no other ground for the assertion, than Chaucer's mentioning Woodstock park in his works, and having a house there. But after all these different pretensions, he himself, in the Testament of Love, seems to point out the place of his nativity to be the city of London, and tho' Mr. Camden mentions the claim of Woodstock, he does not give much credit to it; for speaking of Spencer (who was uncontrovertedly born in London) he calls him fellow citizen to Chaucer. The descent of Chaucer is as uncertain, and unfixed by the critics, as the place of his birth. Mr. Speight is of opinion that one Richard Chaucer was his father, and that one Elizabeth Chaucer, a nun of St. Helen's, in the second year of Richard II. might have been his sister, or of his kindred. But this conjecture, says Urry,[1] seems very improbable; for this Richard was a vintner, living at the corner of Kirton-lane, and at his death left his house, tavern, and stock to the church of St. Mary Aldermary, which in all probability he would not have done if he had had any sons to possess his fortune; nor is it very likely he could enjoy the family estates mentioned by Leland in Oxfordshire, and at the same time follow such an occupation. Pitts asserts, that his father was a knight; but tho' there is no authority to support this assertion, yet it is reasonable to suppose that he was something superior to a common employ. We find one John Chaucer attending upon Edward III. and Queen Philippa, in their expedition to Flanders and Cologn, who had the King's protection to go over sea in the twelfth year of his reign. It is highly probable that this gentleman was father to our Geoffry, and the supposition is strengthened by Chaucer's first application, after leaving the university and inns of law, being to the Court; nor is it unlikely that the service of the father should recommend the son. It is universally agreed, that he was born in the second year of the reign of King Edward III. A.D. 1328. His first studies were in the university of Cambridge, and when about eighteen years of age he wrote his Court of Love, but of what college he was is uncertain, there being no account of him in the records of the University. From Cambridge he was removed to Oxford in order to compleat his studies, and after a considerable stay there, and a strict application to the public lectures of the university, he became (says Leland) "a ready logician, a smooth rhetorician, a pleasant poet, a great philosopher, an ingenious mathematician, and a holy divine. That he was a great master in astronomy, is plain by his discourses of the Astrolabe. That he was versed in hermetic philosophy (which prevailed much at that time), appears by his Tale of the Chanons Yeoman: His knowledge in divinity is evident from his Parson's Tale, and his philosophy from the Testament of Love." Thus qualified to make a figure in the world, he left his learned retirement, and travelled into France, Holland, and other countries, where he spent some of his younger days. Upon his return he entered himself in the Inner Temple, where he studied the municipal laws of the land. But he had not long prosecuted that dry study, till his superior abilities were taken notice of by some persons of distinction, by whole patronage he then approached the splendor of the court. The reign of Edward III. was glorious and successful, he was a discerning as well as a fortunate Monarch; he had a taste as well for erudition as for arms; he was an encourager of men of wit and parts, and permitted them to approach him, without reserve. At Edward's court nothing but gallantry and a round of pleasure prevailed, and how well qualified our poet was to shine in the soft circles, whoever has read his works, will be at no loss to determine; but besides the advantages of his wit and learning, he possessed those of person in a very considerable degree. He was then about the age of thirty, of a fair beautiful complexion, his lips red and full, his size of a just medium, and his air polished and graceful, so that he united whatever could claim the approbation of the Great, and charm the eyes of the Fair. He had abilities to record the valour of the one, and celebrate the beauty of the other, and being qualified by his genteel behaviour to entertain both, he became a finished courtier. The first dignity to which we find him preferred, was that of page to the king, a place of so much honour and esteem at that time, that Richard II. leaves particular legacies to his pages, when few others of his servants are taken notice of. In the forty-first year of Edward III. he received as a reward of his services, an annuity of twenty marks per ann. payable out of the Exchequer, which in those days was no inconsiderable pension; in a year after he was advanced to be of his Majesty's privy chamber, and a very few months to be his shield bearer, a title, at that time, (tho' now extinct) of very great honour, being always next the king's person, and generally upon signal victories rewarded with military honours. Our poet being thus eminent by his places, contracted friendships, and procured the esteem of persons of the first quality. Queen Philippa, the Duke of Lancaster, and his Duchess Blanch, shewed particular honour to him, and lady Margaret the king's daughter, and the countess of Pembroke gave him their warmest patronage as a poet. In his poems called the Romaunt, and the Rose, and Troilus and Creseide, he gave offence to some court ladies by the looseness of his description, which the lady Margaret resented, and obliged him to atone for it, by his Legend of good Women, a piece as chaste as the others were luxuriously amorous, and, under the name of the Daisy, he veils lady Margaret, whom of all his patrons he most esteemed. Thus loved and honoured, his younger years were dedicated to pleasure and the court. By the recommendation of the Dutchess Blanch, he married one Philippa Rouet, sister to the guardianess of her grace's children, who was a native of Hainault: He was then about thirty years of age, and being fixed by marriage, the king began to employ him in more public and advantageous posts. In the forty-sixth year of his majesty's reign, Chaucer was sent to Venice in commission with others, to treat with the Doge and Senate of Genoa, about affairs of great importance to our state. The duke of Lancaster, whose favourite passion was ambition, which demanded the assistance of learned men, engaged warmly in our poet's interest; besides, the duke was remarkably fond of Lady Catherine Swynford, his wife's sister, who was then guardianess to his children, and whom he afterwards made his wife; thus was he doubly attached to Chaucer, and with the varying fortune of the duke of Lancaster we find him rise or fall. Much about this time, for his successful negociations at Genoa, the king granted to him by letters patent, by the title of Armiger Noster, one pitcher of wine daily in the port of London, and soon after made him comptroller of the customs, with this particular proviso, that he should personally execute the office, and write the accounts relating to it with his own hand. But as he was advanced to higher places of trust, so he became more entangled in the affairs of state, the consequence of which proved very prejudicial to him. The duke of Lancaster having been the chief instrument of raising him to dignity, expected the fruits of those favours in a ready compliance with him in all his designs. That prince was certainly one of the proudest and most ambitious men of his time, nor could he patiently bear the name of a subject even to his father; nothing but absolute power, and the title of king could satisfy him; upon the death of his elder brother, Edward the black prince, he fixed an eye upon the English crown, and seemed to stretch out an impatient hand to reach it. In this view he sought, by all means possible, to secure his interest against the decease of the old king; and being afraid of the opposition of the clergy, who are always strenuous against an irregular succession, he embraced the opinions and espoused the interests of Wickliff, who now appeared at Oxford, and being a man of very great abilities, and much esteemed at court, drew over to his party great numbers, as well fashionable as low people. In this confusion, the duke of Lancaster endeavoured all he could to shake the power of the clergy, and to procure votaries amongst the leading popular men. Chaucer had no small hand in promoting these proceedings, both by his public interest and writings. Towards the close of Edward's reign, he was very active in the intrigues of the court party, and so recommended himself to the Prince successor, that upon his ascending the throne, he confirmed to him by the title of Dilectus Armiger Noster, the grant made by the late king of twenty marks per annum, and at the same time confirmed the other grant of the late King for a pitcher of wine to be delivered him daily in the port of London. In less than two years after this, we find our poet so reduced in his cirumstances, (but by what means is unknown) that the King in order to screen him from his creditors, took him under his protection, and allowed him still to enjoy his former grants. The duke of Lancaster, whose restless ambition ever excited him to disturb the state, engaged now with, all the interest of which he was master to promote himself to the crown; the opinions of Wickliff gained ground, and so great a commotion now prevailed amongst the clergy, that the king perceiving the state in danger, and being willing to support the clerical interest, suffered the archbishop of Canterbury to summon Wickliff to appear before him, whose interest after this arraignment very much decayed.[2] The king who was devoted to his pleasures, resigned himself, to some young courtiers who hated the duke of Lancaster, and caused a fryar to accuse him of an attempt to kill the king; but before he had an opportunity of making out the charge against him, the fryar was murdered in a cruel and barbarous manner by lord John Holland, to whose care he had been committed. This lord John Holland, called lord Huntingdon, and duke of Exeter, was half brother to the King, and had married Elizabeth, daughter of the duke of Lancaster. He was a great patron of Chaucer, and much respected by him. With the duke of Lancaster's interest Chaucer's also sunk. His patron being unable to support him, he could no longer struggle against opposite parties, or maintain his posts of honour. The duke passing over sea, his friends felt all the malice of an enraged court; which induced them to call in a number of the populace to assist them, of which our poet was a zealous promoter. One John of Northampton, a late lord mayor of London was at the head of these disturbances; which did not long continue; for upon beheading one of the rioters, and Northampton's being taken into custody, the commotion subsided. Strict search was made after Chaucer, who escaped into Hainault; afterwards he went to France, and finding the king resolute to get him into his hands, he fled from thence to Zealand. Several accomplices in this affair were with him, whom he supported in their exile, while the chief ringleaders, (except Northampton who was condemned at Reading upon the evidence of his clerk) had restored themselves to court favour by acknowledging their crime, and now forgot the integrity and resolution of Chaucer, who suffered exile to secure their secrets; and so monstrously ungrateful were they, that they wished his death, and by keeping supplies of money from him, endeavoured to effect it;--While he expended his fortune in removing from place to place, and in supporting his fellow exiles, so far from receiving any assistance from England, his apartments were let, and the money received for rent was never acccounted for to him; nor could he recover any from those who owed it him, they being of opinion it was impossible for him ever to return to his own country. The government still pursuing their resentment against him and his friends, they were obliged to leave Zealand, and Chaucer being unable to bear longer the calamities of poverty and exile, and finding no security wherever he fled, chose rather to throw himself upon the laws of his country, than perish abroad by hunger and oppression. He had not long returned till he was arrested by order of the king, and confined in the tower of London. The court sometimes flattered him with the return of the royal favour if he would impeach his accomplices, and sometimes threatened him with immediate destruction; their threats and promises he along while disregarded, but recollecting the ingratitude of his old friends, and the miseries he had already suffered, he at last made a confession, and according to the custom of trials at that time, offered to prove the truth of it by combat. What the consequence of this discovery was to his accomplices, is uncertain, it no doubt exposed him to their resentment, and procured him the name of a traytor; but the king, who regarded him as one beloved by his grandfather, was pleased to pardon him. Thus fallen from a heighth of greatness, our poet retired to bemoan the fickleness of fortune, and then wrote his Testament of Love, in which are many pathetic exclamations concerning the vicissitude of human things, which he then bitterly experienced. But as he had formerly been the favourite of fortune, when dignities were multiplied thick upon him, so his miseries now succeeded with an equal swiftness; he was not only discarded by his majesty, unpensioned, and abandoned, but he lost the favour of the duke of Lancaster, as the influence of his wife's sister with that prince was now much lessened. The duke being dejected with the troubles in which he was involved, began to reflect on his vicious course of life, and particularly his keeping that lady as his concubine; which produced a resolution of putting her out of his house, and he made a vow to that purpose. Chaucer, thus reduced, and weary of the perpetual turmoils at court, retired to Woodstock, to enjoy a studious quiet; where he wrote his excellent treatise of the Astrolabe; but notwithstanding the severe treatment of the government, he still retained his loyalty, and strictly enjoined his son to pray for the king. As the pious resolutions of some people are often the consequence of a present evil, so at the return of prosperity they are soon dissipated. This proved the case with the duke of Lancaster: his party again gathered strength, his interest began to rise; upon which he took again his mistress to his bosom, and not content with heaping favours, honours, and titles upon her, he made her his wife, procured an act of parliament to legitimate her children, which gave great offence to the duchess of Gloucester, the countess of Derby, and Arundel, as she then was entitled to take place of them. With her interest, Chaucer's also returned, and after a long and bitter storm, the sun began to shine upon him with an evening ray; for at the sixty-fifth year of his age, the king granted to him, by the title of Delectus Armiger Noster, an annuity of twenty marks per annum during his life, as a compensation for the former pension his needy circumstances obliged him to part with; but however sufficient that might be for present support, yet as he was encumbered with debts, he durst not appear publickly till his majesty again granted him his royal protection to screen him from the persecution of his creditors; he also restored to him his grant of a pitcher of wine daily, and a pipe annually, to be delivered to him by his son Thomas, who that year possessed the office of chief butler to the king. Now that I have mentioned his son, it will not be improper, to take a view of our author's domestical affairs, at least as far as we are enabled, by materials that have descended to our times. Thomas his eldest son, was married to one of the greatest fortunes in England, Maud, daughter and heir of Sir John Burgheershe, knight of the garter, and Dr. Henry Burghurshe bishop of Lincoln, chancellor and treasurer of England. Mr. Speight says this lady was given him in marriage by Edward III. in return of his services performed in his embassies in France. His second son Lewis was born in 1381, for when his father wrote the treatise of the Astrolabe, he was ten years old; he was then a student in Merton college in Oxford, and pupil to Nicholas Strade, but there is no further account of him. Thomas who now enjoyed the office of chief butler to his majesty, had the same place confirmed to him for life, by letters patent to king Henry IV, and continued by Henry VI. In the 2d year of Henry IV, we find him Speaker of the House of Commons, Sheriff of Oxfordshire and Berkshire, and Constable of Wallingford castle and Knaresborough castle during life. In the 6th year of the same prince, he was sent ambassador to France. In the 9th of the same reign the Commons presented him their Speaker; as they did likewise in the 11th year. Soon after this Queen Jane, granted to him for his good service, the manor of Woodstock, Hannerborough and Wotten during life; and in the 13th year, he was again presented Speaker as he was in the 2d of Henry V, and much about that time he was sent by the king, to treat of a marriage with Catherine daughter to the duke of Burgundy; he was sent again ambassador to France, and passed thro' a great many public stations. Mr. Stebbing says that he was knighted, but we find no such title given him in any record. He died at Ewelm, the chief place of his residence, in the year 1434. By his wife Maud he had one daughter named Alice, who was thrice married, first to Sir John Philips, and afterwards to Thomas Montacute earl of Salisbury: her third husband was the famous William de la Pole, duke of Suffolk, who lost his head by the fury of the Yorkists, who dreaded his influence in the opposite party, tho' he stood proscribed by the parliament of Henry VI. for misguiding that easy prince. Their son John had three sons, the second of whom, Edmund, forfeited his life to the crown for treason against Henry VII, by which means the estates which Chaucer's family possessed came to the crown. But to return to our poet: By means of the duke of Lancaster's marriage with his sister in law, he again grew to a considerable share of wealth; but being now about seventy years of age, and fatigued with a tedious view of hurried greatness, he quitted the stage of grandeur where he had acted so considerable a part with varied success, and retired to Dunnigton castle[3] near Newbury, to reflect at leisure upon past transactions in the still retreats of contemplation. In this retirement did he spend his few remaining years, universally loved and honoured; he was familiar with all men of learning in his time, and contracted friendship with persons of the greatest eminence as well in literature as politics; Gower, Occleve, Lidgate, Wickliffe were great admirers, and particular friends of Chaucer; besides he was well acquainted with foreign poets, particularly Francis Petrarch the famous Italian poet, and refiner of the language. A Revolution in England soon after this happened, in which we find Chaucer but little concerned; he made no mean compliments to Henry IV, but Gower his cotemporary, though then very old, flattered the reigning prince, and insulted the memory of his murdered Sovereign. All acts of parliament and grants in the last reign being annulled, Chaucer again repaired to Court to get fresh grants, but bending with age and weakness, tho' he was successful in his request, the fatigue of attendance so overcame him, that death prevented his enjoying his new possessions. He died the 25th of October in the year 1400, in the second of Henry IV, in the 72d of his age, and bore the shock of death with the same fortitude and resignation with which he had undergone a variety of pressures, and vicissitudes of fortune. Dryden says, he was poet laureat to three kings, but Urry is of opinion that Dryden must be mistaken, as among all his works not one court poem is to be found, and Selden observes, that he could find no poet honoured with that title in England before the reign of Edward IV, to whom one John Kaye dedicated the Siege of Rhodes in prose by the title of his Humble Poet Laureat. I cannot better display the character of this great man than in the following words of Urry. "As to his temper, says he, he had a mixture of the gay, the modest and the grave. His reading was deep and extensive, his judgment sound and discerning; he was communicative of his knowledge, and ready to correct or pass over the faults of his cotemporary writers. He knew how to judge of and excuse the slips of weaker capacities, and pitied rather than exposed the ignorance of that age. In one word, he was a great scholar, a pleasant wit, a candid critic, a sociable companion, a stedfast friend, a great philosopher, a temperate oeconomist, and a pious christian." As to his genius as a poet, Dryden (than whom a higher authority cannot be produced) speaking of Homer and Virgil, positively asserts, that our author exceeded the latter, and stands in competition with the former. His language, how unintelligible soever it may seem, is almost as modern as any of his cotemporaries, or of those who followed him at the distance of 50 or 60 years, as Harding, Skelton and others, and in some places it is so smooth and beautiful, that Dryden would not attempt to alter it; I shall now give some account of his works in the order in which they were written, so far as can be collected from them, and subjoin a specimen of his poetry, of which profession as he may justly be called the Morning Star, so as we descend into later times; we may see the progress of poetry in England from its great original, Chaucer, to its full blaze, and perfect consummation in Dryden. Mr. Philips supposes a greater part of his works to be lost, than what we have extant of him; of that number may be many a song, and many a lecherous lay, which perhaps might have been written by him while he was a student at Cambridge. The Court of Love, as has been before observed, was written while he resided at Cambridge in the 18th year of his age. The Craft Lovers was written in the year of our Lord, 1348, and probably the Remedy of Love was written about that time, or not long after. The Lamentation of Mary Magdalen taken from Origen, was written by him in his early years, and perhaps Boethius de Consolatione Philosophiæ was translated by him about the same time. The Romaunt of the Rose, is a translation from the French: this poem was begun by William de Lerris, and continued by John de Meun, both famous French poets; it seems to have been translated about the time of the rise of Wickliffe's Opinions, it consisting of violent invectives against religious orders. The Complaint of the Black Knight, during John of Gaunt's courtship with Blanch is supposed to be written on account of the duke of Lancaster's marriage. The poem of Troilus and Creseide was written in the early part of his life, translated (as he says) from Lollius an historiographer in Urbane in Italy; he has added several things of his own, and borrowed from others what he thought proper for the embellishment of this work, and in this respect was much indebted to his friend Petrarch the Italian poet. The House of Fame; from this poem Mr. Pope acknowledges he took the hint of his Temple of Fame. The book of Blaunch the Duchess, commonly called the Dreme of Chaucer, was written upon the death of that lady. The Assembly of Fowls (or Parlement of Briddis, as he calls it in his Retraction) was written before the death of queen Philippa. The Life of St. Cecilia seems to have been first a single poem, afterwards made one of his Canterbury Tales which is told by the second Nonne: and so perhaps was that of the Wife of Bath, which he advises John of Gaunt to read, and was afterwards inserted in his Canterbury Tales. The Canterbury Tales were written about the year 1383. It is certain the Tale of the Nonnes Priest was written after the Insurrection of Jack Straw and Wat Tyler. The Flower and the Leaf was written by him in the Prologue to the Legend of Gode Women. Chaucer's ABC, called la Priere de nostre Damê, was written for the use of the duchess Blaunch. The book of the Lion is mentioned in his Retraction, and by Lidgate in the prologue to the Fall of Princes, but is now lost, as is that. De Vulcani vene, i. e. of the Brocke of Vulcan, which is likewise mentioned by Lidgate. La belle Dame sans Mercy, was translated from the French of Alain Chartier, secretary to Lewis XI, king of France. The Complaint of Mars and Venus was translated from the French of Sir Otes de Grantson, a French poet. The Complaint of Annilida to false Arcite. The Legend of Gode Women (called the Assembly of Ladies, and by some the Nineteen Ladies) was written to oblige the queen, at the request of the countess of Pembroke. The treatise of the Conclusion of the Astrolabie was written in the year 1391. Of the Cuckow and Nightingale, this seems by the description to have been written at Woodstock. The Ballade beginning In Feverre, &c. was a compliment to the countess of Pembroke. Several other ballads are ascribed to him, some of which are justly suspected not to have been his. The comedies imputed to him are no other than his Canterbury Tales, and the tragedies were those the monks tell in his Tales. The Testament of Love was written in his trouble the latter part of his life. The Song beginning Fly fro the Prese, &c. was written in his death-bed. Leland says, that by the content of the learned in his time, the Plowman's Tale was attributed to Chaucer, but was suppressed in the edition then extant, because the vices of the clergy were exposed in it. Mr. Speight in his life of Chaucer, printed in 1602, mentions a tale in William Thynne's first printed book of Chaucer's works more odious to the clergy than the Plowman's Tale. One thing must not be omitted concerning the works of Chaucer. In the year 1526 the bishop of London prohibited a great number of books which he thought had a tendency to destroy religion and virtue, as did also the king in 1529, but in so great esteem were his works then, and so highly valued by the people of taste, that they were excepted out of the prohibition of that act. The PARDONERS PROLOGUE. Lordings! quoth he, in chirch when I preche, I paine mee to have an have an hauteine speche; And ring it out, as round as doth a bell; For I can all by rote that I tell. My teme is always one, and ever was, (Radix omnium malorum est cupiditas) First, I pronounce fro whence I come, And then my bills, I shew all and some: Our liege--lords seal on my patent! That shew I first, my body to warrent; That no man be so bold, priest ne clerk, Me to disturb of Christ's holy werke; And after that I tell forth my tales, Of bulls, of popes, and of cardinales, Of patriarkes, and of bishops I shew; And in Latin I speake wordes a few, To faver with my predication, And for to stere men to devotion, Then shew I forth my long, christall stones, Ycrammed full of clouts and of bones; Relickes they been, as were they, echone! Then have I, in Latin a shoder-bone, Which that was of an holy Jewes shepe. Good men, fay, take of my words kepe! If this bone be washen in any well, If cow, or calfe, shepe, or oxe swell That any worm hath eaten, or hem strong, Take water of this well, and wash his tong. And it is hole a-non: And furthermore, Of pockes, and scabs, and every sore Shall shepe be hole, that of this well Drinketh a draught: Take keep of that I tell! If that the good man, that beasts oweth, Woll every day, ere the cocke croweth, Fasting drink of this well, a draught, (As thilk holy Jew our elders taught) His beasts and his store shall multiplie: And sirs, also it healeth jealousie, For, though a man be fall in jealous rage, Let make with this Water his potage, And never shall he more his wife mistrist, Thughe, in sooth, the defaut by her wist: All had she taken priests two or three! Here is a mittaine eke, that ye may see. He that has his hand well put in this mittaine; He shall have multiplying of his graine, When he hath sowen, be it wheat or otes; So that he offer good pens or grotes! Those who would prefer the thoughts of this father of English poetry, in a modern dress, are referred to the elegant versions of him, by Dryden, Pope, and others, who have done ample justice to their illustrious predecessor. [Footnote 1: Life of Chaucer prefixed to Ogle's edition of that author modernized.] [Footnote 2: Some biographers of Chaucer say, that pope Gregory IX. gave orders to the archbishop of Canterbury to summon him, and that when a synod was convened at St. Paul's, a quarrel happened between the bishop of London and the duke of Lancaster, concerning Wickliff's sitting down in their presence.] [Footnote 3: Mr. Camden gives a particular description of this castle.] * * * * * LANGLAND. It has been disputed amongst the critics whether this poet preceded or followed Chaucer. Mrs. Cooper, author of the Muses Library, is of opinion that he preceded Chaucer, and observes that in more places than one that great poet seems to copy Langland; but I am rather inclined to believe that he was cotemporary with him, which accounts for her observation, and my conjecture is strengthened by the consideration of his stile, which is equally unmusical and obsolete with Chaucer's; and tho' Dryden has told us that Chaucer exceeded those who followed him at 50 or 60 years distance, in point of smoothness, yet with great submission to his judgment, I think there is some alteration even in Skelton and Harding, which will appear to the reader to the best advantage by a quotation. Of Langland's family we have no account. Selden in his notes on Draiton's Poly Olbion, quotes him with honour; but he is entirely neglected by Philips and Winstanly, tho' he seems to have been a man of great genius: Besides Chaucer, few poets in that or the subsequent age had more real inspiration or poetical enthusiasm in their compositions. One cannot read the works of this author, or Chaucer, without lamenting the unhappiness of a fluctuating language, that buries in its ruins even genius itself; for like edifices of sand, every breath of time defaces it, and if the form remain, the beauty is lost. The piece from which I shall quote a few lines, is a work of great length and labour, of the allegoric kind; it is animated with a lively and luxurious imagination; pointed with a variety of pungent satire; and dignified with many excellent lessons of morality; but as to the conduct of the whole, it does not appear to be of a piece; every vision seems a distinct rhapsody, and does not carry on either one single action or a series of many; but we ought rather to wonder at its beauties than cavil at its defects; and if the poetical design is broken, the moral is entire, which, is uniformly the advancement of piety, and reformation of the Roman clergy. The piece before us is entitled the Vision of Piers the Plowman, and I shall quote that particular part which seems to have furnished a hint to Milton in his Paradise Lost, b. 2. 1. 475. Kinde Conscience tho' heard, and came out of the planets, And sent forth his sorrioues, fevers, and fluxes, Coughes, and cardicales, crampes and toothaches, Reums, and ragondes, and raynous scalles, Byles, and blothes, and burning agues, Freneses, and foul euyl, foragers of kinde! * * * * * There was harrow! and help! here cometh Kinde With death that's dreadful, to undone us all Age the hoore, he was in vaw-ward And bare the baner before death, by right he it claymed! Kinde came after, with many kene foxes, As pockes, and pestilences, and much purple shent; So Kinde, through corruptions killed full many: Death came driving after, and all to dust pashed Kyngs and bagaars, knights and popes. * * * * * MILTON. ----------Immediately a place Before his eyes appear'd, sad, noisom, dark, A lazar-house it seem'd; wherein were laid Numbers of all diseased: all maladies Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms Of heartsick agony, all fev'rous kinds, Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs, Intestine stone and ulcer, cholic-pangs Demoniac phrenzy, moping melancholy And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence, Dropsies and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums; Dire was the tossing! deep the groans! despair Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch: And over them, triumphant death his dart Shook. P. L. b. xi. 1. 477. * * * * * Sir JOHN GOWER Flourished in the reign of Edward III, and Richard II. He was cotemporary with Chaucer and much esteemed and honoured by him, as appears by his submitting his Troilus and Cressida to his censure. Stow in his Survey of London seems to be of opinion that he was no knight, but only an esquire; however, it is certain he was descended of a knightly family, at Sittenham in Yorkshire. He received his education in London, and studied the law, but being possessed of a great fortune, he dedicated himself more to pleasure and poetry than the bar; tho' he seems not to have made any proficiency in poetry, for his works are rather cool translations, than originals, and are quite destitute of poetical fire. Bale makes him Equitem Auratum & Poetam Laureatum, but Winstanly says that he was neither laureated nor bederated, but only rosated, having a chaplet of four roses about his head in his monumental stone erected in St. Mary Overy's, Southwark: He was held in great esteem by King Richard II, to whom he dedicates a book called Confessio Amantis. That he was a man of no honour appears by his behaviour when the revolution under Henry IV happened in England. He was under the highest obligations to Richard II; he had been preferred, patronized and honoured by him, yet no sooner did that unhappy prince (who owed his misfortunes in a great measure to his generosity and easiness of nature) fall a sacrifice to the policy of Henry and the rage of rebellion, but he worshiped the Rising Sun, he joined his interest with the new king, and tho' he was then stone-blind, and, as might naturally be imagined, too old to desire either riches or power, yet he was capable of the grossest flattery to the reigning prince, and like an ungrateful monster insulted the memory of his murdered sovereign and generous patron. He survived Chaucer two years; Winstanly says, that in his old age he was made a judge, possibly in consequence of his adulation to Henry IV. His death happened in the year 1402, and as he is said to have been born some years before Chaucer, so he must have been near fourscore years of age: He was buried in St. Mary Overy's in Southwark, in the chapel of St. John, where he founded a chauntry, and left money for a mass to be daily sung for him, as also an obit within the church to be kept on Friday after the feast of St. Gregory. He lies under a tomb of stone, with his image also of stone over him, the hair of his head auburn, long to his shoulders, but curling up, and a small forked beard; on his head a chaplet like a coronet of roses; an habit of purple, damasked down to his feet, and a collar of gold about his neck. Under his feet the likeness of three books which he compiled; the first named Speculum Meditantis, written in French; the second Vox Clamantis, in latin; the third Confessio Amantis, in English; this last piece was printed by one Thomas Berthalette, and by him dedicated to King Henry VIII. His Vox clamantis, with his Chronica Tripartita, and other works, both in Latin and French, Stow says he had in his possession, but his Speculum Meditantis he never saw. Besides on the wall where he lies, there were painted three virgins crowned, one of which was named Charity, holding this device, En toy quies fitz de Dieu le pere, Sauve soit, qui gist fours cest pierre. The second writing MERCY, with this device; O bene Jesu fait ta mercy, A'lame, dont la corps gisticy. The third writing PITY, with this decree; Pour ta pitie Jesu regarde, Et met cest a me, en sauve garde. His arms were in a Field Argent, on a Chevron Azure, three Leopards heads or, their tongues Gules, two Angels supporters, and the crest a Talbot. His EPITAPH. Armigeri soltum nihil a modo fert sibi tutum, Reddidit immolutum morti generale tributum, Spiritus exutum se gaudeat esse solutum Est ubi virtutum regnum sine labe est statum. I shall take a quotation from a small piece of his called the Envious Man and the Miser; by which it will appear, that he was not, as Winstanley says, a refiner of our language, but on the other hand, that poetry owes him few or no obligations. Of the Envious MAN and the MISER. Of Jupiter thus I find ywrite, How, whilom, that he woulde wite, Upon the plaintes, which he herde Among the men, how that it farde, As of her wronge condition To do justificacion. And, for that cause, downe he sent An angel, which aboute went, That he the sooth knowe maie. Besides the works already mentioned our poet wrote the following: De Compunctione Cordi, in one book. Chronicon Ricardi secundi. Ad Henricum Quartum, in one book. Ad eundem de Laude Pacis, in one book. De Rege Henrico, quarto, in one book. De Peste Vitiorum, in one book. Scrutinium Lucis, in one book. De Regimine Principum. De Conjugii Dignitate. De Amoris Varietate. * * * * * JOHN LYDGATE, Commonly called the monk of Bury, because a native of that place. He was another disciple and admirer of Chaucer, and it must be owned far excelled his master, in the article of versification. After sometime spent in our English universities, he travelled thro' France and Italy, improving his time to the accomplishment of learning the languages and arts. Pitseus says, he was not only an elegant poet, and an eloquent rhetorician, but also an expert mathematician, an acute philosopher, and no mean divine. His verses were so very smooth, and indeed to a modern ear they appear so, that it was said of him by his contemporaries, that his wit was framed and fashioned by the Muses themselves. After his return from France and Italy, he became tutor to many noblemen's sons, and for his excellent endowments was much esteemed and reverenced by them. He writ a poem called the Life and Death of Hector, from which I shall give a specimen of his versification. I am a monk by my profession In Bury, called John Lydgate by my name, And wear a habit of perfection; (Although my life agree not with the same) That meddle should with things spiritual, As I must needs confess unto you all. But seeing that I did herein proceed At[1] his commands whom I could not refuse, I humbly do beseech all those that read, Or leisure have this story to peruse, If any fault therein they find to be, Or error that committed is by me, That they will of their gentleness take pain, The rather to correct and mend the same, Than rashly to condemn it with disdain, For well I wot it is not without blame, Because I know the verse therein is wrong As being some too short, and some too long. His prologue to the story of Thebes, a tale (as he says) he was constrained to tell, at the command of his host of the Tabard in Southwark, whom he found in Canterbury with the rest of the pilgrims who went to visit St. Thomas's shrine, is remarkably smooth for the age in which he writ. This story was first written in Latin by Chaucer, and translated by Lydgate into English verse, Pitseus says he writ, partly in prose and partly in verse, many exquisite learned books, amongst which are eclogues, odes, and satires. He flourished in the reign of Henry VI. and died in the sixtieth year of his age, ann. 1440. and was buried in his own convent at Bury, with this epitaph, Mortuus sæclo, superis superstes, Hic jacet Lydgate tumulatus urna: Qui suit quondam celebris Britannæ, Fama poesis. Which is thus rendered into English by Winstanly; Dead in this world, living above the sky, Intomb'd within this urn doth Lydgate lie; In former times fam'd for his poetry, All over England. [Footnote 1: K. Henry V.] * * * * * JOHN HARDING. John Harding, the famous English Chronologer, was born (says Bale) in the Northern parts, and probably Yorkshire, being an Esquire of an eminent parentage. He was a man addicted both to arms and arts, in the former of which he seems to have been the greatest proficient: His first military exploit was under Robert Umsreuil, governor of Roxborough Castle, where he distinguished himself against the Scots, before which the King of Scotland was then encamped, and unfortunately lost his life. He afterwards followed the standard of Edward IV. to whose interest both in prosperity and distress he honourably adhered. But what endeared him most to the favour of that Prince, and was indeed the masterpiece of his service, was his adventuring into Scotland, and by his courteous insinuating behaviour, so far ingratiating himself into the favour of their leading men, that he procured the privilege of looking into their records and original letters, a copy of which he brought to England and presented to the King. This successful achievement established him in his Prince's affections, as he was solicitous to know how often the Kings of Scotland had taken oaths of fealty and subjected themselves to the English Monarchs in order to secure their crown. These submissions are warmly disputed by the Scotch historians, who in honour of their country contend that they were only yielded for Cumberland and some parcels of land possessed by them in England south of Tweed; and indeed when the warlike temper and invincible spirit of that nation is considered, it is more than probable, that the Scotch historians in this particular contend only for truth. Our author wrote a chronicle in verse of all our English Kings from Brute to King Edward IV. for which Dr. Fuller and Winstanly bestow great encomiums upon him; but he seems to me to be totally destitute of poetry, both from the wretchedness of his lines, and the unhappiness of his subject, a chronicle being of all others the driest, and the least susceptible of poetical ornament; but let the reader judge by the specimen subjoined. He died about the year 1461, being then very aged. From Gower to Barclay it must be observed, that Kings and Princes were constantly the patrons of poets. On the magnificent houshold of King Richard II, Truly I herd Robert Irelese say, Clark of the Green Cloth, and that to the houshold, Came every day, forth most part alway, Ten thousand folk by his messes told; That followed the house, aye as they wold, And in the kitchen, three hundred scruitours, And in eche office many occupiours, And ladies faire, with their gentlewomen Chamberers also, and launderers, Three hundred of them were occupied then; There was great pride among the officers, And of all men far passing their compeers, Of rich arraye, and much more costous, Then was before, or sith, and more precious. * * * * * JOHN SKELTON Was born of an ancient family in Cumberland, he received his education at Oxford, and entering into holy orders was made rector of Dysso in Norfolk in the reign of Henry VIII. tho' more probably he appeared first in that of Henry VII. and may be said to be the growth of that time. That he was a learned man Erasmus has confirmed, who in his letter to King Henry VIII. stileth him, Britanicarum Literarum Lumen & Decus: Tho' his stile is rambling and loose, yet he was not without invention, and his satire is strongly pointed. He lived near fourscore years after Chaucer, but seems to have made but little improvement in versification. He wrote some bitter satires against the clergy, and particularly, his keen reflections on Cardinal Wolsey drew on him such severe prosecutions, that he was obliged to fly for sanctuary to Westminster, under the protection of Islip the Abbot, where he died in the year 1529. It appears by his poem entitled, The Crown of Laurel, that his performances were numerous, and such as remain are chiefly these, Philip Sparrow, Speak Parrot, the Death of King Edward IV, a Treatise of the Scots, Ware the Hawk, the Tunning of Elianer Rumpkin. In these pieces there is a very rich vein of wit and humour, tho' much debased by the rust of the age he lived in. His satires are remarkably broad, open and ill-bred; the verse cramped by a very short measure, and encumbered with such a profusion of rhimes, as makes the poet appear almost as ridiculous as those he endeavours to expose. In his more serious pieces he is not guilty of this absurdity; and confines himself to a regular stanza, according to the then reigning mode. His Bouge of Court is a poem of some merit: it abounds with wit and imagination, and shews him well versed in human nature, and the insinuating manners of a court. The allegorical characters are finely described, and well sustained; the fabric of the whole I believe entirely his own, and not improbably may have the honour of furnishing a hint even to the inimitable Spencer. How or by whose interest he was made Laureat, or whether it was a title he assumed to himself, cannot be determined, neither is his principal patron any where named; but if his poem of the Crown Lawrel before mentioned has any covert meaning, he had the happiness of having the Ladies for his friends, and the countess of Surry, the lady Elizabeth Howard, and many others united their services in his favour. When on his death-bed he was charged with having children by a mistress he kept, he protected that in his conscience he kept her in the notion of a wife: And such was his cowardice, that he chose rather to confess adultery than own marriage, a crime at that time more subjected to punishment than the other. The PROLOGUE to the BOUGE COURTS. In autumne, whan the sunne in vyrgyne, By radyante hete, enryped hath our corne, When Luna, full of mucabylyte, As Emperes the dyademe hath worne Of our Pole artyke, smylynge half in scorne, At our foly, and our unstedfastnesse, The tyme when Mars to warre hym did dres I, callynge to mynde the great auctoryte Of poetes olde, whiche full craftely, Under as couerte termes as coulde be, Can touche a trouthe, and cloke subtylly With fresh Utterance; full sentcyously, Dyverse in style: some spared not vyce to wryte, Some of mortalitie nobly dyd endyte. His other works, as many as could be collected are chiefly these: Meditations on St. Ann. --------on the Virgin of Kent. Sonnets on Dame Anne, Elyner Rummin, the famous alewife of England, often printed, the last edition 1624. The Peregrinations of human Life. Solitary Sonnets. The Art of dying well. --------Speaking eloquently. Manners of the Court. Invective against William Lyle the Grammarian. Epitaphs on Kings, Princes, and Nobles, Collin Clout. Poetical Fancies and Satires. Verses on the Death of Arthur Prince of Wales. * * * * * ALEXANDER BARCLAY. He was an author of some eminence and merit, tho' there are few things preserved concerning him, and he has been neglected by almost all the biographers of the poets. That excellent writer Mrs. Cooper seems to have a pretty high opinion of his abilities; it is certain that he very considerably refined the language, and his verses are much smoother than those of Harding, who wrote but a few years before him. He stiles himself Priest, and Chaplain in the College of St. Mary, Otory, in the county of Devon, and afterwards Monk of Ely. His principal work is a translation of a satirical piece, written originally in high Dutch, and entitled the Ship of Fools: It exposes the characters, vices, and follies of all degrees of men, and tho' much inferior in its execution to the Canterbury Tales, has yet considerable merit, especially when it is considered how barren and unpolite the age was in which he flourished. In the prologue to this he makes an apology for his youth, and it appears that the whole was finished Anno Dom.-1508, which was about the close of the reign of Henry VII. In elegancy of manners he has the advantage of all his predecessors, as is particularly remarkable in his address to Sir Giles Alington, his patron. The poet was now grown old, and the knight desiring him to abridge and improve Gower's Confessio Amantis, he declines it in the politest manner, on account of his age, profession, and infirmities; 'but tho' love is an improper subject, 'says he, I am still an admirer of the sex, and shall 'introduce to the honour of your acquaintance, 'four of the finest ladies that nature ever framed, 'Prudence, Temperance, Justice, and Magnanimity;' the whole of the address is exceeding courtly, and from this I shall quote a few lines, which will both illustrate his politeness and versification To you these accorde; these unto you are due, Of you late proceeding as of their head fountayne; Your life as example in writing I ensue, For, more then my writing within it can contayne: Your manners performeth and doth there attayne: So touching these vertues, ye have in your living More than this my meter conteyneth in writing. My dities indited may counsell many one, But not you, your maners surmounteth my doctrine Wherefore, I regard you, and your maners all one, After whose living my processes, I combine: So other men instrusting, I must to you encline Conforming my process, as much as I am able, To your sad behaviour and maners commendable. He was author of the following pieces. Lives of several of the Saints. Salust's History of the Jugurthiam war translatcd into English. The Castle of Labour, translated from the French into English. Bale gives this author but an indifferent character as to his morals; he is said to have intrigued with women, notwithstanding his clerical profession: It is certain he was a gay courtly man, and perhaps, tho' he espoused the Church in his profession, he held their celebacy and pretended chastity in contempt, and being a man of wit, indulged himself in those pleasures, which seem to be hereditary to the poets. * * * * * Sir THOMAS MORE. Tho' poetry is none of the excellencies in which this great man was distinguished, yet as he wrote some verses with tolerable spirit, and was in almost every other respect one of the foremost geniusses our nation ever produced, I imagine a short account of his life here will not be disagreable to the readers, especially as all Biographers of the Poets before me have taken notice of him, and ranked him amongst the number of Bards. Sir Thomas More was born in Milk-street, London, A.D. 1480. He was son to Sir John More, Knight, and one of the Justices of the King's-Bench, a man held in the highest esteem at that time for his knowledge in the law and his integrity in the administration of justice. It was objected by the enemies of Sir Thomas, that his birth was obscure, and his family mean; but far otherwise was the real case. Judge More bore arms from his birth, having his coat of arms quartered, which proves his having come to his inheritance by descent. His mother was likewise a woman of family, and of an extraordinary virtue. Doctor Clement relates from the authority of our author himself, a vision which his mother had, the next night after her marriage. She thought she saw in her sleep, as it were engraven in her wedding ring, the number and countenances of all the children she was to have, of whom the face of one was so dark and obscure, that she could not well discern it, and indeed she afterwards suffered an untimely delivery of one of them: the face of the other she beheld shining most gloriously, by which the future fame of Sir Thomas was pre-signified. She also bore two daughters. But tho' this story is told with warmth by his great grandson, who writes his life, yet, as he was a Roman Catholic, and and disposed to a superstitious belief in miracles and visions, there is no great stress to be laid upon it. Lady More might perhaps communicate this vision to her son, and he have embraced the belief of it; but it seems to have too little authority, to deserve credit from posterity. Another miracle is related by Stapleton, which is said to have happened in the infancy of More. His nurse one day crossing a river, and her horse stepping into a deep place, exposed both her and the child to great danger. She being more anxious for the safety of the child than her own, threw him over a hedge into a field adjoining, and escaping likewise from the imminent danger, when she came to take him up, she found him quite unhurt and smiling sweetly upon her. He was put to the free-school in London called St. Anthony's, under the care of the famous Nicholas Holt, and when he had with great rapidity acquired a knowledge of his grammar rules, he was placed by his father's interest under the great Cardinal Merton, archbishop of Canterbury, and Lord High Chancellor, whose gravity and learning, generosity and tenderness, allured all men to love and honour him. To him More dedicated his Utopia, which of all his works is unexceptionably the most masterly and finished. The Cardinal finding himself too much incumbered with business, and hurried with state affairs to superintend his education, placed him in Canterbury College in Oxford, whereby his assiduous application to books, his extraordinary temperance and vivacity of wit, he acquired the first character among the students, and then gave proofs of a genius that would one day make a great blaze in the world. When he was but eighteen years old such was the force of his understanding, he wrote many epigrams which were highly esteemed by men of eminence, as well abroad as at home. Beatus Rhenanus in his epistle to Bilibalus Pitchemerus, passes great encomiums upon them, as also Leodgarius à Quercu, public reader of humanity at Paris. One Brixius a German, who envied the reputation of this young epigramatist, wrote a book against these epigrams, under the title of Antimorus, which had no other effect than drawing Erasmus into the field, who celebrated and honoured More; whose high patronage was the greatest compliment the most ambitious writer could expect, so that the friendship of Erasmus was cheaply purchased by the malevolence of a thousand such critics as Brixius. About the same time of life he translated for his exercise one of Lucian's orations out of Greek into Latin, which he calls his First Fruits of the Greek Tongue; and adds another oration of his own to answer that of Lucian; for as he had defended him who had slain a tyrant, he opposed against it another with such forcible arguments, that it seems not to be inferior to Lucian's, either in invention or eloquence: When he was about twenty years old, finding his appetites and passions very predominant. He struggled with all the heroism of a christian against their influence, and inflicted severe whippings and austere mortifications upon himself every friday and on high fasting days, left his sensuality would grow too insolent, and at last subdue his reason. But notwithstanding all his efforts, finding his lusts ready to endanger his soul, he wisely determined to marry, a remedy much more natural than personal inflictions; and as a pattern of life, he proposed the example of a singular lay-man, John Picas Earl of Mirandula, who was a man famous for chastity, virtue, and learning. He translated this nobleman's life, as also many of his letters, and his twelve receipts of good life, which are extant in the beginning of his English works. For this end he also wrote a treatise of the four last things, which he did not quite finish, being called to other studies. At his meals he was very abstemious, nor ever eat but of one dish, which was most commonly powdered beef, or some such saltmeat. In his youth he abstained wholly from wine; and as he was temperate in his diet, so was he heedless and negligent in his apparel. Being once told by his secretary Mr. Harris, that his shoes were all torn, he bad him tell his man to buy him new ones, whose business it was to take care of his cloaths, whom for this cause he called his tutor. His first wife's name was Jane Cole, descended of a genteel family, who bore him four children, and upon her decease, which in not many years happened, he married a second time a widow, one Mrs. Alice Middleton, by whom he had no children. This he says he did not to indulge his passions (for he observes that it it harder to keep chastity in wedlock than in a single life,) but to take care of his children and houshold affairs. Upon what principle this observation is founded, I cannot well conceive, and wish Sir Thomas had given his reasons why it is harder to be chaste in a married than single life. This wife was a worldly minded woman, had a very indifferent person, was advanced in years, and possessed no very agreeable temper. Much about this time he became obnoxious to Henry VII for opposing his exactions upon the people. Henry was a covetous mean prince, and entirely devoted to the council of Emson and Dudley, who then were very justly reckoned the caterpillars of the state. The King demanded a large subsidy to bestow on his eldest daughter, who was then about to be married to James IV. of Scotland. Sir Thomas being one of the burgesses, so influenced the lower house by the force of his arguments, (who were cowardly enough before not to oppose the King) that they refused the demands, upon which Mr. Tiler of the King's Privy-Chambers went presently to his Majesty, and told him that More had disappointed all their expectations, which circumstance not a little enraged him against More. Upon this Henry was base enough to pick a quarrel without a cause against Sir John More, his venerable father, and in revenge to the son, clapt him in the Tower, keeping him there prisoner till he had forced him to pay one hundred pounds of a fine, for no offence. King Henry soon after dying, his son who began his reign with some popular acts, tho' afterwards he degenerated into a monstrous tyrant, caused Dudley and Emson to be impeached of high treason for giving bad advice to his father; and however illegal such an arraignment might be, yet they met the just fate of oppressors and traitors to their country. About the year 1516, he composed his famous book called the Utopia, and gained by it great reputation. Soon after it was published, it was translated both into French and Italian, Dutch and English. Dr. Stapleton enumerates the opinions of a great many learned men in its favour. This work tho' not writ in verse, yet in regard of the fancy and invention employed in composing it, may well enough pass for an allegorical poem. It contains the idea of a compleat Commonwealth in an imaginary island, (pretended to be lately discovered in America) and that so well counterfeited, that many upon reading it, mistook it for a real truth, in so much (says Winstanly) that some learned men, as Budeus, Johannes Plaudanus, out of a principle of fervent zeal, wished that some excellent divines might be sent hither to preach Christ's Gospel. Much about the same time he wrote the history of Richard III. which was likewise held in esteem; these works were undertaken when he was discharged from the business of the state. Roper, in his life of our author, relates that upon an occasion in which King Henry VIII. and the Pope were parties in a cause tryed in the Star Chamber, Sir Thomas most remarkably distinguished himself, and became so great a favourite with that discerning monarch, that he could no longer forbear calling him into his service. A ship of the Pope's, by the violence of a storm was driven into Southampton, which the King claimed as a forfeiture; when the day of hearing came on before the Lord High Chancellor, and other Judges, More argued so forcibly in favour of the Pope, that tho' the Judges had resolved to give it for the King, yet they altered their opinion, and confirmed the Pope's right. In a short time after this, he was created a Knight, and after the death of Mr. Weston, he was made Treasurer of the Exchequer, and one of the Privy Council. He was now Speaker of the House of Commons, and thus exalted in dignity, the eyes of the nation were fixed upon him. Wolsey, who then governed the realm, found himself much grieved by the Burgesses, because all their transactions were so soon made public, and wanting a fresh subsidy, came to the house in person to complain of this usage. When the burgesses heard of his coming, it was long debated whether they should admit him or no, and Sir Thomas strongly urged that he should be admitted, for this reason, that if he shall find fault with the spreading of our secrets, (says he) we may lay the blame upon those his Grace brought with him. The proud Churchman having entered the House, made a long speech for granting the subsidy, and asked several of the Members opinion concerning it; they were all so confounded as not to be able to answer, and the House at last resolved that their Speaker should reply for them. Upon this Sir Thomas shewed that the cardinal's coming into the House was unprecedented, illegal, and a daring insult on the liberty of the burgesses, and that the subsidy demanded was unnecessary; upon which Wolsey suddenly departed in a rage, and ever after entertained suspicions of More, and became jealous of his great abilities. Our author's fame was not confined to England only; all the scholars and statesmen in every country in Europe had heard of, and corresponded with him, but of all strangers he had a peculiar esteem for Erasmus, who took a journey into England in order to converse with him, and enter more minutely into the merit of one whose learning he had so high an opinion of. They agreed to meet first at my Lord Mayor's table, and as they were personally unknown, to make the experiment whether they could discover one another by conversation. They met accordingly, and remained some hours undiscovered; at last an argument was started in which both engaged with great keenness, Erasmus designedly defended the unpopular side, but finding himself so strongly pressed, that he could hold it no longer, he broke out in an extasy, aut tu es Morus, aut Nullus. Upon which More replied, aut tu es Erasmus, aut Diabolus, as at that time Erasmus was striving to defend very impious propositions, in order to put his antagonist's strength to the proof. When he lived in the city of London as a justice of peace, he used to attend the sessions at Newgate. There was then upon the bench a venerable old judge, who was very severe against those who had their purses cut; (as the phrase then was) and told them that it was by their negligence that so many purse-cutters came before him. Sir Thomas, who was a great lover of a joke, contrived to have this judge's purse cut from him in the sessions house by a felon. When the felon was arraigned, he told the court, that if he were permitted to speak to one of the judges in private, he could clear his innocence to them; they indulged him in his request, and he made choice of this old judge, and while he whispered something in his ear, he slily cut away his purse; the judge returned to the bench, and the felon made a sign to Sir Thomas of his having accomplished the scheme. Sir Thomas moved the court, that each of them should bestow some alms on a needy person who then stood falsly accused, and was a real object of compassion. The motion was agreed to, and when the old man came to put his hand in his purse, he was astonished to find it gone, and told the court, that he was sure he had it when he came there. What, says More in a pleasant manner, do you charge any of us with felony? the judge beginning to be angry, our facetious author desired the felon, to return his purse, and advised the old man never to be so bitter against innocent men's negligence, when he himself could not keep his purse safe in that open assembly. Although he lived a courtier, and was much concerned in business, yet he never neglected his family at home, but instructed his daughters in all useful learning, and conversed familiarly with them; he was remarkably fond of his eldest daughter Margaret, as she had a greater capacity, and sprightlier genius than the rest. His children often used to translate out of Latin, into English, and out of English into Latin, and Dr. Stapleton observes, that he hath seen an apology of Sir Thomas More's to the university of Oxford, in defence of learning, turned into Latin by one of his daughters, and translated again into English by another. Margaret, whose wit was superior to the rest, writ a treatise on the four last things, which Sir Thomas declared was finer than his; she composed several Orations, especially one in answer to Quintilian, defending a rich man, which he accused for having poisoned a poor man's bees with certain venomous flowers in his garden, so eloquent and forcible that it may justly rival Quintilian himself. She also translated Eusebius out of Greek. Tho' Sir Thomas was thus involved in public affairs and domestic concerns, yet he found leisure to write many books, either against Heretics, or of a devotional cast; for at that time, what he reckoned Heresy began to diffuse itself over all Germany and Flanders. He built a chapel in his parish church at Chelsea, which he constantly attended in the morning; so steady was he in his devotion. He hired a house also for many aged people in the parish, which he turned into an hospital, and supported at his own expence. He at last rose to the dignity of Lord High Chancellor upon the fall of Wolsey, and while he sat as the Chief Judge of the nation in one court, his father, aged upwards of 90, sat as Chief Justice in the King's Bench; a circumstance which never before, nor ever since happened, of a father being a Judge, and his son a Chancellor at the same time. Every day, as the Chancellor went to the Bench, he kneeled before his father, and asked his blessing. The people soon found the difference between the intolerable pride of Wolsey, and the gentleness and humility of More; he permitted every one to approach him without reserve; he dispatched business with great assiduity, and so cleared the court of tedious suits, that he more than once came to the Bench, and calling for a cause, there was none to try. As no dignity could inspire him with pride, so no application to the most important affairs could divert him from sallies of humour, and a pleasantry of behaviour. It once happened, that a beggar's little dog which she had lost, was presented to lady More, of which me was very fond; but at last the beggar getting notice where the dog was, she came to complain to Sir Thomas as he was sitting in his hall, that his lady withheld her dog from her; presently my lady was sent for, and the dog brought with her, which he taking in his hand, caused his wife to stand at the upper end of the hall, and the beggar at the other; he then bad each of them call the dog, which when they did, the dog went presently to the beggar, forsaking my lady. When he saw this, he bad my lady be contented for it was none of hers. My Lord Chancellor then gave the woman a piece of gold, which would have bought ten such dogs, and bid her be careful of it for the future. A friend of his had spent much time in composing a book, and went to Sir Thomas to have his opinion of it; he desired him to turn it into rhime; which at the expence of many years labour he at last accomplished, and came again to have his opinion: Yea marry, says he, now it is somewhat; now it is rhime, but before it was neither rhime nor reason. But fortune, which had been long propitious to our author, began now to change sides, and try him as well with affliction as prosperity, in both which characters, his behaviour, integrity and courage were irreproachable. The amorous monarch King Henry VIII, at last obtained from his Parliament and Council a divorce from his lawful wife, and being passionately fond of Anna Bullen, he married her, and declared her Queen of England: This marriage Sir Thomas had always opposed, and held it unlawful for his Sovereign to have another wife during his first wife's life. The Queen who was of a petulant disposition, and elated with her new dignity could not withhold her resentment against him, but animated all her relations, and the parties inclined to the protestant interest, to persecute him with rigour. Not long after the divorce, the Council gave authority for the publication of a book, in which the reasons why this divorce was granted were laid down; an answer was soon published, with which Sir Thomas More was charged as the author, of which report however he sufficiently cleared himself in a letter to Mr. Cromwel, then secretary, and a great favourite with King Henry. In the parliament held in the year 1534, there was an oath, framed, called the Oath of Supremacy, in which all English subjects should renounce the pope's authority, and swear also to the succession of Queen Ann's children, and lady Mary illegitimate. This oath was given to all the clergy as well bishops as priests, but no lay-man except Sir Thomas More was desired to take it; he was summoned to appear at Lambeth before archbishop Cranmer, the Lord Chancellor Audley, Mr. Secretary Cromwel, and the abbot of Westminster, appointed commissioners by the King to tender this oath. More absolutely refused to take it, from a principle of conscience: and after various expostulations he was ordered into the custody of the abbot of Westminster; and soon after he was sent to the tower, and the lieutenant had strict charge to prevent his writing, or holding conversation with any persons but those sent by the secretary. The Lord Chancellor, duke of Norfolk, and Mr. Cromwel paid him frequent visits, and pressed: him to take the oath, which he still refused. About a year after his commitment to the tower, by the importunity of Queen Ann, he was arraign'd at the King's Bench Bar, for obstinately refusing, the oath of supremacy, and wilfully and obstinately opposing the King's second marriage. He went to the court leaning on his staff, because he had been much weakened by his imprisonment; his judges were, Audley, Lord Chancellor; Fitz James, Chief Justice; Sir John Baldwin, Sir Richard Leister, Sir John Port, Sir John Spelman, Sir Walter Luke, Sir Anthony Fitzherbert: The King's attorney opened against him with a very opprobrious libel; the chief evidence were Mr. secretary Cromwell, to whom he had uttered some disrespectful expressions of the King's authority, the duke of Suffolk and earl of Wiltshire: He replied to the accusation with great composure and strength of argument; and when one Mr. Rich swore against him, he boldly asserted that Rich was perjured, and wished he might never see God's Countenance in mercy, if what he asserted was not true; besides that, Rich added to perjury, the baseness of betraying private conversation. But notwithstanding his defence, the jury, who were composed of creatures of the court, brought in their verdict, guilty; and he had sentence of death pronounced against him, which he heard without emotion. He then made a long speech addressed to the Chancellor, and observed to Mr. Rich, that he was more sorry for his perjury, than for the sentence that had just been pronounced against him: Rich had been sent by the secretary to take away all Sir Thomas's books and papers, during which time some conversation passed, which Rich misrepresented in order to advance himself in the King's favour. He was ordered again to the Tower till the King's pleasure should be known. When he landed at Tower Wharf, his favourite daughter Margaret, who had not seen him since his confinement, came there to take her last adieu, and forgetting the bashfulness and delicacy of her sex, press'd thro' the multitude, threw her arms about her father's neck and often embraced him; they had but little conversation, and their parting was so moving, that all the spectators dissolved in tears, and applauded the affection and tenderness of the lady which could enable her to take her farewel under so many disadvantages. Some time after his condemnation Mr. secretary Cromwel waited on Sir Thomas, and entreated him to accept his Majesty's pardon, upon the condition of taking the oath, and expressed great tenderness towards him. This visit and seeming friendship of Cromwel not a little affected him, he revolved in his mind the proposal which he made, and as his fate was approaching, perhaps his resolution staggered a little, but calling to mind his former vows, his conscience, his honour, he recovered himself again, and stood firmly prepared for his fall. Upon this occasion it was that he wrote the following verses, mentioned both by Mr. Roper and Mr. Hoddeson, which I shall here insert as a specimen of his poetry. Ey flattering fortune, loke thou never so fayre, Or never so pleasantly begin to smile, As tho' thou would'st my ruine all repayre, During my life thou shalt not me begile, Trust shall I God to entre in a while His haven of heaven sure and uniforme, Ever after thy calme loke I for a storme. On the 6th of July, 1534, in the 54th year of his age, the sentence of condemnation was executed upon him on Tower Hill, by severing his head from his body. As he was carried to the scaffold, some low people hired by his enemies cruelly insulted him, to whom he gave cool and effectual answers. Being now under the scaffold, he looked at it with great calmness, and observing it too slenderly built, he said merrily to Mr. Lieutenant, "I pray you, Sir, see me safe up, and for my coming down let me shift for myself." When he mounted on the scaffold, he threw his eyes round the multitude, desired them to pray for him, and to bear him witness that he died for the holy catholic church, a faithful servant both to God and the King. His gaiety and propension to jesting did not forsake him in his last moments; when he laid his head upon the block, he bad the executioner stay till he had removed aside his beard, saying, "that that had never committed treason." When the executioner asked his forgiveness, he kissed him and said, "thou wilt do me this day a greater benefit than any mortal man can be able to give me; pluck up thy spirit man, and be not afraid to do thy office, my neck is very short, take heed therefore that thou strike not awry for saving thy honesty." Thus by an honest but mistaken zeal fell Sir Thomas More; a man of wit and parts superior to all his contemporaries of integrity unshaken; of a generous and noble disposition; of a courage intrepid; a great scholar and a devout christian. Wood says that he was but an indifferent divine, and that he was very ignorant of antiquity and the learning of the fathers, but he allows him to be a man of a pleasant and fruitful imagination, and a statesman beyond any that succeeded him. His works besides those we have already mentioned are chiefly these, A Merry Jest, How a Serjeant will learn to play a Friar, written in verse. Verses on the hanging of a Painted Cloth in his Father's House. Lamentations on Elizabeth Queen of Henry VII, 1503. Verses on the Book of Fortune. Dialogue concerning Heresies. Supplication of Souls, writ in answer to a book called the Supplication of Beggars. A Confutation of Tindal's Answer to More's Dialogues, printed 1533. The Debellation of Salem and Bizance, 1533. In answer to another book of Tindal's. Treatise on the Passion of Chrift. ----Godly Meditation. ------Devout Prayer. Letters while in the Tower, all printed 1557. Progymnasmata. Responsio ad Convitia Martini Lutheri, 1523. Quod pro Fide Mors fugienda non est, written in the Tower 1534. Precationes ex Psalmis. * * * * * HENRY HOWARD, Earl of SURRY Was son of Thomas, duke of Norfolk, and Elizabeth, daughter of Edward, duke of Buckingham. The father of our author held the highest places under King Henry VIII, and had so faithfully and bravely served him, that the nobility grew jealous of his influence, and by their united efforts produced his ruin. After many excellent services in France, he was constituted Lord Treasurer, and made General of the King's whole army design'd to march against the Scots: At the battle of Flodden, in which the Scots were routed and their Sovereign slain, the earl of Surry remarkably distinguished himself; he commanded under his father, and as soon as the jealousy of the Peers had fastened upon the one, they took care that the other should not escape. He was the first nobleman (says Camden) that illustrated his high birth with the beauty of learning; he was acknowledged by all, to be the gallantest man, the politest lover, and the most compleat gentleman of his time. He received his education at Windsor with a natural son of Henry VIII, and became first eminent for his devotion to the beautiful Geraldine, Maid of Honour to Queen Catherine; the first inspired him with poetry, and that poetry has conferred immortality on her: So transported was he with his passion, that he made a tour to the most elegant courts in Europe, to maintain her peerless beauty against all opposers, and every where made good his challenge with honour. In his way to Florence, he touched at the emperor's court, where he became acquainted with the learned Cornelius Agrippa, so famous for magic, who shewed him the image of his Geraldine in a glass, sick, weeping on her bed, and melting into devotion for the absence of her lord; upon sight of this he wrote the following passionate sonnet, which for the smoothness of the verse, the tenderness of expression, and the heartfelt sentiments might do honour to the politest, easiest, most passionate poet in our own times. All soul, no earthly flesh, why dost thou fade? All gold; no earthly dross, why look'st thou pale? Sickness how darest thou one so fair invade? Too base infirmity to work her bale. Heaven be distempered since she grieved pines, Never be dry, these my sad plaintive lines. Pearch thou my spirit on her silver breasts, And with their pains redoubled musick beatings, Let them toss thee to world where all toil rests, Where bliss is subject to no fears defeatings, Her praise I tune, whose tongue doth tune the spheres, And gets new muses in her hearers ears. Stars fall to fetch fresh light from the rich eyes, Her bright brow drives the fun to clouds beneath. Her hair reflex with red strakes paints the skyes, Sweet morn and evening dew flows from her breath: Phoebe rules tides, she my tears tides forth draws. In her sick bed love fits, and maketh laws. Her dainty lips tinsel her silk-soft sheets, Her rose-crown'd cheeks eclipse my dazled sight. O glass with too much joy, my thoughts thou greets, And yet thou shewest me day but by twilight. I'll kiss thee for the kindness I have felt. Her lips one kiss would into nectar melt. From the emperor's court he went to the city of Florence, the pride and glory of Italy, in which city his beauteous Geraldine was born, and he had no rest till he found out the house of her nativity, and being shewn the room where his charmer first drew air, he was transported with extasy of joy, his tongue overflowed with her praises, and Winstanly says he eclipsed the sun and moon with comparisons of his Geraldine, and wrote another sonnet in praise of the chamber that was honoured (as he says) with her radiant conception; this sonnet is equally amorous and spirited with that already inserted. In the duke of Florence's court he published a proud challenge against all comers, whether Christians, Turks, Canibals, Jews, or Saracens, in defence of his mistress's beauty; this challenge was the better received there, as she whom he defended was born in that city: The duke of Florence however sent for him, and enquired of his fortune, and the intent of his coming to his court; of which when the earl informed him, he granted to all countries whatever, as well enemies and outlaws, as friends and allies, free access into his dominions unmolested till the trial were ended. In the course of his combats for his mistress, his valour and skill in arms so engaged the Duke to his interest, that he offered him the highest preferments if he would remain at his court. This proposal he rejected, as he intended to proceed thro' all the chief cities in Italy; but his design was frustrated by letters sent by King Henry VIII. which commanded his speedy return into England. In the year 1544, upon the expedition to Boulogne in France, he was made field marshal of the English army, and after taking that town, being then knight of the garter, he was in the beginning of September 1545 constituted the King's lieutenant, and captain-general of all his army within the town and county of Boulogne[1]. During his command there in 1546, hearing that a convoy of provisions of the enemy was coming to the fort at Oultreaw, he resolved to intercept it; but the Rhinegrave, with four thousand Lanskinets, together with a considerable number of French under the de Bieg, making an obstinate defence, the English were routed, Sir Edward Poynings with divers other gentlemen killed, and the Earl himself obliged to fly, tho' it appears, by a letter to the King dated January 8, 1548, that this advantage cost the enemy a great number of men. But the King was so highly displeased with this ill success, that from that time he contracted a prejudice against the Earl, and soon after removed him from his command, and appointed the Earl of Hertford to succeed him. Upon which Sir William Page wrote to the Earl of Surry to advise him to procure some eminent post under the Earl of Hertford, that he might not be unprovided in the town and field. The Earl being desirous in the mean time to regain his former favour with the King, skirmished with the French and routed them, but soon after writing over to the King's council that as the enemy had cast much larger cannon than had been yet seen, with which they imagined they should soon demolish Boulogne, it deserved consideration whether the lower town should stand, as not being defensible; the council ordered him to return to England in order to represent his sentiments more fully upon those points, and the Earl of Hertford was immediately sent over in his room. This exasperating the Earl of Surry, occasioned him to let fall some expressions which favoured of revenge and dislike to the King, and a hatred of his Councellors, and was probably one cause of his ruin, which soon after ensued. The Duke of Norfolk, who discovered the growing power of the Seymours, and the influence they were likely to bear in the next reign, was for making an alliance with them; he therefore pressed his son to marry the Earl of Hertford's daughter, and the Dutchess of Richmond, his own daughter, to marry Sir Thomas Seymour; but neither of these matches were effected, and the Seymours and Howards then became open enemies. The Seymours failed not to inspire the King with an aversion to the Norfolk-family, whose power they dreaded, and represented the ambitious views of the Earl of Surry; but to return to him as a poet. That celebrated antiquary, John Leland, speaking of Sir Thomas Wyat the Elder, calls the Earl, 'The conscript enrolled heir of the said Sir Thomas, in his learning and other excellent qualities.' The author of a treatise, entitled, 'The Art of English Poetry, alledges, that Sir Thomas Wyat the Elder, and Henry Earl of Surry were the two chieftains, who having travelled into Italy, and there tasted the sweet and stately measures and stile of the Italian poetry, greatly polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar poetry, from what it had been before, and therefore may be justly called, The Reformers of our English Poetry and Stile.' Our noble author added to learning, wisdom, fortitude, munificence, and affability. Yet all these excellencies of character, could not prevent his falling a sacrifice to the jealousy of the Peers, or as some say to the resentment of the King for his attempting to wed the Princess Mary; and by these means to raise himself to the Crown. History is silent as to the reasons why the gallantries he performed for Geraldine did not issue in a marriage. Perhaps the reputation he acquired by arms, might have enflamed his soul with a love of glory; and this conjecture seems the more probable, as we find his ambition prompting him to make love to the Princess from no other views but those of dominion. He married Frances, daughter to John Earl of Oxford, after whose death he addressed Princess Mary, and his first marriage, perhaps, might be owing to a desire of strengthening his interest, and advancing his power in the realm. The adding some part of the royal arms to his own, was also made a pretence against him, but in this he was justified by the heralds, as he proved that a power of doing so was granted by some preceeding Monarchs to his forefathers. Upon the strength of these suspicions and surmises, he and his father were committed to the Tower of London, the one by water, the other by land, so that they knew not of each other's apprehension. The fifteenth day of January next following he was arraigned at Guildhall, where he was found guilty by twelve common jurymen, and received judgment. About nine days before the death of the King he lost his head on Tower-Hill; and had not that Monarch's decease so soon ensued, the fate of his father was likewise determined to have been the same with his sons. It is said, when a courtier asked King Henry why he was so zealous in taking off Surry; "I observed him, says he, an enterprizing youth; his spirit was too great to brook subjection, and 'tho' I can manage him, yet no successor of mine will ever be able to do so; for which reason I have dispatched him in my own time." He was first interred in the chapel of the Tower, and afterwards in the reign of King James, his remains were removed to Farmingam in Suffolk, by his second son Henry Earl of Northampton, with this epitaph. Henrico Howardo, Thomæ secundi Ducis Norfolciæ filio primogenito. Thomæ tertii Patri, Comiti Surriæ, & Georgiani Ordinis Equiti Aurato, immature Anno Salutis 1546 abrepto. Et Franciscæ Uxoris ejus, filiæ Johannis Comitis Oxoniæ. Henricus Howardus Comes Northamptoniæ filius secundo genitus, hoc supremum pietatis in parentes monumentum posuit, A.D. 1614. Upon the accession of Queen Mary the attainder was taken off his father, which circumstance has furnished some people with an opportunity to say, that the princess was fond of, and would have married, the Earl of Surry. I shall transcribe the act of repeal as I find it in Collins's Peerage of England, which has something singular enough in it. 'That there was no special matter in the Act of Attainder, but only general words of treason and conspiracy: and that out of their care for the preservation of the King and the Prince they passed it, and this Act of Repeal further sets forth, that the only thing of which he stood charged, was for bearing of arms, which he and his ancestors had born within and without the kingdom in the King's presence, and sight of his progenitors, as they might lawfully bear and give, as by good and substantial matter of record it did appear. It also added, that the King died after the date of the commission; likewise that he only empowered them to give his consent; but did not give it himself; and that it did not appear by any record that they gave it. Moreover, that the King did not sign the commission with his own hand, his stamp being only set to it, and that not to the upper part, but to the nether part of it, contrary to the King's custom.' Besides the amorous and other poetical pieces of this noble author, he translated Virgil's �neid, and rendered (says Wood) the first, second, and third book almost word for word:--All the Biographers of the poets have been lavish, and very justly, in his praise; he merits the highest encomiums as the refiner of our language, and challenges the gratitude and esteem of every man of literature, for the generous assistance he afforded it in its infancy, and his ready and liberal patronage to all men of merit in his time. [Footnote 1: Dugdale's Baronage.] * * * * * Sir THOMAS WYAT. Was distinguished by the appellation of the Elder, as there was one of the same name who raised a rebellion in the time of Queen Mary. He was son to Henry Wyat of Alington-castle in Kent. He received the rudiments of his education at Cambridge, and was afterwards placed at Oxford to finish it. He was in great esteem with King Henry VIII. on account of his wit and Love Elegies, pieces of poetry in which he remarkably succeeded. The affair of Anne Bullen came on, when he made some opposition to the King's passion for her, that was likely to prove fatal to him; but by his prudent behaviour, and retracting what he had formerly advanced, he was restored again to his royal patronage. He was cotemporary with the Earl of Surry, who held him in high esteem. He travelled into foreign parts, and as we have observed in the Earl of Surry's life, he added something towards refining the English stile, and polishing our numbers, tho' he seems not to have done so much in that way as his lordship. Pitts and Bale have entirely neglected him, yet for his translation of David's Psalms into English metre and other poetical works, Leland scruples not to compare him with Dante and Petrarch, by giving him this ample commendation. Let Florence fair her Dantes justly boast, And royal Rome, her Petrarchs numbered feet, In English Wyat both of them doth coast: In whom all graceful eloquence doth meet. Leland published all his works under the title of Nænia. Some of his Biographers (Mrs. Cooper and Winstanley) say that he died of the plague as he was going on an embassy to the Emperor Charles V. but Wood asserts, that he was only sent to Falmo by the King to meet the Spanish ambassador on the road, and conduct him to the court, which it seems demanded very great expedition; that by over-fatiguing himself, he was thrown into a fever, and in the thirty-eighth year of his age died in a little country-town in England, greatly lamented by all lovers of learning and politeness. In his poetical capacity, he does not appear to have much imagination, neither are his verses so musical and well polished as lord Surry's. Those of gallantry in particular seem to be too artificial and laboured for a lover, without that artless simplicity which is the genuine mark of feeling; and too stiff, and negligent of harmony for a His letters to John Poynes and Sir Francis Bryan deserve more notice, they argue him a man of great sense and honour, a critical observer of manners and well-qualified for an elegant and genteel satirist. These letters contain observations on the Courtier's Life, and I shall quote a few lines as a specimen, by which it will be seen how much he falls short of his noble cotemporary, lord Surry, and is above those writers that preceded him in versification. The COURTIERS LIFE. In court to serve decked with fresh araye, Of sugared meats seling the sweet repast, The life in blankets, and sundry kinds of playe, Amidst the press the worldly looks to waste, Hath with it joyned oft such bitter taste, That whoso joys such kind of life to holde, In prison joys, fetter'd with chains of golde. * * * * * THOMAS SACKVILLE, Earl DORSET Was son of Richard Sackville and Winifrede, daughter of Sir John Bruges, Lord of London.[1] He was born at Buckhurst in the parish of Withiam in Suffex, and from his childhood was distinguished for wit and manly behaviour: He was first of the University of Oxford, but taking no degree there, he went to Cambridge, and commenced master of arts; he afterwards studied the law in the Inner-Temple, and became a barrister; but his genius being too lively to be confined to a dull plodding study, he chose rather to dedicate his hours to poetry and pleasure; he was the first that wrote scenes in verse, the Tragedy of Ferrex and Perrex, sons to Gorboduc King of Britain, being performed in the presence of Queen Elizabeth, long before Shakespear appeared[2] on the stage, by the Gentlemen of the Inner-Temple, at Whitehall the 18th of January, 1561, which Sir Philip Sidney thus characterises: "It is full of stately speeches, and well founding phrases, climbing to the height of Seneca's stile, and as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach, and so obtain the very end of poetry." In the course of his studies, he was most delighted with the history of his own country, and being likewise well acquainted with antient history, he formed a design of writing the lives of several great personages in verse, of which we have a specimen in a book published 1610, called the Mirror of Magistrates, being a true Chronicle History of the untimely falls of such unfortunate princes and men of note, as have happened since the first entrance of Brute into this Island until his own time. It appears by a preface of Richard Nicolls, that the original plan of the Mirror of Magistrates was principally owing to him, a work of great labour, use and beauty. The induction, from which I shall quote a few lines, is indeed a master-piece, and if the-whole could have been compleated in the same manner, it would have been an honour to the nation to this day, nor could have sunk under the ruins of time; but the courtier put an end to the poet; and one cannot help wishing for the sake of our national reputation, that his rise at court had been a little longer delayed: It may easily be seen that allegory was brought to great perfection before the appearance of Spencer, and if Mr. Sackville did not surpass him, it was because he had the disadvantage of writing first. Agreeable to what Tasso exclaimed on seeing Guarini's Pastor Fido; 'If he had not seen my Aminta, he had not excelled it.' Our author's great abilities being distinguished at court, he was called to public affairs: In the 4th and 5th years of Queen Mary we find him in parliament; in the 5th year of Elizabeth, when his father was chosen for Sussex, he was returned one of the Knights of Buckinghamshire to the parliament then held. He afterwards travelled into foreign parts, and was detained for some time prisoner at Rome. His return into England being procured, in order to take possession of the vast inheritance his father left him, he was knighted by the duke of Norfolk in her Majesty's presence[3] 1567, and at the same day advanced to the degree and dignity of a baron of this realm, by the title of lord Buckhurst: He was of so profuse a temper, that though he then enjoyed a great estate, yet by his magnificent way of living he spent more than the income of it, and[4] a story is told of him, 'That calling on an alderman of London, who had got very considerably by the loan of his money to him, he was obliged to wait his coming down so long, as made such an impression on his generous humour, that thereupon he turned a thrifty improver of his estate.' But others make him the convert of Queen Elizabeth, (to whom he was allied, his grandfather having married a lady related to Ann Bullen) who by her frequent admonitions diverted the torrent of his profusion, and then received him into her particular favour. Camden says, that in the 14th of that Princess, he was sent ambassador to Charles IX King of France, to congratulate his marriage with the Emperor Maximilian's daughter, and on other important affairs where he was honourably received, according to his Queen's merit and his own; and having in company Guido Cavalcanti, a Gentleman of Florence, a person of great experience, and the Queen-mother being a Florentine, a treaty of marriage was publickly transacted between Queen Elizabeth and her son the duke of Anjou. In the 15th of her Majesty he was one of the peers[5] that sat on the trial of Thomas Howard duke of Norfolk,[6] and on the 29th of Elizabeth, was nominated one of the commissioners for the trial of Mary Queen of Scots, and at that time was of the privy council, but his lordship is not mentioned amongst the peers who met at Fotheringay Castle and condemned the Queen; yet when the parliament had confirmed the sentence, he was made choice of to convey the news to her Majesty, and see their determination put in execution against that beauteous Princess; possibly because he was a man of fine accomplishments, and tenderness of disposition, and could manage so delicate a point with more address than any other courtier. In the succeeding year he was sent ambassador to the States of the United Provinces, upon their dislike of the earl of Leicester's proceedings in a great many respects, there to examine the business, and compose the difference: He faithfully discharged this invidious office, but thereby incurred the earl of Leicester's displeasure; who prevailed with the Queen, as he was her favourite, to call the lord Buckhurst home, and confine him to his house for nine months; but surviving that earl, the Queen's favour returned, and he was elected the April following, without his knowledge, one of the Knights of the most noble Order of the Garter. He was one of the peers that sat on the trial of Philip Howard, earl of Arundel. In the 4th year of the Queen's reign he was joined with the Lord Treasurer Burleigh, in promoting a peace with Spain; in which trust he was so successful, that the High Admiral of Holland was sent over by the States, of the United Provinces, to renew their treaty with the crown of England, being afraid of its union with Spain. Lord Buckhurst had the sole management of that negotiation (as Burleigh then lay sick) and Concluded a treaty with him, by which his mistress was eased of no less than 120,000 l. per annum, besides other advantages. His lordship succeeded Sir Christopher Hatton, in the Chancellorship of the university of Oxford, in opposition to Robert Devereux, earl of Essex, Master of the Horse to the Queen, who a little before was incorporated master of arts in the said university, to capacitate him for that office; but on receipt of letters from her Majesty in favour of lord Buckhurst, the Academicians elected him Chancellor on the 17th of December following. On the death of lord Burleigh, the Queen considering the great services he had done his country, which had cost him immense expences, was pleased to constitute him in the 41st year of her reign, Lord High Treasurer of England: In the succeeding year 1599, he was in commission with Sir Thomas Egerton, Lord Chancellor, and the earl of Essex, Earl-Marshal, for negotiating affairs with the Senate of Denmark, as also in a special commission for suppressing schism, and afterwards when libels were dispersed by the earl of Essex and his faction against the Queen, intimating that her Majesty took little care of the government, and altogether neglected the state of Ireland,[7] his lordship engaged in a vindication of her Majesty, and made answers to these libels, representing how brave and well regulated an army had been sent into Ireland, compleatly furnished with all manner of provisions, and like wise that her Majesty had expended on that war in six months time, the sum of 600,000 l. which lord Essex must own to be true. He suspected that earl's mutinous designs, by a greater concourse of people resorting to his house than ordinary, and sent his son to pay him a visit,[8] and to desire him to be careful of the company he kept. Essex being sensible that his scheme was already discovered by the penetrating eye of lord Buckhurst, he and his friends entered upon new measures, and breaking out into an open rebellion, were obliged to surrender themselves prisoners. When that unfortunate favourite, together with the earl of Southampton, was brought to trial, lord Buckhurst was constituted on that occasion Lord High Steward of England, and passing sentence on the earl of Essex, his Lordship in a very eloquent speech desired him to implore the Queen's mercy. After this, it being thought necessary for the safety of the nation, that some of the leading conspirators should suffer death, his Lordship advised her Majesty to pardon the rest. Upon this he had a special commission granted him, together with secretary Cecil, and the earl of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral, to call before them all such as were concerned in the conspiracy with the earls of Essex and Southampton, and to treat and compound with such offenders for the redemption and composition of their lands. After the death of Queen Elizabeth, his lordship was concerned in taking the necessary measures for the security of the kingdom, the administration being devolved on him and other counsellors, who unanimously proclaimed King James, and signed a letter March 28, 1603 to the lord Eure, and the rest of the commissioners, for the treaty of Breme, notifying her majesty's decease, and the recognition and proclamation of King James of Scotland: who had such a sense of lord Buckhurst's services, and superior abilities, that before his arrival in England, he ordered the renewal of his patent, as Lord High Treasurer for life. On the 13th of March next ensuing, he was created earl of Dorset, and constituted one of the commissioners for executing the office of Earl-Marshal of England, and for reforming sundry abuses in the College of Arms. In the year 1608, this great man died suddenly at the Council-Table, Whitehall, after a bustling life devoted to the public weal; and the 26th of May following, his remains were deposited with great solemnity in Westminster Abbey, his funeral sermon being preached by Dr. Abbot, his chaplain, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. Besides this celebrated sermon of the primate's, in which he is very lavish in his praise, Lord Chancellor Bacon, and Sir Robert Naunton, bestow particular encomiums upon him; and Sir Richard Paker observes, "That he had excellent parts, and in his place was exceeding industrious, and that he had heard many exchequer men say, there never was a better Treasurer, both for the King's profit, and the good of the subject." By his dying suddenly at the Council-Table, his death was interpreted by some people in a mysterious manner;[9] but his head being opened, there were found in it certain little bags of water, which, whether by straining in his study the night before, in which he sat up till 11 o'clock, or otherwise by their own maturity, suddenly breaking, and falling upon his brain, produced his death, to the universal grief of the nation, for which he had spent his strength, and for whose interest, in a very immediate manner, he may be justly said to have fallen a sacrifice. Of all our court poets he seems to have united the greatest industry and variety of genius: It is seldom found, that the sons of Parnassus can devote themselves to public business, or execute it with success. I have already observed, that the world has lost many excellent works, which no doubt this cultivated genius would have accomplished, had he been less involved in court-affairs: but as he acted in so public a sphere, and discharged every office with inviolable honour, and consummate prudence, it is perhaps somewhat selfish in the lovers of poetry, to wish he had wrote more, and acted less. From him is descended the present noble family of the Dorsets; and it is remarkable, that all the descendants of this great man have inherited his taste for liberal arts and sciences, as well as his capacity for public business. An heir of his was the friend and patron of Dryden, and is stiled by Congreve the monarch of wit in his time, and the present age is happy in his illustrious posterity, rivalling for deeds of honour and renown the most famous of their ancestors. * * * * * INDUCTION to the MIRROR Of MAGISTRATES. The wrathful winter hast'ning on apace, With blustring blasts had all ybard the treene, And old Saturnus with his frosty face With chilling cold had pearst the tender greene: The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been, The gladsome groves, that now lay overthrown, The tapets torn, and every tree down blown. The soil that erst so seemly was to seen, Was all despoiled of her beauteous hew, And soote fresh flowers wherewith the summers queen, Had clad the earth, new Boreas blasts down blew And small fowls flocking in their songs did rew The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defaste, In woeful wise bewailed the summer past. [Footnote 1: Fuller's Worthies, p.105] [Footnote 2: Wood Ath. Qx. præd.] [Footnote 3: Collins's peerage, 519.] [Footnote 4: Ib. 519.] [Footnote 5: Rapin's History of England, p. 437.] [Footnote 6: This nobleman suffered death for a plot to recover the liberty of the Queen of Scots.] [Footnote 7: Rapin's History of England, vol ii. p. 617.] [Footnote 8: Rapin'a History of England, vol. ii. p. 630.] [Footnote 9: Chron. 2d edit. p. 596.] * * * * * THOMAS CHURCHYARD, One of the assistants in the Mirror of Magistrates. He was born in the town of Shrewsbury[1] as himself affirms in his book made in verse of the Worthiness of Wales. He was equally addicted to arts and arms; he had a liberal education, and inherited some fortune, real and personal; but he soon exhausted it, in a tedious and unfruitful attendance at court, for he gained no other equivalent for that mortifying dependance, but the honour of being retained a domestic in the family of lord Surry: during which time by his lordship's encouragement he commenced poet. Upon his master's death he betook himself to arms; was in many engagements, and was frequently wounded; he was twice a prisoner, and redeemed by the charity of two noble ladies, yet still languishing in distress, and bitterly complaining of fortune. Neither of his employments afforded him a patron, who would do justice to his obscure merit; and unluckily he was as unhappy in his amours as in his circumstances, some of his mistresses treating his addresses with contempt, perhaps, on account of his poverty; for tho' it generally happens that Poets have the greatest power in courtship, as they can celebrate their mistresses with more elegance than people of any other profession; yet it very seldom falls out that they marry successfully, as their needy circumstances naturally deter them from making advances to Ladies of such fashion as their genius and manners give them a right to address. This proved our author's case exactly; he made love to a widow named Browning, who possessed a very good jointure; but this lady being more in love with money than laurels, with wealth than merit, rejected his suit; which not a little discouraged him, as he had spent his money in hopes of effecting this match, which, to his great mortification, all his rhimes and sonnets could not do. He dedicated his vorks to Sir Christopher Hatton; but addresses of that nature don't always imply a provision for their author. It is conjectured that he died about the eleventh year of Queen Elizabeth, and according to Mr. Wood was buried near Skelton in the Chancel of St. Margaret's, Westminster. By his writings, he appears a man of sense, and sometimes a poet, tho' he does not seem to possess any degree of invention. His language is generally pure, and his numbers not wholly inharmonious. The Legend of Jane Shore is the most finished of all his works, from which I have taken a quotation. His death, according to the most probable conjecture, happened in 1570. Thus like a stone (says Winstanley) did he trundle about, but never gathered any moss, dying but poor, as may be seen by his epitaph in Mr. Camden's Remains, which runs thus: Come Alecto, lend me thy torch To find a Church-yard in a Church-porch; Poverty and poetry his tomb doth enclose, Wherefore good neighbours, be merry in prose. His works according to Winstanley are as follow: The Siege of Leith. A Farewell to the world. A feigned Fancy of the Spider and the Gaul. A doleful Discourse of a Lady and a Knight. The Road into Scotland, by Sir William Drury. Sir Simon Burley's Tragedy. A lamentable Description of the Wars in Flanders in prose, and dedicated to Walsingham secretary of state. A light Bundle of lively Discourses, called Churchyard's Charge 1580, dedicated to his noble patron the Earl of Surry. A Spark of Friendship, a treatise on that writer, address'd to Sir Walter Raleigh. A Description and Discourse on the use of paper, in which he praises a paper-mill built near Darthsend, by a German called Spillman. The Honour of the Law 1596. Jane Shore, mistress to King Edward IV. A Tragical Discourse of the unhappy Man's Life. A Discourse of Virtue. Churchyard's Dream. A Tale of a Fryar and a Shoemaker's Wife, The Siege of Edinburgh Castle. Queen Elizabeth's reception into Bristol. These twelve several pieces he bound together, calling them Churchyard's Chips, which he dedicated to Sir Christopher Hatton. He wrote beside, The Tragedy of Thomas Moubray Duke of Norfolk. Among the rest by fortune overthrowne, I am not least, that most may waile her fate: My fame and brute, abroad the world is blowne, Who can forget a thing thus done so late? My great mischance, my fall, and heavy state, Is such a marke whereat each tongue doth shoot That my good name, is pluckt up by the root, [Footnote 1: Winst. 61.] * * * * * JOHN HEYWOOD One of the first who wrote English plays, was a noted jester, of some reputation in poetry in his time. Wood says, that notwithstanding he was stiled Civis Londinensis, yet he laid a foundation of learning at Oxford, but the severity of an academical life not suitng with his airy genius, he retired to his native place, and had the honour to have a great intimacy with Sir Thomas More. It is said, that he had admirable skill both in instrumental and vocal music, but it is not certain whether he left any compositions of that sort behind him. He found means to become a favourite with King Henry VIII on account of the quickness of his conceits, and was well rewarded by that Monarch.[1] After the accession of Queen Mary to the throne, he was equally valued by her, and was admitted into the most intimate conversation with her, in diverting her by his merry stories, which he did, even when she lay languishing on her death-bed. After the decease of that princess, he being a bigotted Roman Catholic, and finding the protestant interest was like to prevail under the patronage of the renowned Queen Elizabeth, he sacrificed the enjoyment of living in his own country, to that of his religion: For he entered into a voluntary exile, and settled at Mechlin in Brabant. The Play called the Four P's being a new and and merry interlude of a Palmer, Pardoner, Poticary, and Pedler--printed in an old English character in quarto, has in the title page the pictures of four men in old-fashioned habits, wrought off, from a wooden cut. He has likewise writ the following interludes. Between John the Husband and Tib the Wife. Between the Pardoner and the Fryer, the Curate and neighbouring Pratt. Play of Gentleness and Nobility, in two parts. The Pindar of Wakefield, a comedy. Philotas Scotch, a comedy. This author also wrote a dialogue, containing the number in effect of all the proverbs in the English tongue, compact in a matter concerning two manner of marriages. London 1547, and 1598, in two parts in quarto, all writ in old English verse, and printed in an English character. Three hundred epigrams upon three hundred proverbs, in old English character. A fourth hundred of epigrams, printed in quarto, London 1598. A fifth hundred of epigrams, printed in quarto, London 1598. The Spider and Fly. A Parable of the Spider and Fly, London 1556, in a pretty thick quarto, all in old English verse. Before the title is the picture of John Heywood at full length, printed from a wooden cut, with a fur gown on, almost representing the fashion of that, belonging to a master of arts, but the bottom of the sleeve reach no lower than his knees; on his head is a round cap, his chin and lips are close shaved, and hath a dagger hanging to his girdle.[2] Dr. Fuller mentions a book writ by our author,[3] entitled Monumenta Literaria, which are said to Non tam labore, condita, quam Lepore condita: The author of English poetry, speaking of several of our old English bards, says thus of our poet. "John Heywood for the mirth and quickness of conceit, more than any good learning that was in him, came to be well rewarded by the king." That the reader may judge of his epigrams, to which certainly the writer just mentioned alludes, I shall present him with one writ by him on himself. Art thou Heywood, with thy mad merry wit? Yea for sooth master, that name is even hit. Art thou Heywood, that apply's mirth more than thrift? Yes sir, I take merry mirth, a golden gift. Art thou Heywood, that hast made many mad plays? Yea many plays, few good works in my days. Art thou Heywood, that hath made men merry long? Yea, and will, if I be made merry among. Art thou Heywood, that would'st be made merry now? Yes, Sir, help me to it now, I beseech you. He died at Mechlin, in the year 1565, and was buried there, leaving behind him several children, to whom he had given liberal education, one of whom is Jasper, who afterwards made a considerable figure, and became a noted Jesuit. [Footnote 1: Wood Athen, Oxon.] [Footnote 2: Wood ubi supra.] [Footnote 3: Worthies of London, p. 221.] * * * * * GEORGE FERRARS, Descended of an ancient family seated in Hertfordshire, was born there in a village not far from St. Alban's about the year 1510[1]. He was a lawyer, a historian, and a poet; he received his education at the university of Oxford, but of what college he was Wood himself has not been able to discover; he removed from thence to Lincolns'-Inn, where, by a diligent application to the law, he made considerable progress in his profession, and by the patronage of that great minister Cromwell Earl of Essex, who was himself a man of astonishing abilities, he soon made a figure at the bar. He was the menial servant of King Henry VIII.[2] and discharged his trust both in time of war and peace with great honour and gallantry, and shared that monarch's favour in a very considerable degree, who made him a grant in his own country, as an evidence of his affection for him. This grant of the King's happened in the year 1535; and yet in seven years afterwards, either thro' want of economy, or by a boundless confidence in his friends, he reduced his affairs to a very indifferent situation, which, perhaps, might be the reason, why he procured himself to be chosen Member for the Borough of Plymouth in the county of Devon,[3] in the Parliament summoned the thirty-third year of that King's reign. During the Sessions he had the misfortune to be arrested by an officer belonging to the Sheriffs of London, and carried to the counter, then in Bread-street. No sooner had the House of Commons got notice of this insult offered to one of their Members, than they immediately enacted a settled rule, which from that accident took place, with respect to privilege, and ever since that time the Members of the House have been exempt from arrests for debt. His Majesty likewise resented the affront offered to his servant, and with the concurrence of the Parliament proceeded very severely against the Sheriffs. Hollinshed in his chronicle, vol 2, p. 955, gives a very full account of it. Sir Thomas Moils, knight, then Speaker of the House, gave a special order to the Serjeant of the Parliament to repair to the Compter, and there demand the delivery of the prisoner. But notwithstanding this high authority, the officers in the city refused to obey the command, and after many altercations, they absolutely resisted the Serjeant, upon which a fray ensued within the Compter-gates, between Ferrars and the officers, not without mutual hurt, so that the Serjeant was driven to defend himself with his mace of arms, and had the crown of it broken with warding off a stroke; the Sheriffs of London so far from appeasing, fomented the quarrel, and with insolent language refused to deliver their prisoner: Upon which the Serjeant, thus abused, returned to the House and related what had happened. This circumstance so exasperated the Burgesses, that they all rose and went into the Upper House, and declared they would transact no more business till their Member was restored to them. They then commanded their Serjeant again to go to the Compter with his mace, and make a second demand by their authority.--The Sheriffs hearing that the Upper House hid concerned themselves in it, and being afraid of their resentment, restored the prisoner before the Serjeant had time to return to the Compter; but this did not satisfy the Burgesses, they summoned the Sheriffs before them, together with one White, who in contempt of their dignity had taken out a writ against Ferrars, and as a punishment for their insolence, they were sent to the Tower; and ever since that period, the power and privilege of the Commons have been on the increase. Ferrars continued in high favour with Henry during the remainder of his reign, and seems to have stood upon good terms with Somerset Lord Protector in the beginning of Edward VI. since it appears that he attended the Protector in quality of one of the Commissioners of the Army, in his expedition into Scotland in 1548,[4] which, perhaps, might be owing to his being about the person of Prince Edward in his father's life-time. Another instance of this happened about four years afterwards, at a very critical juncture, for when the unfortunate Duke of Somerset lay under sentence of death, and it was observed that the people murmured and often gave testimonies of discontent, and that the King himself was very uneasy, those about him studied every method to quiet and amuse the one, to entertain and divert the other[5]. In order to this, at the entrance of Christmas holidays, Mr. Ferrars was proclaimed Lord Misrule, that is a kind of Prince of sports and pastimes, which office he discharged for twelve days together at Greenwich with great magnificence and address, and entirely to the King's satisfaction. In this character, attended by the politest part of the Court, he made an excursion to London, where he was splendidly entertained by the Lord Mayor, and when he took his leave he had presents given him in token of respect. But notwithstanding he made so great figure in the diversions at court, yet he was no idle spectator of political affairs, and maintained his reputation with the learned world. He wrote the reign of Queen Mary, which tho' published in the name of Richard Grafton, in his chronicles; yet was certainly the performance of Ferrars, according to the annals of Stow, p. 632, whose authority in this case is very high. Our author was an historian, a lawyer, and a politician even in his poetry, as appears from these pieces of his which are inserted in the Mirror of Magistrates, and which are not inferior to any others that have found a place there[6]. In the early part of his life he wrote some tracts on his own profession, which gained him great reputation, and which discover that he was a lover of liberty, and not disposed to sacrifice to the crown the rights and properties of the subject. It seldom happens that when a man often changes his situation, or is forced to do so, that he continues to preserve the good opinion of different parties, but this was a happiness which Ferrars enjoyed. He was consulted by the learned as a candid critic, admired and loved by all who conversed with him. With respect to the time of our author's death, we cannot be absolutely certain; all we know is, that he died in the year 1579, at his house in Flamstead in Hertfordshire, and was buried in the parish church; for as Wood informs us, on the eighteenth of May the same year a commission was granted from the prerogative, to administer the goods, debts, chattles, etc. of George Ferrars lately deceased[7]. None of our authors deliver any thing as to Mr. Ferrars's religion, but it is highly probable that he was a zealous Protestant: not from his accepting grants of Abbey-lands, for that is but a precarious proof, but from his coming into the world under the protection of Thomas Lord Cromwell, who was certainly persuaded of the truth of the protestant religion. Having this occasion to mention Thomas Lord Cromwell, the famous Earl of Essex, who was our author's warmest patron, I am persuaded my readers will forgive me a digression which will open to them the noblest instance of gratitude and honour in that worthy nobleman, that ever adorned the page of an historian, and which has been told with rapture by all who have writ of the times, particularly by Dr. Burnet in his history of the Reformation, and Fox in his Martyrology.--Thomas Lord Cromwell was the son of a Blacksmith at Putney, and was a soldier under the duke of Bourbon at the sacking of Rome in the year 1527. While he was abroad in a military character, in a very low station, he fell sick, and was unable to follow the army; he was observed one day by an Italian merchant to walk very pensive, and had all the appearance of penury and wretchedness: The merchant enquired of him the place of his birth, and fortune, and upon conversing with Cromwell, was so well pleased with the account he gave of himself, that he supplied him with money and credit to carry him to England. Cromwell afterwards made the most rapid progress in state-preferments ever known. Honours were multiplied thick upon him, and he came to have the dispensing of his sovereign's bounty. It happened, that this Italian merchant's circumstances decayed, and he came to England to sollicit the payment of some debts due to him by his correspondents; who finding him necessitous, were disposed to put him off, and take the advantage of his want, to avoid payment. This not a little embarrassed the foreigner, who was now in a situation forlorn enough. As providence would have it, lord Cromwell, then Earl of Essex, riding to court, saw this merchant walking with a dejected countenance, which put him in mind of his former situation. He immediately ordered one of his attendants to desire the merchant to come to his house. His lordship asked the merchant whether he knew him? he answered no: Cromwell then related the circumstance of the merchant's relieving a certain Englishman; and asked if he remembered it? The merchant answered, that he had always made it his business to do good, but did not remember that circumstance.--His lordship then enquired the reason of his coming to England, and upon the merchant's telling him his story, he so interested himself, as soon to procure the payment of all his debts.--Cromwell then informed the merchant, that he was himself the person he had thus relieved; and for every Ducat which the merchant had given him, he returned to the value of a hundred, telling him, that this was the payment of his debt. He then made him a munificent present, and asked him whether he chose to settle in England, or return to his own country. The foreigner chose the latter, and returned to spend the remainder of his days in competence and quiet, after having experienced in lord Essex as high an instance of generosity and gratitude as perhaps ever was known. This noble act of his lordship, employed, says Burnet, the pens of the belt writers at that time in panegyrics on so great a behaviour; the finest poets praised him; his most violent enemies could not help admiring him, and latest posterity shall hold the name of him in veneration, who was capable of so generous an act of honour. But to return to Ferrars. In our author's history of the reign of Queen Mary, tho' he shews himself a great admirer of the personal virtues of that Princess, and a very discerning and able historian, yet it is every where evident that he was attached to the protestant interest; but more especially in the learned account he gives of Archbishop Cranmer's death, and Sir Thomas Wyat's insurrection[8]. The works of this author which are printed in the Mirror of Magistrates, are as follow; The Fall of Robert Tresilian, Chief Justice of England, for misconstruing the laws, and expounding them to serve the prince's affections. The Tragedy, or unlawful murther of Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester. The Tragedy of Richard II. The Story of Dame Eleanor Cobham, Duchess of Gloucester. The Story of Humphry Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, Protector of England. The Tragedy of Edmund Duke of Somerset. Among these the Complaints of Eleanor Cobham, Duchess of Gloucester, who was banished for consulting Conjurers and Fortune-tellers about the Life of King Henry VI. and whose exile quickly made way for the murder of her husband, has of all his compositions been most admired; and from this I shall quote a few lines which that Lady speaks. The Isle of Man was the appointed place, To penance me for ever in exile; Thither in haste, they posted me apace, And doubting 'scape, they pined me in a pyle, Close by myself; in care alas the while. There felt I first poor prisoner's hungry fare, Much want, things skant, and stone walls, hard and bare. The chaunge was straunge from silke and cloth of gold To rugged fryze, my carcass for to cloath; From prince's fare, and dainties hot and cold, To rotten fish, and meats that one would loath: The diet and dressing were much alike boath: Bedding and lodging were all alike fine, Such down it was as served well for swyne. [Footnote 1: From manuscript note on the art of poetry.] [Footnote 2: Biog. Brit. p. 1922.] [Footnote 3: Willis notitia Parliam. vol 2. p. 295.] [Footnote 4: Patten's Journal of the Scotch expedition, p. 13.] [Footnote 5: Stow's Annal. p. 608.] [Footnote 6: Lond. 40.] [Footnote 7: Athen. Oxon. vol. I. col. 146.] [Footnote 8: Grafton's Chron. p. 1350, 1351.] * * * * * Sir PHILIP SIDNEY. This great ornament to human nature, to literature, and to Britain, was the son of Sir Henry Sidney, knight of the Garter, and three times Lord Deputy of Ireland, and of lady Mary Dudley, daughter to the duke of Northumberland, and nephew to that great favourite, Robert, earl of Leicester. Oxford had the honour of his education, under the tuition of Dr. Thomas Thornton, canon of Christ Church. At the university he remained till he was 17 years of age, and in June 1572 set out on his travels. On the 24th of August following, when the massacre fell out at Paris, he was then there, [1] and with other Englishmen took shelter in Sir Francis Walsingham's house, her Majesty's ambassador at that court. When this storm subsided, he departed from Paris, went through Lorrain, and by Strasburgh and Heydelburgh, to Francfort, in September or October following; where he settled for some time, and was entertained, agent for the duke of Saxony. At his return, her Majesty was one of the first who distinguished his great abilities, and, as proud of so rich a treasure, she sent him ambassador to Rodolph the emperor, to condole him on the death of Maximilian, and also to other princes of Germany. The next year, 1577, he went to the court of that gallant prince Don John de Austria, Viceroy in the low countries for the king of Spain. Don John was the proudest man in his time; haughty and imperious in his behaviour, and always used the foreign ambassadors, who came to his court, with unsufferable insolence and superiority: At first he paid but little respect to Sidney on account of his youth, and seeming inexperience; but having had occasion to hear him talk, and give some account of the manners of every court where he had been, he was so struck with his vivacity, the propriety of his observations, and the lustre of his parts, that he ever afterwards used him with familiarity, and paid him more respect in his private character, than he did to any ambassador from whatever court. Some years after this, Wood observes, that in a book called Cabala, he set forth his reasons why the marriage of the queen with the duke of Anjou was disadvantageous to the nation. This address was written at the desire of the earl of Leicester, his uncle; upon which, a quarrel happened between him and the earl of Oxford, which perhaps occasioned his retirement from court for two years, when he wrote that renowned romance called Arcadia. We find him again in high favour, when the treaty of marriage was renewed; he was engaged with Sir Fulk Greville in tilting, for the diversion of the court; and at the departure of the duke of Anjou from England, he attended him to Antwerp [2]. On the 8th of January, 1582, he received the honour of knighthood from the queen; and in the beginning of the year 1585, he designed an expedition with Sir Francis Drake into America; but being hindered by the Queen, who thought the court would be deficient without him, he was made Governor of Flushing, (about that time delivered to the Queen for one of the cautionary-towns) and General of the Horse. In both these places of important trust, his behaviour in point of prudence and valour was irreproachable, and gained additional honour to his country, especially when in July 1586 he surprized Axil, and preserved the lives and reputation of the English army, at the enterprise of Gravelin. About that time he was in election for the crown of Poland, but the queen refused to promote this his glorious advancement, not from jealousy, but from the fear of losing the jewel of her times. He united the statesman, the scholar and the soldier; and as by the one, he purchased fame and honour in his life, so by the other, he has acquired immortality after death. In the year 1586, when that unfortunate stand was made against the Spaniards before Zutphen, the 22d of September, when he was getting upon the third horse, having had two slain under him before, he was wounded with a musket-shot out of the trenches, which broke the bone of his thigh. The horse he rode upon was rather furiously choleric, than bravely proud, so forced him to forsake the field, but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier (says lord Brook) to carry a martial commander to his grave. In this progress, passing along by the rest of the army where his uncle the [3] General was, and being faint with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently brought him; but as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had been wounded at the same time, wishfully cast up his eyes at the bottle; whereupon Sir Philip took it from his own mouth before he drank, and delivered it to the poor man, with these words, "thy necessity is yet greater than mine;" and when he had assisted this poor soldier and fellow sufferer, as he called him, he was presently carried to Arnheim, where the principal surgeons of the camp attended him. This generous behaviour of our gallant knight, ought not to pass without a panegyric. All his deeds of bravery, his politeness, his learning, and courtly accomplishments, do not reflect so much honour upon him, as this one disinterested, truly heroic action: It discovered so tender and benevolent a nature; a mind so fortified against pain; a heart so overflowing with generous sentiments, to relieve, in opposition to the violent call of his own necessities, a poor man languishing in the same distress, before himself, that as none can read it without the highest admiration of the wounded hero, so none I hope will think me extravagant in thus endeavouring to extol it. Bravery is often constitutional; fame may be the motive to feats of arms, a statesman and a courtier may act from interest; but a sacrifice so generous as this, can be made by none but those who are good as well as great, who are noble-minded, and gloriously compassionate, like Sidney. When the surgeons began to dress his wound, he told them, that while his strength was yet entire, his body free from a fever, and his mind able to endure, they might freely use their art; cut and search to the bottom; but if they should neglect their art, and renew torments in the declination of nature, their ignorance, or over-tenderness would prove a kind of tyranny to their friend, and reflect no honour upon themselves. For some time they had great hopes of his recovery; and so zealous were they to promote it, and overjoyed at its seeming approach, that they spread the report of it, which soon reached London, and diffused the most general joy at Court that ever was known. At the same time count Hollock was under the care of a most excellent surgeon, for a wound in his throat by a musket shot; yet he neglected his own extremity to save his friend, and for that purpose sent him to Sir Philip. This surgeon notwithstanding, out of love to his master, returning one day to dress his wound, the count cheerfully asked him how Sir Philip did? he answered with a dejected look, that he was not well: At these words the count, as having more sense of his friend's wound than his own, cried out, "Away villain, never see my face again till you bring better news of that gentleman's recovery, for whose redemption, many such as I were happily lost." Finding all the efforts of the surgeons in vain, he began to put no more confidence in their skill, and resigned himself with heroic patience to his fate. He called the ministers to him, who were all excellent men of different nations, and before them made such a confession of Christian faith, as no book, but the heart, can truly and feelingly deliver. Then calling for his will, and settling his temporal affairs, the last scene of this tragedy, was the parting between the two brothers. Sir Philip exerted all his soul in endeavouring to suppress his sorrow, in which affection and nature were too powerful for him, while the other demonstrated his tenderness by immoderate transports of grief, a weakness which every tender breast will easily forgive, who have ever felt the pangs of parting from a brother; and a brother of Sir Philip Sidney's worth, demanded still additional sorrow. He took his leave with these admonishing words, "My dear, much loved, honoured brother, love my memory; cherish my friends; their faith to me may assure you they are honest. But above all, govern your will and affections, by the will and word of your Creator. In me, beholding the end of this world with all her vanities." And with this farewel he desired the company to lead him away. After his death, which happened on the 16th of October, the States of Zealand became suitors to his Majesty, and his noble friends, that they might have the honour of burying his body at the public expence of their government,[4] but in this they were denied; for soon after, his body was brought to Flushing, and being embarked with great solemnity on the 1st of November, landed at Tower Wharf on the 6th of the same month; and the 16th of February following, after having lain in state, it was magnificently deposited in St. Paul's Cathedral. As the funeral of many princes has not exceeded it in solemnity, so few have equalled it in the undissembled sorrow for his loss[5] King James writ an epitaph upon him, and the Muses of Oxford lamenting him, composed elegies to his memory. It may be justly said of this great man, what a celebrated poet now living has applied to Archbishop Laud, Around his tomb did art and genius weep, Beauty, wit, piety, and bravery, were undissembled mourners. He left behind him one child named Elizabeth, (married to the earl of Rutland) whom he had by Sir Francis Walsingham's daughter, and who unfortunately died without issue to perpetuate the living virtues of her illustrious family. She is said to have been excessively beautiful; that she married the earl of Rutland by authority, but that her affections were dedicated to the earl of Essex, and as Queen Elizabeth was in love with that nobleman, she became very jealous of this charming countess. It has been commonly reported[6] that Sir Philip, some hours before his death, enjoyned a near friend to consign his works to the flames. What promise his friend returned is uncertain, but if he broke his word to befriend the public, posterity has thank'd him, and every future age will with gratitude acknowledge the favour. Of all his works his Arcadia is the most celebrated; it is dedicated to his sister the countess of Pembroke, who was a Lady of as fine a character, and as equally finished in every female accomplishment, as her brother in the manly. She lived to a good old age, and died in 1621. Ben Johnson has wrote an epitaph upon her, so inimitably excellent, that I cannot resist the temptation of inserting it here. She was buried in the Cathedral Church of Salisbury, among the graves of the family of the Pembrokes. EPITAPH. Underneath this marble hearse, Lyes the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother, Death e're thou hast killed another, Learned and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw his dart at thee. The Arcadia was printed first in 1613 in 4to; it has been translated into almost every language. As the ancient �gyptians presented secrets under their mystical hyeroglyphics, so that an easy figure was exhibited to the eye, and a higher notion couched under it to the judgment, so all the Arcadia is a continual grove of morality, shadowing moral and political truths under the plain and striking emblems of lovers, so that the reader may be deceived, but not hurt, and happily surprized to more knowledge than he expected. Besides the celebrated Arcadia, Sir Philip wrote, A dissuasive letter addressed to Queen Elizabeth; against her marriage with the duke of Anjou, printed in a book called Serinia Ceciliana, 4to. 1663. Astrophel & Stella, written at the desire of Lady Rich, whom he perfectly loved, and is thought to be celebrated in the Arcadia by the name of Philoclea. --------------- Ourania, a poem, 1606. An Essay on Valour: Some impute this to Sir Thomas Overbury. Almanzor and Almanzaida, a novel printed in 1678, which is likewise disputed; and Wood says that he believes Sir Philip's name was only prefixed to it by the bookseller, to secure a demand for it. --------England's Helicon, a collection of songs. --------The Psalms of David turned into English. The true PICTURE of LOVE. Poore painters oft with silly poets joyne, To fill the world with vain and strange conceits, One brings the stuff, the other stamps the coyne Which breeds nought else but glosses of deceits. Thus painters Cupid paint, thus poets doe A naked god, blind, young, with arrows two. Is he a god, that ever flyes the light? Or naked he, disguis'd in all untruth? If he be blind, how hitteth he so right? How is he young, that tamed old Phoebus youth? But arrowes two, and tipt with gold or lead, Some hurt, accuse a third with horney head. No nothing so; an old, false knave he is, By Argus got on Io, then a cow: What time for her, Juno her Jove did miss, And charge of her to Argus did allow. Mercury killed his false sire for this act, His damme a beast was pardoned, beastly fact. With father's death, and mother's guilty shame, With Jove's disdain at such a rival's feed: The wretch compel'd, a runegate became, And learn'd what ill, a miser-state did breed, To lye, to steal, to prie, and to accuse, Nought in himself, each other to abuse. [Footnote 1: Athen, Oxon, folio, p. 226.] [Footnote 2: Wood, p. 227.] [Footnote 3: Earl of Leicester.] [Footnote 4: Lord Brook's life.] [Footnote 5: For a great many months after his death, it was reckoned indecent in any gentleman to appear splendidly dress'd; the public mourned him, not with exterior formality, but with the genuine sorrow of the heart. Of all our poets he seems to be the most courtly, the bravest, the most active, and in the moral sense, the best.] [Footnote 6: Camden Brit. in Kent.] * * * * * CHISTOPHER MARLOE Was bred a student in Cambridge, but there is no account extant of his family. He soon quitted the University, and became a player on the same stage with the incomparable Shakespear. He was accounted, says Langbaine, a very fine poet in his time, even by Ben Johnson himself, and Heywood his fellow-actor stiles him the best of poets. In a copy of verses called the Censure of the Poets, he was thus characterized. Next Marloe bathed in Thespian springs, Had in him those brave sublunary things, That your first poets had; his raptures were All air and fire, which made his verses clear; For that fine madness still he did retain, Which rightly should possess a poet's brain. His genius inclined him wholly to tragedy, and he obliged the world with six plays, besides one he joined for with Nash, called Dido Queen of Carthage; but before I give an account of them, I shall present his character to the reader upon the authority of Anthony Wood, which is too singular to be passed over. This Marloe, we are told, presuming upon his own little wit, thought proper to practise the most epicurean indulgence, and openly profess'd atheism; he denied God, Our Saviour; he blasphemed the adorable Trinity, and, as it was reported, wrote several discourses against it, affirming Our Saviour to be a deceiver, the sacred scriptures to contain nothing but idle stories, and all religion to be a device of policy and priestcraft; but Marloe came to a very untimely end, as some remarked, in consequence of his execrable blasphemies. It happened that he fell deeply in love with a low girl, and had for his rival a fellow in livery, who looked more like a pimp than a lover. Marloe, fired with jealousy, and having some reason to believe that his mistress granted the fellow favours, he rushed upon him to stab him with his dagger; but the footman being quick, avoided the stroke, and catching hold of Marloe's wrist stabbed him with his own weapon, and notwithstanding all the assistance of surgery, he soon after died of the wound, in the year 1593. Some time before his death, he had begun and made a considerable progress in an excellent poem called Hero and Leander, which was afterwards finished by George Chapman, who fell short, as it is said, of the spirit and invention of Marloe in the execution of it. What credit may be due to Mr. Wood's severe representation of this poet's character, the reader must judge for himself. For my part, I am willing to suspend my judgment till I meet with some other testimony of his having thus heinously offended against his God, and against the best and most amiable system of Religion that ever was, or ever can be: Marloe might possibly be inclined to free-thinking, without running the unhappy lengths that Mr. Wood tells us, it was reported he had done. We have many instances of characters being too lightly taken up on report, and mistakenly represented thro' a too easy credulity; especially against a man who may happen to differ from us in some speculative points, wherein each party however, may think himself Orthodox: The good Dr. Clarke himself, has been as ill spoken of as Wood speaks of Marloe. His other works are 1. Dr. Faustus, his tragical history printed in 4to. London, 1661. 2. Edward the Second, a Tragedy, printed in 4to. London--when this play was acted is not known. 3. Jew of Malta, a Tragedy played before the King and Queen at Whitehall, 1633. This play was in much esteem in those days; the Jew's part being performed by Mr. Edward Alleyn, the greatest player of his time, and a man of real piety and goodness; he founded and endowed Dulwich hospital in Surry; he was so great an actor, that Betterton, the Roscius of the British nation, used to acknowledge that he owed to him those great attainments of which he was master. 4. Lust's Dominion; or the Lascivious Queen, published by Mr. Kirkman, 8vo. London, 1661. This play was altered by Mrs. Behn, and acted under, the title of the Moor's Revenge. 5. Massacre of Paris, with the death of the Duke of Guise, a Tragedy, played by the Right Honourable the Lord Admiral's servants. This play is divided into acts; it begins with the fatal marriage between the King of Navarre, and Margurete de Valois, sister to King Charles IX; the occasion of the massacre, and ends with the death of Henry III of France. 6. Tamerlain the Great; or the Scythian Shepherd, a Tragedy in two parts, printed in an old black letter, 8vo. 1593. This is said to be the worst of his productions. * * * * * ROBERT GREEN Received his education at the university of Cambridge, and was, as Winstanley says, a great friend to the printers by the many books he writ. He was a merry droll in those times, and a man so addicted to pleasure, that as Winstanley observes, he drank much deeper draughts of sack, than of the Heliconian stream; he was amongst the first of our poets who writ for bread, and in order the better to support himself, tho' he lived in an age far from being dissolute, viz. in that of the renowned Queen Elizabeth; yet he had recourse to the mean expedient of writing obscenity, and favouring the cause of vice, by which he no doubt recommended himself to the rakes about town, who, as they are generally no true judges of wit, to estimate the merit of a piece, as it happens to suit their appetite, or encourage them in every irregular indulgence. No man of honour who sees a poet endowed with a large share of natural understanding, prostituting his pen to the vilest purpose of debauchery and lewdness, can think of him but with contempt; and his wit, however brilliant, ought not to screen him from the just indignation of the sober part of mankind. When wit is prostituted to vice, 'tis wit no more; that is, it ceases to be true wit; and I have often thought there should be some public mark of infamy fixed on those who hurt society by loose writings. But Mr. Green must be freed from the imputation of hypocrisy, for we find him practicing the very doctrines he taught. Winstanley relates that he was married to a very fine and deserving lady, whom he basely forsook, with a child she had by him, for the company of some harlots, to whom he applied the wages of iniquity, while his wife starved. After some years indulgence of this sort, when his wit began to grow stale, we find him fallen into abject poverty, and lamenting the life he had led which brought him to it; for it always happens, that a mistress is a more expensive piece of furniniture than a wife; and if the modern adulterers would speak the truth, I am certain they would acknowledge, that half the money which, in the true sense of the word, is misspent upon those daughters of destruction, would keep a family with decency, and maintain a wife with honour. When our author was in this forlorn miserable state, he writ a letter to his wife, which Mr. Winstanly has preferred, and which, as it has somewhat tender in it I shall insert. It has often been observed, that half the unhappy marriages in the world, are more owing to the men than the women; That women are in general much better beings, in the moral sense, than the men; who, as they bustle less in life, are generally unacquainted with those artifices and tricks, which are acquired by a knowledge of the world; and that then their yoke-fellows need only be tender and indulgent, to win them. But I believe it may be generally allowed, that women are the best or worst part of the human creation: none excel them in virtue; but when they depart from it, none exceed them in vice. In the case of Green, we shall see by the letter he sent his wife how much she was injured. "The remembrance of many wrongs offered thee, and thy unreproved virtues, add greater sorrow to my miserable state than I can utter, or thou conceive; neither is it lessened by consideration of thy absence, (tho' shame would let me hardly behold thy face) but exceedingly aggravated, for that I cannot as I ought to thy ownself reconcile myself, that thou might'st witness my inward woe at this instant, that hath made thee a woful wife for so long a time. But equal heaven has denied that comfort, giving at my last need, like succour as I have sought all my life, being in this extremity as void of help, as thou hast been of hope. Reason would that after so long waste, I should not send thee a child to bring thee charge; but consider he is the fruit of thy womb, in whose face regard not the father, so much as thy own perfections: He is yet green, and may grow strait, if he be carefully tended, otherwise apt enough to follow his father's folly. That I have offended thee highly, I know; that thou canst forget my injuries, I hardly believe; yet I perswade myself, that if thou sawest my wretched estate, thou couldst not but lament it, nay certainly I know, thou wouldst. All thy wrongs muster themselves about me, and every evil at once plagues me; for my contempt of God, I am contemned of men; for my swearing and forswearing, no man will believe me; for my gluttony, I suffer hunger; for my drunkenness, thirst; for my adultery, ulcerous sores. Thus God hath cast me down that I might be humbled, and punished for example of others; and though he suffers me in this world to perish without succour, yet I trust in the world to come, to find mercy by the merits of my Saviour, to whom I commend thee, and commit my soul." Thy repentant husband, for his disloyalty, ROBERT GREEN. This author's works are chiefly these, The Honourable History of Fryar Bacon, and Fryar Bungy; play'd by the Prince of Palatine's servants. I know not whence our author borrowed his plot, but this famous fryar Minor lived in the reign of Henry III. and died in the reign of Edward I. in the year 1284. He joined with Dr. Lodge in one play, called a Looking Glass for London; he writ also the Comedies of Fryar Bacon and Fair Enome. His other pieces are, Quip for an upstart Courtier, and Dorastus and Fawnia. Winstanley imputes likewise to him the following pieces. Tully's Loves; Philomela, the Lady Fitzwater's Nightingale; Green's News too Late, first and second part; Green's Arcadia; Green's Farewel to Folly; Green's Groatsworth of Wit. It is said by Wood in his Fasti, p. 137, vol. i. that our author died in the year 1592, of a surfeit taken by eating pickled herrings, and drinking with them rhenish wine. At this fatal banquet, Thomas Nash, his cotemporary at Cambridge was with him, who rallies him in his Apology of Pierce Pennyless. Thus died Robert Green, whose end may be looked upon as a kind of punishment for a life spent in riot and infamy. * * * * * EDMUND SPENSER was born in London, and educated at Pembroke Hall in Cambridge. The accounts of the birth and family of this great man are but obscure and imperfect, and at his first setting out into life, his fortune and interest seem to have been very inconsiderable. After he had for some time continued at the college, and laid that foundation of learning, which, joined to his natural genius, qualified him to rise to so great an excellency, he stood for a fellowship, in competition with Mr. Andrews, a gentleman in holy orders, and afterwards lord bishop of Winchester, in which he was unsuccessful. This disappointment, joined with the narrowness of his circumstances, forced him to quit the university [1]; and we find him next residing at the house of a friend in the North, where he fell in love with his Rosalind, whom he finely celebrates in his pastoral poems, and of whose cruelty he has written such pathetical complaints. It is probable that about this time Spenser's genius began first to distinguish itself; for the Shepherd's Calendar, which is so full of his unprosperous passion for Rosalind, was amongst the first of his works of note, and the supposition is strengthened, by the consideration of Poetry's being frequently the offspring of love and retirement. This work he addressed by a short dedication to the Mæcenas of his age, the immortal Sir Philip Sidney. This gentleman was now in the highest reputation, both for wit and gallantry, and the most popular of all the courtiers of his age, and as he was himself a writer, and especially excelled in the fabulous or inventive part of poetry; it is no wonder he was struck with our author's genius, and became sensible of his merit. A story is told of him by Mr. Hughes, which I shall present the reader, as it serves to illustrate the great worth and penetration of Sidney, as well as the excellent genius of Spenser. It is said that our poet was a stranger to this gentleman, when he began to write his Fairy Queen, and that he took occasion to go to Leicester-house, and introduce himself by sending in to Mr. Sidney a copy of the ninth Canto of the first book of that poem. Sidney was much surprized with the description of despair in that Canto, and is said to have shewn an unusual kind of transport on the discovery of so new and uncommon a genius. After he had read some stanza's, he turned to his steward, and bid him give the person that brought those verses fifty pounds; but upon reading the next stanza, he ordered the sum to be doubled. The steward was no less surprized than his master, and thought it his duty to make some delay in executing so sudden and lavish a bounty; but upon reading one stanza stanza more, Mr. Sidney raised the gratuity to two hundred pounds, and commanded the steward to give it immediately, lest as he read further he might be tempted to give away his whole estate. From this time he admitted the author to his acquaintance and conversation, and prepared the way for his being known and received at court. Tho' this seemed a promising omen, to be thus introduced to court, yet he did not instantly reap any advantage from it. He was indeed created poet laureat to Queen Elizabeth, but he for some time wore a barren laurel, and possessed only the place without the pension [2]. Lord treasurer Burleigh, under whose displeasure Spenser laboured, took care to intercept the Queen's favours to this unhappy great man. As misfortunes have the most influence on elegant and polished minds, so it was no wonder that Spenser was much depressed by the cold reception he met with from the great; a circumstance which not a little detracts from the merit of the ministers then in power: for I know not if all the political transactions of Burleigh, are sufficient to counterballance the infamy affixed on his name, by prosecuting resentment against distressed merit, and keeping him who was the ornament of the times, as much distant as possible from the approach of competence. These discouragements greatly sunk our author's spirit, and accordingly we find him pouring out his heart, in complaints of so injurious and undeserved a treatment; which probably, would have been less unfortunate to him, if his noble patron Sir Philip Sidney had not been so much absent from court, as by his employments abroad, and the share he had in the Low-Country wars, he was obliged to be. In a poem called, The Ruins of Time, which was written some time after Sidney's death, the author seems to allude to the discouragement I have mentioned in the following stanza. O grief of griefs, O gall of all good hearts! To see that virtue should despised be, Of such as first were raised for virtue's parts, And now broad-spreading like an aged tree, Let none shoot up that nigh them planted be; O let not these, of whom the muse is scorned, Alive or dead be by the muse adorned. These lines are certainly meant to reflect on Burleigh for neglecting him, and the Lord Treasurer afterwards conceived a hatred towards him for the satire he apprehended was levelled at him in Mother Hubbard's Tale. In this poem, the author has in the most lively manner, painted out the misfortune of depending on court favours. The lines which follow are among others very remarkable. Full little knowest thou, that hast not try'd, What Hell it is in suing long to bide, To dole good days, that nights be better spent, To waste long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to day, to be put back to-morrow, To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peers, To have thy asking, yet wait many years. To fret thy soul with crosses, and with care. To eat thy heart, thro' comfortless despair; To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run To spend, to give, to want, to be undone. As this was very much the author's case, it probably was the particular passage in that poem which gave offence; for as Hughes very elegantly observes, even the sighs of a miserable man, are sometimes resented as an affront, by him who is the occasion of them. There is a little story, which seems founded on the grievance just now mentioned, and is related by some as a matter of fact [3] commonly reported at that time. It is said, that upon his presenting some poems to the Queen, she ordered him a gratuity of one hundred pounds, but the Lord Treasurer Burleigh objecting to it, said with some scorn of the poet, of whose merit he was totally ignorant, "What, all this for a song?" The queen replied, "Then give him what is reason." Spenser for some time waited, but had the mortification to find himself disappointed of her Majesty's bounty. Upon this he took a proper opportunity to present a paper to Queen Elizabeth in the manner of a petition, in which he reminded her of the order she had given, in the following lines. I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhime, From that time, unto this season I received nor rhime, nor reason. This paper produced the intended effect, and the Queen, after sharply reproving the treasurer, immediately directed the payment of the hundred pounds the had first ordered. In the year 1579 he was sent abroad by the Earl of Leicester, as appears by a copy of Latin verses dated from Leicester-house, and addressed to his friend Mr. Harvey; but Mr. Hughes has not been able to determine in what service we was employed. When the Lord Grey of Wilton was chosen Deputy of Ireland, Spenser was recommended to him as secretary. This drew him over to another kingdom, and settled him in a scene of life very different from what he had formerly known; but, that he understood, and discharged his employment with skill and capacity, appears sufficiently by his discourse on the state of Ireland, in which there are many solid and judicious remarks, that shew him no less qualified for the business of the state, than for the entertainment of the muses. His life was now freed from the difficulties under which it had hitherto struggled, and his services to the Crown received a reward of a grant from Queen Elizabeth of 3000 Acres of land in the county of Cork. His house was in Kilcolman, and the river Mulla, which he has more than once so finely introduced in his poems, ran through his grounds. Much about this time, he contracted an intimate friendship with the great and learned Sir Walter Raleigh, who was then a captain under the lord Grey. The poem of Spenser's, called Colin Clouts come home again, in which Sir Walter Raleigh is described under the name of the Shepherd of the Ocean, is a beautiful memorial of this friendship, which took its rise from a similarity of taste in the polite arts, and which he agreeably describes with a softness and delicacy peculiar to him. Sir Walter afterwards promoted him in Queen Elizabeth's esteem, thro' whose recommendation she read his writings. He now fell in love a second time with a merchant's daughter, in which, says Mrs. Cooper, author of the muses library, he was more successful than in his first amour. He wrote upon this occasion a beautiful epithalamium, with which he presented the lady on the bridal-day, and has consigned that day, and her, to immortality. In this pleasant easy situation our excellent poet finished the celebrated poem of The Fairy Queen, which was begun and continued at different intervals of time, and of which he at first published only the three first books; to these were added three more in a following edition, but the six last books (excepting the two canto's of mutability) were unfortunately lost by his servant whom he had in haste sent before him into England; for tho' he passed his life for some time very serenely here, yet a train of misfortunes still pursued him, and in the rebellion of the Earl of Desmond he was plundered and deprived of his estate. This distress forced him to return to England, where for want of his noble patron Sir Philip Sidney, he was plunged into new calamities, as that gallant Hero died of the wounds he received at Zutphen. It is said by Mr. Hughes, that Spenser survived his patron about twelve years, and died the same year with his powerful enemy the Lord Burleigh, 1598. He was buried, says he, in Westminster-Abbey, near the famous Geoffery Chaucer, as he had desired; his obsequies were attended by the poets of that time, and others, who paid the last honours to his memory. Several copies of verses were thrown after him into his grave, and his monument was erected at the charge of the famous Robert Devereux, the unfortunate Earl of Essex. This is the account given by his editor, of the death of Spenser, but there is some reason to believe that he spoke only upon imagination, as he has produced no authority to support his opinion, especially as I find in a book of great reputation, another opinion, delivered upon probable grounds. The ingenious Mr. Drummond of Hawthronden, a noble wit of Scotland, had an intimate correspondence with all the genius's of his time who resided at London, particularly the famous Ben Johnson, who had so high an opinion of Mr. Drummond's abilities, that he took a journey into Scotland in order to converse with him, and stayed some time at his house at Hawthronden. After Ben Johnson departed, Mr. Drummond, careful to retain what past betwixt them, wrote down the heads of their conversation; which is published amongst his poems and history of the five James's Kings of Scotland. Amongst other particulars there is this. "Ben Johnson told me that Spenser's goods were robbed by the Irish in Desmond's rebellion, his house and a little child of his burnt, and he and his wife nearly escaped; that he afterwards died in King-street [4] by absolute want of bread; and that he refused twenty pieces sent him by the Earl of Essex [5], and gave this answer to the person who brought them, that he was sure he had no time to spend them." Mr. Drummond's works, from whence I have extracted the above, are printed in a thin quarto, and may be seen at Mr. Wilson's at Plato's Head in the Strand. I have been thus particular in the quotation, that no one may suspect such extraordinary circumstances to be advanced upon imagination. In the inscription on his tomb in Westminster Abbey, it is said he was born in the year 1510, and died 1596; Cambden says 1598, but in regard to his birth they must both be mistaken, for it is by no means probable he was born so early as 1510, if we judge by the remarkable circumstance of his standing for a fellowship in competition with Mr. Andrews, who was not born according to Hughes till 1555. Besides, if this account of his birth be true, he must have been sixty years old when he first published his Shepherd's Calendar, an age not very proper for love; and in this case it is no wonder, that the beautiful Rosalind slighted his addresses; and he must have been seventy years old when he entered into business under lord Grey, who was created deputy in Ireland 1580: for which reasons we may fairly conclude, that the inscription is false, either by the error of the carver, or perhaps it was put on when the monument was repaired. There are very few particulars of this great poet, and it must be a mortification to all lovers of the Muses, that no more can be found concerning the life of one who was the greatest ornament of his profession. No writer ever found a nearer way to the heart than he, and his verses have a peculiar happiness of recommending the author to our friendship as well as raising our admiration; one cannot read him without fancying oneself transported into Fairy Land, and there conversing with the Graces, in that enchanted region: In elegance of thinking and fertility of imagination, few of our English authors have approached him, and no writers have such power as he to awake the spirit of poetry in others. Cowley owns that he derived inspiration from him; and I have heard the celebrated Mr. James Thomson, the author of the Seasons, and justly esteemed one of our best descriptive poets, say, that he formed himself upon Spenser; and how closely he pursued the model, and how nobly he has imitated him, whoever reads his Castle of Indolence with taste, will readily confess. Mr. Addison, in his characters of the English Poets, addressed to Mr. Sacheverel, thus speaks of Spenser: Old Spenser next, warm'd with poetic rage, In ancient tales amus'd a barb'rous age; An age, that yet uncultivate and rude, Where-e'er the poet's fancy led, pursued Thro' pathless fields, and unfrequented floods, To dens of dragons, and enchanted woods. But now the mystic tale, that pleas'd of yore, Can charm an understanding age no more; The long spun allegories, fulsome grow, While the dull moral lyes too plain below. We view well pleased at distance, all the sights, Of arms, and palfries, battles, fields, and fights, And damsels in distress, and courteous knights. But when we look too near, the shades decay, And all the pleasing landscape fades away. It is agreed on all hands, that the distresses of our author helped to shorten his days, and indeed, when his extraordinary merit is considered, he had the hardest measure of any of our poets. It appears from different accounts, that he was of an amiable sweet disposition, humane and generous in his nature. Besides the Fairy Queen, we find he had written several other pieces, of which we can only trace out the titles. Among these, the most considerable were nine comedies, in imitation of the comedies of his admired Ariosto, inscribed with the names of the Nine Muses. The rest which are mentioned in his letters, and those of his friends, are his Dying Pelicane, his Pageants, Stemmata Dudleyana, the Canticles paraphrazed, Ecclesiastes, Seven Psalms, Hours of our Lord, Sacrifice of a Sinner, Purgatory, a S'ennight Slumber, the Court of Cupid, and Hell of Lovers. It is likewise said, he had written a treatise in prose called the English Poet: as for the Epithalamion Thamesis, and his Dreams, both mentioned by himself in one of his letters, Mr. Hughes thinks they are still preserved, tho' under different names. It appears from what is said of the Dreams by his friend Mr. Harvey, that they were in imitation of Petrarch's Visions. To produce authorities in favour of Spenser, as a poet. I should reckon an affront to his memory; that is a tribute which I shall only pay to inferior wits, whose highest honour it is to be mentioned with respect, by genius's of a superior class. The works of Spenser will never perish, tho' he has introduced unnecessarily many obsolete terms into them; there is a flow of poetry, an elegance of sentiment, a fund of imagination, and an enchanting enthusiasm which will ever secure him the applauses of posterity while any lovers of poetry remain. We find little account of the family which Spenser left behind him, only that in a few particulars of his life prefixed to the last folio edition of his works, it is said that his great grandson Hugolin Spenser, after the restoration of king Charles II. was restored by the court of claims to so much of the lands as could be found to have been his ancestors; there is another remarkable passage of which (says Hughes) I can give the reader much better assurance: that a person came over from Ireland, in King William's time, to sollicit the same affair, and brought with him letters of recommendation, as a defendant of Spenser. His name procured him a favourable reception, and he applied himself particularly to Mr. Congreve, by whom he was generously recommended to the favour of the earl of Hallifax, who was then at the head of the treasury; and by that means he obtained his suit. This man was somewhat advanced in years, and might be the same mentioned before, who had possibly recovered only some part of his estate at first, or had been disturbed in the possession of it. He could give no account of the works of his ancestor, which are wanting, and which are therefore in all probability irrecoverably lost. The following stanzas are said to be those with which Sir Philip Sidney was first struck. From him returning, sad and comfortless, As on the way together we did fare, We met that villain (God from him me bless) That cursed wight, from whom I 'scaped whylear, A man of hell that calls himself despair; Who first us greets, and after fair areeds Of tidings strange, and of adventures rare: So creeping close, as snake in hidden weeds, Inquireth of our states, and of our Knight'y deeds. Which when he knew, and felt our feeble hearts Emboss'd with bale, and bitter-biting grief, Which love had launced with his deadly darts, With wounding words, and terms of foul reprief, He plucked from us all hope of due relief; That erst us held in love of ling'ring life; Then hopeless, heartless, 'gan the cunning thief Persuade us die, to stint all further strife: To me he lent this rope, to him a rusty knife. The following is the picture. The darksome cave they enter, where they find, That cursed man, low sitting on the ground, Musing full sadly in his sullen mind; His greasy locks, long growing and unbound, Disordered hung about his shoulders round, And hid his face; through which his hollow eyne, Look'd deadly dull, and stared as astound; His raw bone cheeks thro' penury and pine, Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never dine, His garments nought, but many ragged clouts, With thorns together pinn'd and patched was, The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts; And him beside, there lay upon the grass A dreary corse, whose life away did pass, All wallowed in his own, yet luke-warm blood, That from his wound yet welled fresh alas; In which a rusty knife fast fixed stood, And made an open passage for the gushing flood. It would perhaps be an injury to Spenser to dismiss his Life without a few remarks on that great work of his which has placed him among the foremost of our poets, and discovered so elevated and sublime a genius. The work I mean is his allegorical poem of the Fairy Queen. Sir William Temple in his essay on poetry, says, "that the religion of the Gentiles had been woven into the contexture of all the ancient poetry with an agreeable mixture, which made the moderns affect to give that of christianity a place also in their poems; but the true religion was not found to become fictitious so well as the false one had done, and all their attempts of this kind seemed, rather to debase religion than heighten poetry. Spenser endeavoured to supply this with morality, and to make instruction, instead of story the subject of an epic poem. His execution was excellent, and his flights of fancy very noble and high. But his design was poor; and his moral lay so bare, that it lost the effect. It is true, the pill was gilded, but so thin that the colour and the taste were easily discovered.--Mr. Rymer asserts, that Spenser may be reckoned the first of our heroic poets. He had a large spirit, a sharp judgment, and a genius for heroic poetry, perhaps above any that ever wrote since Virgil, but our misfortune is, he wanted a true idea, and lost himself by following an unfaithful guide. Tho' besides Homer and Virgil he had read Tasso, yet he rather suffered himself to be misled by Ariosto, with whom blindly rambling on marvels and adventures, he makes no conscience of probability; all is fanciful and chimerical, without any uniformity, or without any foundation in truth; in a word his poem is perfect Fairy-Land. Thus far Sir William Temple, and Mr. Rymer; let us now attend to the opinion of a greater name. Mr. Dryden in his dedication of Juvenal, thus proceeds: The English have only to boast of Spenser and Milton in heroic poetry, who neither of them wanted either genius or learning to have been perfect poets, and yet both of them are liable to many censures; for there is no uniformity in the design of Spenser; he aims at the accomplishment of no one action; he raises up a hero for every one of his adventures, and endows each of them with some particular moral virtue, which renders them all equal, without subordination or preference: Every one is valiant in his own legend; only we must do him the justice to observe, that magnanimity, which is the character of prince Arthur, shines throughout the whole poem, and succours the rest when they are in distress. The original of every knight was then living in the court of Queen Elizabeth; and he attributed to each of them that virtue which he thought was most conspicuous in them; an ingenious piece of flattery, tho' it turned not much to his account. Had he lived to finish his poem in the remaining legends, it had certainly been more of a piece; but could not have been perfect because the model was not true. But prince Arthur, or his chief patron Sir Philip Sidney, dying before him, deprived the poet both of means and spirit to accomplish his design. For the rest, his obsolete language, and ill choice of his stanza, are faults both of the second magnitude; for notwithstanding the first, he is still intelligible, at least after a little practice, and for the last he is more to be admired, that labouring under such disadvantages, his verses are so numerous, so various, and so harmonious, that only Virgil, whom he has professedly imitated, has surpassed him among the Romans, and only Waller among the English." Mr. Hughes in his essay on allegorical poetry prefixed to Spenser's works, tells us, that this poem is conceived, wrought up, and coloured with stronger fancy, and discovers more the particular genius of Spenser, than any of his other writings; and having observed that Spenser in a letter to Sir Walter Raleigh calls it, a continued allegory, or dark conceit, he gives us some remarks on allegorical poetry in general, defining allegory to be a fable or story, in which, under imaginary persons or things, is shadowed some real action or instructive moral, or as I think, says he, it is somewhere very shortly defined by. Plutarch; it is that, in which one thing is, related, and another thing understood; it is a kind of poetical picture, or hieroglyphick, which by its apt resemblance, conveys instruction to the mind, by an analogy to the senses, and so amuses the fancy while it informs the understanding. Every allegory has therefore two senses, the literal and mystical, the literal sense is like a dream or vision, of which the mystical sense is the true meaning, or interpretation. This will be more clearly apprehended by considering, that as a simile is a more extended metaphor, so an allegory is a kind of continued simile, or an assemblage of similitudes drawn out at full length. The chief merit of this poem, no doubt, consists in that surprising vein of fabulous invention, which runs through it, and enriches it every where with imagery and descriptions, more than we meet with in any other modern poem. The author seems to be possessed of a kind of poetical magic, and the figures he calls up to our view rise so thick upon us, that we are at once pleased and distracted with the exhaustless variety of them; so that his faults may in a manner be imputed to his excellencies. His abundance betrays him into excess, and his judgment is over-born by the torrent of his imagination. That which seems the most liable to exception in this work is the model of it, and the choice the author has made of so romantic a story. The several books rather appear like so many several poems, than one entire fable. Each of them has its peculiar knight, and is independent of the rest; and tho' some of the persons make their appearance in different books, yet this has very little effect in concealing them. Prince Arthur is indeed the principal person, and has therefore a share given him in every legend; but his part is not considerable enough in any one of them. He appears and vanishes again like a spirit, and we lose sight of him too soon to consider him as the hero of the poem. These are the most obvious defects in the fable of the Fairy Queen. The want of unity in the story makes it difficult for the reader to carry it in his mind, and distracts too much his attention to the several parts of it; and indeed the whole frame of it would appear monstrous, were it to be examined by the rules of epic poetry, as they have been drawn from the practice of Homer and Virgil; but as it is plain, the author never designed it by these rules, I think it ought rather to be called a poem of a particular kind, describing in a series of allegorical adventures, or episodes, the most noted virtues and vices. To compare it therefore with the models of antiquity, would be like drawing a parallel between the Roman and Gothic architecture. In the first, there is doubtless a more natural grandeur and simplicity; in the latter, we find great mixtures of beauty and barbarism, yet assisted by the invention of a variety of inferior ornaments; and tho' the former is more majestic in the whole, the latter may be very surprizing and agreeable in its parts. [Footnote 1: Hughes's Life of Spencer, prefixed to the edition of our author's works.] [Footnote 2: Hughes ubi supra,] [Footnote 3: Winst. p. 88.] [Footnote 4: Dublin] [Footnote 5: The General of the English army in Ireland.] * * * * * JASPER HEYWOOD, the son of the celebrated epigramatist, was born in London, and in the 12th year of his age, 1517, was sent to the University, where he was educated in grammar and logic. In 1553 he took a degree in Arts, and was immediately elected Probationer fellow of Merton College, where he gained a superiority over all his fellow students in disputations at the public school. Wood informs us, that upon a third admonition, from the warden and society of that house, he resigned his fellowship, to prevent expulsion, on the 4th of April, 1558; he had been guilty of several misdemeanors, such as are peculiar to youth, wildness and rakishness, which in those days it seems were very severely punished. Soon after this he quitted England, and entered himself into the society of Jesus at St. Omer's [1]; but before he left his native country, he writ and translated (says Wood), these things following. Various Poems and Devices; some of which are printed in a book called the Paradise of Dainty Devices, 1574, 4to. Hercules Furens, a Tragedy, which some have imputed to Seneca, and others have denied to be his, but it is thought by most learned men to be an imitation of that play of Euripides, which bears the same name, and tho, in contrivance and economy, they differ in some things, yet in others they agree, and Scaliger scruples not to prefer the Latin to the Greek Tragedy [2]. Troas, a Tragedy of Seneca's, which the learned Farnaby, and Daniel Heinsius very much commend; the former stiling it a divine tragedy, the other preferring it to one of the same name by Euripides, both in language and contrivance, but especially he says it far exceeds it in the chorus. In this tragedy the author has taken the liberty of adding several things, and altering others, as thinking the play imperfect: First as to the additions, he has at the end of the chorus after the first act, added threescore verses of his own invention: In the beginning of the second act he has added a whole scene, where he introduces the ghost of Achilles rising from hell, to require the sacrifice of Polyxena! to the chorus of this act he added three stanza's. As to his alterations, instead of translating the chorus of the third act, which is wholly taken up with the names of foreign countries, the translation of which without notes he thought would be tiresome to the English reader, he has substituted in its stead another chorus of his own invention. This tragedy runs in verses of fourteen syllables, and for the most part his chorus is writ in verse of ten syllables, which is called heroic. Thyestes, another tragedy of Seneca's, which in the judgment of Hiensius, is not inferior to any other of his dramatic pieces. Our author translated this play when he was at Oxford; it is wrote in the same manner of verse as the other, only the chorus is written in alternate rhime. The translator has added a scene at the end of the fifth act, spoken by Thyestes alone; in which he bewails his misery, and implores Heaven's vengeance on Atreus. These plays are printed in a black letter in 4to. 1581. Langbain observes, that tho' he cannot much commend the version of Heywood, as poetically elegant, as he has chosen a measure of fourteen syllables, which ever sounds harsh to the ears of those that are used to heroic poetry, yet, says he, I must do the author this justice, to acquaint the world, that he endeavours to give Seneca's sense, and likewise to imitate his verse, changing his measure, as often as his author, the chorus of each act being different from the act itself, as the reader may observe, by comparing the English copy with the Latin original. After our author had spent two years in the study of divinity amongst the priests, he was sent to Diling in Switzerland, where he continued about seventeen years, in explaining and discussing controverted questions, among those he called Heretics, in which time, for his zeal for the holy mother, he was promoted to the degree of Dr. of Divinity, and of the Four Vows. At length pope Gregory XIII. calling him away in 1581, he sent him, with others, the same year into the mission of England, and the rather because the brethren there told his holiness, that the harvest was great, and the labourers few [3]. Being settled then in the metropolis of his own country, and esteemed the chief provincial of the Jesuits in England, it was taken notice of, that he affected more the exterior shew of a lord, than the humility of a priest, keeping as grand an equipage, as money could then furnish him with. Dr. Fuller says, that our author was executed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth; but Sir Richard Baker tells us, that he was one of the chief of those 70 priests that were taken in the year 1585; and when some of them were condemned, and the rest in danger of the law, her Majesty caused them all to be shipp'd away, and sent out of England. Upon Heywood's being taken and committed to prison, and the earl of Warwick thereupon ready to relieve his necessity, he made a copy of verses, mentioned by Sir John Harrington, concluding with these two; ----Thanks to that lord, that wills me good; For I want all things, saving hay and wood. He afterwards went to Rome, and at last settled in the city of Naples, where he became familiarly known to that zealous Roman Catholick, John Pitceus, who speaks of him with great respect. It is unknown what he wrote or published after he became a Jesuit. It is said that he was a great critic in the Hebrew language, and that he digested an easy and short method, (reduced into tables) for novices to learn that language, which Wood supposes was a compendium of a Hebrew grammar. Our author paid the common debt of nature at Naples, 1598, and was buried in the college of Jesuits there. [Footnote 1: Langb. Lives of the Poets, p. 249.] [Footnote 2: Langb. ubi supra.] [Footnote 3: Athen. Oxon.] * * * * * JOHN LILLY, A writer who flourished in the reign of Queen Elizabeth; he was a Kentish man, and in his younger years educated at St. Mary Magdalen College in Oxon, where in the year 1575 he took his degree of Master of Arts. He was, says Langbaine, a very close student, and much addicted to poetry; a proof of which he has given to the world, in those plays which he has bequeathed to posterity, and which in that age were well esteemed, both by the court, and by the university. He was one of the first writers, continues Langbain, who in those days attempted to reform the language, and purge it from obsolete expressions. Mr. Blount, a gentleman who has made himself known to the world, by several pieces of his own writing (as Horæ Subsecivæ, his Microcosmography, &c.) and who published six of these plays, in his title page stiles him, the only rare poet of that time, the witty, comical, facetiously quick, and unparallell'd John Lilly. Mr. Blount further says, 'That he sat 'at Apollo's table; that Apollo gave him a wreath of his own bays without snatching; and that the Lyre he played on, had no borrowed strings:' He mentions a romance of our author's writing, called Euphues; our nation, says he, are in his debt, for a new English which he taught them; Euphues, and his England began first that language, and all our ladies were then his scholars, and that beauty in court who could not read Euphism, was as little regarded, as she who now speaks not French. This extraordinary Romance I acknowledge I have not read, so cannot from myself give it a character, but I have some reason to believe, that it was a miserable performance, from the authority of the author of the British Theatre, who in his preface thus speaks of it; "This Romance, says he, so fashionable for its wit; so famous in the court of Queen Elizabeth, and is said to have introduced so remarkable a change in our language, I have seen and read. It is an unnatural affected jargon, in which the perpetual use of metaphors, allusions, allegories, and analogies, is to pass for wit, and stiff bombast for language; and with this nonsense the court of Queen Elizabeth (whose times afforded better models for stile and composition, than almost any since) became miserably infected, and greatly help'd to let in all the vile pedantry of language in the two following reigns; so much mischief the most ridiculous instrument may do, when he proposes to improve on the simplicity of nature." Mr. Lilly has writ the following dramatic pieces; Alexander and Campaspe, a tragical comedy; play'd before the Queen's Majesty on twelfth-night, by her Majesty's children, and the children of St. Paul's, and afterwards at the Black Fryars; printed in 12mo. London, 1632. The story of Alexander's bestowing Campaspe, in the enamoured Apelles, is related by Pliny in his Natural History. Lib. xxxv. L. x. Endymion, a Comedy, presented before Queen Elizabeth, by the children of her Majesty's chaple, printed in 12mo. 1632. The story of Endymion's being beloved by the moon, with comments upon it, may be met with in most of the Mythologists. See Lucian's Dialogues, between Venus and the Moon. Mr. Gambauld has writ a romance called Endymion, translated into English, 8vo. 1639. Galathea, a Comedy, played before the Queen at Greenwich on New year's day, at night, by the children of St. Paul's, printed in 12mo. London, 1632. In the characters of Galathea and Philidia, the poet has copied the story of Iphis and Ianthe, which the reader may find at large in the ninth book of Ovid's Metamorphosis. Maid's Metamorphosis, a Comedy, acted by the children of St. Paul's, printed in 12mo. 1632. Mydas, a Comedy, played before the Queen on Twelfth-night, printed in 12mo. London, 1632. For the story, see the xith book of Ovid's Metamorphosis. Sappho and Phaon, a Comedy, played before the queen on Shrove-Tuesday, by the children of Paul's, and afterwards at Black-Fryars, printed in Twelves, London 1632. This story the reader may learn from Ovid's Epistles, of Sappho to Phaon, Ep. 21. Woman in the Moon, presented before the Queen, London 1667. Six of these plays, viz. Alexander and Campaspe, Endymion, Galathea and Mydas, Sappho and Phaon, with Mother Bombie, a Comedy, by the same author, are printed together under the title of the Six Court-Comedies, 12mo, London 1632, and dedicated by Mr. Blount, to the lord viscount Lumly of Waterford; the other two are printed singly in Quarto.----He also wrote Loves Metamorphosis, a courtly pastoral, printed 1601. * * * * * Sir THOMAS OVERBURY Was son of Nicholas Overbury, Esq; of Burton in Gloucestershire, one of the Judges of the Marches[1]. He was born with very bright parts, and gave early discoveries of a rising genius. In 1595, the 14th year of his age, he became a gentleman commoner in Queen's-College in Oxford, and in 1598, as a 'squire's son, he took the degree of batchelor of arts; he removed from thence to the Middle-Temple, in order to study the municipal law, but did not long remain there[2]. His genius, which was of a sprightly kind, could not bear the confinement of a student, or the drudgery of reading law; he abandoned it therefore, and travelled into France, where he so improved himself in polite accomplishments, that when he returned he was looked upon as one of the most finished gentlemen about court. Soon after his arrival in England, he contracted an intimacy, which afterwards grew into friendship with Sir Robert Carre, a Scotch gentleman, a favourite with king James, and afterwards earl of Somerset. Such was the warmth of friendship in which these two gentlemen lived, that they were inseparable. Carre could enter into no scheme, nor pursue any measures, without the advice and concurrence of Overbury, nor could Overbury enjoy any felicity but in the company of him he loved; their friendship was the subject of court-conversation, and their genius seemed so much alike, that it was reasonable to suppose no breach could ever be produced between them; but such it seems is the power of woman, such the influence of beauty, that even the sacred ties of friendship are broke asunder by the magic energy of these superior charms. Carre fell in love with lady Frances Howard, daughter to the Earl of Suffolk, and lately divorced from the Earl of Essex[3]. He communicated his passion to his friend, who was too penetrating not to know that no man could live with much comfort, with a woman of the Countess's stamp, of whose morals he had a bad opinion; he insinuated to Carre some suspicions, and those well founded, against her honour; he dissuaded him with all the warmth of the sincerest friendship, to desist from a match that would involve him in misery, and not to suffer his passion for her beauty to have so much sway over him, as to make him sacrifice his peace to its indulgence. Carre, who was desperately in love, forgetting the ties of honour as well as friendship, communicated to the lady, what Overbury had said of her, and they who have read the heart of woman, will be at no loss to conceive what reception she gave that unwelcome report. She knew, that Carre was immoderately attached to Overbury, that he was directed by his Council in all things, and devoted to his interest. Earth has no curse like love to hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a fury like a woman scorn'd. This was literally verified in the case of the countess; she let loose all the rage of which she was capable against him, and as she panted for the consummation of the match between Carre and her, she so influenced the Viscount, that he began to conceive a hatred likewise to Overbury; and while he was thus subdued by the charms of a wicked woman, he seemed to change his nature, and from the gentle, easy, accessible, good-natured man he formerly appeared, he degenerated into the sullen, vindictive, and implacable. One thing with respect to the countess ought not to be omitted. She was wife of the famous Earl of Essex, who afterwards headed the army of the parliament against the King, and to whom the imputation of impotence was laid. The Countess, in order to procure a divorce from her husband, gave it out that tho' she had been for some time in a married state, she was yet a virgin, and which it seems sat very uneasy upon her. To prove this, a jury of matrons were to examine her and give their opinion, whether she was, or was not a Virgin: This scrutiny the Countess did not care to undergo, and therefore entreated the favour that she might enter masked to save her blushes; this was granted her, and she took care to have a young Lady provided, of much the same size and exterior appearance, who personated her, and the jury asserted her to be an unviolated Virgin. This precaution in the Countess, no doubt, diminishes her character, and is a circumstance not favourable to her honour; for if her husband had been really impotent as she pretended, she needed not have been afraid of the search; and it proves that she either injured her husband, by falsely aspersing him, or that she had violated her honour with other men. But which ever of these causes prevailed, had the Countess been wise enough, she had no occasion to fear the consequences of a scrutiny; for if I am rightly informed, a jury of old women can no more judge accurately whether a woman has yielded her virginity, than they can by examining a dead body, know of what distemper the deceased died; but be that as it may, the whole affair is unfavourable to her modesty; it shews her a woman of irregular passions, which poor Sir Thomas Overbury dearly experienced; for even after the Countess was happy in the embraces of the Earl of Somerset, she could not forbear the persecution of him; she procured that Sir Thomas should be nominated by the King to go ambassador to Russia, a destination she knew would displease him, it being then no better than a kind of honourable grave; she likewise excited Earl Somerset to seem again his friend, and to advise him strongly to refuse the embassy, and at the fame time insinuate, that if he should, it would only be lying a few weeks in the Tower, which to a man well provided in all the necessaries, as well as comforts of Life, had no great terror in it. This expedient Sir Thomas embraced, and absolutely refused to go abroad; upon which, on the twenty-first of April 1613, he was sent prisoner to the Tower, and put under the care of Sir Gervis Yelvis, then lord lieutenant. The Countess being so far successful, began now to conceive great hopes of compleating her scheme of assassination, and drew over the Earl of Somerset her husband, to her party, and he who a few years before, had obtained the honour of knighthood for Overbury, was now so enraged against him, that he coincided in taking measures to murder his friend. Sir Gervis Yelvis, who obtained the lieutenancy by Somerset's interest, was a creature devoted to his pleasure. He was a needy man, totally destitute of any principles of honour, and was easily prevailed upon to forward a scheme for destroying poor Overbury by poison. Accordingly they consulted with one Mrs. Turner, the first inventer (says Winstanley of that horrid garb of yellow ruffs and cuffs, and in which garb he was afterwards hanged) who having acquaintance with one James Franklin, a man who it seems was admirably fitted to be a Cut-throat, agreed with him to provide that which would not kill presently, but cause one to languish away by degrees. The lieutenant being engaged in the conspiracy, admits one Weston, Mrs. Turner's man, who under pretence of waiting on Sir Thomas, was to do the horrid deed. The plot being thus formed, and success promising so fair, Franklin buys various poisons, White Arsenick, Mercury-Sublimate, Cantharides, Red-Mercury, with three or four other deadly ingredients, which he delivered to Weston, with instructions how to use them; who put them into his broth and meat, increasing and diminishing their strength according as he saw him affected; besides these, the Countess sent him by way of present, poisoned tarts and jellies: but Overbury being of a strong constitution, held long out against their influence: his body broke out in blotches and blains, which occasioned the report industriously propagated by Somerset, of his having died of the French Disease. At last they produced his death by the application of a poisoned clyster, by which he next day in painful agonies expired. Thus (says Winstanley) "by the malice of a woman that worthy Knight was murthered, who yet still lives in that witty poem of his, entitled, A Wife, as is well expressed by the verses under his picture." A man's best fortune or his worst's a wife, Yet I, that knew no marriage, peace nor strife Live by a good one, by a bad one lost my life. Of all crimes which the heart of man conceives, as none is so enormous as murder, so it more frequently meets punishment in this life than any other. This barbarous assassination was soon revealed; for notwithstanding what the conspirators had given out, suspicions ran high that Sir Thomas was poisoned; upon which Weston was strictly examined by Lord Cook, who before his lordship persisted in denying the same; but the Bishop of London afterwards conversing with him, pressing the thing home to his conscience, and opening all the terrors of another life to his mind, he was moved to confess the whole. He related how Mrs. Turner and the Countess became acquainted, and discovered all those who were any way concerned in it; upon which they were all apprehended, and some sent to Newgate, and others to the Tower. Having thus confessed, and being convicted according to due course of law, he was hanged at Tyburn, after him Mrs. Turner, after her Franklin, then Sir Gervis Yelvis, being found guilty on their several arraignments, were executed; some of them died penitent. The Earl and the Countess were both condemned, but notwithstanding their guilt being greater than any of the other criminals, the King, to the astonishment of all his subjects, forgave them, but they were both forbid to appear at court. There was something strangely unaccountable in the behaviour of Somerset after condemnation. When he was asked what he thought of his condition, and if he was preparing to die, he answered, that he thought not of it at all, for he was sure the King durst not command him to be executed. This ridiculous boasting and bidding defiance to his majesty's power, was construed by some in a very odd manner; and there were not wanting those who asserted, that Somerset was privy to a secret of the King's, which if it had been revealed, would have produced the strangest consternation in the kingdom that ever was known, and drawn down infamy upon his majesty for ever; but as nothing can be ascertained concerning it, it might seem unfair to impute to this silly Prince more faults than he perhaps committed: It is certain he was the slave of his favourites, and not the most shocking crime in them, it seems, could entirely alienate his affections, and it is doubtful whether the saving of Somerset or the execution of Raleigh reflects most disgrace upon his reign. Some have said, that the body of Sir Thomas Overbury was thrown into an obscure pit; but Wood, says it appears from the Tower registers, that it was interred in the chapel; which seems more probable. There is an epitaph which Winstanley has preserved, written by our author upon himself, which I shall here insert, as it serves to illustrate his versification. The span of my days measured here I rest, That is, my body; but my soul, his guest Is hence ascended, whither, neither time, Nor faith, nor hope, but only love can climb, Where being new enlightened, she doth know The truth, of all men argue of below: Only this dust, doth here in pawn remain, That when the world dissolves, she come again. The works of Overbury besides his Wife, which is reckoned the wittiest and most finished of all, are, first Characters, or witty descriptions of the prophesies of sundry persons. This piece has relation to some characters of his own time, which can afford little satisfaction to a modern reader. Second, The Remedy of Love in two parts, a poem 1620, Octavo, 2s. Third, Observations in his Travels, on the State. of the seventeen Provinces, as they stood anno 1609. Fourth, Observations on the Provinces united, and the state of France, printed London 1631. Sir Thomas was about 32 years old when he was murthered, and is said to have possessed an accuteness, and strength of parts that was astonishing; and some have related that he was proud of his abilities, and over-bearing in company; but as there is no good authority for the assertion, it is more agreeable to candour to believe him the amiable knight Winstanley draws him; as it seldom happens that a soul formed for the noble quality of friendship is haughty and insolent. There is a tragedy of Sir Thomas Overbury wrote by the late Richard Savage, son of earl Rivers, which was acted in 1723, (by what was then usually called The Summer Company) with success; of which we shall speak more at large in the life of that unfortunate gentleman. [Footnote 1: Wood Athen. Oxon.] [Footnote 2: Winst. ubi supra.] [Footnote 3: Winst. ubi supra.] * * * * * JOHN MARSTEN. There are few things on record concerning this poet's life. Wood says, that he was a student in Corpus-Christi College, Oxon; but in what country he was born, or of what family descended, is no where fixed. Mr. Langbain says, he can recover no other information of him, than what he learned from the testimony of his bookseller, which is, "That he was free from all obscene speeches, which is the chief cause of making plays odious to virtuous and modest persons; but he abhorred such writers and their works, and professed himself an enemy to all such as stuffed their scenes with ribaldry, and larded their lines with scurrilous taunts, and jests, so that whatsoever even in the spring of his years he presented upon the private and public theatre, in his autumn and declining age he needed not to to be ashamed of." He lived in friendship with the famous Ben Johnson, as appears by his addressing to his name a tragi-comedy, called Male-Content: but we afterwards find him reflecting pretty severely on Ben, on account of his Cataline and Sejanus, as the reader will find on the perusal of Marsten's Epistle, prefixed to Sophonisba.--"Know, says he, that I have not laboured in this poem, to relate any thing as an historian, but to enlarge every thing as a poet. To transcribe authors, quote authorities, and to translate Latin prose orations into English blank verse, hath in this subject been the least aim of my studies."----Langbain observes, that none who are acquainted with the works of Johnson can doubt that he is meant here, if they will compare the orations in Salust with those in Cataline. On what provocation Marsten thus censured his friend is unknown, but the practice has been too frequently pursued, so true is it, as Mr. Gay observes of the wits, that they are oft game cocks to one another, and sometimes verify the couplet. That they are still prepared to praise or to abhor us, Satire they have, and panegyric for us.---- Marsten has contributed eight plays to the stage, which were all acted at the Black Fryars with applause, and one of them called the Dutch Courtezan, was once revived since the Restoration, under the title of the Revenge, or a Match in [1]Newgate. In the year 1633 six of this author's plays were collated and published in one volume, and dedicated to the lady viscountess Faulkland. His dramatic works are these: Antonio and Melida, a history, acted by the children of St. Paul's, printed in 1633. Antonius's Revenge; or the second part of Antonio and Melida. These two plays were printed in Octavo several years before the new edition. Dutch Courtezan, a comedy frequently played at Black Fryars, by the children of the Queen's Revels, printed in London 1633. It is taken from a French book called Les Contes du Mende. See the same story in English, in a book of Novels, called the Palace of Pleasure in the last Novel. Insatiate Countess, a Tragedy, acted at White-Fryars, printed in Quarto 1603, under the title of Isabella the insatiable countess of Suevia. It is said that he meant Joan the first queen of Jerusalem, Naples, and Sicily. The life of this queen has employed many pens, both on poetry and novels. Bandello has related her story under the title of the Inordinate Life of the Countess of Celant. The like story is related in God's Revenge against Adultery, under the name of Anne of Werdenberg, duchess of Ulme. Male Content, a Tragi Comedy, dedicated to old Ben, as I have already taken notice, in which he heaps many fine epithets upon him. The first design of this play was laid by Mr. Webster. Parasitaster; or the Fawn, a comedy, often presented at the Black Fryars, by the children of the queen's Revels, printed in Octavo 1633. This play was formerly printed in quarto, 1606. The Plot of Dulcimers cozening the Duke by a pretended discovery of Tiberco's love to her, is taken from Boccace's Novels. What you will, a comedy, printed Octavo, London, 1653. This is said to be one of our author's best plays. The design taken from Plautus's Amphitrion. Wonder of Women, or Sophonisba, a tragedy, acted at Black Fryars, printed in Octavo, 1633. The English reader will find this story described by Sir Walter Raleigh, in his history of the world. B. 5. Besides his dramatic poetry he writ three books of Satires, entitled, The Scourge of Villany, printed in Octavo, London 1598. We have no account in what year our author died, but we find that his works were published after his death by the great Shakespear, and it may perhaps be reasonably concluded that it was about the year 1614. [Footnote 1: The late Mr. C. Bullock, a comedian, and some time manager of Lincoln's-Inn-Fields theatre, _made_ a play from that piece.] * * * * * WILLIAM SHAKESPEAR. There have been some ages in which providence seemed pleased in a most remarkable manner to display it self, in giving to the world the finest genius's to illuminate a people formerly barbarous. After a long night of Gothic ignorance, after many ages of priestcraft and superstition, learning and genius visited our Island in the days of the renowned Queen Elizabeth. It was then that liberty began to dawn, and the people having shook off the restraints of priestly austerity, presumed to think for themselves. At an �ra so remarkable as this, so famous in history, it seems no wonder that the nation would be blessed with those immortal ornaments of wit and learning, who all conspired at once to make it famous.----This astonishing genius, seemed to be commissioned from above, to deliver us not only from the ignorance under which we laboured as to poetry, but to carry poetry almost to its perfection. But to write a panegyric on Shakespear appears as unnecessary, as the attempt would be vain; for whoever has any taste for what is great, terrible, or tender, may meet with the amplest gratification in Shakespear; as may those also have a taste for drollery and true humour. His genius was almost boundless, and he succeeded alike in every part of writing. I cannot forbear giving the character of Shakespear in the words of a great genius, in a prologue spoken by Mr. Garrick when he first opened Drury-lane house as Manager. When learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes, First rear'd the stage;----immortal Shakespear rose, Each change of many-coloured life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new, Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting time toiled after him, in vain. All men have discovered a curiosity to know the little stories and particularities of a great genius; for it often happens, that when we attend a man to his closet, and watch his moments of solitude, we shall find such expressions drop from him, or we may observe such instances of peculiar conduct, as will let us more into his real character, than ever we can discover while we converse with him in public, and when perhaps he appears under a kind of mask. There are but few things known of this great man; few incidents of his life have descended to posterity, and tho' no doubt the fame of his abilities made a great noise in the age in which he flourished; yet his station was not such as to produce many incidents, as it was subject to but few vicissitudes. Mr. Rowe, who well understood, and greatly admired Shakespear, has been at pains to collect what incidents were known, or were to be found concerning him, and it is chiefly upon Mr. Rowe's authority we build the account now given. Our author was the son of John Shakespear, and was born at Stratford upon Avon in Warwickshire, April 1564, at it appears by public records relating to that town. The family from which he is descended was of good figure and fashion there, and are mentioned as gentlemen. His father, who was a considerable dealer in wool, being incumbred with a large family of ten children, could afford to give his eldest son but a slender education. He had bred him at a free school, where he acquired what Latin he was master of, but how well he understood that language, or whether after his leaving the school he made greater proficiency in it, has been disputed and is a point very difficult to settle. However it is certain, that Mr. John Shakespear, our author's father, was obliged to withdraw him early from school, in order to have his assistance in his own employment, towards supporting the rest of the family. "It is without controversy, says Rowe, that in his works we scarce find any traces that look like an imitation of the ancients. The delicacy of his taste, and the natural bent of his own great genius, equal, if not superior to some of the best of theirs, would certainly have led him to read and study them with so much pleasure, that some of their fine images would naturally have insinuated themselves into, and been mixed with his own writings; so that his not copying at least something from them, may be an argument of his never having read them. Whether his ignorance of the ancients was disadvantageous to him or no, may admit of dispute; for tho' the knowledge of them might have made him more correct, yet it is not improbable, but that the regularity and deference for them which would have attended that correctness, might have restrained some of that fire, impetuosity, and even beautiful extravagance, which we cannot help admiring in Shakespear." As to his want of learning, Mr. Pope makes the following just observation: That there is certainly a vast difference between learning and languages. How far he was ignorant of the latter, I cannot (says he) determine; but it is plain he had much reading, at least, if they will not call it learning; nor is it any great matter if a man has knowledge, whether he has it from one language or from another. Nothing is more evident, than that he had a taste for natural philosophy, mechanics, ancient and modern history, poetical learning, and mythology. We find him very knowing in the customs, rites, and manners of the Romans. In Coriolanus, and Julius Cæsar, not only the spirit but manners of the Romans are exactly drawn; and still a nicer distinction is shewn between the manners of the Romans in the time of the former and the latter. His reading in the ancient historians is no less conspicuous, in many references to particular passages; and the speeches copied from Plutarch in Coriolanus may as well be made instances of his learning as those copied from Cicero in the Cataline of Ben Johnson. The manners of other nations in general, the �gyptians, Venetians, French, &c. are drawn with equal propriety. Whatever object of nature, or branch of science, he either speaks or describes, it is always with competent, if not extensive, knowledge. His descriptions are still exact, and his metaphors appropriated, and remarkably drawn from the nature and inherent qualities of each subject.----We have translations from Ovid published in his name, among those poems which pass for his, and for some of which we have undoubted authority, being published by himself, and dedicated to the Earl of Southampton. He appears also to have been conversant with Plautus, from whence he has taken the plot of one of his plays; he follows the Greek authors, and particularly Dares Phrygius in another, although I will not pretend, continues Mr. Pope, to say in what language he read them. Mr. Warburton has strongly contended for Shakespear's learning, and has produced many imitations and parallel passages with ancient authors, in which I am inclined to think him right, and beg leave to produce few instances of it. He always, says Mr. Warbur-ton, makes an ancient speak the language of an ancient. So Julius Cæsar, Act I. Scene II. ----Ye Gods, it doth amazs me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. This noble image is taken from the Olympic games. This majestic world is a fine periphrasis of the Roman Empire; majestic, because the Romans ranked themselves on a footing with kings, and a world, because they called their empire Orbis Romanus; but the whole story seems to allude to Cæsar's great exemplar, Alexander, who, when he was asked whether he would run the course of the Olympic games, replied, 'Yes, if the racers were kings.'--So again in Anthony and Cleopatra, Act I. Scene I. Anthony says with an astonishing sublimity, Let Rome in Tyber melt, and the wide arch Of the razed Empire fall. Taken from the Roman custom of raising triumphal arches to perpetuate their victories. And again, Act III. Scene IV. Octavia says to Anthony, of the difference between him and her brother, "Wars 'twixt you twain would be As if the world should cleave, and that slain men Should solder up the reft"---- This thought seems taken from the story of Curtius leaping into the Chasm in the Forum, in order to close it, so that, as that was closed by one Roman, if the whole world were to cleave, Romans only could solder it up. The metaphor of soldering is extreamly exact, according to Mr. Warburton; for, says he, as metal is soldered up by metal that is more refined than that which it solders, so the earth was to be soldered by men, who are only a more refined earth. The manners of other nations in general, the Egyptians, Venetians, French, etc. are drawn with equal propriety. An instance of this shall be produced with regard to the Venetians. In the Merchant of Venice, Act IV. Scene I. ----His losses That have of late so huddled on his back, Enough to press a royal merchant down. We are not to imagine the word royal to be a random sounding epithet. It is used with great propriety by the poet, and designed to shew him well acquainted with the history of the people, whom he here brings upon the stage. For when the French and Venetians in the beginning of the thirteenth century, had won Constantinople, the French under the Emperor Henry endeavoured to extend their conquests, in the provinces of the Grecian empire on the Terra firma, while the Venetians being masters of the sea, gave liberty to any subject of the Republic, who would fit out vessels to make themselves masters of the isles of the Archipelago and other maritime places, to enjoy their conquests in sovereignty, only doing homage to the Republic for their several principalities. In pursuance of this licence the Sanudo's, the Justiniani, the Grimaldi, the Summaripa's, and others, all Venetian merchants, erected principalities in the several places of the Archipelago, and thereby became truly, and properly Royal Merchants. But there are several places which one cannot forbear thinking a translation from classic writers. In the Tempest Act V. Scene II. Prospero says, --------I have------ Called forth the mutinous winds And 'twixt the green sea, and the azured vault Set roaring war; to the dread ratling thunder, Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak, With his own bolt; the strong bas'd promontory, Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluckt up The pine and cedar; graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, op'd and let them forth By my so potent art. So Medea in Ovid's Metamorphoses, Stantia concutio cantu freta; nubila pello, Nubilaque induco, ventos abigoque, vocoque; Vivaque faxa sua convulsaque robora terra Et sylvas moveo; jubeoque tremiscere montes, Et mugire solum, manesque exire sepulchris. But to return to the incidents of his life: Upon his quitting the grammar school, he seems, to have entirely devoted himself to that way of living which his father proposed, and in order to settle in the world after a family manner, thought fit to marry while he was yet very young. His wife was the daughter of one Hatchway, said to have been a substantial Yeoman in the neighbourhood of Stratford. In this kind of domestic obscurity he continued for some time, till by an unhappy instance of misconduct, he was obliged to quit the place of his nativity, and take shelter in London, which luckily proved the occasion of displaying one of the greatest genius's that ever was known in dramatic poetry. He had the misfortune to fall into ill company: Among these were some who made a frequent practice of Deer-stealing, and who engaged him more than once in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecot near Stratford; for which he was prosecuted by that gentleman, as he thought somewhat too severely; and in order to revenge himself of this supposed ill usage, he made a ballad upon him; and tho' this, probably the first essay of his poetry, be lost, yet it is said to have been so very bitter, that it redoubled the prosecution against him to that degree, that he was obliged to leave his business and family for some time, and shelter himself in London. This Sir Thomas Lucy, was, it is said, afterwards ridiculed by Shakespear, under the well known character of Justice Shallow. It is at this time, and upon this accident, that he is said to have made his first acquaintance in the playhouse. Here I cannot forbear relating a story which Sir William Davenant told Mr. Betterton, who communicated it to Mr. Rowe; Rowe told it Mr. Pope, and Mr. Pope told it to Dr. Newton, the late editor of Milton, and from a gentleman, who heard it from him, 'tis here related. Concerning Shakespear's first appearance in the playhouse. When he came to London, he was without money and friends, and being a stranger he knew not to whom to apply, nor by what means to support himself.----At that time coaches not being in use, and as gentlemen were accustomed to ride to the playhouse, Shakespear, driven to the last necessity, went to the playhouse door, and pick'd up a little money by taking care of the gentlemens horses who came to the play; he became eminent even in that profession, and was taken notice of for his diligence and skill in it; he had soon more business than he himself could manage, and at last hired boys under him, who were known by the name of Shakespear's boys: Some of the players accidentally conversing with him, found him so acute, and master of so fine a conversation, that struck therewith, they and recommended him to the house, in which he was first admitted in a very low station, but he did not long remain so, for he soon distinguished himself, if not as an extraordinary actor, at least as a fine writer. His name is painted, as the custom was in those times, amongst those of the other players, before some old plays, but without any particular account of what sort of parts he used to play: and Mr. Rowe says, "that tho' he very carefully enquired, he found the top of his performance was the ghost in his own Hamlet." "I should have been much more pleased," continues Rowe, "to have learned from some certain authority which was the first play he writ; it would be without doubt, a pleasure to any man curious in things of this kind, to see and know what was the first essay of a fancy like Shakespear's." The highest date which Rowe has been able to trace, is Romeo and Juliet, in 1597, when the author was thirty-three years old; and Richard II and III the next year, viz. the thirty-fourth of his age. Tho' the order of time in which his several pieces were written be generally uncertain, yet there are passages in some few of them, that seem to fix their dates. So the chorus at the end of the fourth act of Henry V by a compliment very handsomely turned to the Earl of Essex, shews the play to have been written when that Lord was general to the queen in Ireland; and his eulogium upon Queen Elizabeth, and her successor King James in the latter end of his Henry VIII is a proof of that play's being written after the accession of the latter of these two princes to the throne of England. Whatever the particular times of his writing were, the people of the age he lived in, who began to grow wonderfully fond of diversions of this kind, could not but be highly pleased to see a genius arise amongst them, of so pleasurable, so rich a vein, and and so plentifully capable of furnishing their favourite entertainments. Besides the advantage which Shakespear had over all men in the article of wit, he was of a sweet, gentle, amiable disposition, and was a most agreeable companion; so that he became dear to all that knew him, both as a friend and as a poet, and by that means was introduced to the best company, and held conversation with the finest characters of his time. Queen Elizabeth had several of his plays acted before her, and that princess was too quick a discerner, and rewarder of merit, to suffer that of Shakespear to be neglected. It is that maiden princess plainly whom he intends by ----A fair vestal, throned by the West. Midsummer night dream. And in the same play he gives us a poetical and lively representation of the Queen of Scots, and the fate she met with, ----Thou rememb'rest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a sea-maid on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song, And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music. Queen Elizabeth was so well pleased with the admirable character of Falstaff in the two parts of Henry IV. that she commanded him to continue it in one play more, and to make him in love. This is said to have been the occasion of his writing the Merry Wives of Windsor. How well she was obeyed, the play itself is a proof; and here I cannot help observing, that a poet seldom succeeds in any subject assigned him, so well as that which is his own choice, and where he has the liberty of selecting: Nothing is more certain than that Shakespear has failed in the Merry Wives of Windsor. And tho' that comedy is not without merit, yet it falls short of his other plays in which Falstaff is introduced, and that Knight is not half so witty in the Merry Wives of Windsor as in Henry IV. The humour is scarcely natural, and does not excite to laughter so much as the other. It appears by the epilogue to Henry IV. that the part of Falstaff was written originally under the name of Oldcastle. Some of that family being then remaining, the Queen was pleased to command him to alter it, upon which he made use of the name of Falstaff. The first offence was indeed avoided, but I am not sure whether the author might not be somewhat to blame in his second choice, since it is certain, that Sir John Falstaff who was a knight of the garter, and a lieutenant-general, was a name of distinguished merit in the wars with France, in Henry V. and Henry VIth's time. Shakespear, besides the Queen's bounty, was patronized by the Earl of Southampton, famous in the history of that time for his friendship to the unfortunate Earl of Essex. It was to that nobleman he dedicated his poem of Venus and Adonis, and it is reported, that his lordship gave our author a thousand pounds to enable him to go through with a purchase he heard he had a mind to make. A bounty at that time very considerable, as money then was valued: there are few instances of such liberality in our times. There is no certain account when Shakespear quitted the stage for a private life. Some have thought that Spenser's Thalia in the Tears of the Muses, where she laments the loss of her Willy in the comic scene, relates to our poet's abandoning the stage. But it is well known that Spenser himself died in the year 1598, and five years after this we find Shakespear's name amongst the actors in Ben Johnson's Sejanus, which first made its appearance in the year 1603, nor could he then have any thoughts of retiring, since that very year, a license by King James the first was granted to him, with Burbage, Philipps, Hemmings, Condel, &c. to exercise the art of playing comedies, tragedies, &c. as well at their usual house called the Globe on the other side the water, as in any other parts of the kingdom, during his Majesty's pleasure. This license is printed in Rymer's Fædera; besides it is certain, Shakespear did not write Macbeth till after the accession of James I. which he did as a compliment to him, as he there embraces the doctrine of witches, of which his Majesty was so fond that he wrote a book called Dæmonalogy, in defence of their existence; and likewise at that time began to touch for the Evil, which Shakespear has taken notice of, and paid him a fine turned compliment. So that what Spenser there says, if it relates at all to Shakespear, must hint at some occasional recess which he made for a time. What particular friendships he contracted with private men, we cannot at this time know, more than that every one who had a true taste for merit, and could distinguish men, had generally a just value and esteem for him. His exceeding candour and good nature must certainly have inclined all the gentler part of the world to love him, as the power of his wit obliged the men of the most refined knowledge and polite learning to admire him. His acquaintance with Ben Johnson began with a remarkable piece of humanity and good nature: Mr. Johnson, who was at that time altogether unknown to the world, had offered one of his plays to the stage, in order to have it acted, and the person into whose hands it was put, after having turned it carelessly over, was just upon returning it to him with an ill-natured answer, that it would be of no service to their company, when Shakespeare luckily cast his eye upon it, and found something so well in it, as to engage him first to read it through, and afterwards to recommend Mr. Johnson and his writings to the public. The latter part of our author's life was spent in ease and retirement, he had the good fortune to gather an estate, equal to his wants, and in that to his wish, and is said to have spent some years before his death in his native Stratford. His pleasant wit and good nature engaged him in the acquaintance, and entitled him to the friendship, of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. It is still remembered in that county, that he had a particular intimacy with one Mr. Combe, an old gentleman, noted thereabouts for his wealth and usury. It happened that in a pleasant conversation amongst their common friends, Mr. Combe merrily told Shakespear, that he fancied he intended to write his epitaph, if he happened to out-live him; and since he could not know what might be said of him when dead, he desired it might be done immediately; upon which Shakespear gave him these lines. Ten in the hundred lyes here engraved, 'Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not saved: If any man asketh who lies in this tomb? Oh! oh! quoth the Devil, 'tis my John-a-Combe. But the sharpness of the satire is said to have stung the man so severely, that he never forgave it. Shakespear died in the fifty-third year of his age, and was buried on the North side of the chancel in the great church at Stratford, where a monument is placed on the wall. The following is the inscription on his grave-stone. Good friend, for Jesus sake forbear, To dig the dust inclosed here. Blest be the man that spares these stones, And curs'd be he that moves my bones. He had three daughters, of whom two lived to be married; Judith the elder to Mr. Thomas Quincy, by whom she had three sons, who all died without children, and Susannah, who was his favourite, to Dr. John Hall, a physician of good reputation in that county. She left one child, a daughter, who was married to Thomas Nash, Esq; and afterwards to Sir John Bernard, of Abington, but deceased likewise without issue. His dramatic writings were first published together in folio 1623 by some of the actors of the different companies they had been acted in, and perhaps by other servants of the theatre into whose hands copies might have fallen, and since republished by Mr. Rowe, Mr. Pope, Mr. Theobald, Sir Thomas Hanmer, and Mr. Warburton. Ben Johnson in his discoveries has made a sort of essay towards the character of Shakespear. I shall present it the reader in his own words, 'I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespear, that in writing he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted out a thousand! which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told posterity this, but for their ignorance, who chuse that circumstance to commend their friend by, wherein he most faulted; and to justify my own character (for I lov'd the man, and do honour to his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any). He was indeed honest, and of an open free nature, had an excellent fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with that facility, that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopp'd. His wit was in his own power: would the rule of it had been so. Many times he fell into those things which could not escape laughter, as when he said in the person of Cæsar, one speaking to him, "Cæsar thou dost me wrong." He replied, "Cæsar did never wrong, but with just cause;" 'And such like, which were ridiculous; but he redeemed his vices with his virtues; there was ever more in them to be praised, than to be pardoned.' Ben in his conversation with Mr. Drumond of Hawthornden, said, that Shakespear wanted art, and sometimes sense. The truth is, Ben was himself a better critic than poet, and though he was ready at discovering the faults of Shakespear, yet he was not master of such a genius, as to rise to his excellencies; and great as Johnson was, he appears not a little tinctured with envy. Notwithstanding the defects of Shakespear, he is justly elevated above all other dramatic writers. If ever any author deserved the name of original (says Pope) it was he: [1] 'His poetry was inspiration indeed; he is not so much an imitator, as instrument of nature; and it is not so just to say of him that he speaks from her, as that she speaks through him. His characters are so much nature herself, that it is a sort of injury to call them by so distant a name as copies of her. The power over our passions was likewise never possessed in so eminent a degree, or displayed in so many different instances, nor was he more a matter of the great, than of the ridiculous in human nature, nor only excelled in the passions, since he was full as admirable in the coolness of reflection and reasoning: His sentiments are not only in general the most pertinent and judicious upon every subject, but by a talent very peculiar, something between penetration and felicity, he hits upon that particular point, on which the bent of each argument, or the force of each motive depends.' Our author's plays are to be distinguished only into Comedies and Tragedies. Those which are called Histories, and even some of his Comedies, are really Tragedies, with a mixture of Comedy amongst them. That way of Tragi-comedy was the common mistake of that age, and is indeed become so agreeable to the English taste, that though the severer critics among us cannot bear it, yet the generality of our audiences seem better pleased with it than an exact Tragedy. There is certainly a great deal of entertainment in his comic humours, and a pleasing and well distinguished variety in those characters he thought fit to exhibit with. His images are indeed every where so lively, that the thing he would represent stands full before you, and you possess every part of it; of which this instance is astonishing: it is an image of patience. Speaking of a maid in love, he says, ------She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i'th'bud, Feed on her damask cheek: She pin'd in thought, And sat like patience on a monument. Smiling at grief. But what is characteristically the talent of Shakespear, and which perhaps is the most excellent part of the drama, is the manners of his persons, in acting and in speaking what is proper for them, and fit to be shewn by the Poet, in making an apparent difference between his characters, and marking every one in the strongest manner. Poets who have not a little succeeded in writing for the stage, have yet fallen short of their great original in the general power of the drama; none ever found so ready a road to the heart; his tender scenes are inexpressibly moving, and such as are meant to raise terror, are no less alarming; but then Shakespeare does not much shine when he is considered by particular passages; he sometimes debases the noblest images in nature by expressions which are too vulgar for poetry. The ingenious author of the Rambler has observed, that in the invocation of Macbeth, before he proceeds to the murder of Duncan, when he thus expresses himself, ---------Come thick night And veil thee, in the dunnest smoke of hell, Nor heaven peep thro' the blanket of the dark, To cry hold, hold. That the words dunnest and blanket, which are so common in vulgar mouths, destroy in some manner the grandeur of the image, and were two words of a higher signification, and removed above common use, put in their place, I may challenge poetry itself to furnish an image so noble. Poets of an inferior class, when considered by particular passages, are excellent, but then their ideas are not so great, their drama is not so striking, and it is plain enough that they possess not souls so elevated as Shakespeare's. What can be more beautiful than the flowing enchantments of Rowe; the delicate and tender touches of Otway and Southern, or the melting enthusiasm of Lee and Dryden, but yet none of their pieces have affected the human heart like Shakespeare's. But I cannot conclude the character of Shakespeare, without taking notice, that besides the suffrage of almost all wits since his time in his favour, he is particularly happy in that of Dryden, who had read and studied him clearly, sometimes borrowed from him, and well knew where his strength lay. In his Prologue to the Tempest altered, he has the following lines; Shakespear, who taught by none, did first impart, To Fletcher wit, to lab'ring Johnson, art. He, monarch-like gave there his subjects law, And is that nature which they paint and draw; Fletcher reached that, which on his heights did grow, While Johnson crept, and gathered all below: This did his love, and this his mirth digest, One imitates him most, the other best. If they have since outwrit all other men, 'Tis from the drops which fell from Shakespear's pen. The storm[2] which vanished on the neighb'ring shore Was taught by Shakespear's Tempest first to roar. That innocence and beauty which did smile In Fletcher, grew in this Inchanted Isle. But Shakespear's magic could not copied be, Within that circle none durst walk but he. The plays of this great author, which are forty-three in number, are as follows, 1. The Tempest, a Comedy acted in the Black Fryars with applause. 2. The Two Gentlemen of Verona, a Comedy writ at the command of Queen Elizabeth. 3. The first and second part of King Henry IV the character of Falstaff in these plays is justly esteemed a master-piece; in the second part is the coronation of King Henry V. These are founded upon English Chronicles. 4. The Merry Wives of Windsor, a Comedy, written at the command of Queen Elizabeth. 5. Measure for Measure, a Comedy; the plot of this play is taken from Cynthio Ciralni. 6. The Comedy of Errors, founded upon Plautus's Mænechmi. 7. Much Ado About Nothing, a Comedy; for the plot see Ariosto's Orlando Furioso. 8. Love's Labour Lost, a Comedy. 9. Midsummer's Night's Dream, a Comedy. 10. The Merchant of Venice, a Tragi-Comedy. 11. As you Like it, a Comedy. 12. The Taming of a Shrew, a Comedy. 13. All's Well that Ends Well. 14. The Twelfth-Night, or What you Will, a Comedy. In this play there is something singularly ridiculous in the fantastical steward Malvolio; part of the plot taken from Plautus's Mænechmi. 15. The Winter's Tale, a Tragi-Comedy; for the plot of this play consult Dorastus and Faunia. 16. The Life and Death of King John, an historical play. 17. The Life and Death of King Richard II. a Tragedy. 18. The Life of King Henry V. an historical play. 19. The First Part of King Henry VI. an historical play. 20. The Second Part of King Henry VI. with the death of the good Duke Humphrey. 21. The Third Part of King Henry VI. with the death of the Duke of York. These plays contain the whole reign of this monarch. 22. The Life and Death of Richard III. with the landing of the Earl of Richmond, and the battle of Bosworth field. In this part Mr. Garrick was first distinguished. 23. The famous history of the Life of King Henry VIII. 24. Troilus and Cressida, a Tragedy; the plot from Chaucer. 25. Coriolanus, a Tragedy; the story from the Roman History. 26. Titus Andronicus, a Tragedy. 27. Romeo and Juliet, a Tragedy; the plot from Bandello's Novels. This is perhaps one of the most affecting plays of Shakespear: it was not long since acted fourteen nights together at both houses, at the same time, and it was a few years before revived and acted twelve nights with applause at the little theatre in the Hay market. 28. Timon of Athens, a Tragedy; the plot from Lucian's Dialogues. 29. Julius Cæsar, a Tragedy. 30. The Tragedy of Macbeth; the plot from Buchanan, and other Scotch writers. 31. Hamlet Prince of Denmark, a Tragedy. 32. King Lear, a Tragedy; for the plot see Leland, Monmouth. 33. Othello the Moor of Venice, a Tragedy; the plot from Cynthio's Novels. 34. Anthony and Cleopatra; the story from Plutarch. 35. Cymbeline, a Tragedy; the plot from Boccace's Novels. 36. Pericles Prince of Tyre, an historical play. 37. The London Prodigal, a Comedy. 38. The Life and Death of Thomas Lord Cromwell, the favourite of King Henry VIII. 39. The History of Sir John Oldcastle, the good Lord Cobham, a Tragedy. See Fox's Book of Martyrs. 40. The Puritan, or the Widow of Watling-street, a Comedy. 41. A Yorkshire Tragedy; this is rather an Interlude than a Tragedy, being very short, and not divided into Acts. 42. The Tragedy of Locrine, the eldest son of King Brutus. See the story in Milton's History of England. Our age, which demonstrates its taste in nothing so truly and justly as in the admiration it pays to the works of Shakespear, has had the honour of raising a monument for him in Westminster Abbey; to effect which, the Tragedy of Julius Cæsar was acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, April 28, 1738, and the profits arising from it deposited in the hands of the earl of Burlington, Mr. Pope, Dr. Mead, and others, in order to be laid out upon the said monument. A new Prologue and Epilogue were spoken on that occasion; the Prologue was written by Benjamin Martyn esquire; the Epilogue by the hon. James Noel esquire, and spoke by Mrs. Porter. On Shakespear's monument there is a noble epitaph, taken from his own Tempest, and is excellently appropriated to him; with this let us close his life, only with this observation, that his works will never be forgot, 'till that epitaph is fulfilled.--When The cloud capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself And all which it inherit shall dissolve, And like the baseless fabric of a vision Leave not a wreck behind. [Footnote 1: Preface to Shakespear] [Footnote 2: Alluding to the sea voyage of Fletcher.] * * * * * JOSHUA SYLVESTER, The translator of the famous Du Bartas's Weeks and Works; was cotemporary with George Chapman, and flourished in the end of Elizabeth and King James's reign; he was called by the poets in his time, the silver-tongu'd Sylvester, but it is doubtful whether he received any academical education. In his early years he is reported to have been a merchant adventurer.[1] Queen Elizabeth is said to have had a respect for him, her successor still a greater, and Prince Henry greater than his father; the prince so valued our bard, that he made him his first Poet-Pensioner. He was not more celebrated for his poetry, than his extraordinary private virtues, his sobriety and sincere attachment to the duties of religion. He was also remarkable for his fortitude and resolution in combating adversity: we are further told that he was perfectly acquainted with the French, Italian, Latin, Dutch and Spanish languages. And it is related of him, that by endeavouring to correct the vices of the times with too much asperity, he exposed himself to the resentment of those in power, who signified their displeasure, to the mortification and trouble of the author. Our poet gained more reputation by the translation of Du Bartas, than by any of his own compositions. Besides his Weeks and Works, he translated several other productions of that author, namely, Eden[2], the Deceit, the Furies, the Handicrafts, the Ark, Babylon, the Colonies, the Columns, the Fathers, Jonas, Urania, Triumph of Faith, Miracle of Peace, the Vocation, the Daw; the Captains, the Trophies, the Magnificence, &c. also a Paradox of Odes de la Nove, Baron of Teligni with the Quadrians of Pibeac; all which translations were generally well received; but for his own works, which were bound up with them, they received not, says Winstanley, so general an approbation, as may be seen by these verses: We know thou dost well, As a translator But where things require A genius and fire, Not kindled before by others pains, As often thou hast wanted brains. In the year 1618 this author died at Middleburgh in Zealand, aged 55 years, and had the following epitaph made on him by his great admirer John Vicars beforementioned, but we do not find that it was put upon his tomb-stone. Here lies (death's too rich prize) the corpse interr'd Of Joshua Sylvester Du Bartas Pier; A man of arts best parts, to God, man, dear; In foremost rank of poets best preferr'd. [Footnote 1: Athenæ Oxon. p. 594.] [Footnote 2: Winstanley, Lives of the Poets, p. 109.] * * * * * SAMUEL DANIEL Was the son of a music master, and born near Taunton in Somersetshire, in the year 1562. In 1579 he was admitted a commoner in Magdalen Hall in Oxford, where he remained about three years, and by the assistance of an excellent tutor, made a very great proficiency in academical learning; but his genius inclining him more to studies of a gayer and softer kind, he quitted the University, and applied himself to history and poetry. His own merit, added to the recommendation of his brother in law, (John Florio, so well known for his Italian Dictionary) procured him the patronage of Queen Anne, the consort of King James I. who was pleased to confer on him the honour of being one of the Grooms of the Privy-Chamber, which enabled him to rent a house near London, where privately he composed many of his dramatic pieces. He was tutor to Lady Ann Clifford, and on the death of the great Spenser, he was appointed Poet Laureat to Queen Elizabeth. Towards the end of his life he retired to a farm which he had at Beckington near Philips Norton in Somersetshire, where after some time spent in the service of the Muses, and in religious contemplation, he died in the year 1619. He left no issue by his wife Justina, to whom he was married several years. Wood says, that in the wall over his grave there is this inscription; Here lies expecting the second coming of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, the dead body of Samuel Daniel esquire, that excellent poet and historian, who was tutor to Lady Ann Clifford in her youth, she that was daughter and heir to George Clifford earl of Cumberland; who in gratitude to him erected this monument to his memory a long time after, when she was Countess Dowager of Pembroke, Dorset and Montgomery. He died in October, Anno 1619. Mr. Daniel's poetical works, consisting of dramatic and other pieces, are as follow; 1. The Complaint of Rosamond. 2. A Letter from Octavia to Marcus Antonius, 8vo. 1611. These two pieces resemble each other, both in subject and stile, being written in the Ovidian manner, with great tenderness and variety of passion. The measure is Stanzas of seven lines. Let the following specimen shew the harmony and delicacy of his numbers, where he makes Rosamond speak of beauty in as expressive a manner as description can reach. Ah! beauty Syren, fair inchanting good, Sweet silent rhetoric of persuading eyes; Dumb eloquence whose power doth move the blood, More than the words or wisdom of the wife; Still harmony whose diapason lies, Within a brow; the key which passions move, To ravish sense, and play a world in love. 3. Hymen's Triumph, a Pastoral Tragi-Comedy presented at the Queen's Court in the Strand, at her Majesty's entertainment of the King, at the nuptials of lord Roxborough, London, 1623, 4to. It is introduced by a pretty contrived Prologue by way of dialogue, in which Hymen is opposed by avarice, envy and jealousy; in this piece our author sometimes touches the passions with a very delicate hand. 4. The Queen's Arcadia, a Pastoral Tragi-Comedy, presented before her Majesty by the university of Oxford, London 1623, 4to. 5. The Vision of the Twelve Goddesses, presented in a Masque the 8th of January at Hampton-Court, by the Queen's most excellent Majesty and her Ladies. London 1604, 8vo. and 1623, 4to. It is dedicated to the Lady Lucy, countess of Bedford. His design under the shapes, and in the persons of the Twelve Goddesses, was to shadow out the blessings which the nation enjoyed, under the peaceful reign of King James I. By Juno was represented Power; by Pallas Wisdom and Defence; by Venus, Love and Amity; by Vesta, Religion; by Diana, Chastity; by Proserpine, Riches; by Macaria, Felicity; by Concordia, the Union of Hearts; by Astræa, Justice; by Flora, the Beauties of the Earth; by Ceres, Plenty; and by Tathys, Naval Power. 6. The Tragedy of Philotas, 1611, 8vo. it is dedicated to the Prince, afterwards King Charles I. This play met with some opposition, because it was reported that the character of Philotas was drawn for the unfortunate earl of Essex, which obliged the author to vindicate himself from this charge, in an apology printed at the end of the play; both this play, and that of Cleopatra, are written after the manner of the ancients, with a chorus between each act. 7. The History of the Civil Wars between the Houses of York and Lancaster, a Poem in eight books, London, 1604, in 8vo. and 1623, 4to. with his picture before it. 8. A Funeral Poem on the Death of the Earl of Devonshire, London, 1603, 4to. 9. A Panegyric Congratulatory, delivered to the King at Burleigh-Harrington in Rutlandshire, 1604 and 1623, 4to. 10. Epistles to various great Personages in Verse, London, 1601 and 1623, 4to. 11. The Passion of a Distressed Man, who being on a tempest on the sea, and having in his boat two women (of whom he loved the one who disdained him, and scorned the other who loved him) was, by command of Neptune, to cast out one of them to appease the rage of the tempest, but which was referred to his own choice. If the reader is curious to know the determination of this man's choice, it is summed up in the concluding line of the poem. She must be cast away, that would not save. 12. Musophilus, a Defence of Learning; written dialogue-wise, addressed to Sir Fulk Greville. 13. Various Sonnets to Delia, 57 in number. 14. An Ode. 15. A Pastoral. 16. A Description of Beauty. 17. To the Angel Spirit of Sir Philip Sidney. 18. A Defence of Rhime. All these pieces are published together in two volumes, 12 mo. under the title of the poetical pieces of Mr. Samuel Daniel. But however well qualified our author's genius was for poetry, yet Langbain is of opinion that his history is the crown of all his works. It was printed about the year 1613, and dedicated to Queen Anne. It reaches from the state of Britain under the Romans, to the beginning of the reign of Richard II. His history has received encomiums from various hands, as well as his poetry: It was continued by John Trusul, with like brevity and candour, but not with equal elegance, 'till the reign of Richard III. A.D. 1484. Mr. Daniel lived respected by men of worth and fashion, he passed through life without tasting many of the vicissitudes of fortune; he seems to have been a second rate genius, and a tolerable versifier; his poetry in some places is tender, but want of fire is his characteristical fault. He was unhappy in the choice of his subject of a civil war for a poem, which obliged him to descend to minute descriptions, and nothing merely narrative can properly be touched in poetry, which demands flights of the imagination and bold images. * * * * * Sir JOHN HARRINGTON, Born at Kelston near the city of Bath, was the son of John Harrington esquire, who was imprisoned in the Tower in the reign of Queen Mary, for holding a correspondence with the Lady Elizabeth; with whom he was in great favour after her accession to the crown, and received many testimonies of her bounty and gratitude. Sir John, our author, had the honour to be her god-son, and both in respect to his father's merit, and his own, he was so happy to possess her esteem to the last[1]. He had the rudiments of his education at Eaton; thence removing to Cambridge, he there commenced master of arts, and before he arrived at his 30th year, he favoured the world with a translation of the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto, by which he acquired some reputation. After this work, he composed four books of epigrams, which in those times were received with great applause; several of these mention another humorous piece of his called Misacmos Metatmorphosis, which for a while exposed him to her Majesty's resentment, yet he was afterwards received into favour. This (says Mrs. Cooper) is not added to the rest of his works, and therefore she supposes was only meant for a Court amusement, not the entertainment of the public, or the increase of his fame. In the reign of King James I. he was created Knight of the Bath[2], and presented a manuscript to Prince Henry, called a Brief View of the State of the Church of England, as it stood in Queen Elizabeth and King James's reign in the year 1608. This piece was levelled chiefly against the married bishops, and was intended only for the private use of his Highness, but was some years afterwards published by one of Sir John's grandsons, and occasioned much displeasure from the clergy, who did not fail to recollect that his conduct was of a piece with his doctrines, as he, together with Robert earl of Leicester, supported Sir Walter Raleigh in his suit to Queen Elizabeth for the manor of Banwell, belonging to the bishopric of Bath and Wells, on the presumption that the right reverend incumbent had incurred a Premunire, by marrying a second wife. Sir John appears to be a gentleman of great pleasantry and humour; his fortune was easy, the court his element, and which is ever an advantage to an author, wit was not his business, but diversion: 'Tis not to be doubted, but his translation of Ariosto was published after Spenser's Fairy Queen, and yet both in language and numbers it is much inferior, as much as it is reasonable to suppose the genius of Harrington was below that of Spenser. Mrs. Cooper remarks, that the whole poem of Orlando is a tedious medley of unnatural characters, and improbable events, and that the author's patron, Cardinal Hippolito De Este, had some reason for that severe question. Where the devil, Signior Ludovico, did you pick up all these damned lies? The genius of Ariosto seems infinitely more fit for satire than heroic poetry; and some are of opinion, that had Harrington wrote nothing but epigrams, he had been more in his own way. We cannot certainly fix the time that Sir John died, but it is reasonable to suppose that it was about the middle, or rather towards the latter end of James I's reign. I shall subjoin an epigram of his as a specimen of his poetry. IN CORNUTUM. What curl'd pate youth is he that sitteth there, So near thy wife, and whispers in her eare, And takes her hand in his, and soft doth wring her. Sliding his ring still up and down her finger? Sir, 'tis a proctor, seen in both the lawes, Retain'd by her in some important cause; Prompt and discreet both in his speech and action, And doth her business with great satisfaction. And think'st thou so? a horn-plague on thy head! Art thou so-like a fool, and wittol led, To think he doth the bus'ness of thy wife? He doth thy bus'ness, I dare lay my life. [Footnote 1: Muses Library, p. 296.] [Footnote 2: Ubi supra.] * * * * * THOMAS DECKER, A poet who lived in the reign of King James I. and as he was cotemporary with Ben Johnson, so he became more eminent by having a quarrel with that great man, than by all his works. Decker was but an indifferent poet, yet even in those days he wanted not his admirers; he had also friends among the poets; one of whom, Mr. Richard Brome, always called him Father; but it is the misfortune of little wits, that their admirers are as inconsiderable as themselves, for Brome's applauses confer no great honour on those who enjoy them. Our author joined with Webster in writing three plays, and with Rowley and Ford in another; and Langbaine asserts, that these plays in which he only contributed a part, far exceed those of his own composition. He has been concerned in eleven plays, eight whereof are of his own writing, of all which I shall give an account in their alphabetical order. I. Fortunatus, a comedy, printed originally in 4to but with what success, or when acted, I cannot gain any account. II. Honest Whore, the first part; a comedy, with the humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife, acted by the Queen's Servants, 1635. III. Honest Whore, the second part, a comedy; with the humours of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife; the Honest Whore persuaded by strong arguments to turn Courtezan again; her refusing those arguments, and lastly the comical passage of an Italian bridewel, where the scene ends. Printed in 4to, London 1630. This play Langbaine thinks was never exhibited, neither is it divided into acts. IV. If this be not a good play the devil is in it; a comedy, acted with great applause by the Queen's majesty's servants, at the Red-Bull, and dedicated to the actors. The beginning of this play seems to be writ in imitation of Machiavel's novel of Belphegor, where Pluto summons the Devils to council. Match me in London, a Tragi-Comedy, often presented, first at the Bull's head in St. John's-street, and then at a private house in Drury-lane, called the Phoenix, printed in 4to. in 1631. VI. Northward Ho, a comedy, often acted by the children of Paul's, printed in 4to. London, 1607. This play was writ by our author and John Webster. VII. Satyromastix, or the untrussing the humourous poet, a comical satire, presented publickly by the Lord Chamberlain's servants, and privately by the children of Paul's, printed in 4to, 1602, and dedicated to the world. This play was writ on the occasion of Ben Johnson's Poetaster, for some account of which see the Life of Johnson. VIII. Westward Ho,[1] a comedy, often acted by the children of Paul's, and printed in 4to. 1607; written by our author and Mr. Webster. IX. Whore of Babylon, an history acted by the prince's servants, and printed in 4to. London 1607. The design of this play, by feigned names, is to set forth the admirable virtues of queen Elizabeth; and the dangers she escaped by the happy discovery of those designs against her sacred person by the Jesuits and bigotted Papists. X. Wyatt's History, a play said to be writ by him and Webster, and printed in 4to. The subject of this play is Sir Thomas Wyat of Kent, who made an insurrection in the first year of Queen Mary, to prevent her match with Philip of Spain. Besides these plays he joined with Rowley and Ford in a play called, The Witch of Edmonton, of which see Rowley. There are four other plays ascribed to our author, in which he is said by Mr. Phillips and Winstanley to be an associate with John Webster, viz. Noble Stranger; New Trick to cheat the Devil; Weakest goes to the Wall; Woman will have her Will; in all which Langbaine asserts they are mistaken, for the first was written by Lewis Sharp, and the other by anonymous authors. [Footnote 1: This was revived in the year 1751, at Drury-lane theatre on the Lord Mayor's day, in the room of the London Cuckolds, which is now discontinued at that house.] * * * * * BEAUMONT and FLETCHER Were two famous dramatists in the reign of James I. These two friends were so closely united as authors, and are so jointly concerned in the applauses and censures bestowed upon their plays, that it cannot be thought improper to connect their lives under one article. Mr. FRANCIS BEAUMONT Was descended from the ancient family of his name, seated at Grace dieu in Leicestershire,[1] and was born about the year 1585 in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. His grandfather, John Beaumont, was Master of the Rolls, and his father Francis Beaumont, one of the Judges of the Common Pleas. Our poet had his education at Cambridge,[2]but of what college we are not informed, nor is it very material to know. We find him afterwards admitted a student in the Inner-Temple, but we have no account of his making any proficiency in the law, which is a circumstance attending almost all the poets who were bred to that profession, which few men of sprightly genius care to be confined to. Before he was thirty years of age he died, in 1615, and was buried the ninth of the same month in the entrance of St. Benedictine's Chapel, within St. Peter's Westminster. We meet with no inscription on his tomb, but there are two epitaphs writ on him, one by his elder brother Sir John Beaumont, and the other by Bishop Corbet. That by his brother is pretty enough, and is as follows: On Death, thy murderer, this revenge I take: I slight his terror, and just question make, Which of us two the best precedence have, Mine to this wretched world, thine to the grave. Thou should'st have followed me, but Death to blame Miscounted years, and measured age by fame. So dearly hast thou bought thy precious lines; Thy praise grew swiftly, so thy life declines. Thy muse, the hearer's queen, the reader's love All ears, all hearts, but Death's could please and move. Our poet left behind him one daughter, Mrs. Frances Beaumont, who lived to a great age and, died in Leicestershire since the year 1700. She had been possessed of several poems of her father's writing, but they were lost at sea in her voyage from Ireland, where she had lived sometime in the Duke of Ormond's family. Besides the plays in which Beaumont was jointly concerned with Fletcher, he writ a little dramatic piece entitled, A Masque of Grays Inn Gentlemen, and the Inner-Temple; a poetical epistle to Ben Johnson; verses to his friend Mr. John Fletcher, upon his faithful Shepherd, and other poem's printed together in 1653, 8vo. That pastoral which was written by Fletcher alone, having met with but an indifferent reception, Beaumont addressed the following copy of verses to him on that occasion, in which he represents the hazard of writing for the stage, and satirizes the audience for want of judgment, which, in order to shew his versification I shall insert. Why should the man, whose wit ne'er had a stain, Upon the public stage present his vein, And make a thousand men in judgment sit To call in question his undoubted wit, Scarce two of which can understand the laws, Which they should judge by, nor the party's cause. Among the rout there is not one that hath, In his own censure an explicit faith. One company, knowing thy judgment Jack, Ground their belief on the next man in black; Others on him that makes signs and is mute, Some like, as he does, in the fairest sute; He as his mistress doth, and me by chance: Nor want there those, who, as the boy doth dance Between the acts will censure the whole play; Some, if the wax lights be not new that day: But multitudes there are, whose judgment goes Headlong, according to the actors clothes. Mr. Beaumont was esteemed so accurate a judge of plays, that Ben Johnson, while he lived, submitted all his writings to his censures; and it is thought, used his judgment in correcting, if not contriving most of his plots. [Footnote 1: Jacob's Lives of the Poets.] [Footnote 2: Wood.] * * * * * Mr. JOHN FLETCHER Was son of Dr. Richard Fletcher, Lord Bishop of London, and was born in Northamptonshire in the year 1576. He was educated at Cambridge, probably at Burnet-college, to which his father was by his last will and testament a benefactor[1]. He wrote plays jointly with Mr. Beaumont, and Wood says he assisted Ben Johnson in a Comedy called The Widow. After Beaumont's death, it is said he consulted Mr. James Shirley in forming the plots of several of his plays, but which those were we have no means of discovering. The editor of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays in 1711 thinks it very probable that Shirley supplied many that were left imperfect, and that the players gave some remains of Fletcher's for Shirley to make up; and it is from hence (he says) that in the first act of Love's Pilgrimage, there is a scene of an ostler transcribed verbatim out of Ben Johnson's New Inn, Act I. Scene I. which play was written long after Fletcher died, and transplanted into Love's Pilgrimage, after printing the New Inn, which was in the year 1630, and two of the plays printed under Fletcher's name. The Coronation and The Little Thief have been claimed by Shirley as his; it is probable they were left imperfect by the one, and finished by the other. Mr. Fletcher died of the plague in the forty ninth year of his age, the first of King Charles I. An. 1625, and was buried in St. Mary Overy's Church in Southwark. Beaumont and Fletcher, as has been observed, wrote plays in concert, but what share each bore in forming the plots, writing the scenes, &c. is unknown. The general opinion is, that Beaumont's judgment was usually employed in correcting and retrenching the superfluities of Fletcher's wit, whose fault was, as Mr. Cartwright expresses it, to do too much; but if Winstanley may be credited, the former had his share likewise in the drama, for that author relates, that our poets meeting once at a tavern in order to form the rude draught of a tragedy, Fletcher undertook to kill the king, which words being overheard by a waiter, he was officious enough, in order to recommend himself, to lodge an information against them: but their loyalty being unquestioned, and the relation of the circumstance probable, that the vengeance was only aimed at a theatrical monarch, the affair ended in a jest. The first play which brought them into esteem, as Dryden says, was Philaster, or Love lies a Bleeding; for, before that, they had written two or three very unsuccessfully, as the like is reported of Ben Johnson before he writ Every Man in his Humour. These authors had with the advantage of the wit of Shakespear, which was their precedent, great natural gifts improved by study. Their plots are allowed generally more regular than Shakespear's; they touch the tender passions, and excite love in a very moving manner; their faults, notwithstanding Beaumont's castigation, consist in a certain luxuriance, and stretching their speeches to an immoderate length;[2] however, it must be owned their wit is great, their language suited to the passions they raise, and the age in which they lived is a sufficient apology for their defects. Mr. Dryden tells us, in his Essay on Dramatic Poetry, that Beaumont and Fletcher's plays in his time were the most pleasing and frequent entertainments of the stage, two of theirs being acted through the year for one of Shakespear's or Johnson's; and the reason he assigns is, because there is a certain gaiety in their comedies, and a pathos in their most serious plays which suits generally with all men's humours; but however it might be when Dryden writ, the case is now reversed, for Beaumont and Fletcher's plays are not acted above once a season, while one of Shakespear's is represented almost every third night. It may seem strange, that wits of the first magnitude should not be so much honoured in the age in which they live, as by posterity;[3] it is now fashionable to be in raptures with Shakespear; editions are multiplied upon editions, and men of the greatest genius have employed all their power in illustrating his beauties, which ever grow upon the reader, and gain ground upon perusal. These noble authors have received incense of praise from the highest pens; they were loved and esteemed by their cotemporaries, who have not failed to demonstrate their respect by various copies of verses at different times, and upon different occasions, addressed to them, the insertion of which would exceed the bounds proposed for this work. I shall only observe, that amongst the illustrious names of their admirers, are Denham, Waller, Cartwright, Ben Johnson, Sir John Berkenhead, and Dryden himself, a name more than equal to all the rest. But the works of our authors have not escaped the censure of critics, especially Mr. Rhymer the historiographer, who was really a man of wit and judgment, but somewhat ill natured; for he has laboured to expose the faults, without taking any notice of the beauties of Rollo Duke of Normandy, the King and No King, and the Maids Tragedy, in a piece of his called The Tragedies of the Last Age considered, and examined by the practice of the ancients, and by the common sense of all ages, in a letter to Fleetwood Shepherd esquire. Mr. Rymer sent one of his books as a present to Mr. Dryden, who in the blank leaves before the beginning, and after the end of the book, made several remarks, as if he intended to publish an answer to that critic, and his opinion of the work was this[4]; "My judgment (says he) of this piece, is, that it is extremely learned, but the author seems better acquainted with the Greek, than the English poets; that all writers ought to study this critic as the best account I have seen of the ancients; that the model of tragedy he has here given is extremely correct, but that it is not the only model of tragedy, because it is too much circumscribed in the plot, characters, &c. And lastly, that we may be taught here justly to admire and imitate the ancients, without giving them the preference, with this author, in prejudice to our own country." Some of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays were printed in quarto during the lives of their authors; and in the year 1645 twenty years after Fletcher's death, there was published in folio a collection of their plays which had not been printed before, amounting to between thirty and forty. At the beginning of this volume are inserted a great number of commendatory verses, written by the most eminent wits of that age. This collection was published by Mr. Shirley after shutting up the Theatres, and dedicated to the earl of Pembroke by ten of the most famous actors. In 1679 there was an edition of all their plays published in folio. Another edition in 1711 by Tonson in seven volumes 8vo. containing all the verses in praise of the authors, and supplying a large omission of part of the last act of Thierry and Theodoret. There was also another edition in 1751. The plays of our authors are as follow, 1. Beggars Bush, a Comedy, acted with applause. 2. Bonduca, a Tragedy; the plot from Tacitus's Annals, b. xiv. Milton's History of England, b. ii. This play has been twice revived. 3. The Bloody Brother, or Rollo Duke of Normandy, a Tragedy, acted at the Theatre at Dorset-Garden. The plot is taken from Herodian's History, b. iv. 4. Captain, a Comedy. 5. Chances, a Comedy; this was revived by Villiers duke of Buckingham with great applause. 6. The Coronation, a Tragi-Comedy, claimed by Mr. Shirley as his. 7. The Coxcomb, a Comedy. 8. Cupid's Revenge, a Tragedy. 9. The Custom of the Country, a Tragi-Comedy; the plot taken from Malispini's Novels, Dec. 6. Nov. 6. 10. Double Marriage, a Tragedy. 11. The Elder Brother, a Comedy, 13. The Faithful Shepherdess, a Dramatic Pastoral, first acted on a twelfth-night at Somerset House. This was entirely Mr. Fletcher's, and instead of a Prologue was sung a Dialogue, between a priest and a nymph, written by Sir William Davenant, and the Epilogue was spoken by the Lady Mordant, but met with no success. 13. The Fair Maid of the Inn, a Comedy; part of this play is taken from Causin's Holy Court, and Wanley's History of Man. 14. The False One; a Tragedy, founded on the Adventures of Julius Cæsar in Egypt, and his amours with Cleopatra. 15. Four Plays in One, or Moral Representations, containing the triumphs of honour, love, death and time, from Boccace's Novels. 16. The Honest Man's Fortune, a Tragi-Comedy; the plot from Heywood's History of Warner. 17. The Humourous Lieutenant, a Tragi-Comedy, still acted with applause. 18. The Island Princess, a Tragi-Comedy, revived in 1687 by Mr. Tate. 19. A King and No King, a Tragi-Comedy, acted with applause. 20. The Knight of the Burning Pestle, a Comedy, revived also with a Prologue spoken by the famous Nell Gwyn. 21. The Knight of Malta, a Tragi-comedy. 22. The Laws of Candy, a Tragi-Comedy. 23. The Little French Lawyer, a Comedy; the plot from Gusman, or the Spanish Rogue. 24. Love's Cure, or the Martial Maid, a Comedy. 25. The Lover's Pilgrimage, a Comedy; the plot is taken from a novel called the Two Damsels, and some incidents from Ben Jonson's New Inn. 26. The Lovers Progress, a Tragi-Comedy; built on a French romance called Lysander and Calista. 27. The Loyal Subject, a Comedy. 28. The Mad Lover, a Tragi-Comedy. 29. The Maid in the Mill, a Comedy. This was revised and acted on the duke of York's Theatre. 30. The Maid's Tragedy; a play always acted with the greatest applause, but some part of it displeasing Charles II, it was for a time forbid to be acted in that reign, till it was revived by Mr. Waller, who entirely altering the last act, it was brought on the stage again with universal applause. 31. A Masque of Grays Inn Gentlemen, presented at the marriage of the Princess Elizabeth and the Prince Palatine of the Rhine, in the Banqueting House at Whitehall. This piece was written by Mr. Beaumont alone. 32. Monsieur Thomas, a Comedy. This play has been since acted on the stage, under the title of Trick for Trick. 33. Nice Valour, or the Passionate Madman, a Comedy. 34. The Night-walker, or the Little Thief, a Comedy, revived since the Restoration with applause. 35. The Noble Gentleman, a Comedy; this was revived by Mr. Durfey, and by him called The Fool's Preferment, at the Three Dukes of Dunstable. 36. Philaster, or Love lies a Bleeding, a Tragi-Comedy. This was the first play that brought these fine writers into esteem. It was first represented at the old Theatre in Lincolns Inn Fields, when the women acted by themselves. 37. The Pilgrim, a Comedy; revived and acted with success. 38. The Prophetess, a Tragi-Comedy. This play has been revived by Mr. Betterton, under the title of Dioclesian, an Opera. 39. The Queen of Cornish, a Tragi-Comedy. 40. Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, a Comedy. 41. The Scornful Lady, a Comedy; acted with great applause. 42. The Sea Voyage, a Comedy; revived by Mr. Durfey, who calls it The Commonwealth of Women. It would appear by the lines we have quoted p. 141, life of Shakespear, that it was taken from Shakespear's Tempest. 43. The Spanish Curate, a Comedy, several times revived with applause; the plot from Gerardo's History of Don John, p. 202, and his Spanish Curate, p. 214. 44. Thiery and Theodoret, a Tragedy; the plot taken from the French Chronicles, in the reign of Colsair II. 45. Two Noble Kinsmen, a Tragi-comedy; Shakespear assisted Fletcher in composing this play. 46. Valentinian, a Tragedy; afterwards revived and altered by the Earl of Rochester. 47. A Wife for a Month, a Tragedy; for the plot see Mariana and Louis de Mayerne Turquet, History of Sancho, the eighth King of Leon. 48. The Wild-Goose Chace, a Comedy, formerly acted with applause. 49. Wit at Several Weapons, a Comedy. 50. Wit without Money, a Comedy, revived at the Old House in Lincolns Inn Fields, immediately after the burning of the Theatre in Drury Lane, with a new Prologue by Mr. Dryden. 51. The Woman Hater, a Comedy, revived by Sir William Davenant, with a new Prologue in prose. This play was writ by Fletcher alone. 52. Women pleased, a Comedy; the plot from Boccace's Novels, 53. Woman's Prize, or the Tanner Tann'd, a Comedy, built on the same foundation with Shakespear's Taming of a Shrew; writ by Fletcher without Beaumont. Mr. Beaumont writ besides his dramatic pieces, a volume of poems, elegies, sonnets, &c. * * * * * THOMAS LODGE Was descended from a family of his name living in Lincolnshire, but whether born there, is not ascertained. He made his first appearance at the university of Oxford about the year 1573, and was afterwards a scholar under the learned Mr. Edward Hobye of Trinity College; where, says Wood, making very early advances, his ingenuity began first to be observed, in several of his poetical compositions. After he had taken one degree in arts, and dedicated some time to reading the bards of antiquity, he gained some reputation in poetry, particularly of the satiric species; but being convinced how barren a foil poetry is, and how unlikely to yield a competent provision for its professors, he studied physic, for the improvement of which he went beyond sea, took the degree of Dr. of that faculty at Avignon, returned and was incorporated in the university in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth's reign: Afterwards settling in London, he practised physic with great success, and was particularly encouraged by the Roman Catholics, of which persuasion it is said he was. Our author hath written Alarm against Usurers, containing tried experiences against worldly abuses, London 1584. History of Forbonius and Prisæria, with Truth's Complaint over England. Euphue's Golden Legacy. The Wounds of a Civil War livelily set forth, in the true Tragedies of Marius and Sylla, London 1594. Looking Glass for London and England, a Tragi-Comedy printed in 4to. London 1598, in an old black letter. In this play our author was assisted by Mr. Robert Green. The drama is founded upon holy writ, being the History of Jonah and the Ninevites, formed into a play. Mr. Langbain supposes they chose this subject, in imitation of others who had writ dramas on sacred themes long before them; as Ezekiel, a Jewish dramatic poet, writ the Deliverance of the Israelites out of Egypt: Gregory Nazianzen, or as some say, Apollinarius of Laodicea, writ the Tragedy of Christ's Passion; to these may be added Hugo Grotius, Theodore Beza, Petavius, all of whom have built upon the foundation of sacred history. Treatise on the Plague, containing the nature, signs, and accidents of the same, London 1603. Treatise in Defence of Plays. This (says Wood) I have not yet seen, nor his pastoral songs and madrigals, of which he writ a considerable number. He also translated into English, Josephus's History of the Antiquity of the Jews, London 1602. The works both moral and natural of Seneca, London 1614. This learned gentleman died in the year 1625, and had tributes paid to his memory by many of his cotemporary poets, who characterised him as a man of very considerable genius. Winstanley has preserved an amorous sonnet of his, which we shall here insert. If I must die, O let me chuse my death: Suck out my soul with kisses, cruel maid! In thy breasts crystal balls, embalm my breath, Dole it all out in sighs, when I am laid; Thy lips on mine like cupping glasses clasp; Let our tongues meet, and strive as they would sting: Crush out my wind with one straight-girting grasp, Stabs on my heart keep time while thou dost sing. Thy eyes like searing irons burn out mine; In thy fair tresses stifle me outright: Like Circe, change me to a loathsome swine, So I may live forever in thy sight. Into heaven's joys can none profoundly see, Except that first they meditate on thee. When our author wishes to be changed into a loathsome swine, so he might dwell in sight of his mistress, he should have considered, that however agreeable the metamorphosis might be to him, it could not be so to her, to look upon such a loathsome object. [Footnote 1: Langbaine's Lives of the Poets.] [Footnote 2: There is a coarseness of dialogue, even in their genteelest characters, in comedy, that appears now almost unpardonable; one is almost inclined to think the language and manners of those times were not over-polite, this fault appears so frequent; nor is the great Shakespear entirely to be acquitted hereof.] [Footnote 3: May not this be owing to envy? are not most wits jealous of their cotemporaries? how readily do we pay adoration to the dead? how slowly do we give even faint praise to the living? is it a wonder Beaumont and Fletcher were more praised and versified than Shakespear? were not inferior wits opposed, nay preferred, to Dryden while living? was not this the case of Addison and Pope, whose works (those authors being no more) will be read with admiration, and allowed the just pre-eminence, while the English tongue is understood.] [Footnote 4: Preface to Fletcher's plays.] * * * * * Sir JOHN DAVIES Was born at Chisgrove, in the parish of Tysbury in Wiltshire, being the son of a wealthy tanner of that place. At fifteen years of age he became a Commoner in Queen's-college, Oxford 1585, where having made great progress in academical learning, and taken the degree of Batchelor of arts, he removed to the Middle-Temple, and applying himself to the study of the common law, was called to the bar; but having a quarrel with one Richard Martyn, (afterwards recorder of London) he bastinadoed him in the Temple-hall at dinner-time, in presence of the whole assembly, for which contempt, he was immediately expelled, and retired again to Oxford to prosecute his studies, but did not resume the scholar's-gown. Upon this occasion he composed that excellent poem called Nosce Teipsum[1]. Afterwards by the favour of Thomas lord Ellesmere, keeper of the Great Seal, being reinstated in the Temple, he practised as a counsellor, and became a burgess in the Parliament held at Westminster 1601. Upon the death of Queen Elizabeth our author, with Lord Hunsdon, went into Scotland to congratulate King James on his succession to the English throne. Being introduced into his Majesty's presence, the King enquired of Lord Hunsdon, the names of the gentlemen who accompanied him, and when his lordship mentioned John Davies, the King presently asked whether he was Nosce Teipsum, and being answered he was, embraced him, and assured him of his favour. He was accordingly made Sollicitor, and a little after Attorney-general in Ireland, where in the year 1606, he was made one of his Majesty's serjeants at law, and Speaker of the House of Commons for that kingdom. In the year following, he received the honour of knighthood from the King at Whitehall. In 1612 he quitted the post of Attorney-general in Ireland, and was made one of his Majesty's English serjeants at law. He married Eleanor Touchet, youngest daughter of George lord Audley, by whom he had a son, an idiot who died young, and a daughter named Lucy, married to Ferdinand lord Hastings, and afterwards Earl of Huntingdon. His lady was a woman of very extraordinary character; she had, or rather pretended to have a spirit of prophecy, and her predictions received from a voice which she often heard, were generally wrapped up in dark and obscure expressions. It was commonly reported, that on the sunday before her husband's death, she was sitting at dinner with him, she suddenly burst into tears, whereupon he asking her the occasion, she answered, "Husband, these are your funeral tears," to which he replied, "Pray therefore spare your tears now, and I will be content that you shall laugh when I am dead." After Sir John's death she lived privately at Parston in Hertfordshire, and an account was published of her strange and wonderful prophecies in 1609. In 1626 Sir John was appointed lord chief justice of the King's-bench, but before the ceremony of his installation could be performed he died suddenly of an apoplexy in the fifty-seventh year of his age, and was buried in the church of St. Martin's in the Fields. He enjoyed the joint applauses of Camden, Ben Johnson, Sir John Harrington, Selden, Donne, and Corbet; these are great authorities in our author's favour, and I may fairly assert that no philosophical writers ever explained their ideas more clearly and familiarly in prose, or more harmoniously and beautifully in verse. There is a peculiar happiness in his similies being introduced more to illustrate than adorn, which renders them as useful as entertaining, and distinguishes them from any other author. In quality of a lawyer Sir John produced the following pieces: 1. A discovery of the true causes why Ireland was never entirely subdued until his Majesty's happy reign; printed in 4to. London 1612, dedicated to the King with this Latin verse only. Principis est virtus maxima nosse suos. 2. A declaration of our sovereign lord the King, concerning the title of his Majesty's son Charles, the prince and duke of Cornwall; London 1614. His principal performance as a poet, is a Poem on the Original, Nature, and Immortality of the Soul, dedicated to Queen Elizabeth. It was republished by Nahum Tate, 1714, addressed to the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, who was a great admirer of our poet, and the editor gives it a very just and advantageous character. Without doubt it is the Nosce Teipsum so much admired by King James, printed 1519, and 1622, mentioned by Wood; to which were added by the same hand: Hymns of Astrea in acrostic verse; and Orchestra, or a poem expressing the antiquity and excellency of dancing, in a dialogue between Penelope and one of her Woers, containing 131 stanzas unfinished. Mr. Wood mentions also epigrams, and a translation of several of King David's Psalms, written by Sir John Davies, but never published. NOSCE TEIPSUM. Why did my parents send me to the schools, That I, with knowledge might enrich my mind, Since the desire to know first made men fools And did corrupt the root of all mankind. For when God's hand, had written in the hearts, Of our first parents all the rules of good, So that their skill infus'd, surpass'd all arts, That ever were before or since the flood. And when their reason's eye was sharp and clear, And (as an eagle can behold the sun) Cou'd have approach'd th' eternal light as near, As th' intellectual Angels could have done. Even then, to them the spirit of lyes suggests, That they were blind because they saw not ill; And breath'd into their incorrupted breasts A curious wish, which did corrupt their will. [Footnote 1: Muses library p. 332.] * * * * * THOMAS GOFF. A Gentleman who flourished in the reign of King James I. He was born in Essex, towards the latter end of Queen Elizabeth's reign, about the year 1592. In his youth he was sent to Westminster-school, and at the age of eighteen, he was entered student of Christ's-college in Oxford[1]. Being an industrious scholar, says Langbaine, he arrived to be a good poet, a skilful orator, and an excellent preacher. In the year 1623 he was made batchelor of divinity, and preferred to a living in Surry called East-Clanden: there he married a wife who proved as great a plague to him as a shrew could be; she was a true Xantippe to our ecclesiastical Socrates, and gave him daily opportunities of puting his patience to the proof; and it is believed by some, that this domestic scourge shortened his days. He was buried at his own parish church at Clanden, the 27th of July, 1627. He writ several pieces on different subjects, amongst which are reckoned five plays. Careless Shepherdess, a Tragi-comedy, acted before the King and Queen at Salisbury court with great applause. Printed in 4to,1656, with an Alphabetical Catalogue of all such plays as ever were to that time published. 2. Courageous Turk, or Amurath I. a Tragedy, acted by the students of Christ-church in Oxford, printed in 8vo, London 1656. For the plot consult Knolles's History of the Turks. 3. Orcites, a Tragedy, acted by the students of Christ's-church in Oxford, printed in 8vo, London 1656. 4. Raging Turk, or Bajazet II. a tragedy acted by the students in Christ's-church in Oxford, printed in 8vo. London 1656. This play was written with the two foregoing tragedies, when the author was master of arts, and student of Christ's-church, but not printed till after his decease. 5. Selinus, Emperor of the Turks, a Tragedy, printed in 4to, London 1638. This play in all probability was never exhibited, because it is not divided into acts. The author calls this the first part; and in his conclusion, as he stiles it, or epilogue, he promises a second part, saying, If this first part, gentles, do like you well; The second part shall greater murders tell. The plot is founded on the Turkish history in the reign of Selinus I. Mr. Philips and Mr. Winstanley have ascribed a comedy to this author, called Cupid's Whirligig, tho' Democritus and Heraclitus were not more different in their temper, than his genius was opposite to comedy, besides the true author was one Mr. E. S. who in his dedicatory epistle says, "That being long pregnant with desire to bring forth something, and being afterwards brought to bed, had chose his friend Mr. Robert Hayman to be godfather, not doubting but his child would be well maintained, feeing he could not live above an hour with him; and therefore he entreated him when he was dead, that he might be buried deep enough in his good opinion, and that he might deserve this epitaph; Here lies the child that was born in mirth, Against the strict rules of child-birth; And to be quit, I gave him to my friend, Who laught him to death, and that was his end." The reason of my making this digression, is to shew, that such ridiculous unmeaning mirth, is not likely to have fallen from Mr. Goff, as he was a grave man, and nothing but what was manly droped from his pen. In the latter part of his life he forsook the stage for the pulpit, and instead of plays writ sermons, some of which appeared in print in the year 1627. To these works may be added his Latin funeral oration, at the divinity school, at the obsequies of Sir Henry Saville, printed in 4to, Oxon 1622; another in Christ's-church cathedral, at the funeral of Dr. Goodwin, canon of that church, printed in London 1627. [Footnote 1: Langbaine's Lives of the Poets, 223.] * * * * * Sir FULK GREVILLE, Lord BROOKE, Sprung from an honourable family in Warwickshire; he was educated both at Oxford and Cambridge, and introduced to court by an uncle in the service of Queen Elisabeth, who received him into her favour, which he had the happiness to preserve uninterupted to her death. At the coronation of James I, he was created Knight of the Bath, and soon after obtained a grant of the ruinous castle of Warwick. He was next appointed sub-treasurer, chancellor of the Exchequer, and privy counsellor, and then advanced to the degree of a baron, by the title of lord Brooke of Beauchamps-court, and one of the lords of the bed-chamber to his Majesty. This noble author was the friend of Sir Philip Sidney, than which a greater compliment cannot be bestowed. As he was a poet and a man of wit he was held in the highest esteem in that courtly age; but he added to genius, a gallantry of spirit, and was as fine a soldier as a writer. Winstanley gives an instance of his prowess in arms. "At the time (says he) when the French ambassador came over to England to negotiate a marriage between the duke of Anjou, and Queen Elizabeth, for the better entertainment of the court, solemn justs were proclaimed, where the Earl of Arundel, Frederick lord Windsor, Sir Philip Sidney, and he, were chief challengers against all comers; in which challenge he behaved himself so gallantly, that he won the reputation of a most valiant knight. Thus you see that tho' case be the nurse of poetry, the Muses are also companions to Mars, as may be exemplified in the characters of the Earl of Surry, Sir Philip Sidney, and Sir Fulk Greville." As our Author loved and admired the ladies, it is somewhat extraordinary, that he died a batchelor; for in all that courtly age, he could not find one on whom to confer the valuable prize of his heart. As he was himself a learned man, and possessed a variety of knowledge, so he patronized many necessitous candidates for fame, but particularly Camden, whom he caused by his interest to be made King at Arms. He was likewise very liberal to Mr. Speed the celebrated chronologer: finding him a man of extensive knowledge, and his occupation and circumstances mean, so that his genius was depressed by poverty, he enabled him to prosecute his studies, and pursue the bent of his genius without being obliged to drudge at a manual employment for his bread. Speed in his description of Warwickshire writes thus of lord Brook, "Whose merit (says he) towards me I do acknowledge, in setting my hand free from the daily employments of a manual trade, and giving it full liberty thus to express the inclination of mind, himself being the procurer of my present estate." He passed thro' life in a calm of prosperity and honour, beloved by his equals, reverenced by his inferiors, and a favourite at court; but when he was about seventy years of age, this life of undisturbed tranquility, was sacrificed to the resentment of a villain, and a catastrophe of the most tragical kind closed the days of this worthy man. One Haywood, who had been many years in his service, and had behaved with fidelity and honour, expostulated with him freely (while they were alone) for his not having received a due reward for his services. His lordship enraged at his presumption, and giving way to his passion, reprimanded him very severely for his insolence; for which the villain being now wrought up to the highest degree of fury, took an opportunity to stab him with his dagger through the back into the vitals, of which wound he instantly died, September 30, 1628. The murderer then struck with remorse, horror and despair, and all the natural attendants of his guilt, retired to his chamber, and having secured the door, fell upon the same weapon with which he had assassinated his master, and anticipated on himself the justice reserved for the hand of an executioner. Lord Brooke was interred in Warwickshire, under a monument of black and white marble[1], whereon he is stiled, Servant to Queen Elizabeth, Counsellor to King James, and friend to Sir Philip Sidney. His works are chiefly these, viz. Alaham, a Tragedy; printed in folio 1633. This play (says Langbaine) seems an imitation of the ancients; the Prologue is spoken by a ghost. This spectre gives an account of each character, which is perhaps done after the manner of Euripides, who introduced one of the chief actors as the Prologue, whose business it was to explain all those circumstances which preceded the opening the stage. He has not in one scene throughout introduced above two speakers, in compliance with Horace's rule in his _Art of Poetry_; nec quarta loqui persona laboret. Mr. Langbaine professes himself ignorant from whence the plot is taken, neither can he find the name of any such Prince as Alaham, that reigned in Ormus, where the scene lyes, an island situated at the entrance of the Persian Gulph, which is mentioned by Mr. Herbert[2] in his account of Ormus. Mustapha, a Tragedy, printed in folio 1633. This play likewise seems to be built on the model of the ancients, and the plot is the same with that of lord Orrery's tragedy of the same title, and taken from Paulus Jovius, Thuanus, &c. Both these plays are printed together in folio, London, 1633, with several other poems, as a Treatise on Human Learning; An Inquisition upon Fame and Honour; A Treatise of Wars. All these are written in a stanza of six lines, four interwoven, and a couplet in base, which the Italians call Sestine Coelica, containing one hundred and nine sonnets of different measures. There are in this volume two letters; the one to an honourable Lady, containing directions how to behave in a married state; the other addressed to his cousin Grevil Varney, then in France, containing Directions for Travelling. His lordship has other pieces ascribed to him besides those published under his name, The Life of Sir Philip Sidney, printed at the beginning of the Arcadia. His Remains, or Poems of Monarchy and Religion, printed in 8vo. London 1670. Philips and Winstanley ascribe a play to him, called Marcus Tullius Cicero, but this is without foundation, for that play was not written, at least not printed, 'till long after his lordship's death. Having now given some account of his works, I shall sum up his character in the words of Mrs. Cooper, in her Muses Library, as it is not easy to do it to better advantage. "I don't know (says she) whether a woman may be acquitted for endeavouring to sum up a character so various and important as his lordship's; but if the attempt can be excused, I don't desire to have it pass for a decisive sentence. Perhaps few men that dealt in poetry had more learning, or real wisdom than this nobleman, and yet his stile is sometimes so dark and mysterious, that one would imagine he chose rather to conceal, than illustrate his meaning. At other times his wit breaks out again with an uncommon brightness, and shines, I'd almost said, without an equal. It is the same thing with his poetry, sometimes so harsh and uncouth as if he had no ear for music, at others, so smooth and harmonious as if he was master of all its powers." The piece from which I shall quote some lines, is entitled, A TREATISE of HUMAN LEARNING. The mind of man is this world's true dimension; And knowledge is the measure of the minde: And as the minde in her vast comprehension, Contains more worlds than all the world can finde. So knowledge doth itself farre more extend, Than all the minds of men can comprehend. A climbing height it is without a head, Depth without bottome, way without an end, A circle with no line invironed, Not comprehended, all it comprehends; Worth infinite, yet satisfies no minde, 'Till it that Infinite of the God-head finde. [Footnote 1: Fuller's Worthies of Warwickshire, p. 127.] [Footnote 2: Travels, third Edition, p. 114.] * * * * * JOHN DAY. This author lived in the reign of King James I. and was some time student in Caius College in Cambridge. No particulars are preserved concerning this poet, but that he had connection with other poets of some name, and wrote the following plays: 1. Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green, with the Merry Humour of Tom Stroud, the Norfolk Yeoman, several times publicly acted by the Prince's Servants; printed in 4to. London, 1659; for the plot, as far as it concerns history, consult the writers in the reign of King Henry VI. 2. Humour out of Breath, a Comedy, said to have been writ by our author, but some have doubted his being the real author of it. 3. Isle of Gulls, a Comedy, often acted in the Black Fryars, by the children of the Revels, printed in 4to. London, 1633. This is founded upon Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. 4. Law Tricks, or Who Would Have Thought It? a Comedy, several times acted by the children of the Revels, and printed in 4to. 1608. 5. Parliament of Bees, with their proper characters, or a Bee-Hive furnished with Twelve Honey-Combs, as pleasant as profitable, being an allegorical description of the ancients of good and bad men in those days, printed in 4to. London, 1641. 6. Travels of Three English Brothers, Sir Thomas, Sir Anthony, and Mr. Robert Shirley, a History, played by her Majesty's Servants, printed in 4to. London, 1607, and dedicated to Honour's Favourites and the entire friends of the family of the Shirleys. In the composition of this play our author was assisted by William Rowley, and Mr. George Wilkins; the foundation of it may be read in several English Writers, and Chronicles, and it is particularly set down in Dr. Fuller's Worthies, in his description of Sussex. When our author died cannot be justly ascertained, but Mr. Langbaine has preserved an elegy written on him, by his friend Mr. Tateham, which begins thus: Don Phoebus now hath lost his light, And left his rule unto the night; And Cynthia, she has overcome The Day, and darkened the sun: Whereby we now have lost our hope, Of gaining Day, into horoscope, &c. In this manner he runs on: like a gentleman in Lincolns Inn, who wrote an ingenious poem upon the transactions between a Landlord and his Tenant Day, who privately departed from him by Night, printed in a single sheet, London, 1684. To shew the parallel, the following lines are sufficient. How Night and Day conspire a secret flight; For Day, they say, is gone away by Night. The Day is past, but landlord where's your rent? You might have seen, that Day was almost spent. Day sold, and did put off whate'er he might, Tho' it was ne'er so dark, Day wou'd be light. * * * * * Sir WALTER RALEIGH Was descended of an ancient family in Devonshire, which was seated in that county before the conquest[1], and was fourth son of Walter Raleigh, esquire, of Fards, in the parish of Cornwood. He was born in the year 1552 at Hayes, a pleasant farm of his father's in the parish of Budley, in that part of Devonshire bordering Eastward upon the Sea, near where the Ottery discharges itself into the British Channel; he was educated at the university of Oxford, where, according to Dr. Fuller, he became a commoner of Oriel College, as well as Christ Church, and displayed in his early years a great vivacity of genius in his application to his studies. Some have said, that after leaving the university, he settled himself in the Middle-Temple, and studied the law, but this opinion must be erroneous, since he declares afterwards on his trial, that he never read a word of law 'till he was prisoner in the Tower. In 1569, when he was not above 17 years of age, he was one of the select troop of a hundred gentlemen voluntiers, whom Queen Elizabeth permitted Henry Champernon to transport into France, for the assistance of protestant Princes there[2], but of what service they were, or what was the consequence of the expedition, we have no account. So great a scene of action as the whole kingdom of France was at that period, gave Raleigh an opportunity of acquiring experience, and reading characters, as well as improving himself in the knowledge of languages and manners, and his own History of the World contains some remarks which he then made of the conduct of some great generals there, of which he had himself been witness. After our author's return from France, he embarked in an expedition to the northern parts of America, with Sir Humphry Gilbert, his brother by the mother's side, that gentleman having obtained the Queen's Patent to plant and inhabit such parts of it as were unpossessed by any Prince with whom she was in alliance; but this attempt proved unsuccessful by means of the division which arose amongst the Voluntiers. The next year, 1580, upon the descent of the Spanish and Italian forces in Ireland under the Pope's banner, for the support of the Desmonds in their rebellion in Munster, he had a captain's commission under the lord Grey of Wilton, to whom at that time the famous Spenser was secretary; but the chief services which, captain Raleigh performed, were under Thomas earl of Ormond, governor of Munster. He surprized the Irish Kerns at Ramile, and having inclosed them, took every rebel upon the spot, who did not fall in the conflict. Among the prisoners there was one laden with Withies, who being asked, what he intended to have done with them? boldly answered, to have hung up the English Charles; upon which Raleigh ordered him to be immediately dispatched in that manner, and the rest of the robbers and murderers to be punished according to their deserts[3]. The earl of Ormond departing for England in the spring of the year 1581, his government of Munster was given to captain Raleigh; in which he behaved with great vigilance and honour, he fought the Arch rebel Barry at Clove, whom he charged with the utmost bravery, and after a hard struggle, put to flight. In the month of August, 1581, captain John Gouch being appointed Governour of Munster by the Lord Deputy, Raleigh attended him in several journies to settle and compose that country; but the chief place of their residence was Cork, and after Gouch had cut off Sir John Desmond, brother to the earl of Desmond, who was at the head of the rebellion, he left the government of that city to Raleigh[4], whose company being not long after disbanded upon the reduction of that earl, the slaughter of his brother, and the submission of Barry, he returned to England. The Lord Deputy Grey having resigned the sword in Ireland towards the end of August, 1582, the dispute between him and Raleigh, upon reasons which are variously assigned by different writers, was brought to a hearing before the council table in England, where the latter supported his cause with such abilities as procured him the good opinion both of her Majesty, and the Lords of the Council, and this, added to the patronage of the earl of Leicester, is supposed to be one considerable occasion of his preferment, though it did not immediately take place, nor could the hopes of it restrain him from a second expedition with his brother Sir Humphry Gilbert to Newfoundland, for which he built a ship of 200 tons called The Bark Raleigh, and furnished it compleatly for the voyage, in which he resolved to attend his brother as his Vice-Admiral. That fleet departed from Plymouth the 11th of June, 1583, but after it had been two or three days at sea, a contagious distemper having seized the whole crew of Raleigh's ship, obliged him to return to that port; however by this accident, he escaped the misfortune of that expedition; for after Sir Humphry had taken possession of Newfoundland, in the right of the crown of England, and assigned lands to every man of his company, and failed three hundred leagues in the voyage home with full hopes of the Queen's assistance to fit out a fleet next year, he unfortunately perished; for venturing rashly in a frigate of but ten tons, he was on the ninth of September that year at midnight swallowed up in an high sea, another vessel suffered the same fate, and even the rest returned not without great hazard and loss[5]: but this ill success could not divert Raleigh from pursuing a scheme of such importance to his country as those discoveries in North America. He drew up an account of the advantage of such a design, and the means of prosecuting it, which he laid before the Queen and Council, who were so well satisfied with the probability of success, that on the 25th of March, 1584, her Majesty granted him letters patent, in favour of his project, containing free liberty to discover such remote heathen and barbarous lands, as were not actually possessed by any Christian prince, nor inhabited by Christian people. Immediately upon this grant, Raleigh chose two able and experienced captains, and furnished them with two vessels fitted out at his own expence, with such expedition that on the 27th of April following they set sail for the West of England, taking their course by the Canary Islands, where they arrived on the 10th of May, towards the West Indies; and that being in those days the best and most frequented rout to America, they passed by the Carribbe Islands in the beginning of June, and reached the Gulph of Florida on the 2d of July, sailing along the shore about one hundred and twenty miles before they could find a convenient harbour. At last they debarked in a very low land, which proved to be an island called Wohoken; and after taking formal possession of the country, they carried on a friendly correspondence with the native Indians, who supplied them with a great variety of fish and venison, and gave them furs, and deerskins in exchange for trifles. Thus encouraged by the natives, eight of the company in a boat, went up the river Occam twenty miles, and next day in the evening they came to an island called Roanah, which was but seven leagues from the place where their ships lay. Here they found the residence of the Indian chief, whose name was Grangamineo, whose house consisted of nine apartments built of Cedar, fortified round with sharp pieces of timber: His wife came out to them, and ordered the people to carry them from the boat on their backs, and shewed them many other civilities. They continued their intercourse with the natives for some time, still viewing the situation of the adjacent country, and after having obtained the best information they could of the number and strength of the Indian nations in that neighbourhood, and of their connexions, alliances, or contests with each other, they returned about the middle of September to England, and made such an advantageous report of the fertility of the soil, and healthiness of the climate, that the Queen favoured the design of settling a colony in that country, to which she was pleased to give the name of Virginia[6]. About two months after, Raleigh was chosen Knight of the Shire for his county of Devon, and made a considerable figure in parliament, where a bill passed in confirmation of his patent for the discovery of foreign countries. During the course of this sessions, he received the honour of knighthood from her Majesty, a distinction the more honourable to him, as the Queen was extreamly cautious in confering titles; and besides the patent for discoveries, she granted him, about the same time, a power to license the vending of wines throughout the kingdom, which was in all probability very lucrative to him; but it engaged him in a dispute with the university of Cambridge, which had opposed one Keymer, whom he had licensed to sell wine there, contrary to the privileges of that university. The parliament being prorogued, Raleigh, intent upon planting his new colony in Virginia, set out his own fleet of seven sail for that country, under the command of his cousin Sir Richard Greenville, who after having visited the country, left behind him an hundred and seven persons to settle a colony at Roanah; in his return to England, he took a Spanish prize worth 50000 l. but this was not the only circumstance of good fortune which happened to Raleigh this year; for the rebellion in Ireland being now suppressed, and the forfeited lands divided into Signiories, among those principally who had been instrumental in the important service of reducing that country; her Majesty granted him one of the largest portions, consisting of twelve thousand acres in the counties of Cork and Waterford, with certain privileges and immunities, upon condition, of planting and improving the same, to which the other grantees were obliged. In the year 1586 we find our author so highly advanced in the Queen's favour, so extremely popular on account of his patronage of learned men, ard the active spirit he exerted in business, that her Majesty made him seneschal in the dutchy of Cornwall. But these distinctions incurred the usual effects of court preferment, and exposed Sir Walter to the envy of those who were much inferior to him in merit; and even the earl of Leicester himself, who had formerly been his great patron, became jealous of him, and set up in opposition to him, his nephew the young earl of Essex. The Comedians likewise took the liberty to reflect upon Raleigh's power, and influence upon the Queen; which her Majesty resented so highly as to forbid Tarleton, the most celebrated actor of that age, from approaching her presence. Raleigh, sollicitous for the prosperity of the plantation in Virginia, sent out new supplies from time to time, some of whom were obliged to return home; and the general alarm spread over the nation on account of the Spanish invasion, threw all things into disorder. About the beginning of the year 1587 he was raised to the dignity of captain of her majesty's guard, which he held together with the place of lord-warden of the Stannaries, and lieutenant-general of the county of Cornwall. From this time till the year 1594, we find Sir Walter continually engaged in projecting new expeditions, sending succours to colonies abroad, or managing affairs in Parliament with consummate address. In the year 1593, we find Father Parsons the jesuit charging him with no less a crime than atheism, and that he had founded a school in which he taught atheistical principles, and had made a great many young gentlemen converts to them; the most considerable authority to countenance the suspicions of Sir Walter's religion, is that of Archbishop Abbot, who in a letter dated at Lambeth, addressed to Sir Thomas Roe, then an ambassador at the Mogul's court, expressly charges Sir Walter with doubting God's being and omnipotence[7]; but it is highly probable Sir Walter's opinions might be misrepresented by his enemies, or wrong conclusions drawn from those which he maintained; and it would be a shocking injustice to the memory of so great a man to suspect him of irreligion, whose writings contain not the least trace of it, and whose History of the World in particular breathes a strong spirit of real and genuine piety. In the heighth of his favour with the Queen, he fell under her majesty's displeasure, for being enamoured of Mrs. Elizabeth Throgmorton, one of the Queen's maids of honour, whom he debauched; and such it seems was the chastity of these times, that a frailty of that sort was looked upon as the highest offence Her Majesty was so exasperated, that she commanded him to be confined several months, and after his enlargement forbid him the court, whence the poor lady was likewise dismissed from her attendance about the maiden queen, who appeared in this case the champion of virginity. Sir Walter soon made her an honourable reparation by marriage, and they were both examples of conjugal affection and fidelity. During the time our author continued under her majesty's displeasure for this offence, he projected the discovery of the rich and extensive empire of Guiana, in the south of America, which the Spaniards had then visited, and to that day had never conquered. For this purpose, having collected informations relating to it, he sent an old officer to take a view of the coast, who returned the year following with a very favourable account of the riches of the country, which he had received from some of the principal Cassiques upon the borders of it. This determined Raleigh's resolution, who provided a squadron of ships at a very great expence, and the lord high admiral Howard, and Sir Robert Cecil conceived so good an opinion of the design, that both concurred in it. He personally engaged in the attempt, and with no great number of ships so far explored the unknown country, that he made greater progress in a few months than the Spaniards had done for many years, and having satisfied himself of the certainty of the gold mines of the country, he returned home with honour and riches the latter end of the summer 1595, and in the year following published in quarto An Account of the Voyage and Discoveries, dedicated to lord admiral Howard and Sir Robert Cecil. The next year Sir Walter was so far restored to the Queen's favour, that he was engaged in the important and successful expedition to Cadiz, in which the earl of Essex and lord admiral Howard were joint commanders, and Raleigh of the council of war, and one of the admirals. In this, as in all his other expeditions, he behaved with equal conduct and courage. After his return from the successful expedition under the earl of Essex, he promoted a reconciliation between that nobleman and secretary Cecil, in consequence of which he was himself fully reinstated in the Queen's favour, and had the command of captain of the guard restored to him with other marks of her forgiveness. In 1597 he was employed in the island voyage as rear admiral, the earl of Essex having the chief command, and the lord Thomas Howard the post of vice-admiral. The design of it was to defeat and destroy at Ferol, as well as in the other ports of the enemy, the Spanish fleet intended for a new expedition against England and Ireland; and to seize upon such Indian fleets of treasure, as they should meet with belonging to the king of Spain, to conquer, restrain, and garrison, most of the Isles of the Azores, and especially the Terceras. But the success of this expedition did not answer the greatness of the preparations for it; the jealousy of the earl of Essex the commander, obstructing the services which Sir Walter's abilities might otherwise have performed. In the council of war, which was held before the isle of Flores, it was resolved that the general and Sir Walter should jointly attack the island of Fyal; where the latter waited seven days for his lordship, and hearing nothing of him, called a council of war, in which it was determined that Raleigh should attempt the town himself, which he did with astonishing bravery and success. Essex finding himself deprived of the honour of taking Fyal, was exasperated to such a degree, that he broke some of the officers who had behaved with great gallantry under Raleigh, and some of his sycophants alledged that Raleigh himself deserved to lose his head for breach of articles in landing without his lordships orders. Upon their return to England the earl endeavoured to transfer the miscarriages of the expedition upon Raleigh, and gained to his side the populace, whom Sir Walter never courted, and whose patronage he scorned; but the Queen herself was not well pleased with the earl's conduct, since it was judged he might have done more than he did; and his proceedings against Sir Walter in calling his actions to public question, were highly disapproved [8]. The next important transaction we find Raleigh engaged in, was in 1601, when the unfortunate earl of Essex, who had calumniated him to the king of Scotland, and endeavoured all he could to shake his interest, was so ill advised by his creatures, as to attempt a public insurrection. Raleigh was active in suppressing it: the earl pretended that the cause of his taking arms was to defend himself against the violence of his personal enemies, the lord Cobham and Raleigh having formed a design of murdering him; tho' on the other hand it is pretty certain, that Sir Ferdinand Gorges, one of the earl's accomplices, afterwards accused Sir Christopher Blount, another of them, for persuading him to kill, or at least apprehend, Sir Walter; which Gorges refusing, Blount discharged four shots after him in a boat. Blount acknowledged this, and at the time of his execution asked Sir Walter forgiveness for it; which he readily granted.----While the earl garisoned his house, Sir Walter was one of those who invested it, and when his lordship was brought to his trial, he with forty of the queen's guard was present upon duty, and was likewise examined with relation to a conference which he had upon the Thames the morning of the insurrection with Sir Ferdinando Gorges. At the execution of Essex, six days after, in the Tower, Raleigh attended, probably in his character of captain of the guard, and stood near the scaffold that he might the better answer if Essex should be desirous of speaking to him, but retired before the earl's execution, because the people seemed to take his appearance there in a wrong light; tho' he afterwards repented of it, as the earl expressed an inclination to see and speak with him before his death, which was in all probability to have asked Raleigh's forgiveness for having traduced, and calumniated him in order to colour his own rash designs. In 1602 our author sold his estate in Ireland, to Mr. Boyle, afterwards earl of Cork, and about Midsummer he settled his estate of Sherbone on his son Walter, on account of a challenge which he had received from Sir Amias Preston, who had been knighted at Cadiz by the earl of Essex; which challenge Sir Walter intended to accept, and therefore disposed his affairs in proper order. The cause of their quarrel does not appear, but they were afterwards reconciled without proceeding to a duel[9]. The death of Queen Elizabeth on the 24th of March 1602-3 proved a great misfortune to Raleigh; James her successor having been prejudiced against him by the earl of Essex, who insinuated that Raleigh was no friend to his succession, nor had any regard for his family. And these prejudices were heightened by secretary Cecil in his private correspondence with that pusilanimous, jealous prince, before he ascended the Throne of England, or at least immediately upon that event; for tho' Raleigh and Cecil had united against Essex, yet after the ruin of that earl and his party, their seeming friendship terminated in a mutual struggle for a superiority of power. But there is another important cause of James's disgust to Sir Walter, which is, that he, lord Cobham, and Sir John Fortescue, would have obliged the king to articles before he was admitted to the throne, and that the number of his countrymen should be limitted; which added to the circumstance of Sir Walter's zeal to take off his mother, inspired his majesty with a confirmed aversion to him; and indeed the tragical end of the queen of Scots is, perhaps, the greatest error with which the annals of that glorious reign is stained. Raleigh in vain endeavoured to gain the affection of the new king, which he attempted by transfering on secretary Cecil the blood of the earl of Essex, as well as that of his royal mother; but this attempt to secure the affections of a weak prince, ended in his ruin, for it exasperated Cecil the more against him; and as Sir Walter was of an active martial genius, the king, who was a lover of peace, and a natural coward, was afraid that so military a man would involve him in a war, which he hated above all things in the world. Our author was soon removed from his command as captain of the guard, which was bestowed upon Sir Thomas Erskin, his majesty's favourite as well as countryman[10], the predecessor to the earl of Mar, whose actions, performed in the year 1715, are recent in every one's memory. Not long after his majesty's ascending the throne of England, Sir Walter was charged with a plot against the king and royal family; but no clear evidence was ever produced that Raleigh had any concern in it. The plot was to have surprized the king and court, to have created commotions in Scotland, animated the discontented in England, and advanced Arabella Stuart, cousin to the king, to the throne. Arabella was the daughter of lord Charles Stuart, younger brother to Henry lord Darnly, and son to the duke of Lenox. She was afterwards married to William Seymour, son to lord Beauchamp, and grandson to the earl of Hertford; and both were confined for the presumption of marrying without his majesty's consent, from which they made their escape, but were again retaken. Lady Arabella died of grief, and Mr. Seymour lived to be a great favourite with Charles I. Raleigh persisted in avowing his ignorance of the plot, and when he came to his trial, he behaved himself so prudently, and defended himself with so much force, that the minds of the people present, who were at first exasperated against him, were turned from the severest hatred to the tenderest pity. Notwithstanding Sir Walter's proof that he was innocent of any such plot, and that lord Cobham, who had once accused him had recanted, and signed his recantation, nor was produced against him face to face, a pack'd jury brought him in guilty of high treason. Sentence of death being pronounced against him, he humbly requested that the king might be made acquainted with the proofs upon which he was cast. He accompanied the Sheriff to prison with wonderful magnanimity, tho' in a manner suited to his unhappy situation. Raleigh was kept near a month at Winchester in daily expectation of death, and in a very pathetic letter wrote his last words to his wife the night before he expected to suffer[11], in which he hoped his blood would quench their malice who had murdered him, and prayed God to forgive his persecutors, and accusers. The king signed the warrant for the execution of the lords Cobham and Grey, and Sir Griffin Markham, at Winchester, pretending, says lord Cecil, to forbear Sir Walter for the present, till lord Cobham's death had given some light how far he would make good his accusation. Markham was first brought upon the scaffold, and when he was on his knees, ready to receive the blow of the ax, the groom of the bedchamber produced to the sheriff his Majesty's warrant to stop the execution; and Markham was told that he must withdraw a while into the hall to be confronted by the Lords. Then Lord Grey was brought forth, and having poured out his prayers and confession, was likewise called aside, and lastly Lord Cobham was exposed in the same manner, and performed his devotions, though we do not find that he said one word of his guilt or innocence, or charged Raleigh with having instigated him; all which circumstances seem more than sufficient to wipe off from the memory of Raleigh the least suspicion of any plot against James's person or government. He was remanded to the Tower of London with the rest of the prisoners, of whom Markham afterwards obtained his liberty, and travelled abroad. Lord Grey of Wilton died in the Tower; Lord Cobham was confined there many years, during which, it is said, he was examined by the King in relation to Raleigh, and entirely cleared him; he afterwards died in the lowest circumstances of distress. In February following a grant was made by the King of all the goods and chattels forfeited by Sir Walter's conviction to the trustees of his appointing for the benefit of his creditors, lady and children. After 12 years confinement in the Tower, in March 1615 he was released out of it, by the interposition of the favourite Buckingham; but before he quitted that place he saw the earl of Somerset committed there for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, and afterwards condemned, which occasioned Sir Walter to compare his own case with that of the earl's, and to remark, 'That the whole History of the World had not the like precedent of a King's prisoner to purchase freedom, and his bosom favourite 'to have the halter, but in scripture, in the case of Mordecai and Haman;' on hearing which, the King is said to have replied, that Raleigh might die in that deceit, which afterwards proved true, for the King pardoned the infamous Somerset, a murderer, and executed Raleigh, a brave and an honest man, equally to the astonishment of the world. Sir Walter being now at large, had the means of prosecuting his old scheme of settling Guiana, which he had so much at heart, that even during his imprisonment, he held a constant correspondence with that country, sending thither every year, or every second year, a ship, to keep the Indians in hopes of being relieved from the tyranny of the Spaniards, who had again encroached upon them, and massacred many, both of the inhabitants and of Raleigh's men. In these ships were brought several natives of the country, with whom he conversed in the Tower, and obtained all possible informations concerning it. Upon such informations he offered his scheme for prosecuting his discovery to the court before he undertook it in person: nor were there any doubts either as to the improbability of the design, or its unlawfulness, notwithstanding the peace made with Spain, otherwise the King would not have made such grants, as he did, even at that time, which shews that he was then convinced, that Sir Walter had in his first voyage discovered and taken possession of that country for the crown of England, and consequently that his subjects were justly intitled to any benefits that might arise from its discovery, without the least respect to the pretensions of the Spaniards: Besides, when Sir Walter first moved the court upon this subject, the Spanish match was not thought of, and the King's necessities being then very pressing, he may be presumed to have conceived great hopes from that discovery, though he might afterwards change his opinion, when he grew so unreasonably fond of that match. In 1616, he obtained a royal commission to settle Guiana at the expence of himself and his friends; he was appointed General, and Commander in Chief of this enterprize, and Governor of the new country, which he was to settle with ample authority; a power was granted him too, of exercising martial law in such a manner as the King's Lieutenant General by sea or land, or any Lieutenants of the counties of England had. These powers seem to imply a virtual pardon to Raleigh, and perhaps made, him less solicitous for an actual one. Meantime Gondemar the Spanish ambassador, by his address, vivacity, and flattering the humours of James, had gained a great ascendency over him, and began to make a great clamour about Raleigh's preparations, and from that moment formed schemes of destroying him. The whole expence of this expedition was defrayed by Raleigh and his friends; the fleet consisted of about seven sail. On the 17th of November, 1617, they came in sight of Guiana, and soon after to anchor, in five degrees off the river Caliana, where they remained till the 4th of December. Raleigh was received with great joy by the Indians, who not only assisted him with provisions, and every thing else in their power, but offered him the sovereignty of their country if he would settle amongst them, which he declined to accept.[12] His extreme sickness for six weeks prevented him from undertaking the discovery of the mines in person, and was obliged to depute captain Keymis to that service; and accordingly on the 4th of December, ordered five small ships to sail into the river Oronoque. When they landed, they found a Spanish garrison between them and the mine, which sallying out unexpectedly, put them in confusion, and gave them battle. In this conflict young Raleigh was killed, and by a fatal mistake, captain Keymis did not prove the mine, but burnt and plundered the Spanish garrison, and found amongst the governor's papers one, which informed him, that Raleigh's expedition had been betrayed, and that he was to be sacrificed to the Spaniards. Upon Keymis's unsuccessful attempt, Raleigh sharply rebuked him for his mistake, and a deviation from his orders, which so much affected that captain, that he shot himself in his own cabin, and finding the wound not mortal, he finished his design by a long knife with which he stabbed himself to the heart. In this distressful situation Raleigh returned home, and found on his arrival at Plymouth, a declaration published against him; at which he took the alarm, and contrived to convey himself out of the kingdom in a vessel hired for that purpose by an old officer of his; but changing his opinion in that respect, he proceeded in his journey to London. Yet thinking it proper to gain time for the appeasing his majesty, by the assistance of one Maneuric a French quack, he counterfeited sickness for several days, during which he wrote his apology. However on the 7th of August he arrived at London, where he was confined in his own house; but having still good reasons not to trust himself to the mercy of the court, he formed a design to escape into France, which Sir Lewis Stackley, who was privy to, and encouraged it, discovered, and Sir Walter being seized in a boat upon the river below Woolwich, was a second time, on the 10th of August, committed to the Tower; but tho' his death seemed absolutely determined, yet it seemed difficult to find a method of accomplishing it, since his conduct in the late expedition could not be stretched in law to such a sentence. It was resolved therefore, to sacrifice him to the resentment of Spain, in a manner so shameful, that it has justly exposed the conduct of the court to the indignation of all succeeding ages, and transmitted the pusillanimous monarch with infamy to posterity. They called him down to judgment upon his former sentence passed fifteen years before, which they were not then ashamed to execute. A privy seal was sent to the judges to order immediate execution, on which a conference was held Friday the 24th of Oct. 1688, between all the judges of England, concerning the manner, how prisoners who have been attainted of treason and set at liberty, should be brought to execution. In consequence of their revolution, a privy seal came to the King's-Bench, commanding that court to proceed against Sir Walter according to law, who next day received notice of the council to prepare himself for death; and on Wednesday the 28th of that month, at 8 o'clock in the morning, was taken out of bed in the hot fit of an ague, and carried to the King's-Bench, Westminster, where execution was awarded against him. The next morning, the 29th of October, the day of the lord-mayor's inauguration, a solemnity never perhaps attended before with a public execution, Sir Walter was conducted by the sheriffs of Middlesex to the Old Palace Yard in Westminster, where mounting the scaffold, he behaved with the most undaunted spirit, and seeming cheerfulness. The bishop of Salisbury (Tohon) being surprized at the hero's contempt of death, and expostulating with him upon it; he told him plainly that he never feared death, and much less then, for which he blessed God, and as to the manner of it, tho' to others it might seem grievous, yet for himself he had rather die so than in a burning fever. This verifies the noble observation of Shakespear, that all heroes have a contempt of death; which he puts in the mouth of Julius Cæsar when his friends dissuaded him from going to the Senate-House. Cowards die many a time before their deaths, The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders, I have heard of yet, It seems to me most strange, that men should fear, Seeing that death, the necessary end, Will come, when it will come.---- Sir Walter eat his breakfast that morning, smoaked his pipe, and made no more of death, than if he had been to take a journey. On the scaffold he conversed freely with the Earl of Arundel and others of the nobility, and vindicated himself from two suspicions; the first, of entering into a confederacy with France; the second, of speaking disloyally of his Majesty. He cleared himself likewise of the suspicion of having persecuted the Earl of Essex, or of insulting him at his death. He concluded with desiring the good people to join with him in prayer, to that great God of Heaven, "whom (says he) I have grievously offended, being a man full of vanity, who has lived a sinful life, in such callings as have been most inducing to it: For I have been a soldier, a sailor, and a courtier; which are courses of wickedness and vice." The proclamation being made that all men should depart the scaffold, he prepared himself for death, gave away his hat and cap, and money to some attendants that stood near him. When he took leave of the lords, and other gentlemen that stood near him, he entreated the Lord Arundel to prevail with the King that no scandalous writings to defame him, should be published after his death; concluding, "I have a long journey to go, and therefore will take my leave." Then having put off his gown and doublet, he called to the executioner to shew him the axe, which not being presently done; he said, "I pray thee let me see it; don't thou think I am afraid of it;" and having it in his hands he felt along the edge of it, and smiling, said to the sheriff; "This is a sharp medicine, but it is a physician for all diseases." The executioner kneeling down and asking him forgiveness, Sir Walter laying his hand upon his shoulder granted it; and being asked which way he would lay himself on the block, he answered, "So the heart be right, it is no matter which way the head lies." His head was struck off at two blows, his body never shrinking nor moving. His head was shewn on each side of the scaffold, and then put into a red leather bag, and with his velvet night-gown thrown over, was afterwards conveyed away in a mourning coach of his lady's. His body was interred in the chancel of St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, but his head was long preserved in a case by his widow, who survived him twenty-years. Thus fell Sir Walter Raleigh in the 66th year of his age, a sacrifice to a contemptible administration, and the resentment of a mean prince: A man of so great abilities, that neither that nor the preceding reign produced his equal. His character was a combination of almost every eminent quality; he was the soldier, statesmen, and scholar united, and had he lived with the heroes of antiquity, he would have made a just parallel to Cæsar, and Xenophon, like them being equal master of the sword and the pen. One circumstance must not be omitted, which in a life so full of action as his, is somewhat extraordinary, viz. that whether he was on board his ships upon important and arduous expeditions, busy in court transactions, or pursuing schemes of pleasure, he never failed to dedicate at least four hours every day to study, by which he became so much master of all knowledge, and was enabled, as a poet beautifully expresses it, to enrich the world with his prison-hours[13]. As the sentence of Raleigh blackens but his King, so his memory will be ever dear to the lovers of learning, and of their country: and tho' he makes not a very great figure as a poet, having business of greater importance continually upon his hands; yet it would have been an unpardonable negligence to omit him, as he does honour to the list, and deserves all the encomiums an honest mind can give, or the most masterly pen bestow; and it were to be wished some man of eminent talents, whose genius is turned to biography, (of such at present we are not destitute) would undertake the life of this hero, and by mixing pleasing and natural reflexions with the incidents, as they occur, not a little instruct and delight his countrymen; as Raleigh's life is the amplest field for such an attempt to succeed in. His works are, Orders to be observed by the commanders of the fleets and land companies, under the conduct of Sir Walter Raleigh, bound for the South parts of America, given at Plymouth 3d May 1617. The Dutiful Advice of a Loving Son to his Aged Father. A Brief Relation of Sir Walter Raleigh's Troubles; with the taking away the lands and castle of Sherburn from him and his heirs, which were granted to the Earl of Bristol. Maxims of State. The Prerogatives of Parliament. The Cabinet Council; containing the Arts of Empires and Mysteries of State. A Discourse touching a Marriage between Prince Henry of England, and a Daughter of Savoy. A Discourse touching a War with Spain, and of the Protesting the Netherlands. A Discourse of the original and Fundamental Cause of natural, arbitrary, necessary, and unnatural War. A Discourse of the inventions of Ships, Anchors, and Compass, Observations concerning the Royal Navy, and Sea service. To Prince Henry. Observations touching Trade and Commerce with the Hollanders and other Nations. A Voyage for the Discovery of Guiana. An Apology for the Voyage to Guiana. A Letter to Lord Carew touching Guiana. An Introduction to a Breviary of the History of England; with the Reign of William the Conqueror. The Seat of Government. Observations on the Causes of the Magnificence and Opulence of Cities. The Sceptic. Instructions to his Son. Letters. Poems. I shall give a specimen of Sir Walter's poetry in a piece called the Vision of the Fairy Queen. Methought I sawe the grave where Laura lay; Within that temple, where the vestal flame; Was wont to burne: and passing by that way, To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tombe fair love, and fairer virtue kept, All suddenly I sawe the Fairy Queene: At whose approach the soul of Petrarche wept And from henceforth, those Graces were not scene; For they this queen attended; in whose steede Oblivion laid him down in Laura's hearse: Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed. And grones of buried ghosts the Heavens did perse; Where Homer's spright did tremble all for 'griefe, And curst th' accesse of that celestial thief. But the most extraordinary work of Sir Walter's is his History of the World, composed in the Tower; it has never been without its admirers; and I shall close the account of our author's works, by the observation of the ingenious author of the Rambler upon this history, in a paper in which he treats of English Historians, No. 122.--"Raleigh (says he) is deservedly celebrated for the labour of his researches, and the elegance of his stile; but he has endeavoured to exert his judgment more than his genius, to select facts, rather than adorn them. He has produced a historical dissertation, but has seldom risen to the majesty of history." [Footnote 1: Prince's Worthies of Devon.] [Footnote 2: Camdeni Annales Elizabethæ, p. 172. Edit. Batav. 1625.] [Footnote 3: Hooker, fol. 167.] [Footnote 4: Case's History of Ireland, fol. 367.] [Footnote 5: Captain Haynes's Report of Sir Humphry Gilbert's voyage to Newfoundland, vol. iii. p. 149.] [Footnote 6: Oldys, fol. 125.] [Footnote 7: Birch's life of Raleigh.] [Footnote 8: Letter of Rowland White, Esq; to Sir Robert Sidney, November 5, 1597.] [Footnote 9: Oldys, fol. 167.] [Footnote 10: Oldys, fol. 157.] [Footnote 11: Raleigh's remains, vol. ii. p. 188.] [Footnote 12: Letter to his lady from Caliana, November 14, 1617.] [Footnote 13: Thompson.] * * * * * DR. JOHN DONNE An eminent poet, and divine of the last century, was born in London in the year 1573. His father was a merchant, descended from a very ancient family in Wales, and his mother from Sir Thomas More, Chancellor of England. He was educated in his father's house under a tutor till the 11th year of his age[1], when he was sent to Oxford; at which time it was observed of him, as of the famous Pica Mirandula, that he was rather born wise than made so by study. He was admitted commoner of Harthall, together with his younger brother, in Michaelmas term 1584.[2] By advice of his relations, who were Roman Catholics, he declined taking the oath tendered upon the occasion of taking degrees. After he had studied three years at the University, he removed to Cambridge, and from thence three years after to Lincoln's-Inn. About this time his father died, and left him a portion of 3000£. He became soon distinguished at Lincoln's-Inn, by his rapid progress in the law. He was now eighteen years of age, and as yet had attached himself to no particular denomination of Christians, and as his relations were bigotted to the Romish faith, he was induced to examine the controversy, and to embrace publickly that which appeared to him to be best supported by the authority of the scriptures. He relinquished the study of the law, and devoted himself entirely to that of the controverted points between the Protestants and Catholics, which ended in a thorough conviction of the truths of the reformed religion. In the years 1596 and 1597 Mr. Donne attended the Earl of Essex in his expeditions against Cadiz and the Azores Islands, and stayed some years in Italy and Spain, and soon after his return to England he was made secretary to lord chancellor Egerton. This probably was intended by his lordship only as an introduction to a more dignified place; for he frequently expressed a high opinion of his secretary's abilities; and when he afterwards, by the sollicitation of his lady, parted with him, he observed that he was fitter to be a secretary to a Monarch than to him. When he was in the lord chancellor's family, he married privately without the consent of her father, the daughter of Sir George More, chancellor of the Garter, and lord lieutenant of the Tower, who so much resented his daughter's marriage without his consent, that he procured our author's dismission from the chancellor's service, and got him committed to prison. Sir George's daughter lived in the lord chancellor's family, and was niece to his lady. Upon Sir George's hearing that his daughter had engaged her heart to Donne, he removed her to his own house in Surry, and friends on both sides endeavoured to weaken their affection for each other, but without success; for having exchanged the most sacred promises, they found means to consummate a private marriage. Our author was not long in obtaining his liberty, but was obliged to be at the expence of a tedious law-suit to recover the possession of his wife, who was forcibly detained from him. At length our poet's extraordinary merit and winning behaviour so far subdued Sir George's resentment, that he used his interest with the Chancellor to have his son-in-law restored to his place; But this request was refused; his lordship observing, that he did not chuse to discharge and re-admit servants at the request of his passionate petitioners. Sir George had been so far reconciled to his daughter and son, as not to deny his paternal blessing, but would contribute nothing towards their support, Mr. Donne's fortune being greatly diminished by the expence of travels, law-suits, and the generosity of his temper; however his wants were in a great measure prevented by the seasonable bounty of their kinsman Sir Francis Wooley, who entertained them several years at his house at Pilford in Surry, where our author had several children born to him. During his residence at Pilford he applied himself with great diligence and success to the study of the civil and canon law, and was about this time sollicited by Dr. Morton, (afterwards lord bishop of Durham) to go into holy Orders, and accept of a Benefice the Doctor would have resigned to him; but he thought proper to refuse this obliging offer. He lived with Sir Francis till that gentleman's death, by whose mediation a perfect reconciliation was effected between Mr. Donne and his father-in-law; who obliged himself to pay our author 800£. at a certain day as his wife's portion, or 20£. quarterly for their maintenance, till it was all paid. He was incorporated master of arts in the university of Oxford, having before taken the same degree at Cambridge 1610. About two years after the reconciliation with his father, he was prevailed upon with much difficulty to accompany Sir Robert Drury to Paris[3] Mrs. Donne, being then big with child and in a languishing state of health, strongly opposed his departure, telling him, that her divining soul boaded some ill in his absence; bur Sir Robert's importunity was not to be resisted, and he at last consented to go with him. Mr. Walton gives an account of a vision Mr. Donne had seen after their arrival there, which he says was told him by a person of honour, who had a great intimacy with Mr. Donne; and as it has in it something curious enough, I shall here present it to the reader in that author's own words[4] "Two days after their arrival there, Mr. Donne was left alone in that room in which Sir Robert and he and some other friends had dined together. To this place Sir Robert returned within half an hour; and as he left so he found Mr. Donne alone, but in such an extasy, and so altered as to his looks, as amazed Sir Robert to behold him; insomuch that he earnestly desired Mr. Donne to declare what had befallen him in the short time of his absence; to which he was not able to make a present answer, but after a long and perplexed pause did at last say: I have seen a dreadful vision since I saw you; I have seen my wife pass twice by me through this room with her hair hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child in her arms. To which Sir Robert replied, sure Sir, you have slept since you saw me, and this is the result of some melancholy dream, which I desire you to forget, for you are now awake. To which Mr. Donne's reply was, I cannot be surer that I now live, than that I have not slept since I saw you; and am as sure that at her second appearing she stopt and looked me in the face and vanished." Rest and sleep had not altered Mr. Donne's opinion next day, for then he confirmed his vision with so deliberate a confidence, that he inclined Sir Robert to a faint belief that the vision was true. It is an observation, that desire and doubt have no rest, for he immediately sent a servant to Drury-House, with a charge to hasten back and bring him word "whether Mrs. Donne was dead or alive, and if alive in what condition she was as to her health." The twelfth day the messenger returned with this account; "that he found and left Mrs. Donne very sad and sick in her bed; and that after a long and dangerous labour she had been delivered of a dead child, and upon examination the birth proved, to be on the same day, and about the very hour Mr. Donne affirmed he saw her pass by him in his chamber."----After Donne's return from France, many of the nobility pressed the King to confer some secular employment upon him; but his Majesty, who considered him as better qualified for the service of the church than the state, rejected their requests, tho' the Earl of Somerset, then the great favourite, joined in petitioning for his preferment. About this time the disputes concerning the oaths of allegiance and supremacy being agitated, Mr. Donne by his Majesty's special command, wrote a treatise on that subject, entitled, Pseudo Martyr, printed in 4to, 1610, with which his Majesty was highly pleased, and being firmly resolved to promote him in the church, he pressed him to enter into holy orders, but he being resolved to qualify himself the better for the sacred office by studying divinity, and the learned languages deferred his entering upon it three years longer, during which time he made a vigorous application to these branches of knowledge, and was then ordained both deacon and priest, by Dr. John King, then bishop of London. Presently after he was appointed one of the chaplains in ordinary to his Majesty, and about the same time attending the King in a progress, he was created Dr. in divinity, by the university of Cambridge, by the particular recommendation of that Prince[5] His abilities and industry in his profession were so eminent, and himself so well beloved, that within the first year of his entering into holy orders, he had the offer of fourteen benefices from persons of quality, but as they lay in the country, his inclination of living in London, made him refuse them all. Upon his return from Cambridge his wife died, and his grief for her loss was so great, that for some time he betook himself to a retired and solitary life: Mrs. Donne died in the year 1617, on the seventh day after the birth of her twelfth child. She left our author in a narrow unsettled state with seven children then living, to her he gave a voluntary assurance, that he would never bring them under the subjection of a step-mother, and this promise he faithfully kept. Soon after the death of his wife, he was chosen preacher of Lincoln's-Inn, and in the year 1619 appointed by King James to attend the earl of Doncaster, in his embassy to the Princes of Germany, and about 14 months after his return to England, he was advanced to the deanery of St. Paul's. Upon the vacancy of the deanery, the King sent an order to Dr. Donne, to attend him the next day at dinner: When his Majesty sat down, he said, "Dr. Donne, I have invited you to dinner, and though you sit not down with me, yet I will carve to you of a dish that I know you love well; for knowing you love London, I do therefore make you dean of St. Paul's, and when I have dined, then do you take your beloved dish home to your study, say grace there to your self, and much good may it do you[6]." Soon after, another vicarage of St. Dunstan in the West, and another benefice fell to Dr. Donne. 'Till the 59th year of his age he continued in perfect health, when being with his eldest daughter in Essex, in 1630, he was taken ill of a fever, which brought on a consumption; notwithstanding which he returned to London, and preached in his turn at court as usual, on the first friday in Lent. He died on the 31st day of March 1631, and was buried in the cathedral church of St. Paul's, where a monument was erected over him. Walton says that amongst other preparations for death, he made use of this very remarkable one. He ordered an urn to be cut in wood, on which was to be placed a board of the exact heighth of his body: this being done, he caused himself to be tied up in a winding sheet in the same manner that dead bodies are. Being thus shrouded, and standing with his eyes shut, and with just so much of the sheet put aside, as might discover his thin, pale, and death-like face, he caused a skilful painter to draw his picture. This piece being finished, was placed near his bed-side, and there remained as his constant remembrance to the hour of his death. His character as a preacher and a poet are sufficiently seen in his incomparable writings. His personal qualifications were as eminent as those of his mind; he was by nature exceeding passionate, but was apt to be sorry for the excesses of it, and like most other passionate men, was humane and benevolent. His monument was composed of white marble, and carved from the picture just now mentioned of him, by order of his executor Dr. King, bishop of Chichester, who wrote the following inscription, Johannes Donne, S.T.P. Post varia studia, quibus ab annis tenerimus fideliter, Neo infeliciter, incubit, Instinctu et impulsu spiritus sancti, monitu et horatu, Regis Jacobi, ordines sacros amplexus, Anno sui Jesu 1614, et fuæ ætatis 42, Decanatu hujus ecclesiæ indutus 27 Novembris 1621, Exutus morte ultimo die Martii 1631. Hic, licet in occiduo cinere, aspicit eum, Cujus nomen est oriens. Our author's poems consist of, 1. Songs and Sonnets. 2. Epigrams. 3. Elegies. 4. Epithalamiums, or Marriage Songs. 5. Satires. 6. Letters to several Personages. 7. Funeral Elegies. 8. Holy Sonnets. They are printed together in one volume 12mo. 1719, with the addition of elegies upon the author by several persons. Mr. Dryden in his dedication of Juvenal to the earl of Dorset, has given Dr. Donne the character of the greatest wit, though not the greatest poet of our nation, and wishes his satires and other works were rendered into modern language. Part of this wish the world has seen happily executed by the great hand of Mr. Pope. Besides the Pseudo-Martyr, and volume of poems now mentioned, there are extant the following works of Dr. Donne, viz. Devotions upon emergent Occasions, and several steps in sickness, 4to. London 16. Paradoxes, Problems, Essays, Characters, &c. to which is added a Book of Epigrams, written in Latin by the same author, and translated into English by Dr. Main, as also Ignatius his conclave, a Satire, translated out of the original copy written in Latin by the same author, found lately amongst his own papers, 12mo. London 1653. These pieces are dedicated by the author's son, Dr. John Donne, to Francis Lord Newport. Three Volumes of Sermons, in folio; the first printed in 1640, the second in 1649, and the third in 1660. Essays on Divinity, being several disquisitions interwoven with meditations and prayers before he went into holy orders, published after his death by his son, 1651. Letters to several persons of honour, published in 4to. 1654. There are several of Dr. Donne's letters, and others to him from the Queen of Bohemia, the earl of Carlisle, archbishop Abbot, and Ben Johnson, printed in a book, entitled A Collection of Letters made by Sir Toby Mathews Knt. London 1660, 8vo. The Ancient history of the Septuagint, translated from the Greek of Aristeus, London 1633, 4to. This translation was revised, and corrected by another hand, and printed 1685 in 8vo. Declaration of that Paradox or Thesis, that Self-Homicide is not so naturally a sin that it may not be otherwise, London, 1644, 1648, &c. 4to. The original under the author's own hand is preserved in the Bodleian Library. Mr. Walton gives this piece the character of an exact and laborious treatise, 'wherein all the laws violated by that act (self murder) are diligently surveyed and judiciously censured.' The piece from whence I shall take the following quotation, is called a Hymn to God the Father, was composed in the time of his sickness, which breathes a spirit of fervent piety, though no great force of poetry is discoverable in it. A HYMN to GOD the FATHER. Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, tho' it were done before? Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, tho' still I do deplore? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more. Wilt thou forgive that in which I have won, Others to sin, and made my sin their door? Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I did shun, A year or two, but wallowed in a score? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more. I have a sin of fear, when I have spun, My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear, that at my death, thy son, Shall shine, as he shines now, and heretofore, And having done that, thou hast done, I ask no more. [Footnote 1: Walton's Life of Donne] [Footnote 2: Wood vol. v. col. 554.] [Footnote 3: Walton p. 29]. [Footnote 4: Life ubi supra p. 52]. [Footnote 5: Walton, p. 39, 41.] [Footnote 6: Walton ut Supra, p. 46] * * * * * MICHAEL DRAYTON A Renowned poet, who lived in the reigns of Elizabeth, James and Charles I. sprung from an ancient family, originally descended from the town of Drayton in Leicestershire,[1] but his parents removing into Warwickshire, he was born there, as he himself declares in his Poly-olbion, Song 13. A little village called Harsul in that county claims the honour of his birth, by which accident it is raised from obscurity; he was born in the year 1573, according to the most accurate computation that can be made from the dates of his works. When he was but very young he gave such discoveries of a rising genius as rendered him a favourite with his tutors, and procured him the patronage of persons of distinction. In the year 1573, being then but about ten years of age, he was page to some honourable person, as may be collected from his own words: In some of his epistles to Henry Reynold esquire, it appears that even then he could construe his Cato, and some other little collections of sentences, which made him very anxious to know, what sort of beings the poets were, and very pressing upon his tutor to make him, if possible, a poet. In consequence of this he was put to the reading of Virgil's Eclogues, and 'till even then, says one of his Biographers, he scorned any thing that looked like a ballad, though written by Elderton himself. This Elderton was a famous comedian in those days, and a facetious companion, who having a great readiness at rhiming, composed many catches on Love and Wine, which were then in great vogue among the giddy and volatile part of the town; but he was not more celebrated for drollery than drinking, so that he obtained the name of the bacchanalian buffoon, the red-nosed ballad-maker, &c. and at last by the excessive indulgence of his favourite vice, he fell a martyr to it 1592, and Mr. Camden has preserved this epitaph on him, which for its humour, I shall here give a place. Dead drunk, here Elderton does lie; Dead as he is, he still is drie. So of him it may well be said, Here he, but not his thirst, is laid. If after this our author did not finish his education at the university of Cambridge, it is evident from the testimony of Sir Alton Cohain, his intimate friend, who mentions him in his Choice Poems of several Sorts, that he was for some time a student at Oxford; however, he is not taken notice of by Wood, who has commemorated the most part of the writers who were educated there. In 1588 it appears from his poem, entitled Moses his Birth and Miracles, that he was a spectator at Dover of the Spanish invasion, which was arrogantly stiled Invincible, and it is not improbable that he was engaged in some military employment there, especially as we find some mention made of him, as being in esteem with the gentlemen of the army. He early addicted himself to the amusement of poetry, but all who have written of him, have been negligent in informing us how soon he favoured the public with any production of his own. He was distinguished as a poet about nine or ten years before the death of Queen Elizabeth, but at what time he began to publish cannot be ascertained. In the year 1593, when he was but 30 years of age, he published a collection of his Pastorals; likewise some of the most grave poems, and such as have transmitted his name to posterity with honour, not long after saw the light. His Baron's wars, and England's heroical Epistles; his Downfals of Robert of Normandy; Matilda and Gaveston, for which last he is called by one of his contemporaries, Tragdiographus, and part of his Polyolbion were written before the year 1598, for all which joined with his personal good character; he was highly celebrated at that time, not only for the elegance and sweetness of his expressions, but his actions and manners, which were uniformly virtuous and honourable; he was thus characterised not only by the poet; and florid writers of those days, but also by divines, historians, and other Scholars of the most serious turn and extensive learning. In his younger years he was much beloved and patronized by Sir Walter Aston of Tixhall in Staffordshire, to whom for his kind protection, he gratefully dedicates many of his poems, whereof his Barons Wars was the first, in the spring of his acquaintance, as Drayton himself expresses it; but however, it may be gathered from his works, that his most early dependance was upon another patron, namely, Sir Henry Goodere of Polesworth, in his own county, to whom he has been grateful for a great part of his education, and by whom he was recommended to the patronage of the countess of Bedford: it is no less plain from many of his dedications to Sir Walter Ashton, that he was for many years supported by him, and accommodated with such supplies as afforded him leisure to finish some of his most elaborate compositions; and the author of the Biographia Britannica has told us, 'that it has been alledged, that he was by the interest of the same gentleman with Sir Roger Ashton, one of the Bedchamber to King James in his minority, made in some measure ministerial to an intercourse of correspondence between the young King of of Scots and Queen Elizabeth:' but as no authority is produced to prove this, it is probably without foundation, as poets have seldom inclination, activity or steadiness to manage any state affairs, particularly a point of so delicate a nature. Our author certainly had fair prospects, from his services, or other testimonies of early attachment to the King's interest, of some preferment, besides he had written Sonnets, in praise of the King as a poet. Thus we see Drayton descending to servile flattery to promote his interest, and praising a man as a poet contrary to his own judgment, because he was a King who was as devoid of poetry as courage. He welcomed his Majesty to his British dominions with a congratulatory poem printed in 4to, 1603. The same year he was chosen by Sir Walter Aston one of the esquires who attended him, when he was with others created knight of the Bath at the coronation of his Majesty. It no where appears, that ever our author printed those poems in praise of his Majesty; and the ungrateful reception they met, as well as the disagreeable experience of the universal degeneracy at court, so different from that of the Maiden Reign, might extinguish all hope of raising himself there. In the year 1613 he published the first part of his Poly-olbion. It is a chorographical description of the rivers, mountains, forests, castles; &c. in this Island, intermixed with the remarkable antiquities, rarities, commodities, &c. This part is addressed to Prince Henry, the promising son of James I. by whose encouragement it was written. He had shewed Drayton some singular marks of his favour, and seems to have admitted him as one of his poetical pensioners, but dying before the book was finished, he lost the benefit of his patronage. In this volume there are eighteen songs, illustrated with the notes of the learned Mr. Selden, and there are maps before every song, whereby the cities, mountains, forests, rivers, &c. are represented by the figures of men and women. It is interwoven with many episodes, such as the conquest of this Island by the Romans, the arrival of the Saxons, the Danes and Normans, &c. And bishop Nicholson observes, that Poly-olbion affords a much more accurate account of this kingdom and the Dominion of Wales than could have been expected from the pen of a poet. How poetically our author has conducted and executed his plan, is admirably expressed by the ingenious Dr. James Kirkpatrick, in a beautiful poem of his called the Sea-Piece. Canto II. which I cannot here omit transcribing. Drayton, sweet ancient bard, his Albion sung, With their own praise, their ecchoing vallies rung; His bounding muse o'er every mountain rode, And ev'ry river warbled where he flow'd. In 1619 came out his first folio-volume of poems. In 1622 the second part of his Poly-olbion was published, making in all thirty books or songs. In 1622 we find him stiled Poet Laureat: It is probable this appellation of Poet Laureat was not confined and restricted as it is now to his Majesty's Servant known by that title, who at that time it is presumed was Ben Johnson, because it was bestowed promiscuously as a mark of any poet's excellency in his profession. In 1627 was published the second volume of his poems, containing the battle of Agencourt, in stanzas of eight lines. The mysteries of Queen Margaret in the like stanzas. Nymphidia, or the Court of Faeries. The Quest of Cynthia, another beautiful piece, both reprinted in Dryden's Miscellanies. The Shepherd's Sirena; also the Moon Calf; Satire on the Masculine Affectations of Women, and the the effeminate disguises of the Men, in those times. Elegies upon several occasions. These are introduced by the vision of Ben Johnson on the Muse of his friend Michael Drayton, wherein he very particularly enumerates and praises his several compositions. In 1630 he published another volume of poems in 4to, intitled the Muses Elizium, in ten sundry Nymphals, with three different poems on Noah's flood; Moses his birth and miracles, and David and Goliath. The pastoral poems are addressed to Edward Sackville Earl of Dorset, and Lord Chamberlain, who had now made him one of his family. His divine poems are written in verse and various measures, and are dedicated to the Countess of Dorset; and there are some sublime images in them. At the end of the first divine poem, there are copies of verses in praise of the author, by Bcal Sapperton, in Latin; Mr. John Fletcher, and Thomas Andrews in English; the last of whom is very lavish in displaying the great extent of our poet's fame. In 1631 Mr. Drayton died, or as it is expressed in his monumental inscription, exchanged his laurel for a crown of glory. He was buried among the poets in Westminster-Abbey, and the handsome table monument of blue marble which was raised over his grave the same year, is adorned with his effigies in busto, laureated. On one side is a crest of Minerva's cap, and Pegasus in a scutcheon on the other. Sir Aston Cokain composed an elegy upon him: and Ben Johnson is said to have been the author of his epitaph, which is written in letters of gold upon his monument, with which I shall here present the reader. EPITAPH. Do pious marble let thy readers know What they, and what their children owe To Drayton's name, whose sacred dust We recommend unto thy trust: Protect his memory, and preserve his story, Remain a lasting monument of his glory; And when thy ruins shall disclaim, To be the treasure of his name; His name, that cannot fade shall be, An everlasting monument to thee. Mr. Drayton enjoyed the friendship and admiration of contemporary wits, and Ben Johnson who was not much disposed to praise, entertained a high opinion of him, and in this epitaph has both immortalized himself and his friend. It is easy for those who are conversant with our author's works to see how much the moderns and even Mr. Pope himself copy Mr. Drayton, and refine upon him in those distinctions which are esteemed the most delicate improvements of our English versification, such as the turns, the pauses, the elegant tautologies, &c. It is not difficult to point out some depredations which have been made on our author by modern writers, however obsolete some of them may have reckoned him. In one of his heroical epistles, that of King John to Matilda, he has the following lines. Th' Arabian bird which never is but one, Is only chast because she is alone, But had our mother nature made them two, They would have done, as Doves and Sparrows do. These are ascribed to the Earl of Rochester, who was unexceptionably a great wit. They are not otherwise materially altered, than by the transposure of the rhimes in the first couplet, and the retrenchment of the measure in both. As the sphere in which this author moved was of the middle sort, neither raised to such eminence as to incur danger, nor so deprest with poverty as to be subject to meanness, his life seems to have flowed with great tranquility; nor are there any of those vicissitudes and distresses which have so frequently fallen to the lot of the inspired tribe. He was honoured with the patronage of men of worth, tho' not of the highest stations; and that author cannot be called a mean one, on whom so great a man as Selden (in many respects the most finished scholar that ever appeared in our nation) was pleased to animadvert. His genius seems to have been of the second rate, much beneath Spencer and Sidney, Shakespear and Johnson, but highly removed above the ordinary run of versifyers. We shall quote a few lines from his Poly-olbion as a specimen of his poetry. When he speaks of his native county, Warwickshire, he has the following lines; Upon the mid-lands now, th' industrious Muse doth fall, That shire which we the heart of England well may call, As she herself extends the midst (which is decreed) Betwixt St. Michael's Mount, and Berwick bordering Tweed, Brave Warwick, that abroad so long advanc'd her Bear, By her illustrious Earls, renowned every where, Above her neighbr'ing shires which always bore her head. [Footnote 1: Burton's Description of Leicestershire, p. 16, 22] * * * * * Dr. RICHARD CORBET, Bishop of NORWICH, Was son of Mr. Vincent Corbet, and born at Ewelb in Surry, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He was educated at Westminster school, and from thence was sent to Oxford, 1597, where he was admitted a student in Christ-church. In 1605, being then esteemed one of the greatest wits of the University, he took the degree of Master of Arts, and afterwards entering into holy orders, he became a popular preacher, and much admired by people of taste and learning. His shining wit, and remarkable eloquence recommended him to King James I, who made him one of his chaplains in ordinary, and in 1620 promoted him to the deanery of Christ's-church; about which time he was made doctor of divinity, vicar of Cassington, near Woodstock, in Oxfordshire, and prebendary of Bedminster-secunda, in the church of Sarum.[1] While he was dean of Christ's church, he made verses on a play acted before the King at Woodstock, called Technogamia, or the marriage of Arts, written by Barten Holiday the poet, who afterwards translated Juvenal. The ill-success it met with in the representation occasioned several copies of verses, among which, to use Anthony Wood's words, "Corbet dean of Christ's-church put in for one, who had that day it seems preached before the King, with his band starched clean, for which he was reproved by the graver sort; but those who knew him well took no notice of it, for they have several times said, that he loved to the last boy's play very well." He was elected, 1629, Bishop of Oxford, in the room of Dr. Hewson, translated to the See of Durham. Upon the promotion of Dr. White to Ely he was elected bishop of Norwich. This prelate married Alice, daughter of Dr. Leonard Hutton, vicar of Flower in Northamptonshire, and he mentions that village in a poem of his called Iter Boreale, or a Journey Northward. Our author was in that celebrated class of poets, Ben Johnson, Dr. Donne, Michael Drayton, and others, who wrote mock commendatory verses on Tom Coryate's [2] Crudities. He concurred likewise with other poets of the university in inviting Ben Johnson to Oxford, where he was created Master of Arts. There is extant in the Musæum Ashmoleanum, a funeral oration in Latin, by Dr. Corbet, on the death of Prince Henry, Anno Dom. 1612;[3] This great man died in the year 1635, and was buried the upper-end of the choir of the cathedral church of Norwich. He was very hospitable and a generous encourager of all public designs. When in the year 1634 St. Paul's cathedral was repaired, he not only contributed himself, but was very diligent in procuring contributions from others. His works are difficult to be met with, but from such of his poems as we have had occasion to read, he seems to have been a witty, delicate writer, and to have had a particular talent for panegyric. Wood says, a collection of his poems was published under the title of Poetica Stromata, in 8vo. London 1647. In his Iter Boreale, or Journey Northward, we meet with a fine moral reflexion on the burial place of Richard III. and Cardinal Wolsey, who were both interred at Leicester; with which we shall present the reader as a specimen of his poetry. Is not usurping Richard buried here, That King of hate, and therefore slave of fear? Dragg'd from the fatal Bosworth field where he, Lost life, and what he liv'd for,--Cruelty: Search, find his name, but there is none: O Kings, Remember whence your power and vastness springs; If not as Richard now, so may you be, Who hath no tomb, but scorn and memory. And tho' from his own store, Wolsey might have A Palace or a College for his grave, Yet here he lies interred, as if that all Of him to be remembered were his fall. Nothing but Earth on Earth, no pompous weight Upon him, but a pebble or a quoit. If thou art thus neglected, what shall we, Hope after death, that are but shreds of thee! The author of the Biographia Britanica tells us, that he found in a blank leaf of his poems, some manuscript verses, in honour of Bishop Corbet signed J.C. with which, as they are extremely pretty, and make a just representation of his poetical character, we shall conclude this life. In flowing wit, if verses writ with ease, If learning void of pedantry can please, If much good humour joined to solid sense, And mirth accompanied with innocence, Can give a poet a just right to fame, Then Corbet may immortal honour claim; For he these virtues had, and in his lines, Poetic and heroic spirit shines; Tho' bright yet solid, pleasant, but not rude, With wit and wisdom equally endued. Be silent Muse, thy praises are too faint, Thou want'st a power this prodigy to paint, At once a poet, prelate, and a saint. [Footnote 1: Athen. Oxon. vol. I. col. 600--I.] [Footnote 2: Winstanley.] [Footnote 3: Wood. ubi. supra. fol. 509.] * * * * * EDWARD FAIRFAX. All the biographers of the poets have been extremely negligent with respect to this great genius. Philips so far overlooks him, that he crowds him into his supplement, and Winstanley, who followed him, postpones our author till after the Earl of Rochester. Sir Thomas Pope Blount makes no mention of him; and Mr. Jacob, so justly called the Blunderbus of Law, informs us he wrote in the time of Charles the first, tho' he dedicates his translation of Tasso to Queen Elizabeth. All who mention him, do him the justice to allow he was an accomplished genius, but then it is in a way so cool and indifferent, as shews that they had never read his works, or were any way charmed with the melody of his verses. It was impossible Mr. Dryden could be so blind to our author's beauties; accordingly we find him introducing Spencer and Fairfax almost on the level, as the leading authors of their times; nay tacitly yielding the palm in point of harmony to the last; by asserting that Waller confessed he owed the music of his numbers to Fairfax's Godfrey of Bulloign. The truth is, this gentleman is perhaps the only writer down to Sir William Davenant, who needs no apology to be made for him, on account of the age in which he lived. His diction is so pure, elegant, and full of graces, and the turn of his lines so perfectly melodious, that one cannot read it without rapture; and we can scarcely imagine the original Italian has greatly the advantage in either, nor is it very probable that while Fairfax can be read, any author will attempt a new translation of Tasso with success. Mr. Fairfax was natural son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, and natural brother to Sir Thomas Fairfax, the first who was created Baron of Cameron. His younger brother was knighted, and slain at the memorable siege of Ostend, 1601, of which place he was some time governor[1]. When he married is not on record, or in what circumstances he lived: But it is very probable, his father took care to support him in a manner suitable to his own quality, and his son's extraordinary merit, he being always stiled Edward Fairfax, Esq; of Newhall in Fuystone, in the forest of Knaresborough. The year in which he died is likewise uncertain, and the last account we hear of him is, that he was living in 1631, which shews, that he was then pretty well advanced in years, and as I suppose gave occasion to the many mistakes that have been made as to the time of his writing. Besides the translation of Godfrey of Bulloigne, Mr. Fairfax wrote the history of Edward the Black Prince, and certain eclogues, which Mrs. Cooper tells us are yet in manuscript, tho' (says she) "by the indulgence of the family, from whom I had likewise the honour of these memoirs, I am permitted to oblige the world with a specimen of their beauties." He wrote also a book called, Dæmonologie, in which he shews a great deal of ancient reading and knowledge; it is still in manuscript, and in the beginning he gives this character of himself[2]. "I am in religion neither a fantastic Puritan, nor superstitious Papist, but so settled in conscience, that I have the sure ground of God's word to warrant all I believe, and the commendable ordinances of our English Church, to approve all I practise; In which course I live a faithful Christian, and an obedient, and so teach my family." The eclogues already mentioned are twelve in number, all of them written after the accession of King James to the throne of England, on important subjects, relating to the manners, characters, and incidents of the times he lived in: they are pointed with many fine strokes of satire, dignified with noble instructions of morality, and policy, to those of the highest rank, and some modest hints to Majesty itself. The learning contained in these eclogues is so various and extensive, lhat according to the opinion of his son, who has written long annotations on each, no man's reading besides his own was sufficient to explain his references effectually. As his translation of Tasso is in every body's hand, we shall take the specimen from the fourth eclogue, called Eglon and Alexis, as I find it in Mrs. Cooper's collection. EGLON and ALEXIS. Whilst on the rough, and heath-strew'd wilderness His tender flocks the rasps, and bramble crop, Poor shepherd Eglon, full of sad distress! By the small stream, fat on a mole-hill top: Crowned with a wreath of Heban branches broke: Whom good Alexis found, and thus bespoke. ALEXIS. My friend, what means this silent lamentation? Why on this field of mirth, this realm of smiles Doth the fierce war of grief make such invasion? Witty Timanthes[3] had he seen, e're whiles, What face of woe thy cheek of sadness bears, He had not curtained Agamemnon's tears. The black ox treads not yet upon thy toe, Nor thy good fortune turns her wheel awaye; Thy flocks increase, and thou increasest so, Thy straggling goates now mild, and gentlely; And that fool love thou whipst away with rods; Then what sets thee, and joy so far at odds? [Footnote 1: Muses Library, p. 343.] [Footnote 2: Muses Library, p. 344.] [Footnote 3: Timanthes the painter, who designing the sacrifice of Iphigenia, threw a veil over the face of Agamemnon, not able to express a father's anguish.] * * * * * THOMAS RANDOLPH, A Poet of no mean genius, was born at Newnham, near Daintry in Northamptonshire, the 15th of June, 1605; he was son of William Randolph of Hams, near Lewes in Sussex, was educated at Westminster school, and went from thence to Trinity College in Cambridge, 1623, of which he became a fellow; he commenced Master of Arts, and in this degree was incorporated at Oxon[1], became famous (says Wood) for his ingenuity, being the adopted son of Ben Johnson, and accounted one of the most pregnant wits of his age. The quickness of his parts was discovered early; when he was about nine or ten years old he wrote the History of the Incarnation of Our Saviour in verse, which is preserved in manuscript under his own hand writing. Randolph receives from Langbaine the highest encomium. He tells his readers that they need expect no discoveries of thefts, for this author had no occasion to practice plagiary, having so large a fund of wit of his own, that he needed not to borrow from others. Were a foreigner to form a notion of the merit of the English poets from reading Langbaine, they would be in raptures with Randolph and Durfey, and others of their class, while Dryden, and the first-rate wits, would be quite neglected; Langbaine is so far generous, that he does all he can to draw obscure men into light, but then he cannot be acquitted of envy, for endeavouring to shade the lustre of those whose genius has broke through obscurity without his means, and he does no service to his country while he confines his panegyric to mean versifiers, whom no body can read without a certain degree of contempt. Our author had done nothing in life it seems worth preserving, or at least that cotemporary historians thought so, for there is little to be learned concerning him. Wood says he was like other poets, much addicted to libertine indulgence, and by being too free with his constitution in the company of his admirers, and running into fashionable excesses, he was the means of shortening his own days. He died at little Haughton in Northamptonshire, and was buried in an isle adjoining to the church in that place, on the 17th of March, 1634. He had soon after a monument of white marble, wreathed about with laurel, erected over his grave at the charge of lord Hatton of Kirby. Perhaps the greatest merit which this author has to plead, is his attachment to Ben Johnson, and admiration of him: Silius Italicus performed an annual visit to Virgil's tomb, and that circumstance reflects more honour upon him in the eyes of Virgil's admirers, than all the works of that author. Langbaine has preserved a monument of Randolph's friendship for Ben Johnson, in an ode he addressed to him, occasioned by Mr. Feltham's severe attack upon him, which is particularized in the life of Ben; from this ode we shall quote a stanza or two, before I give an account of his dramatic compositions. Ben, do not leave the stage, 'Cause 'tis a loathsome age; For pride, and impudence will grow too bold, When they shall hear it told, They frighted thee; stand high as is thy cause, Their hiss is thy applause. Most just were thy disdain, Had they approved thy vein: So thou for them, and they for thee were born; They to incense, and thou too much to scorn. Wilt thou engross thy store Of wheat, and pour no more, Because their bacon brains have such a taste As more delight in mast? No! set them forth a board of dainties, full As thy best muse can cull; Whilst they the while do pine, And thirst 'midst all their wine, What greater plague can hell itself devize, Than to be willing thus to tantalize? The reader may observe that the stanzas are reasonably smooth, and mark him a tolerable versifier. I shall now give some account of his plays. 1. Amyntas, or the Impossible Dowry, a Pastoral acted before the King and Queen at Whitehall. 2. Aristippus, or the Jovial Philosopher; presented in a private shew, to which is added the Conceited Pedlar. 3. Jealous Lovers, a Comedy, presented to their Majesties at Cambridge, by the students of Trinity College. This play Langbaine thinks the best of Randolph's, as appears by an epilogue written by Mrs. Behn, and printed in her collection of poems published in 8vo, 1681; it was revised and printed by the author in his life-time, being ushered into the world with copies of verses by some of the best wits, both of Oxford and Cambridge. 4. Muses Looking Glass, a Comedy, which by the author was first called The Entertainment; as appears from Sir Aston Cokaine's Works, who writ an encomium on it, and Mr. Richard West said of it, Who looks within this clearer glass will say, At once he writ an ethic tract and play. All these dramatic pieces and poems were published in 1668; he translated-likewise the second Epod of Horace, several pieces out of Claudian, and likewise a dramatic piece from Aristophanes, which he calls Hey for Honesty, Down with Knavery, a pleasant comedy printed in 4to. London 1651. A gentleman of St. John's College, writes thus in honour of our author; Immortal Ben is dead, and as that ball, On Ida toss'd so in his crown, by all The infantry of wit. Vain priests! that chair Is only fit for his true son and heir. Reach here thy laurel: Randolph, 'tis thy praise: Thy naked skull shall well become the bays. See, Daphne courts thy ghost; and spite of fate, Thy poems shall be Poet Laureate. [Footnote 1: Athen. Oxon. p. 224.] * * * * * GEORGE CHAPMAN Was born in the year 1557, but of what family he is descended, Mr. Wood has not been able to determine; he was a man in very high reputation in his time, and added not a little to dramatic excellence. In 1574, being well grounded in grammar learning, he was sent to the university, but it is not clear whether to Oxford or Cambridge; it is certain that he was sometime in Oxford, and was taken notice of for his great skill in the Latin and Greek languages, but not in logic and philosophy, which is the reason it may be presumed, that he took no degree there. After this he came to London, and contracted an acquaintance, as Wood says, with Shakespear, Johnson, Sidney, Spenser and Daniel. He met with a very warm patronage from Sir Thomas Walsingham, who had always had a constant friendship for him, and after that gentleman's decease, from his son Thomas Walsingham, esquire, whom Chapman loved from his birth. He was also respected, and held in esteem by Prince Henry, and Robert earl of Somerset, but the first being untimely snatched away, and the other justly disgraced for an assassination[1], his hopes of preferment were by these means frustrated; however, he was a servant either to King James I. or Queen Anne his consort, through whose reign he was highly valued by all his old friends, only there are some insinuations, that as his reputation grew, Ben Johnson, naturally haughty and insolent, became jealous of him, and endeavoured to suppress, as much as possible, his rising fame[2], as Ben, after the death of Shakespear, was without a rival. Chapman was a man of a reverend aspect, and graceful manner, religious and temperate, qualities which seldom meet (says Wood) in a poet, and was so highly esteemed by the clergy, that some of them have said, "that as Musæus, who wrote the lives of Hero and Leander, had two excellent scholars, Thamarus and Hercules, so had he in England in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth, two excellent imitators in the same argument and subject, viz. Christopher Marlow, and George Chapman." Our author has translated the Iliad of Homer, published in folio, and dedicated to Prince Henry, which is yet looked upon with some respect. He is said to have had the spirit of a poet in him, and was indeed no mean genius: Pope somewhere calls him an enthusiast in poetry. He likewise translated the Odyssey, and the Battle of Frogs and Mice, which were published in 1614, and dedicated to the earl of Somerset; to this work is added Hymns and Epigrams, written by Homer, and translated by our author. He likewise attempted some part of Hesiod, and continued a translation of Musæus �rotopegnion de Herone & Leandro. Prefixed to this work, are some anecdotes of the life of Musæus, taken by Chapman from the collection of Dr. William Gager, and a dedication to the most generally ingenious and only learned architect of his time, Inigo Jones esquire, Surveyor of his Majesty's Works. At length, says Wood, this reverend and eminent poet, having lived 77 years in this vain, transitory world, made his last exit in the parish of St. Giles's in the Fields, near London, on the 12th day of May, 1655, and was buried in the yard on the South side of the church in St. Giles's: soon after a monument was erected over his grave, built after the manner of the old Romans, at the expence, and under the direction of his much loved worthy friend Inigo Jones, whereon is this engraven, Georgius Chapmannus, Poeta Homericus, Philosophus verus (etsi Christianus Poeta) plusquam Celebris, &c. His dramatic works are, All Fools, a Comedy, presented at the Black Fryars, and afterwards before his Majesty King James I. in the beginning of his reign, and printed in 4to. London 1605. The plot is taken, and the characters formed upon Terence's Heautontimorumenos. The Prologue and Epilogue writ in blank verse, shew that in these days persons of quality, and they that thought themselves good critics, in place of fitting in the boxes, as they now do, sat on the stage; what influence those people had on the meanest sort of the audience, may be seen by the following lines in the Prologue written by Chapman himself. Great are the gifts given to united heads; To gifts, attire, to fair attire the stage Helps much; for if our other audience see, You on the stage depart before we end, Our wit goes with you all, and we are fools. Alphonsus Emperor of Germany, a Tragedy, often acted with applause at a private house in Black Fryars, by the servants of King Charles I. printed in 4to. London 1654. This play, though it bears the name of Alphonsus, was writ, as Langbaine supposes, in honour of the English nation, in the person of Richard, Earl of Cornwal, son to King John, and brother to Henry III. He was chosen King of the Romans in 1527. About this time Alphonsus, the French King was chosen by other electors. Though this King was accounted by some a pious prince, yet our author represents him as a bloody tyrant, and, contrary to other historians, brings him to an unfortunate end, he supposing him to be killed by Alexander, son to Lorenzo de Cipres his secretary, in revenge of his father, who was poisoned by him, and to compleat his revenge, he makes him first deny his Saviour in hopes of life, and then stabs him, glorying that he had at once destroyed both body and soul. This passage is related by several authors, as Bolton's Four last Things, Reynolds of the Passions, Clark's Examples, &c. Blind Beggar of Alexandria, a Comedy, printed 1598, dedicated to the earl of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral. Bussy d'Amboise, a Tragedy, often presented at St. Paul's, in the reign of King James I. and since the Restoration with great applause; for the plot see Thuanus, Jean de Serres, and Mezeray, in the reign of King Henry III. of France. This is the play of which Mr. Dryden speaks, when in his preface to the Spanish Fryar, he resolves to burn one annually to the memory of Ben Johnson. Some have differed from Mr. Dryden in their opinion of this piece, but as the authorities who have applauded, are not so high as Mr. Dryden's single authority, it is most reasonable to conclude not much in its favour. Bussy d'Amboise his Revenge, a Tragedy, printed 1613, and dedicated to Sir Thomas Howard. This play is generally allowed to fall short of the former of that name, yet the author, as appears from his dedication, had a higher opinion of it himself, and rails at those who dared to censure it; it is founded upon fiction, which Chapman very justly defends, and says that there is no necessity for any play being founded on truth. Conspiracy and Tragedy of Charles, Duke of Byron, Marshal of France, in two plays, acted at the Black Fryars in the reign of King James I. printed in 4to. London 1608, dedicated to Sir Thomas Walsingham. Cæsar and Pompey, a Roman Tragedy, printed 1631, and dedicated to the Earl of Middlesex. Gentleman Usher, a Comedy, printed in 4to. London 1606. We are not certain whether this play was ever acted, and it has but an indifferent character. Humourous Day's Mirth, a Comedy; this is a very tolerable play. Mask of the Two Honourable Houses, or Inns of Court, the Middle-Temple, and Lincoln's-Inn, performed before the King at Whitehall, on Shrove Monday at night, being the 15th of February, 1613, at the celebration of the Royal Nuptials of the Palsgrave, and the Princess Elizabeth, &c. with a description of their whole shew, in the manner of their march on horseback, from the Master of the Rolls's house to the court, with all their noble consorts, and shewful attendants; invented and fashioned, with the ground and special structure of the whole work by Inigo Jones; this Mask is dedicated to Sir Edward Philips, then Master of the Rolls. At the end of the Masque is printed an Epithalamium, called a Hymn for the most happy Nuptials of the Princess Elizabeth, &c. May-Day, a witty Comedy, acted at the Black Fryars, and printed in 4to. 1611. Monsieur d'Olive, a Comedy, acted by her Majesty's children at the Black Fryars, printed in 4to. 1606. Revenge for Honour, a Tragedy, printed 1654. Temple, a Masque. Two Wise-men, and all the rest Fools, or a Comical Moral, censuring the follies of that age, printed in London 1619. This play is extended to seven acts, a circumstance which Langbaine says he never saw in any other, and which, I believe, has never been practised by any poet, ancient or modern, but himself. Widow's Tears, a Comedy, often presented in the Black and White Fryars, printed in 4to. London 1612; this play is formed upon the story of the Ephesian Matron. These are all the plays of our author, of which we have been able to gain any account; he joined with Ben Johnson and Marston in writing a Comedy called Eastward-Hoe; this play has been since revived by Tate, under the title of Cuckolds Haven. It has been said that for some reflections contained in it against the Scotch nation; Ben Johnson narrowly escaped the pillory. See more of this, page 237. [Footnote 1: See the Life of Overbury.] [Footnote 2: Wood's Athen. Oxon.] * * * * * BEN JOHNSON, One of the best dramatic poets of the 17th century, was descended from a Scots family, his grandfather, who was a gentleman, being originally of Annandale in that kingdom, whence he removed to Carlisle, and afterwards was employed in the service of King Henry VIII. His father lost his estate under Queen Mary, in whose reign he suffered imprisonment, and at last entered into holy orders, and died about a month before our poet's birth[1], who was born at Westminster, says Wood, in the year 1574. He was first educated at a private school in the church of St. Martin's in the Fields, afterwards removed to Westminster school, where the famous Camden was master. His mother, who married a bricklayer to her second husband, took him from school, and obliged him to work at his father-in-law's trade, but being extremely averse to that employment, he went into the low countries, where he distinguished himself by his bravery, having in the view of the army killed an enemy, and taken the opima spolia from him. Upon his return to England, he applied himself again to his former studies, and Wood says he was admitted into St. John's College in the university of Cambridge, though his continuance there seems to have been but short. He had some time after this the misfortune to fight a duel, and kill his adversary, who only slightly wounded him in the arm; for this he was imprisoned, and being cast for his life, was near execution; his antagonist, he said, had a sword ten inches longer than his own. While he lay in prison, a popish priest visited him, who found his inclination quite disengaged as to religion, and therefore took the opportunity to impress him with a belief of the popish tenets. His mind then naturally melancholy, clouded with apprehensions, and the dread of execution, was the more easily imposed upon. However, such was the force of that impression, that for twelve years after he had gained his liberty, he continued in the catholic faith, and at last turned Protestant, whether from conviction or fashion cannot be determined; but when the character of Ben is considered, probability will be upon the side of the latter, for he took every occasion to ridicule religion in his plays, and make it his sport in conversation. On his leaving the university he entered himself into an obscure playhouse, called the Green Curtain, somewhere about Shoreditch or Clerkenwell. He was first an actor, and probably only a strolling one; for Decker in his Satyromastix, a play published in 1602, and designed as a reply to Johnson's Poetaster, 'reproaches him with having left the occupation of a mortar trader to turn actor, and with having put up a supplication to be a poor journeyman player, in which he would have continued, but that he could not set a good face upon it, and so was cashiered. Besides, if we admit that satire to be built on facts, we learn further, that he performed the part of Zuliman at the Paris Garden in Southwark, and ambled by a play-waggon on the high-way, and took mad Jeronymo's part to get service amongst the mimicks[2].' Shakespear is said to have first introduced him to the world, by recommending a play of his to the stage, at the time when one of the players had rejected his performance, and told him it would be of no service to their company[3]. His first printed dramatic performance was a Comedy, entitled Every Man in his Humour, acted in the year 1598, which being soon followed by several others, as his Sejanus, his Volpone, his Silent Woman, and his Alchymist, gained him so high a reputation, that in October 1619, upon the death of Mr. Samuel Daniel he was made Poet Laureat to King James I. and on the 19th of July, the same year, he was created (says Wood) Master of Arts at Oxford, having resided for some time at Christ Church in that university. He once incurred his Majesty's displeasure for being concerned with Chapman and Marston in writing a play called Eastward-Hoe, wherein they were accused of having reflected upon the Scotch nation. Sir James Murray represented it to the King, who ordered them immediately to be imprisoned, and they were in great danger of losing their ears and noses, as a correction of their wantonness; nor could the most partial have blamed his Majesty, if the punishment had been inflicted; for surely to ridicule a country from which their Sovereign had just come, the place of his nativity, and the kingdom of his illustrious forefathers, was a most daring insult. Upon their releasement from prison, our poet gave an entertainment to his friends, among whom were Camden and Selden; when his aged mother drank to him[4] and shewed him a paper of poison which she had designed, if the sentence of punishment had been inflicted, to have mixed with his drink after she had first taken a potion of it herself. Upon the accession of Charles I. to the crown, he wrote a petition to that Prince, craving, that as his royal father had allowed him an annual pension of a hundred marks, he would make them pounds. In the year 1629 Ben fell sick, and was then poor, and lodged in an obscure alley; his Majesty was supplicated in his favour, who sent him ten guineas. When the messenger delivered the sum, Ben took it in his hand, and said, "His Majesty has sent me ten guineas because I am poor and live in an alley, go and tell him that his soul lives in an alley." He had a pension from the city of London, from several of the nobility and gentry, and particularly from Mr. Sutton the founder of the Charterhouse.[5] In his last sickness he often repented of the profanation of scripture in his plays. He died the 16th of August 1637, in the 63d year of his age, and was interred three days after in Westminster Abbey; he had several children who survived him. Ben Johnson conceived so high an opinion of Mr. Drummond of Hawthornden by the letters which passed between them, that he undertook a journey into Scotland, and resided some time at Mr. Drummond's seat there, who has printed the heads of their conversation, and as it is a curious circumstance to know the opinion of so great a man as Johnson of his cotemporary writers, these heads are here inserted. "Ben, says Mr. Drummond, was eat up with fancies; he told me, that about the time the Plague raged in London, being in the country at Sir Robert Cotton's house with old Camden, he saw in a vision his eldest son, then a young child, and at London, appear unto him, with the mark of a bloody cross on his forehead, as if it had been cut with a sword; at which amazed, he prayed unto God, and in the morning he came to Mr. Camden's chamber to tell him; who persuaded him, it was but an apprehension, at which he should not be dejected. In the mean time, there came letters from his wife of the death of that boy in the plague. He appeared to him, he said, of a manly shape, and of that growth he thinks he shall be at the resurrection. He said, he spent many a night in looking at his great toe, about which he had seen Tartars, and Turks, Romans and Carthaginians fight in his imagination. "That he had a design to write an epic poem, and was to call it Chrologia; or the Worthies of his Country, all in couplets, for he detested all other rhime. He said he had written a discourse on poetry, both against Campion and Daniel, especially the last, where he proves couplets to be the best sort of verses." His censure of the English poets was as follows: "That Sidney did not keep a decorum, in making every one speak as well as himself. Spenser's stanza pleased him not, nor his matter; the meaning of the allegory of the Fairy Queen he delivered in writing to Sir Walter Raleigh, which was, that by the bleating beast he understood the Puritans; and by the false Duessa, the Queen of Scots. Samuel Daniel was a good honest man, had no children, and was no poet, and that he had wrote the civil wars without having one battle in all his book. That Drayton's Poly-olbion, if he had performed what he promised to write, the Deeds of all the Worthies, had been excellent. That Sylvester's translation of Du Bartas was not well done, and that he wrote his verses before he understood to confer; and those of Fairfax were not good. That the translations of Homer and Virgil in long Alexandrines were but prose. That Sir John Harrington's Ariosto of all translations was the worst. He said Donne was originally a poet; his grandfather on the mother's side, was Heywood the epigramatist. That Donne for not being understood would perish. He affirmed, that Donne wrote all his best pieces before he was twenty years of age. He told Donne, that his Anniversary was prophane, and fall of blasphemies, that if it had been written on the virgin Mary it had been tolerable. To which Donne answered, that he described the idea of a woman but not as she was. That Sir Walter Raleigh esteemed fame more than conscience; the best wits in England were employed in making his history. Ben himself had written a piece to him on the Punic war, which he altered and put in his book. He said there was no such ground for an heroic poem, as King Arthur's fiction, and Sir Philip Sidney had an intention of turning all his Arcadia to the stories of King Arthur. He said Owen was a poor pedantic school-master, sucking his living from the posteriors of little children, and has nothing good in him, his epigrams being bare narrations. He loved Fletcher, Beaumont and Chapman. That Sir William Alexander was not half kind to him, and neglected him because a friend to Drayton. That Sir R. Ayton loved him dearly; he fought several times with Marston, and says that Marston wrote his father in Law's preachings, and his father in law his comedies." Mr. Drummond has represented the character of our author in a very disadvantageous, though perhaps not in a very unjust light. "That he was a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of others, rather chusing to lose a friend than a jest; jealous of every word and action of those about him, especially after drink, which was one of the elements in which he lived; a dissembler of the parts which reigned in him; a bragger of some good that he wanted: he thought nothing right, but what either himself or some of his friends had said or done. He was passionately kind and angry; careless either to gain or to keep, vindictive, but if he was well answered, greatly chagrined; interpreting the best sayings and deeds often to the worst. He was for any religion, being versed in all; his inventions were smooth and easy, but above all he excelled in translation. In short, he was in his personal character the very reverse of Shakespear, as surly, ill-natured, proud and disagreeable, as Shakespear with ten times his merit was gentle, good-natured, easy and amiable." He had a very strong memory; for he tells himself in his discoveries that he could in his youth have repeated all that he had ever written, and so continued till he was past forty; and even after that he could have repeated whole books that he had read, and poems of some select friends, which he thought worth remembring. Mr. Pope remarks, that when Ben got possesion of the stage, he brought critical learning into vogue, and that this was not done without difficulty, which appears from those frequent lessons (and indeed almost declamations) which he was forced to prefix to his first plays, and put into the mouths of his actors, the Grex, Chorus, &c. to remove the prejudices and inform the judgement of his hearers. Till then the English authors had no thoughts of writing upon the model of the ancients: their tragedies were only histories in dialogue, and their comedies followed the thread of any novel, as they found it, no less implicitly than if it had been true history. Mr. Selden in his preface to his titles of honour, stiles Johnson, his beloved friend and a singular poet, and extols his special worth in literature, and his accurate judgment. Mr. Dryden gives him the title of the greatest man of the last age, and observes, that if we look upon him, when he was himself, (for his last plays were but his dotages) he was the most learned and judicious writer any theatre ever had; that he was a most severe judge of himself as well as others; that we cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it; that in his works there is little to be retrenched or altered; but that humour was his chief province. Ben had certainly no great talent for versification, nor does he seem to have had an extraordinary ear; his verses are often wanting in syllables, and sometimes have too many. I shall quote some lines of his poem to the memory of Shakespear, before I give a detail of his pieces. To the memory of my beloved the author Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEAR, and what he hath left us. To draw no envy (Shakespear) on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame: While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither man nor muse can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise: For silliest ignorance, on these may light, Which when it sounds at best but ecchoes right; As blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth; but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; A crafty malice might pretend his praise, And think to ruin where it seem'd to raise. These are, as some infamous baud or whore, Should praise a matron: What could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and indeed, Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin. Soul of the age! Th' applause, delight, the wonder of the stage! My Shakespear rise; I will not lodge thee by, Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lye, A little further to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while the book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses; I mean with great but disproportion'd muses: For if I thought, my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou did'st our Lily outshine, Or sporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty line. He then goes on to challenge all antiquity to match Shakespear; but the poetry is so miserable, that the reader will think the above quotation long enough. Ben has wrote above fifty several pieces which we may rank under the species of dramatic poetry; of which I shall give an account in order, beginning with one of his best comedies. 1. [6] Alchymist, a comedy, acted in the year 1610. Mr. Dryden supposes this play was copied from the comedy of Albumazer, as far as concerns the Alchymist's character; as appears from his prologue prefixed to that play, when it was revived in his time. 2. Bartholomew Fair, a comedy, acted at the Hope on the Bankside, October 31, in 1614, by the lady Elizabeth's servants, and then dedicated to James I. 3. Cataline's conspiracy, a tragedy, first acted in the year 1611. In this our author has translated a great part of Salust's history; and it is when speaking of this play, that Dryden says, he did not borrow but commit depredations upon the ancients. Tragedy was not this author's talent; he was totally without tenderness, and was so far unqualified for tragedy. 4. Challenge at Tilt, at a Marriage, printed 1640. 5. Christmas's Masque, presented at court 1616. 6. Cloridia, or the Rites of Cloris and her Nymphs, personated in a Masque at court, by the Queen and her Ladies, at Shrove Tide, 1630. 7. Cynthia's Revels, or the Fountain of Self-love, a comical Satire, first acted in the year 1600, by the then children of Queen Elizabeth's chapel, with the allowance of the Master of the Revels, printed in folio, 1640. 8. The Devil is an Ass, a Comedy, acted in the year 1616. 9. Entertainment of King James in passing his Coronation, printed in folio, 1640. 10. Entertainment in Private of the King and Queen on May-day in the morning, at Sir William Cornwallis's house at Highgate, 1604. 11. Entertainment of King James and Queen at Theobald's, when the house was delivered up, with the possession to the Queen, by the earl of Salisbury 1607, the Prince of Janvile, brother to the Duke of Guise being then present. 12. Entertainment in particular of the Queen and Prince, their Highnesses at Althrope at the Lord Spenser's, 1603, as they came first into the kingdom. 13. Entertainment of the Two Kings of Great Britain and Denmark, at Theobald's, July 24th 1606, printed 1640. 14. Every Man in his Humour, a Comedy, acted in the year 1598, by the then Lord Chamberlain's servants, and dedicated to Mr. Camden. This play has been often revived since the restoration. 15. Every Man out of his Humour, a comical Satire, first acted 1599, and dedicated to the Inns of Court. This play was revived 1675, at which time a new Prologue and Epilogue were spoke by Jo. Haynes, written by Mr. Duffel. 16. Fortunate Isles, and their Union celebrated, in a Masque, designed for the Court on Twelfth-Night, 1626. 17. Golden Age Restored, in a Masque, at Court 1615, by the Lords and Gentlemen, the King's servants. 18. Hymenæi, or the Solemnities of a Masque, and Barriers at a Marriage, printed 1640. To this Masque are annexed by the author, Notes on the Margin, for illustration of the ancient Greek and Roman Customs. 19. Irish Masque, at Court, by the King's servants. 20. King's Entertainment at Welbeck in Nottinghamshire, at the House of the Right Honourable William, Earl of Newcastle, at his going to Scotland, 1633. 21. Love freed from Ignorance and Folly, a Masque. 22. Love Restored, in a Masque, at Court, 1630. 23. Love's Welcome, the King and Queen's Entertainment at Bolsover, at the Earl of Newcastle's, 1634. 24. Magnetick Lady, or Humours Reconciled, a Comedy, acted at the Black Fryars, and printed 1640. This play was smartly and virulently attacked by Dr. Gill, Master of St. Paul's school, part of which, on account of the answer which Ben gave to it, we shall take the trouble to transcribe. But to advise thee Ben, in this strict age, A brick-hill's better for thee than a stage; Thou better know'st a Groundfil for to lay Than lay a plot, or Groundwork of a play, And better canst direct to cap a chimney, Than to converse with Chlio, or Polyhimny. Fall then to work in thy old age agen, Take up thy trug and trowel, gentle Ben, Let plays alone; or if thou need'st will write, And thrust thy feeble muse into the light; Let Lowen cease, and Taylor scorn to touch, The loathed stage, for thou hast made it such. These lines are without wit, and without poetry; they contain a mean reflexion on Ben's original employment, of which he had no occasion to be ashamed; but he was paid in kind, and Ben answers him with equal virulence, and in truth it cannot be said with more wit or poetry, for it is difficult to determine which author's verses are most wretched. Shall the prosperity of a pardon still Secure thy railing rhymes, infamous Gill, At libelling? shall no star chamber peers, Pillory, nor whip, nor want of ears, All which thou hast incurred deservedly, Nor degradation from the ministry To be the Denis of thy father's school, Keep in thy bawling wit, thou bawling fool. Thinking to stir me, thou hast lost thy end, I'll laugh at thee, poor wretched Tyke, go send Thy boltant muse abroad, and teach it rather A tune to drown the ballads of thy father. For thou hast nought to cure his fame, But tune and noise, and eccho of his shame. A rogue by statute, censured to be whipt, Cropt, branded, flit, neck-flockt: go, you are stript. 25. Masque, at the Lord Viscount Hadington's Marriage at Court, on Shrove Tuesday at night, 1608. 26. Masque of Augurs, with several Antimasques, presented on Twelfth Night, 1608. 27. Masque of Owls, at Kenelworth, presented by the Ghost of Captain Cox, mounted on his Hobby-Horse, 1626. 28. Masque of Queens celebrated from the House of Fame, by the Queen of Great Britain with her Ladies at Whitehall, 1609. 29. Masque, presented in the house of lord Hay by several noblemen, 1617, for the French ambassador. 30. Metamorphosed Gypsies, a Masque, thrice presented to King James, 1621. 31. Mercury vindicated from the Alchymist's, at Court. 32. Mortimer's Fall, a Tragedy, or rather a fragment, being just begun and left imperfect by his death. 33. Neptune's Triumph for the return of Albion, in a Masque, at court. 34. News from the New World discovered in the Moon, presented 1620 at court. 35. Oberon, the Fairy Prince, a Masque, of Prince Henry's. 36. Pan's Anniversary, or the Shepherd's Holiday, a Masque, 1625. 37. Pleasure reconciled to Virtue, a Masque, presented at court, 1619. 38. Poetaster, or his Arraignment, a comical Satire, first acted in the year 1601. 39. Queen's Masques, the first of Blackness, presented 1605; the second of Beauty, was presented at the same court 1608. 40. Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, a Pastoral. 41. Sejanus's Fall, a Tragedy, acted in the year 1603. This play has met with success, and was ushered into the world by nine copies of verses, one of which was writ by Mr. Chapman. Mr. Gentleman has lately published a Tragedy under the same title, in which he acknowledges the parts he took from Johnson. 42.[6] Silent Woman, a Comedy, first acted in the year 1609. This is reckoned one of Ben's best comedies; Mr. Dryden has done it the honour to make some criticisms upon it. 43. Speeches at Prince Henry's Barriers, printed in folio 1640. 44. Staple of News, a Comedy, acted in the year 1625. 45. Tale of a Tub, a Comedy. 46. Time vindicated to himself and to his Honour, presented 12 nights, 1623. 47.[6] Volpone, or the Fox, a Comedy, first acted in the year 1605; this is one of his acted plays. 48. Case is altered, a Comedy, acted and printed 1609. 49. Widow, a Comedy, acted at the private house in Black Fryars. 50. New Inn, or the Light Heart, a Comedy, acted 1629. This play did not succeed to his expectation, and Ben being filled with indignation at the people's want of taste, wrote an Ode addressed to himself on that occasion, advising him to quit the stage, which was answered by Mr. Feltham. Thus have we given a detail of Ben Johnson's works. He is allowed to have been a scholar, and to have understood and practised the dramatic rules; but Dryden proves him to have likewise been an unbounded plagiary. Humour was his talent; and he had a happy turn for an epitaph; we cannot better conclude his character as a poet, than in the nervous lines of the Prologue quoted in the Life of Shakespear. After having shewn Shakespear's boundless genius, he continues, Then Johnson came instructed from the school To please by method, and invent by rule. His studious patience, and laborious art With regular approach assay'd the heart; Cold approbation gave the ling'ring bays, For they who durst not censure, scarce could praise. [Footnote 1: Drummond of Hawthornden's works, fol. 224. Edinburgh Edition, 1711.] [Footnote 2: Birch's Lives of Illustrious Men.] [Footnote 3: See Shakespear] [Footnote 4: See Drummond's works.] [Footnote 5: Wood.] [Footnote 6: The Alchymist, the Fox, and the Silent Woman, have been oftner acted than all the rest of Ben Johnson's plays put together; they have ever been generally deemed good stock-plays, and been performed to many crowded audiences, in several separate seasons, with universal applause. Why the Silent Woman met not with success, when revived last year at Drury Lane Theatre, let the new critics, or the actors of the New Mode, determine.] * * * * * THOMAS CAREW, Esq; Was descended of a very ancient and reputable family of the Carews in Devonshire, and was brother to Matthew Carews, a great royalist, in the time of the rebellion; he had his education in Corpus Christi College, but he appears not to have been matriculated as a member, or that he took a scholastic degree[1]; afterwards improving his parts by travelling, and conversation with ingenious men in the Metropolis, he acquired some reputation for his wit and poetry. About this time being taken notice of at court for his ingenuity, he was made Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and Sewer in ordinary to King Charles I. who always esteemed him to the last, one of the most celebrated wits about his court[2]. He was much esteemed and respected by the poets of his time, especially by Ben Johnson. Sir John Suckling, who had a great kindness for him, could not let him pass in his session of poets without this character, Tom Carew was next, but he had a fault, That would not well stand with a Laureat; His muse was hide-bound, and the issue of's brain Was seldom brought forth, but with trouble and pain. The works of our author are, Poems; first printed in Octavo, and afterwards being revised and enlarged, there were several editions of them made, the third in 1654, and the fourth in 1670. The songs in these poems were set to music, or as Wood expresses it, wedded to the charming notes of Mr. Henry Lawes, at that time the greatest musical composer in England, who was Gentleman of the King's Chapel, and one of the private musicians to his Majesty. Coelum Britannicum; A Mask at Whitehall in the Banquetting House, on Shrove Tuesday night February 18, 1633, London 1651. This Masque is commonly attributed to Sir William Davenant. It was performed by the King, the duke of Lenox, earls of Devonshire, Holland, Newport &c. with several other Lords and Noblemen's Sons; he was assisted in the contrivance by Mr. Inigo Jones, the famous architect. The Masque being written by the King's express command, our author placed this distich in the front, when printed; Non habet ingenium: Cæsar sed jussit: habebo Cur me posse negem, posse quod ille putat. The following may serve as a specimen of the celebrated sonnets of this elegant writer. BOLDNESS in LOVE. Mark how the bashful morn in vain Courts the amorous marigold With sighing blasts, and weeping rain; Yet she refuses to unfold. But when the planet of the day Approacheth with his powerful ray, Then she spreads, then she receives His warmer beams into her virgin leaves. So shalt thou thrive in love, fond boy; If thy tears and sighs discover Thy grief, thou never shalt enjoy The just reward of a bold lover: But when with moving accents thou Shalt constant faith and service vow, Thy Celia shall receive those charms With open ears, and with unfolded arms. Sir William Davenant has given an honourable testimony in favour of our author, with which I shall conclude his life, after observing that this elegant author died, much regretted by some of the best wits of his time, in the year 1639. Sir William Davenant thus addresses him, Not that thy verses are so smooth and high As glory, love, and wine, from wit can raise; But now the Devil take such destiny! What should commend them turns to their dispraise. Thy wit's chief virtue, is become its vice; For every beauty thou hast rais'd so high, That now coarse faces carry such a price, As must undo a lover that would buy. [Footnote 1: Wood's Athen. Oxon. p. 630. vol. i.] [Footnote 2: Wood's ubi supra.] * * * * * Sir HENRY WOTTON. This great man was born in the year 1568, at Bocton Hall in the county of Kent, descended of a very ancient family, who distinguished themselves in the wars between the Scotch and English before the union of crowns. The father of Sir Henry Wotton, (according to the account of the learned bishop Walton,) was twice married, and after the death of his second wife, says the bishop, 'his inclination, though naturally averse to all contentions, yet necessitated he was to have several suits of law, which took up much of his time; he was by divers of his friends perswaded to remarriage, to whom he often answered, that if he did put on a resolution to marry, he seriously resolved to avoid three sorts of persons, namely, Those that had children, law suits, were of his kindred: And yet following his own law suit, he met in Westminster Hall with one Mrs. Morton, the widow of a gentleman of Kent, who was engaged in several suits in law, and observing her comportment, the time of her hearing one of her causes before the judges, he could not but at the same time compassionate her condition, and so affect her person, that though there were in her a concurrence of all those accidents, against which he had so seriously resolved, yet his affection grew so strong, that he then resolved to sollicit her for a wife, and did, and obtained her.' By this lady he had our author, who received the rudiments of his education from his mother, who was it seems a woman of taste, and capable of inspiring him with a love of polite accomplishments. When he became fit for an academical education, he was placed in New College in Oxford, in the beginning of the year 1584, where living in the condition of a Gentleman Commoner, he contracted an intimacy with Sir Richard Baker, afterwards an eminent historian. Sir Henry did not long continue there, but removed to Queen's College, where, says Walton, he made a great progress in logic and philosophy, and wrote a Tragedy for the use of that college, called Tarroredo. Walton tells us, 'that this tragedy was so interwoven with sentences, and for the exact personating those passions and humours he proposed to represent, he so performed, that the gravest of the society declared, that he had in a flight employment, given an early and solid testimony of his future abilities.' On the 8th of June, says Wood, 1588, he as a member of Queen's College, supplicated the venerable congregation of regents, that he might be admitted to the degree of Bachelor of Arts, which desire was granted conditionally, that he should determine the Lent following, but whether he was admitted, or did determine, or took any degree, does not appear in any of the university registers; though Mr. Walton says, that about the twentieth year of his age, he proceeded Master of Arts, and at that time read in Latin three lectures de Ocello. During the time he was at the university, and gaining much upon mankind by the reputation of his abilities, his father, for whom he had the highest veneration, died, and left him a hundred marks a year, to be paid out of one of his manors of great value. Walton proceeds to relate a very astonishing circumstance concerning the father of our author, which as it is of the visionary sort, the reader may credit, or not, as he pleases; it is however too curious to be here omitted, especially as the learned prelate Walton already mentioned has told it with great earnestness, as if he was persuaded of its reality. In the year 1553, Nicholas Wotton, dean of Canterbury, uncle to our author's father, being ambassador in France in the reign of queen Mary, dreamed, that his nephew Thomas Wotton, was disposed to be a party in a very hazardous project, which if not suddenly prevented, would issue in the loss of his life, and the ruin of his family; the dean, who was persuaded of the importance of his own dream, was very uneasy; but lest he should be thought superstitious, he resolved to conceal the circumstance, and not to acquaint his nephew, or any body else with it; but dreaming the same a second time, he determined to put something in execution in consequence of it; he accordingly wrote to the Queen to send for his nephew Thomas Wotton out of Kent, and that the Lords of the Council might examine him about some imaginary conspiracy, so as to give colour for his being committed to Jail, declaring that he would acquaint her Majesty with the true reason of his request, when he should next be so happy to pay his duty to her. The Queen complied with the dean's desire, who at that time it seems had great influence with that bigotted Princess. About this time a marriage was concluded between the Queen of England, and Philip, King of Spain, which not a little disobliged some of the nobility, who were jealous left their country by such a match should be subjected to the dominion of Spain, and their independent rights invaded by that imperious monarch. These suspicions produced an insurrection, which was headed by the duke of Suffolk and Sir Thomas Wyat, who both lost their lives in the attempt to prevent the match by seizing the Queen; for the design was soon discovered, easily defeated, and those two persons, with many more, suffered on a scaffold. Between Sir Thomas Wyat and the Wotton's family, there had been a long intimacy, and Sir Thomas had really won Mr. Wotton over to his interest, and had he not been prevented by imprisonment, he afterwards declared that he would have joined his friend in the insurrection, and in all probability would have fallen a sacrifice to the Queen's resentment, and the votaries of the Spanish match. After Sir Henry quitted the university of Oxford, he travelled into France, Germany and Italy, where he resided above nine years, and returned to his own country perfectly accomplished in all the polite improvements, which men of sense acquire by travelling, and well acquainted with the temper and genius of the people with whom he had conversed, and the different policy of their governments. He was soon taken notice of after his return, and became secretary to the famous Robert Devereux, earl of Essex, that unfortunate favourite, whose story is never exhibited on the stage, says Mr. Addison, without affecting the heart in the most sensible manner. With his lordship he continued in the character of secretary 'till the earl was apprehended for his mutinous behaviour towards the Queen, and put upon his trial. Wotton, who did not think it safe to continue in England after the fall of his master, retired to Florence, became acquainted with the Great Duke of Tuscany, and rose so high in his favour, that he was entrusted by him to carry letters to James VI. King of Scots, under the name of Octavio Baldi, in order to inform that king of a design against his life. Walton informs us, that though Queen Elizabeth was never willing to declare her successor, yet the King of Scots was generally believed to be the person, on whom the crown of England would devolve. The Queen declining very fast, both through age and visible infirmities, "those that were of the Romish persuasion, in point of religion, knowing that the death of the Queen, and establishing her succession, was the crisis for destroying or supporting the Protestant religion in this nation, did therefore improve all opportunities for preventing a Protestant Prince to succeed her; and as the pope's excommunication of Queen Elizabeth had both by the judgment and practice of the jesuited Papists, exposed her to be warrantably destroyed, so about that time, there were many endeavours first to excommunicate, and then to shorten the life of King James VI." Immediately after Wotton's return from Rome to Florence, which was about a year before the death of Queen Elizabeth; Ferdinand, the Great Duke, had intercepted certain letters, which discovered a design against the life of the King of Scots. The Duke abhorring the scheme of assassination, and resolving to prevent it, advised with his secretary Vietta, by what means a caution should be given to the Scotch Prince. Vietta recommended Wotton as a person of the highest abilities of any Englishman then at his court: Mr. Wotton was sent for by his friend Vietta to the Duke, who after many professions of trust and friendship, acquainted him with the secret, and sent him to Scotland with letters to the King, and such antidotes against poison, as till then, the Scots had been strangers to. Mr. Wotton having departed from the Duke, assumed the name and language of an Italian, which he spoke so fluently, and with so little mixture of a foreign dialect, that he could scarcely be distinguished from a native of Italy; and thinking it best to avoid the line of English intelligence and danger, posted into Norway, and through that country towards Scotland, where he found the King at Stirling. When he arrived there, he used means by one of the gentlemen of his Majesty's bed-chamber, to procure a speedy and private audience of his Majesty, declaring that the business which he was to negotiate was of such consequence, as had excited the Great Duke of Tuscany to enjoin him suddenly to leave his native country of Italy, to impart it to the king. The King being informed of this, after a little wonder, mixed with jealousy, to hear of an Italian ambassador or messenger, appointed a private audience that evening. When Mr. Wotton came to the presence chamber, he was desired to lay aside his long rapier, and being entered, found the King there; with three or four Scotch lords standing distant in several corners of the chamber; at the sight of whom he made a stand, and which the King observing, bid him be bold, and deliver his message, and he would undertake for the secresy of all who were present. Upon this he delivered his message and letters to his Majesty in Italian; which when the King had graciously received, after a little pause, Mr. Wotton stept up to the table, and whispered to the King in his own language that he was an Englishman, requesting a more private conference with his Majesty, and that he might be concealed during his stay in that nation, which was promised, and really performed by the King, all the time he remained at the Scotch court; he then returned to the Duke with a satisfactory account of his employment. When King James succeeded to the Throne of England, he found among others of Queen Elizabeth's officers, Sir Edward Wotton, afterwards lord Wotton, Comptroller of the Houshold, whom he asked one day, 'whether he knew one Henry Wotton, who had spent much time in foreign travel?' Sir Edward replied, that he knew him well, and that he was his brother. The King then asked, where he was, and upon Sir Edward's answering that he believed he would soon be at Paris, send for him says his Majesty, and when he comes to England, bid him repair privately to me. Sir Edward, after a little wonder, asked his Majesty, whether he knew him? to which the King answered, you must rest unsatisfied of that 'till you bring the gentleman to me. Not many months after this discourse, Sir Edward brought his brother to attend the king, who took him in his arms, and bid him welcome under the mine of Octavio Baldi, saying, that he was the most honest, and therefore the best, dissembler he ever met with; and seeing I know, added the King, you want neither learning, travel, nor experience, and that I have had so real a testimony of your faithfulness and abilities to manage an embassage, I have sent for you to declare my purposes, which is to make use of you in that kind hereafter[1]. But before he dismissed Octavio Baldi from his present attendance, he restored him to his old name of Henry Wotton, by Which he then knighted him. Not long after this, King James having resolved according to his motto of beati pacifici, to have a friendship with his neighbouring kingdoms of France and Spain, and also to enter into an alliance with the State of Venice, and for that purpose to send ambassadors to those several States, offered to Sir Henry his choice of which ever of these employments best suited his inclination; who from the consideration of his own personal estate being small, and the courts of France and Spain extreamly sumptuous, so as to expose him to expences above his fortune, made choice of Venice, a place of more retirement, and where he could execute his embassy, and at the same time indulge himself in the study of natural philosophy, in that seat of the sciences, where he was sure to meet with men accomplished in all the polite improvements, as well as the more solid attainments of philosophy. Having informed the king that he chose to be sent to Venice, his Majesty settled a very considerable allowance upon him during his stay there; he then took his leave, and was accompanied through France to Venice, says Walton, by gentlemen of the best families and breeding, that this nation afforded. When Sir Henry Wotton arrived at Venice, there subsisted between the Venetians and the Pope a very warm contention, which was prosecuted by both parties with equal fury. The laity made many complaints against the two frequent practice of land being left to the church without a licence from the state, which increased the power of the clergy, already too great, and rendered their insolence insupportable. In consequence of this, the state made several injunctions against lay-persons disposing their lands in that manner. Another cause of their quarrel was, that the Venetians had sent to Rome, several articles of complaint against two priests, the abbot of Nervesa, and a canon of Vicenza, for committing such abominable crimes, as Mr. Walton says, it would be a shame to mention: Their complaints met with no redress, and the detestable practices of these monsters in holy orders still continuing, they seized their persons and committed them to prison. The justice or injustice of such power exercised by the Venetians, produced debates between the Republic and Pope Clement VIII. Clement soon dying, Pope Paul the first, a man of unbounded insolence, and elated with his spiritual superiority, let loose all his rage against the state. He judged all resistance to be a diminution of his power, and threatened excommunication to the whole State, if a revocation was not instantly made, which the Venetians rejecting, he proceeded in menaces, and at last did excommunicate the Duke, the whole Senate, and all their dominions; then he shut up the churches, charging the clergy to forbear sacred offices to any of the Venetians, till their obedience should make them capable of absolution. The contention was thus fomented, till a report prevailed that the Venetians were turned Protestants, which was believed by many, as the English embassador was so often in conference with the Senate, and that they had made all their proceedings known to the King of England, who would support them, should the Pope presume to exercise any more oppressions. This circumstance made it appear plain enough to his Holiness, that he weakened his power by exceeding it; and being alarmed lest a revolution should happen, offered the Venetians absolution upon very easy terms, which the Republic still slighting, did at last obtain it, by that which was scarce so much as a shew of desiring it. For eight years after Sir Henry Wotton's going into Italy, he stood very high in the King's esteem, but at last, lost his favour for some time, by an accident too singular to be here omitted. When he first went embassador to Italy, as he passed through Germany he staid some days at Augsburgh, where having been in his former travels well known by many of the first reputation in learning, and passing an evening in merriment, he was desired by Christopher Hecamore to write a sentence in his Album, and consenting to it, took occasion from some accidental conversation which happened in the company, to write a pleasant definition of an embassador in these words. "Legatus est vir bonus, peregre-missus ad mentiendum Republicæ causa;" which he chose should have been thus rendered into English: An Ambassador is an honest Man, sent to lie abroad for the good of his Country; but the word lie, upon which the conceit turned, was not so expressed in Latin, as to admit a double meaning, or so fair a construction as Sir Henry thought, in English. About eight years after, this Album fell into the hands of Gaspar Scioppius, a restless zealot, who published books against King James, and upbraided him for entertaining such scandalous principles, as his embassador had expressed by that sentence: This aspersion gained ground, and it became fashionable in Venice to write this definition in several glass windows. These incidents reaching the ear of King James, he was much displeased with the behaviour of his embassador on that occasion, and from an innocent piece of witticism Sir Henry was like to pay very dear, by losing his master's favour. Upon this our author wrote two apologies, one to Velserus, which was dispersed in Germany and Italy, and another to the King; both which were so well written, that his Majesty upon reading them declared, "that Sir Henry Wotton had sufficiently commutted for a greater offence." Upon this reconciliation, Sir Henry became more in favour with his Majesty than ever; like friends who have been for some time separated, they meet again with double fervour, and their friendship increases to a greater warmth. During the twenty years which Sir Henry was ambassador at Venice, he had the good fortune to be so well respected by all the Dukes, and the leading men of the Republic, that his interest every year increased, and they seldom denied him any favour he asked for his countrymen who came to Venice; which was, as Walton expresses it, a city of refuge for all Englishmen who were any way distressed in that Republic. Walton proceeds to relate two particular instances of the generosity, and tenderness of his disposition, and the nobleness of his mind, which, as they serve to illustrate his character, deserve a place here. There had been many Englishmen brought by commanders of their own country, to serve the Venetians for pay, against the Turks; and those English, by irregularities, and imprudence, committed such offences as brought them into prisons, and exposed them to work in gallies. Wotton could not be an unconcerned spectator of the miseries of his countrymen: their offences he knew proceeded rather from wantonness, and intemperance, than any real principles of dishonour; and therefore he thought it not beneath him to become a petitioner for their releasement. He was happy in a successful representation of their calamities, they were set at liberty, and had an opportunity of returning to their own country in comfort, in place of languishing in jails, and being slaves at the Gallies; and by this compassionate Interposition with the Republick, he had the blessings of many miserable wretches: the highest pleasure which any human being can enjoy on this side immortality. Of the generosity and nobleness of his mind, Walton gives this instance; Upon Sir Henry Wotton's coming a second time to Venice, he was employed as embassador to several of the German princes, and to the Emperor Ferdinando II. and this embassy to these princes was to incline them to equitable measures, for the restoration of the Queen of Bohemia, and her descendants, to their patrimonial inheritance of the Palatinate. This was by eight months constant endeavours and attendance upon the Emperor and his court, brought to a probability of a successful conclusion, by a treaty; but about that time the Emperor's army fought a battle so fortunately, as put an end to the expected treaty, and Sir Henry Wotton's hopes, who when he quitted the Emperor's court, humbly advised him, to use his victory with moderation, which advice the Emperor was pleased to hear graciously, being well satisfied with Wotton's behaviour during his residence at his court. He then told him, that tho' the King his master was looked upon as an abetter of his enemy, yet he could not help demonstrating his regard to him, by making him a present of a rich jewel of diamonds, worth more than ten thousand pounds. This was received with all possible respect by Sir Henry; but the next morning upon his departing from Vienna, at his taking leave of the Countess of Sabrina, an Italian lady, in whose house he resided, he expressed his gratitude for her civilities by presenting her with the jewel given him by the Emperor, which being afterwards discovered, was by the Emperor taken as an affront; but Sir Henry acknowledging his gratitude for the mark of distinction shewn to him, at the same time declared, he did not chuse to receive profit from any present, given him by an enemy of his royal mistress, for so the Queen of Bohemia, the eldest daughter of the King of England, permitted him to call her. Upon Sir Henry Wotton's return from his embassy, he signified an inclinacion to the King to be excused from any further employment in foreign affairs, to retire from the bustle of life, and spend the evening of his days in studious ease and tranquility. His Majesty in consequence of this request, promised him the reversion of an office, which was the place of Master of the Rolles, if he out-lived Sir Julius Cæsar, who then possessed it, and was grown so old, that he was said to be kept alive beyond nature's course, by the prayers of the many people who daily lived upon his bounty. Here it will not be improper to observe, that Sir Henry Wotton had, thro' a generosity of temper, reduced his affairs to such a state, that he could not live without some profitable employment, as he was indebted to many persons for money he borrowed to support his dignity in his embassy, the King's appointment for that purpose being either not regularly paid, or too inconsiderable for the expence. This rendered it impossible for him to wait the death of Sir Julius Cæsar; besides that place had been long sollicited by that worthy gentleman for his son, and it would have been thought an ill-natured office, to have by any means prevented it. It luckily happened at this time, that the Provostship of his Majesty's college at Eaton became vacant by the death of Mr. Murray, for which there were many earnest and powerful sollicitations. This place was admirably suited to the course of life Wotton resolved to pursue, for the remaining part of his days; he had seen enough of the world to be sick of it, and being now three-score years of age, he thought a college was the fittest place to indulge contemplation, and to rest his body and mind after a long struggle on the theatre of life. In his suit for this place he was happily successful, and immediately entered into holy orders, which was necessary, before he could take possession of his new office. Walton has related the particular manner of his spending his time, which was divided between attendance upon public devotion, the more private duties of religion, and the care which his function demanded from him of the affairs of the college. In the year 1639 Sir Henry died in Eaton-College, and was buried in the chapel belonging to it. He directed the following sentence to be put upon a marble monument to be erected over him. Hic jacit hujus sententiæ primus author. Disputandi pruritus ecclesiarum scabies. Nomen alias quære. Which may be thus rendered into English; Here lyeth the first author of this sentence. The itch of disputation will prove the scab of the church. Enquire his name elsewhere. Sir Henry Wotton has been allowed by all critics to be a man of real and great genius, an upright statesman, a polite courtier, compassionate and benevolent to those in distress, charitable to the poor, and in a word, an honest man and a pious christian. As a poet he seems to have no considerable genius. His versification is harmonious, and sometimes has an air of novelty, his turns are elegant, and his thoughts have both dignity and propriety to recommend them. There is a little piece amongst his collections called the World, which we shall quote, before we give an account of his works. The world's a bubble: and the life of man, Less than a span. In his conception wretched: from the womb, So to the tomb, Nurst from his cradle, and brought up to years, With cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But lymns in water, or but writes in dust. Yet whil'st with sorrow here we live opprest, What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools, To dandle fools: The rural part is turned into a den Of savage men: And where's a city from vice so free, But may be termed the word of all the three? Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head. Those that live single take it for a curse, Or do things worse, These would have children, those that have them none, Or wish them gone: What is it then to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife? Our own affections still at home, to please, Is a disease. To cross the seas, to any foreign soil Peril and toil. Wars with their noise, affright us, when they cease. We're worse in peace. What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, and being born to die. He is author of the following works; Epistola de Casparo Scioppio, Amberg. 1638, 8vo. This Scioppius was a man of restless spirit, and had a malicious pen; who in books against King James, took occasion from a sentence written by Sir Henry Wotton, in a German's Album, (mentioned p. 260.) to upbraid him with what principles of religion were professed by him, and his embassador Wotton, then at Venice, where the said sentence was also written in several glass windows, as hath been already observed. Epist. ad Marc. Velserum Duumvir. Augustæ Vindelicæ, Ann. 1612. The Elements of Architecture, Lond. 1624, 4to. in two parts, re-printed in the Reliquæ Wottonianæ, Ann. 1651, 1654, and 1672, 8vo. translated into Latin, and printed with the great Vitruvius, and an eulogium on Wotton put before it. Amster. 1649, folio. Plausus & Vota ad Regem è scotiâ reducem. Lond. 1633, in a large 4to. or rather in a little folio, reprinted by Dr. John Lamphire, in a book, entitled by him, Monarchia Britannica, Oxon. 1681, 8vo. Parallel between Robert Earl of Essex, and George late Duke of Buckingham, London 1642, in four sheets and a half in 4to. Difference, and Disparity between the Estates, and Conditions of George Duke of Buckingham, and Robert Earl of Essex. Characters of, and Observations on, some Kings of England. The Election of the New Duke of Venice, after the Death of Giopvanno Bembo. Philosophical Survey of Education, or moral Architecture. Aphorisms of Education. The great Action between Pompey and Cæsar, extracted out of the Roman and Greek writers. Meditations 22. [Chap. of Gen. Christmas Day] Letters to, and Characters of certain Personages. Various Poems.--All or most of which books, and Treatises are re-printed in a book, entitled, Reliquæ Wottonianæ already mentioned, Lond. 1651, 1654, 1672, and 1685, in 8vo. published by Js. Walton, at the End of Sir Henry Wotton's life. Letters to the Lord Zouch. The State of Christendom: or, a more exact and curious Discovery of many secret Passages, and hidden Mysteries of the Times, Lond. 1657, folio. Letters to Sir Edmund Bacon, Lond. 1661, 8vo. There are also several Letters of his extant, which were addressed to George Duke of Buckingham, in a Book called Cabala, Mysteries of State, Lond. 1654, 4to. Journal of his Embassies to Venice, Manuscript, written in the Library of Edward Lord Conway. The Propositions to the Count d'Angosciola, relating to Duels. [Footnote 1: Walton, ubi supra.] * * * * * GERVASE MARKHAM. A gentleman who lived in the reign of Charles I. for whom he took up arms in the time of the rebellion, being honoured by his Majesty with a captain's commission.[1] He was the son of Robert Markham, of Cotham in the county of Nottingham, Esq; and was famous for his numerous volumes of husbandry, and horsemanship; besides what he has wrote on rural recreations and military discipline, he understood both the practice and theory of war, and was esteemed an excellent linguist, being master of the French, Italian, and Spanish languages, from all which he collected observations on husbandry. One piece of dramatic poetry which he has published, says Mr. Langbaine, will shew, that he sacrificed to Apollo and the Muses, as well as Mars and Pallas. This play is extant under the title of Herod and Antipater, a tragedy, printed 4to, 1622; when or where this play was acted, Mr. Langbaine cannot determine; for, says he, the imperfection of my copy hinders my information; for the foundation, it is built on history: See Josephus. Mr. Langbaine then proceeds to enumerate his other works, which he says, are famous over all England; of these he has wrote a discourse of Horsemanship, printed 4to. without date, and dedicated to Prince Henry, eldest son to King James I. Cure of all Diseases incident to Horses, 4to. 1610. English Farrier, 4to. 1649. Masterpiece, 4to. 1662. Faithful Farrier, 8vo. 1667. Perfect Horsemanship, 12mo. 1671. In Husbandry he published Liebault's le Maison Rustique, or the Country Farm, folio, Lond. 1616. This Treatise, which was at first translated by Mr. Richard Surfleit, a Physician, our author enlarged with several additions from the French books of Serris and Vinet, the Spanish of Albiterio and the Italian of Grilli and others. The Art of Husbandry, first translated from the Latin of Cour. Heresbachiso, by Barnaby Googe, he revived and augmented, 4to. 1631. He wrote besides, Farewell to Husbandry, 4to. 1620. Way to get wealth, wherein is comprised his Country Contentments, printed 4to. 1668. To this is added, Hunger's Prevention, or the Art of Fowling, 8vo. His Epitome, 12mo. &c.--In Military Discipline he has published the Soldier's Accidence and Grammar, 4to. 1635--Besides these the second book of the first part of the English Arcadia is said to be wrote by him, in so much that he may be accounted, says Langbaine, "if not Unus in omnibus, at least a benefactor to the public, by those works he left behind him, which without doubt perpetuate his memory." Langbaine is lavish in his praise, and not altogether undeservedly. To have lived a military life, which too often engages its professors in a dissipated course of pleasure, and at the same time, make himself master of such a variety of knowledge, and yield so much application to study, entitles him to hold some rank in literature. In poetry he has no name, perhaps because he did not apply himself to it; so true is the observation that a great poet is seldom any thing else. Poetry engages all the powers of the mind, and when we consider how difficult it is to acquire a name in a profession which demands so many requisites, it will not appear strange that the sons of Apollo should seldom be found to yield sufficient attention to any other excellence, so as to possess it in an equal degree. [Footnote 1: Langbaine's Lives, p. 340.] * * * * * THOMAS HEYWOOD Lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth and King James I. He was an actor, as appears from the evidence of Mr. Kirkman, and likewise from a piece written by him called, The Actor's Vindication. Langbaine calls his plays second rate performances, but the wits of his time would not permit them to rank so high. He was according to his own confession, one of the most voluminous writers, that ever attempted dramatic poetry in any language, and none but the celebrated Spaniard Lopez de Vega can vie with him. In his preface to one of his plays he observes, that this Tragi-comedy is one preserved amongst two hundred and twenty, "in which I have had either an entire hand, or at least a main finger." Of this prodigious number, Winstanley, Langbaine, and Jacob agree, that twenty-four only remain; the reason Heywood himself gives is this; "That many of them by shifting and change of companies have been negligently lost; others of them are still retained in the hands of some actors, who think it against their profit to have them come in print, and a third, that it was never any great ambition in me to be voluminously read." These seem to be more plausible reasons than Winstanley gives for their miscarriage; "It is said that he not only acted himself every day, but also wrote each day a sheet; and that he might lose no time, many of his plays were composed in the tavern, on the backside of tavern bills, which may be the occasion that so many of them are lost." That many of our author's plays might be plann'd, and perhaps partly composed in a tavern is very probable, but that any part of them was wrote on a tavern bill, seems incredible, the tavern bill being seldom brought upon the table till the guests are going to depart; besides as there is no account of Heywood's being poor, and when his employment is considered, it is almost impossible he could have been so; there is no necessity to suppose this very strange account to be true. A poet not long dead was often obliged to study in the fields, and write upon scraps of paper, which he occasionally borrowed; but his case was poverty, and absolute want.[1] Langbaine observes of our author, that he was a general scholar, and a tolerable linguist, as his several translations from Lucian, Erasmus, Texert, Beza, Buchanan, and other Latin and Italian authors sufficiently manifest. Nay, further, says he, "in several of his plays, he has borrowed many ornaments from the ancients, as more particularly in his play called the Ages, he has interspersed several things borrowed from Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Seneca, Plautus, which extremely set them off." What opinion the wits of his age had of him, may appear from the following verses, extracted from of one of the poets of those times.[2] The squibbing Middleton, and Heywood sage, Th' apologetick Atlas of the stage; Well of the golden age he could entreat, But little of the metal he could get; Threescore sweet babes he fashion'd at a lump, For he was christen'd in Parnassus pump; The Muses gossip to Aurora's bed, And ever since that time, his face was red. We have no account how much our author was distinguished as an actor, and it may be reasonably conjectured that he did not shine in that light; if he had, his biographers would scarce have omitted so singular a circumstance, besides he seems to have addicted himself too much to poetry, to study the art of playing, which they who are votaries of the muses, or are favoured by them, seldom think worth their while, and is indeed beneath their genius. The following is a particular account of our author's plays now extant: 1. Robert Earl of Huntingdon's downfall, an historical Play, 1601, acted by the Earl of Nottingham's servants. 2. Robert Earl of Huntingdon's Death; or Robin Hood of Merry Sherwood, with the tragedy of chaste Matilda, 1601. The plots of these two plays, are taken from Stow, Speed, and Baker's chronicles in the reign of King Richard I. 3. The Golden Age, or the Lives of Jupiter and Saturn, an historical play, acted at the Red Bull, by the Queen's servants, 1611. This play the author stiles the eldest Brother of three Ages. For the story see Galtruchius's poetical history, Ross's Mystagogus Poeticus; Hollyoak, Littleton, and other dictionaries. 4. The Silver Age, 1613; including the Love of Jupiter to Alcmena. The Birth of Hercules, and the Rape of Proserpine; concluding with the Arraignment of the Moon. See Plautus. Ovid. Metamorph. Lib. 3. 5. The Brazen Age; an historical play, 1613. This play contains the Death of Centaure Nessus, the tragedy of Meleager, and of Jason and Medea, the Death of Hercules, Vulcan's Net, &c. For the story see Ovid's Metamorph. Lib. 4--7--8--9. 6. The Iron Age; the first part a history containing the Rape of Helen, the Siege of Troy, the Combat between Hector and Ajax. Hector and Troilus slain by Achilles, the Death of Ajax, &c. 1632. 7. Iron Age, the second part; a History containing the Death of Penthesilea, Paris, Priam, and Hecuba: the burning of Troy, the Deaths of Agamemnon, Menelaus, Clytemnestra, Helena, Orestes, Egistus, Pylades, King Diomede, Pyrrhus, Cethus, Synon, Thersetus, 1632, which part is addressed to the author's much respected friend Thomas Manwaring, Esq; for the plot of both parts, see Homer, Virgil, Dares Phrygius; for the Episodes, Ovid's Epistles, Metamorph, Lucian's Dialogues, &c. 8. A Woman kill'd with Kindness, a comedy acted by the Queen's Servants with applause, 1617. 9. If you know not Me, you know Nobody; or the Troubles of Queen Elizabeth, in Two parts, 1623. The plot taken from Camden, Speed, and other English Chronicles in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 10. The Royal King, and Loyal Subject, a tragi-comedy, 1627, taken partly from Fletcher's Loyal Subject. The Fair Maid of the West, or a Girl worth Gold, 1631. This play was acted before the King and Queen. Our author in his epistle prefixed to this play, pleads modesty in not exposing his plays to the public view of the world in numerous sheets, and a large volume under the title of Works, as others, by which he would seem tacitly to arraign some of his cotemporaries for ostentation, and want of modesty. Langbaine is of opinion, that Heywood in this case levelled the accusation at Ben Johnson, since no other poet, in those days, gave his plays the pompous title of Works, of which Sir John Suckling has taken notice in his session, of the poets. The first that broke silence, was good old Ben, Prepar'd before with Canary wine; And he told them plainly, that he deserved the bays, For his were called works, where others were but plays. There was also a distich directed by some poet of that age to Ben Johnson, Pray tell me, Ben, where does the mystery lurk? What others call a play, you call a work. Which was thus answered by a friend of his, The author's friend, thus for the author says, Ben's plays are works, when others works are plays. 12. Fair Maid of the West, or a Girl worth Gold, the second part; acted likewise before the King and Queen with success, dedicated to Thomas Hammond, of Gray's-Inn, Esq; 13. The Dutchess of Suffolk, an historical play 1631. For the play see Fox's Martyrology, p. 521. 14. The English Traveller, a tragi-comedy, acted at the Cock-pit in Drury-lane, 1633, dedicated to Sir Henry Appleton, the plot from Plautus Mostellaria. 15. A Maidenhead well lost, a comedy acted in Drury-lane, 1634. 16. The Four London Apprentices, with the Conquest of Jerusalem; an historical play, acted by the Queen's servants 1635. It is founded on the history of Godfrey of Bulloign. See Tasso, Fuller's history of the holy war, &c. 17. A Challenge for Beauty; a tragi-comedy, acted by the King's servants in Black-Fryers, 1636. 18. The Fair Maid of the Exchance; with the Merry Humours of the Cripple of Fen-church, a comedy, 1637. 19. The Wise Woman of Hogsden; a comedy, acted with applause, 1638. 20. The Rape of Lucrece, a Roman Tragedy, acted at the Red Bull, 1638. Plot from Titus Livius. 21. Love's Mistress, or the Queen's Mask; presented several times before their Majesties, 1640. For the plot see Apuleius's Golden Ass. 22. Fortune by Land or Sea, a comedy; acted by the Queen's servants, 1653. Mr. Rowley assisted in the composing of this play. 23. The Lancashire Witches, a comedy; acted at the Globe by the King's servants. Mr. Brome joined with Mr. Heywood in writing this comedy. This story is related by the author in his Hierarchy of Angels. 24. Edward IV. an historical play, in two parts. For the story see Speed, Hollinshed and other chronicles. This author has published several other works in verse and prose, as his Hierarchy of Angels, above-mentioned; the Life and Troubles of Queen Elizabeth; the General History of Women; An Apology for Actors, &c. [Footnote 1: See the Life of Savage.] [Footnote 2: Langbaine, p. 258.] * * * * * WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT, A Gentleman eminent for learning. The place of his birth, and his father's name, are differently assigned by authors, who have mentioned him. Mr. Loyd says[1], that he was son of Thomas Cartwright of Burford in Oxfordshire, and born August 16, in the year 1615; Mr. Wood[2], that he was the son of William Cartwright, and born at Northway, near Tewksbury in Gloucestershire in September 1611, that his father had dissipated a fair inheritance he knew not how, and as his last refuge turned inn-keeper at Cirencester; when living in competence, he procured his son, a youth of a promising genius, to be educated under Mr. William Topp, master of the free school in that town. From thence he was removed to Westminster school, being chosen a King's scholar, when compleating his former learning, under the care of Mr. Lambert Osbaldiston, he was elected a student in Christ Church in Oxford, in 1628, under the tuition of Mr. Jerumael Terrent[3], having gone through the classes of logic and philosophy with unwearied diligence, he took the degrees of Arts, that of Master being compleated in 1605. Afterwards he entered into holy orders, and gained great reputation, in the university for his pathetic preaching. In 1642 he had the place of succentor in the church of Salisbury, conferred on him by bishop Duppa,[4] and in 1643 was chosen junior proctor of the university; he was also metaphysical reader, and it was generally said, that those lectures were never performed better than by Mr. Cartwright, and his predecessor Mr. Thomas Barlow of Queen's College, afterwards lord bishop of Lincoln.[5] This ingenious gentleman died of a malignant fever, called the Camp-disease, which then reigned in Oxford, and was fatal to many of his contemporaries, in the 33d year of his age, 1643. His death was very much lamented by all ranks of men, and the King and Queen, then at Oxford, frequently enquired after him in the time of his sickness, and expressed great concern for his death. Mr. Cartwright was as remarkable for the endowments of his person as of his mind; his body (as Langbaine expresses it) "being as handsome as his soul. He was, says he, an expert linguist, understanding not only Greek and Latin, but French and Italian, as perfectly as his mother tongue; an excellent orator, and at the same time an admirable poet, a quality which Cicero with all his pains could never attain." The editor of his works applies to him the saying of Aristotle concerning �schron the poet, "that he could not tell what �schron could not do," and Dr. Fell, bishop of Oxford, said of him, "Cartwright was the utmost a man can come to." Ben Johnson likewise so highly valued him, that he said, "My son Cartwright writes all like a man." There are extant of this author's, four plays, besides other poems, all which were printed together in 1651, to which are prefixed above fifty copies of commendatory verses by the most eminent wits of the university. Langbaine gives the following account of his plays; 1. Ordinary, a Comedy, when and where acted is uncertain. 2. Lady Errant, a Tragi-Comedy; there is no account when this play was acted, but it was esteemed a good Comedy. 3, Royal Slave, a Tragi-comedy, presented to the King and Queen, by the students of Christ Church in Oxford, August 30, 1636; presented since before both their Majesties at Hampton Court by the King's servants. As for the noble stile of the play itself, and the ready address, and graceful carriage of the students (amongst which Dr. Busby, the famous master of Westminster school; proved himself a second Roscius) did exceed all things of that nature they had ever seen. The Queen, in particular, so much admired it, that in November following, she sent for the habits and scenes to Hampton Court, she being desirous to see her own servants represent the same play, whose profession it was, that she might the better judge of the several performances, and to whom the preference was due: the sentence was universally given by all the spectators in favour of the gown, though nothing was wanting on Mr. Cartwright's side to inform the players as well as the Scholars, in what belonged to the action and delivery of each part.[6] 4. Siege, or Love's Convert, a Tragi-Comedy, when acted is not known, but was dedicated by the author to King Charles I. by an epistle in verse. Amongst his poems, there are several concerning the dramatic poets, and their writings, which must not be forgot; as these two copies which he wrote on Mr. Thomas Killegrew's plays, the Prisoner, and Claracilla; two copies on Fletcher, and one in memory of Ben Johnson, which are so excellent, that the publisher of Mr. Cartwright's poems speaks of them with rapture in the preface, viz. 'what had Ben said had he read his own Eternity, in that lasting elegy given him by our author.' Mr. Wood mentions some other works of Cartwright's; 1st. Poemata Graeca et Latina. 2d. An Offspring of Mercy issuing out of the Womb of Cruelty; a Passion Sermon preached at Christ Church in Oxford, on Acts ii. 23. London, 8vo. 1652. 3d. On the Signal Days of the Month of November, in relation to the Crown and Royal Family; a Poem, London 1671, in a sheet, 4to. 4th. Poems and Verses, containing Airs for several Voices, set by Mr. Henry Lawes. From a Comedy of Mr. Cartwright's called the Ordinary, I shall quote the following Congratulatory Song on a Marriage, which is amorous, and spirited. I. While early light springs from the skies, A fairer from your bride doth rise; A brighter day doth thence appear, And make a second morning there. Her blush doth shed All o'er the bed Clear shame-faced beams That spread in streams, And purple round the modest air. II. I will not tell what shrieks and cries, What angry pishes, and what fies, What pretty oaths, then newly born, The list'ning bridegroom heard there sworn: While froward she Most peevishly Did yielding fight, To keep o'er night, What she'd have proffer'd you e're morn. III. For, we know, maids do refute To grant what they do come to lose. Intend a conquest, you that wed; They would be chastly ravished; Not any kiss From Mrs. Pris, 'If that you do Persuade and woo: No, pleasure's by extorting fed. IV. O may her arms wax black and blue Only by hard encircling you: May she round about you twine Like the easy twisting vine; And while you sip From her full lip Pleasures as new As morning dew, Like those soft tyes, your hearts combine. [Footnote 1: Memoirs, p. 422.] [Footnote 2: Atheniæ Oxon. p. 274.] [Footnote 3: ibid. vol. ii. col. 34.] [Footnote 4: Athen. Oxon. col. 35.] [Footnote 5: Preface to his Poems in 8vo. London, 1651.] [Footnote 6: Wood.] * * * * * GEORGE SANDYS, A younger son of Edwin, Archbishop of York, was born at Bishops Thorp in that county, and as a member of St. Mary's Hall, was matriculated in the university in the beginning of December 1589; how long he remained at the university Wood is not able to determine. In the year 1610 he began a long journey, and after he had travelled through several parts of Europe, he visited many cities, especially Constantinople, and countries under the Turkish empire, as Greece, Egypt, and the Holy Land[1]. Afterwards he took a view of the remote parts of Italy, and the Islands adjoining: Then he went to Rome; the antiquities of that place were shewn him by Nicholas Fitzherbert, once an Oxford student, and who had the honour of Mr. Sandys's acquaintance. Thence our author went to Venice, and from that returned to England, where digesting his notes, he published his travels. Sandys, who appears to have been a man of excellent parts, of a pious and generous disposition, did not, like too many travellers, turn his attention upon the modes of dress, and the fashions of the several courts which is but a poor acquisition; but he studied the genius, the tempers, the religion, and the governing principles of the people he visited, as much as his time amongst them would permit. He returned in 1612, being improved, says Wood, 'in several respects, by this his 'large journey, being an accomplished gentleman, as being master of several languages, of affluent and ready discourse, and excellent comportment.' He had also a poetical fancy, and a zealous inclination to all literature, which made his company acceptable to the most virtuous men, and scholars of his time. He also wrote a Paraphrase on the Psalms of David, and upon the Hymns dispersed throughout the Old and New Testament, London, 1636, reprinted there in folio 1638, with other things under this title. Paraphrase on the Divine Poems, on Job, Psalms of David, Ecclesiastes, Lamentations of Jeremiah, and Songs collected out of the Old and New Testament. This Paraphrase on David's Psalms was one of the books that Charles I. delighted so much to read in: as he did in Herbert's Divine Poems, Dr. Hammond's Works, and Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, while he was a prisoner in the Isle of Wight[2]. Paraphrase on the Divine Poems, viz. on the Psalms of David, on Ecclesiastes, and on the Song of Solomon, London, 1637. Some, if not all of the Psalms of David, had vocal compositions set to them by William and Henry Lawes, with a thorough bass, for an Organ, in four large books or volumes in 4to. Our author also translated into English Ovid's Metamorphoses, London, 1627. Virgil's first book of �neis printed with the former. Mr. Dryden in his preface to some of his translations of Ovid's Metamorphoses, calls him the best versifier of the last age. Christ's Passion, written in Latin by the famous Hugo Grotius, and translated by our author, to which he also added notes; this subject had been handled handled before in Greek, by that venerable person, Apollinarius of Laodicea, bishop of Hierapolis, but this of Grotius, in Sandys's opinion, transcends all on this argument; this piece was reprinted with figures in 8vo. London, 1688. Concerning our author but few incidents are known, he is celebrated by cotemporary and subsequent wits, as a very considerable poet, and all have agreed to bestow upon him the character of a pious worthy man. He died in the year 1643, at the house of his nephew Mr. Wiat at Boxley Abbey in Kent, in the chancel of which parish church he is buried, though without a monument, only as Wood says with the following, which stands in the common register belonging to this church. Georgius Sandys, Poetarum Anglorum sui sæculi Princeps, sepultus suit Martii 7° stilo Anglico. Anno Pom. 1643. It would be injurious to the memory of Sandys, to dismiss his life without informing the reader that the worthy author stood high in the opinion of that most accomplished young nobleman the lord viscount Falkland, by whom to be praised, is the highest compliment that can be paid to merit; his lordship addresses a copy of verses to Grotius, occasioned by his Christus Patiens, in which he introduces Mr. Sandys, and says of him, that he had seen as much as Grotius had read; he bestows upon him like wife the epithet of a fine gentleman, and observes, that though he had travelled to foreign countries to read life, and acquire knowledge, yet he was worthy, like another Livy, of having men of eminence from every country come to visit him. From the quotation here given, it will be seen that Sandys was a smooth versifier, and Dryden in his preface to his translation of Virgil, positively says, that had Mr. Sandys gone before him in the whole translation, he would by no means have attempted it after him. In the translation of his Christus Patiens, in the chorus of Act III. JESUS speaks. Daughters of Solyma, no more My wrongs thus passionately deplore. These tears for future sorrows keep, Wives for yourselves, and children weep; That horrid day will shortly come, When you shall bless the barren womb, And breast that never infant fed; Then shall you with the mountain's head Would from this trembling basis slide, And all in tombs of ruin hide. In his translation of Ovid, the verses on Fame are thus englished. And now the work is ended which Jove's rage, Nor fire, nor sword, shall raise, nor eating age. Come when it will, my death's uncertain hour, Which only o'er my body bath a power: Yet shall my better part transcend the sky, And my immortal name shall never die: For wheresoe'er the Roman Eagles spread Their conqu'ring wings, I shall of all be read. And if we Prophets can presages give, I in my fame eternally shall live. [Footnote 1: Athen. Oxon. p. 46. vol. ii.] [Footnote 2: Wood, ubi supra.] * * * * * CARY LUCIUS, Lord Viscount FALKLAND, The son of Henry, lord viscount Falkland, was born at Burford in Oxfordshire, about the year 1610[1]. For some years he received his education in Ireland, where his father carried him when he was appointed Lord Deputy of that kingdom in 1622; he had his academical learning in Trinity College in Dublin, and in St. John's College, Cambridge. Clarendon relates, "that before he came to be twenty years of age, he was master of a noble fortune, which descended to him by the gift of a grandfather, without passing through his father or mother, who were both alive; shortly after that, and before he was of age, being in his inclination a great lover of the military life, he went into the low countries in order to procure a command, and to give himself up to it, but was diverted from it by the compleat inactivity of that summer." He returned to England, and applied himself to a severe course of study; first to polite literature and poetry, in which he made several successful attempts. In a very short time he became perfectly master of the Greek tongue; accurately read all the Greek historians, and before he was twenty three years of age, he had perused all the Greek and Latin Fathers. About the time of his father's death, in 1633, he was made one of the Gentlemen of his Majesty's Privy Chamber, notwithstanding which he frequently retired to Oxford, to enjoy the conversation of learned and ingenious men. In 1639 he was engaged in an expedition against the Scots, and though he received some disappointment in a command of a troop of horse, of which he had a promise, he went a volunteer with the earl of Essex[2]. In 1640 he was chosen a Member of the House of Commons, for Newport in the Isle of Wight, in the Parliament which began at Westminster the 13th of April in the same year, and from the debates, says Clarendon, which were managed with all imaginable gravity and sobriety, 'he contracted such a reverence for Parliaments, that he thought it absolutely impossible they ever could produce mischief or inconvenience to the nation, or that the kingdom could be tolerably happy in the intermission of them, and from the unhappy, and unseasonable dissolution of the Parliament he harboured some prejudice to the court.' In 1641, John, lord Finch, Keeper of the Great Seal, was impeached by lord Falkland, in the name of the House of Commons, and his lordship, says Clarendon, 'managed that prosecution with great vigour and sharpness, as also against the earl of Strafford, contrary to his natural gentleness of temper, but in both these cases he was misled by the authority of those whom he believed understood the laws perfectly, of which he himself was utterly ignorant[3].' He had contracted an aversion towards Archbishop Laud, and some other bishops, which inclined him to concur in the first bill to take away the votes of the bishops in the House of Lords. The reason of his prejudice against Laud was, the extraordinary passion and impatience of contradiction discoverable in that proud prelate; who could not command his temper, even at the Council Table when his Majesty was present, but seemed to lord it over all the rest, not by the force of argument, but an assumed superiority to which he had no right. This nettled lord Falkland, and made him exert his spirit to humble and oppose the supercilious churchman. This conduct of his lordship's, gave Mr. Hampden occasion to court him to his party, who was justly placed by the brilliance of his powers, at the head of the opposition; but after a longer study of the laws of the realm, and conversation with the celebrated Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, he changed his opinion, and espoused an interest quite opposite to Hampden's. After much importunity, he at last accepted the Seals of his Majesty, and served in that employment with unshaken integrity, being above corruption of any kind. When he was vested with that high dignity, two parts of his conduct were very remarkable; he could never persuade himself that it was lawful to employ spies, or give any countenance or entertainment to such persons, who by a communication of guilt, or dissimulation of manners, wind themselves into such trusts and secrets, as enable them to make discoveries; neither could he ever suffer himself to open letters, upon a suspicion that they might contain matters of dangerous consequence, and proper for statesmen to know. As to the first he condemned them as void of all honour, and who ought justly to be abandoned to infamy, and that no single preservation could be worth so general a wound and corruption of society, as encouraging such people would carry with it. The last, he thought such a violation of the law of nature, that no qualification by office could justify him in the trespass, and tho' the necessity of the times made it clear, that those advantages were not to be declined, and were necessary to be practised, yet he found means to put it off from himself[4]. June 15, 1642, he was one of the lords who signed the declaration, wherein they professed they were fully satisfied his Majesty had no intention to raise war upon his Parliament. At the same time he subscribed to levy twenty horse for his Majesty's service, upon which he was excepted from the Parliament's favour, in the instructions given by the two Houses to their general the Earl of Essex. He attended the King to Edgehill fight, where after the enemy was routed he was exposed to imminent danger, by endeavouring to save those who had thrown away their arms. He was also with his Majesty at Oxford, and during his residence there, the King went one day to see the public library, where he was shewed, among other books, a Virgil nobly printed, and exquisitely bound. The Lord Falkland, to divert the King, would have him make a trial of his fortune by the Sortes Virgilianæ, an usual kind of divination in ages past, made by opening a Virgil. Whereupon the King opening the book, the period which happened to come up, was that part of Dido's imprecation against �neas, �neid. lib. 4. v. 615, part of which is thus translated by Mr. Dryden, Oppess'd with numbers in th' unequal field. His men discouraged and himself expell'd, Let him for succour sue from place to place, Torn from his subjects, and his sons embrace. His Majesty seemed much concerned at this accident. Lord Falkland who observed it, would likewise try his own fortune in the same manner, hoping he might fall upon some passage that had no relation to his case, and thereby divert the king's thoughts from any impression the other might make upon him; but the place Lord Falkland opened was more suited to his destiny than the other had been to the King's, being the following expressions of Evander, on the untimely death of his son Pallas. �neid. b. ii. verse 152, &c. Non hæc, O Palla, dederas promissa Parenti, &c. Thus translated by Mr. Dryden: O Pallas! thou hast failed thy plighted word, To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword; I warn'd thee, but in vain; for well I knew, What perils youthful ardour would pursue: That boiling blood would carry thee too far; Young as thou wert to dangers, raw to war! O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come[5]. Upon the beginning of the civil war, his natural chearfulness and vivacity was clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirit stole upon him. After the resolution of the two houses not to admit any treaty of peace, those indispositions which had before touched him, grew into a habit of gloominess; and he who had been easy and affable to all men, became on a sudden less communicable, sad, and extremely affected with the spleen. In his dress, to which he had formerly paid an attention, beyond what might have been expected from a man of so great abilities, and so much business, he became negligent and slovenly, and in his reception of suitors, so quick, sharp, and severe, that he was looked upon as proud and imperious. When there was any hope of peace, his former spirit used to return and he appeared gay, and vigorous, and exceeding sollicitous to press any thing that might promote it; and Clarendon observes, "That after a deep silence, when he was sitting amongst his friends, he would with a shrill voice, and sad accent, repeat the words Peace! Peace! and would passionately say, that the agony of the war, the ruin and bloodshed in which he saw the nation involved, took his sleep from him, and would soon break his heart." This extream uneasiness seems to have hurried him on to his destruction; for the morning before the battle of Newbery, he called for a clean shirt, and being asked the reason of it, answered, "That if he were slain in the battle, they should not find his body in foul linen." Being persuaded by his friends not to go into the fight, as being no military officer, "He said he was weary of the times, foresaw much misery to his country, and did believe he should be out of it e're night." Putting himself therefore into the first rank of the Lord Byron's regiment, he was shot with a musket in the lower part of his belly, on the 20th of September 1643, and in the instant falling from his horse, his body was not found till next morning. Thus died in the bed of honour, the incomparable Lord Falkland, on whom all his contemporaries bestowed the most lavish encomiums, and very deservedly raised altars of praise to his memory. Among all his panegyrists, Clarendon is the foremost, and of highest authority; and in his words therefore, I shall give his character to the reader. "In this unhappy battle, (says he) was slain the Lord viscount Falkland, a person of such prodigious parts, of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, and so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war, than that single loss, it must be most infamous and execrable to all posterity. He was a great cherisher of wit and fancy, and good parts in any man; and if he found them clouded with poverty and want, a most liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune." His lordship then enumerates the unshaken loyalty and great abilities of this young hero, in the warmth of a friend; he shews him in the most engaging light, and of all characters which in the course of this work we met with, except Sir Philip Sidney's, lord Falkland's seems to be the most amiable, and his virtues are confessed by his enemies of the opposite faction. The noble historian, in his usual masterly manner, thus concludes his panegyric on his deceased friend. "He fell in the 34th year of his age, having so much dispatched the true business of life, that the eldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter into the world with more innocency: whosoever leads such a life, needs be less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him."----As to his person, he was little, and of no great strength; his hair was blackish, and somewhat flaggy, and his eyes black and lively. His body was buried in the church of Great Tew. His works are chiefly these: First Poems.----Next, besides those Speeches of his mentioned above, 1. A Speech concerning Uniformity, which we are informed of by Wood. 2. A Speech of ill Counsellors about the King, 1640 [6]. A Draught of a Speech concerning Episcopacy, London, 1660, 410. 4. A Discourse of the Infallibility of the Church of Rome. Oxford 1645, 410. George Holland, a Cambridge scholar, and afterwards a Romish priest, having written an answer to this discourse of the Infallibility, the Lord Falkland made a reply to it, entitled, 5. A View of some Exceptions made against the Discourse of the Infallibility of the Church of Rome, printed at Oxford, 1646, 410. He assisted Mr. Chillingworth in his book of the Religion of the Protestants, &c. This particular we learn from Bishop Barlow in his Genuine Remains, who says, that when Mr. Chillingworth undertook the defence of Dr. Pottus's book against the Jesuit, he was almost continually at Tew with my Lord, examining the reasons of both parties pro and con; and their invalidity and consequence; where Mr. Chillingworth had the benefit of my Lord's company, and of his good library. We shall present our readers with a specimen of his lordship's poetry, in a copy of verses addressed to Grotius on his Christus Patiens, a tragedy, translated by Mr. Sandys. To the AUTHOR. Our age's wonder, by thy birth, the fame, Of Belgia, by thy banishment, the shame; Who to more knowledge younger didst arrive Than forward Glaucias, yet art still alive, Whose matters oft (for suddenly you grew, To equal and pass those, and need no new) To see how soon, how far thy wit could reach, Sat down to wonder, when they came to teach. Oft then would Scaliger contented be To leave to mend all times, to polish thee. And of that pains, effect did higher boast, Than had he gain'd all that his fathers lost. When thy Capella read---------------------- That King of critics stood amaz'd to see A work so like his own set forth by thee. [Footnote 1: Wood's Athen. Oxon. vol. i. col. 586.] [Footnote 2: Clarendon's History, &c.] [Footnote 3: Ibid.] [Footnote 4: Clarendon, ubi supra.] [Footnote 5: Memoirs, &c. by Welwood, edit 1718. 12mo. p. 90--92.] [Footnote 6: Historical Collections, p. 11. vol. 2. p. 1342.] * * * * * Sir JOHN SUCKLING Lived in the reign of King Charles I. and was son of Sir John Suckling, comptroller of the houshold to that monarch. He was born at Witham, in the county of Middlesex, 1613, with a remarkable circumstance of his mother's going eleven months with him, which naturalists look upon as portending a hardy and vigorous constitution. A strange circumstance is related of him, in his early years, in a life prefixed to his works. He spoke Latin, says the author, at five years old, and wrote it at nine; if either of these circumstances is true, it would seem as if he had learned Latin from his nurse, nor ever heard any other language, so that it was native to him; but to speak Latin at five, in consequence of study, is almost impossible. The polite arts, which our author chiefly admired, were music and poetry; how far he excelled in the former, cannot be known, nor can we agree with his life-writer already mentioned, that he excelled in both. Sir John Suckling seems to have been no poet, nor to have had even the most distant appearances of it; his lines are generally so unmusical, that none can read them without grating their ears; being author of several plays, he may indeed be called a dramatist, and consequently comes within our design; but as he is destitute of poetical conceptions, as well as the power of numbers, he has no pretensions to rank among the good poets. Dryden somewhere calls him a sprightly wit, a courtly writer. In this sense he is what Mr. Dryden stiles him; but then he is no poet, notwithstanding. His letters, which are published along with his plays, are exceeding courtly, his stile easy and genteel, and his thoughts natural; and in reading his letters, one would wonder that the same man, who could write so elegantly in prose, should not better succeed in verse. After Suckling had made himself acquainted with the constitution of his own country, and taken a survey of the most remarkable things at home, he travelled to digest and enlarge his notions, from a view of other countries, where, says the above-mentioned author, he made a collection of their virtues, without any tincture of their vices and follies, only that some were of opinion he copied the French air too much, which being disagreeable to his father, who was remarkable for his gravity, and, indeed, inconsistent with, the gloominess of the times, he was reproached for it, and it was imputed to him as the effects of his travels; but some were of opinion, that it was more natural than acquired, the easiness of his manner and address being suitable to the openness of his heart, the gaiety, wit and gallantry, which were so conspicuous in him; and he seems to have valued himself upon nothing more than the character of the Courtier and the Fine Gentleman, which he so far attained, that he is allowed to have had the peculiar happiness, of making every thing he did become him. While Suckling was thus assiduous about acquiring the reputation of a finished courtier, and a man of fashion, it is no wonder that he neglected the higher excellencies of genius, for a poet and a beau, never yet were united in one person. Sir John was not however, so much devoted to the luxury of the court, as to be wholly a stranger to the field. In his travels he made a campaign under the great Gustavus Adolphus, where he was present at three battles and five sieges, besides other skirmishes between Parties; and from such a considerable scene of action, gained as much experience in six months, as otherwise he would have done in as many years. After his return to England, the Civil War being then raging, he raised a troop of horse for the King's service, entirely at his own charge, so richly and compleatly mounted, that it stood him in 1200 l. but his zeal for his Majesty did not meet with the success it deserved, which very much affected him; and soon after this he was seized with a fever, and died in the 28th year of his age. In which short space he had done enough to procure him the esteem of the politest men who conversed with him; but as he had set out in the world with all the advantages of birth, person, education, and fortune, peoples expectations of him were raised to too great a heighth, which seldom fails to issue in a disappointment. He makes no figure in the history of these times, perhaps from the immaturity of his death, which prevented him from action. This might be one reason for his being neglected in the annals of the civil war: another might be, his unnecessary, or rather ridiculous shew of finery, which he affected in decorating his troop of horse. This could not fail to draw down contempt upon him, for in time of public distress, nothing can be more foolish than to wear the livery of prosperity; and surely an army would have no great reason to put much confidence in the conduct or courage of that general; who in the morning of a Battle should be found in his tent perfuming his hair, or arraying himself in embroidery. Mr. Lloyd, in his memoirs of our author, observes, that his thoughts were not so loose as his expressions, nor his life so vain as his thoughts; and at the same time makes an allowance for his youth and sanguine complexion; which, says he, a little more time and experience would have corrected. Of this, we have instances in his occasional discourses about religion to my Lord Dorset, to whom he was related; and in his thoughts of the posture of affairs; in both which he has discovered that he could think as coolly, and reason as justly as men of more years, and less fire. To a Lady that forbad to love before company. What! no more favours, not a ribbon more, Not fan, nor muff, to hold as heretofore? Must all the little blesses then be left, And what was once love's gift become our theft? May we not look ourselves into a trance, Teach our souls parley at our eyes, not glance, Nor touch the hand, but by soft wringing there, Whisper a love that only yes can hear. Not free a sigh, a sigh that's there for you, Dear must I love you, and not love you too? Be wise, nice fair; for sooner shall they trace, The feather'd choristers from place to place, By prints they make in th' air, and sooner say By what right line, the last star made its way, That fled from heaven to earth, than guess to know, How our loves first did spring, or how they grow. The above are as smooth lines as could be found among our author's works; but in justice to Suckling, before we give an account of his plays, we shall transcribe one of his letters, when we are persuaded the reader will join in the opinion already given of his works in general; it is addressed to his mistress, and has something in it gay and sprightly. This verifies the opinion of Mr. Dryden, that love makes a man a rhimster, if not a poet. My Dear, Dear! Think I have kissed your letter to nothing, and now know not what to answer; or that now I am answering, I am kissing you to nothing, and know not how to go on! For you must pardon, I must hate all I send you here, because it expresses nothing in respect of what it leaves behind with me. And oh! why should I write then? Why should I not come myself? Those Tyrants, Business, Honour, and Necessity, what have they to do with with you, and me? Why Should we not do Love's Commands before theirs, whose Sovereignty is but usurped upon us? Shall we not smell to Roses, cause others do look on, or gather them because there are Prickles, or something that would hinder us?----Dear----I fain would and know no Hindrance----but what must come from you,----and----why should any come? Since 'tis not I but you must be sensible how much Time we lose, it being long since I was not myself,----but---- "Yours."---- His dramatic works are, 1. Aglaura, presented at a private House in Black Fryars. Langbaine says, 'that it was much prized in his Time; and that the last Act is so altered, that it is at the pleasure of the Actors to make it a Tragedy, or Tragi-Comedy.' 2. Brennoralt, or the Discontented Colonel; a Tragedy, presented at a private House in Black-Fryars by his Majesty's Servants. 3. Sad-one, a Tragedy. This Piece was never finished. 4. Goblings, a Tragi-Comedy, presented at a private House in Black-Fryars, by his Majesty's Servants. * * * * * PETER HAUSTED. This gentleman was born at Oundle in Northamptonshire, and received his education in Queen's-College, Cambridge. After he had taken his degrees, he entered into holy orders, became curate of Uppingham in Rutlandshire; and according to Wood in his Fasti Oxon. was at length made rector of Hadham in Hertfordshire. Upon the breaking out of the civil wars, he was made chaplain to Spencer Earl of Northampton, to whom he adhered in all his engagements for the Royal Interest, and was with him in the castle of Banbury in Oxfordshire, when it was vigorously defended against the Parliament's forces. In that castle Mr. Wood says, he concluded his last moments in the year 1645, and was buried within the precincts of it, or else in the church belonging to Banbury. This person, whom both Langbaine and Wood account a very ingenious man, and an excellent poet, has written the following pieces: Rival Friends, a Comedy; acted before the King and Queen when their Majesties paid a Visit to the University of Cambridge, upon the 19th of March, 1631; which Mr. Langbaine thus characterizes. "It was cried down by Boys, Faction, Envy, and confident Ignorance; approved by the Judicious, and exposed to the Public by the Author, printed in 4to. Lond. 1632, and dedicated by a copy of Verses, to the Right Honourable, Right Reverend, Right Worshipful, or whatever he be, shall be, or whom he hereafter may call patron. The Play is commended by a copy of Latin Verses, and two in English. The Prologue is a Dialogue between Venus, Thetis, and Phoebus, sung by two Trebles, and a Base. Venus appearing at a Window above, as risen, calling to Sol, who lay in Thetis lap, at the East side of the Stage, canopy'd with an Azure Curtain. Our Author," continues Langbaine, "seems to be much of the Humour of Ben Johnson, whose greatest Weakness was, that he could not bear Censure, and has so great a Value for Ben's Writings, that his Scene between Loveall, Mungrel, and Hammeshin Act 3. Scene 7, is copied from Ben Johnson's Silent Woman, between True-wit, Daw, and La-fool, Act 4. Scene 5." 2. Ten Sermons preached upon several Sundays, and Saints Days, London 1636, 4to. To which is added an Assize Sermon. 3. Ad Populum, a Lecture to the People, with a Satire against Sedition, Oxon, 1644, in three Sheets in 4to. This is a Poem, and the Title of it was given by King Charles I. who seeing it in Manuscript, with the Title of a Sermon to the People, he altered it, and caused it to be called a Lecture, being much delighted with it. This Author also translated into English, Hymnus, Tobaci, &c. Lond. 1651, 8vo. * * * * * WILLIAM DRUMMOND of HAWTHORNDEN Esq; This gentleman was a native of Scotland, and a poet of no inconsiderable rank. We had at first some doubt whether he fell within our design, as being no Englishman, but upon observing that Mr. Langbaine has given a place to the earl of Stirling, a man of much inferior note; and that our author, though a Scotchman, wrote extremely pure and elegant English, and his life, that is fruitful of a great many incidents, without further apology, it is here presented to the reader. He was born the 13th of November, 1585; his father was Sir John Drummond of Hawthornden, who was Gentleman Usher to King James VI. but did not enjoy that place long, being in three months after he was raised to his new dignity, taken away by death[1]. The family of Drummond in the article of antiquity is inferior to none in Scotland, where that kind of distinction is very much regarded. The first years of our author's youth were spent at the high school at Edinburgh, where the early promises of that extraordinary genius, which afterwards appeared in him, became very conspicuous. He was in due time sent to the university of Edinburgh, where after the ordinary stay, he was made Master of Arts. When his course at the university was finished, he did not, like the greatest part of giddy students, give over reading, and vainly imagine they have a sufficient stock of learning: he had too much sense thus to deceive himself; he knew that an education at the university is but the ground-work of knowledge, and that unless a man digests what he has there learned, and endeavours to produce it into life with advantage, so many years attendance were but entirely thrown away. Being convinced of this truth, he continued to read the best authors of antiquity, whom he not only retained in his memory, but so digested, that he became quite master of them, and able to make such observations on their genius and writings, as fully shewed that his judgment had been sufficiently exercised in reading them. In the year 1606 his father sent him into France, he being then only twenty-one years old. He studied at Bourges the civil law, with great diligence and applause, and was master not only of the dictates of the professors, but made also his own observations on them, which occasioned the learned president Lockhart to observe, that if Mr. Drummond had followed the practice, he might have made the best figure of any lawyer in his time; but like all other men of wit, he saw more charms in Euripides, Sophocles, Seneca, and other the illustrious ancients, than in the dry wranglings of the law; as there have been often instances of poets, and men of genius being educated to the law, so here it may not be amiss to observe, that we remember not to have met with one amongst them who continued in that profession, a circumstance not much in its favour, and is a kind of proof, that the professors of it are generally composed of men who are capable of application, but without genius. Mr. Drummond having, as we have already observed, a sovereign contempt for the law, applied himself to the sublimer studies of poetry and history, in both which he became very eminent. Having relinquished all thoughts of the bar, or appearing in public, he retired to his pleasant seat at Hawthornden, and there, by reading the Greek and Latin authors, enriched the world with the product of his solitary hours. After he had recovered a very dangerous fit of sickness, he wrote his Cypress Grove, a piece of excellent prose, both for the fineness of the stile, and the sublimity and piety of the sentiments: In which he represents the vanity and instability of human affairs; teaches a due contempt of the world; proposes consolations against the fear of death, and gives us a view of eternal happiness. Much about this time he wrote the Flowers of Sion in verse. Though the numbers in which these poems are wrote are not now very fashionable, yet the harmony is excellent, and during the reign of King James and Charles I. we have met with no poet who seems to have had a better ear, or felt more intimately the passion he describes. The writer of his life already mentioned, observes, that notwithstanding his close retirement, love stole upon him, and entirely subdued his heart. He needed not to have assigned retirement as a reason why it should seem strange that love grew upon him, for retirement in its own nature is the very parent of love. When a man converses with but few ladies, he is apt to fall in love with her who charms him most; whereas were his attention dissipated, and his affections bewildered by variety, he would be preserved from love by not being able to fix them; which is one reason why we always find people in the country have more enthusiastic notions of love, than those who move in the hurry of life. This beautiful young lady, with whom Mr. Drummond was enamoured, was daughter of Mr. Cunningham of Barnes, of an ancient and honourable family. He made his addresses to her in the true spirit of gallantry, and as he was a gentleman who had seen the world, and consequently was accomplished in the elegancies of life, he was not long in exciting proper returns of passion; he gained her affections, and when the day of the marriage was appointed, and all things ready for its solemnization, she was seized with a fever, and snatched from him, when his imagination had figured those scenes of rapture which naturally fill the mind of a bridegroom. As our author was a poet, he no doubt was capable of forming still a greater ideal fealt, than a man of ordinary genius, and as his mistress was, as Rowe expresses it, 'more than painting can express,' or 'youthful poets fancy when they love,' those who have felt that delicate passion, may be able in some measure to judge of the severity of distress into which our poetical bridegroom was now plunged: After the fervours of sorrow had in some measure subsided, he expressed his grief for her in several letters and poems, and with more passion and sincerity celebrated his dead mistress, than others praise their living ones. This extraordinary shock occasioned by the young lady's death, on whom he doated with such excessive fondness, so affected his spirits, that in order as much as possible to endeavour to forget her, he quitted his retirement, and resided eight years at Paris and Rome; he travelled through Germany, France and Italy, where he visited all the famous universities, conversed with the learned men, and made an excellent collection of the best ancient Greek, and of the modern Spanish, French, and Italian books. Mr. Drummond, though a scholar and a man of genius, did not think it beneath him to improve himself in those gay accomplishments which are so peculiar to the French, and which never fail to set off wit and parts to the best advantage. He studied music, and is reported to have possessed the genteel accomplishment of dancing, to no inconsiderable degree. After a long stay of eight years abroad, he returned again to his native country, where a civil war was ready to break out. He then found that as he could be of no service by his action, he might at least by his retirement, and during the confusion, he went to the feat of his Brother-in-law, Sir John Scott, of Scotts Tarvat, a man of learning and good sense. In this interval it is supposed he wrote his History of the Five James's, successively Kings of Scotland, which is so excellent a work, whether we consider the exact conduct of the story, the judicious reflections, and the fine language, that no Historian either of the English or Scotch nation (the lord Clarendon excepted) has shewn a happier talent for that species of writing, which tho' it does not demand the highest genius, yet is as difficult to attain, as any other kind of literary excellence. This work was received in England with as much applause, as if it had been written by a countryman of their own, and about English affairs. It was first published six or seven years after the author's death, with a preface, or introduction by Mr. Hall of Grays-Inn, who, tho' not much disposed to think favourably of the Scotch nation, has yet thus done justice to Mr. Drummond; for his manner of writing, says he, "though he treats of things that are rather many than great, and rather troublesome than glorious; yet he has brought so much of the main together, as it may be modestly said, none of that nation has done before him, and for his way of handling it, he has sufficiently made it appear, how conversant he was with the writings of venerable antiquity, and how generously he has emulated them by a happy imitation, for the purity of that language is much above the dialect he wrote in; his descriptions lively and full, his narrations clear and pertinent, his orations eloquent, and fit for the persons who speak, and his reflections solid and mature, so that it cannot be expected that these leaves can be turned over without as much pleasure as profit, especially meeting with so many glories, and trophies of our ancestors." In this history Mr. Drummond has chiefly followed bishop Elphiston, and has given a different turn to things from Buchanan, whom a party of the Scotch accuse of being a pensioner of Queen Elizabeth's, and as he joined interest with the earl of Murray, who wanted to disturb the reign of his much injured sister Mary Queen of Scots, he is strongly suspected of being a party writer, and of having misrepresented the Scotch transactions of old, in order to serve some scheme of policy. In the short notes which Mr. Drummond has left behind him in his own life, he says, that he was the first in the island that ever celebrated a dead mistress; his poems consist chiefly of Love-Verses, Madrigals, Epigrams, Epitaphs, &c. they were highly esteemed by his contemporaries both for the wit and learning that shone in them. Edward Philips, Milton's nephew, writes a preface to them, and observes, 'that his poems are the effects of genius, the most polite and verdant that ever the Scots nation produced, and says, that if he should affirm, that neither Tasso, Guarini, or any of the most neat and refined spirits of Italy, nor even the choicest of our English poets can challenge any advantage above him, it could not be judged any attribute superior to what he deserves; and for his history he says, had there been nothing else extant of his writings, consider but the language how florid and ornate it is; consider the order and prudent conduct of the story, and you will rank him in the number of the best writers, and compare him even with Thuanus himself: Neither is he less happy in his verse than prose, for here are all those graces met together, that conduce any thing towards the making up a compleat and perfect poet, a decent and becoming majesty, a brave and admirable heighth, and a wit flowing.' Thus far the testimony of Mr. Philips. In order to divert himself and his friends, he wrote a small poem which he called Polemio-Middinia; 'tis a sort of Macronic poetry, in which the Scots words are put in Latin terminations. In Queen Anne's time it was reprinted at Oxford, with a preface concerning Macronic poetry. It has been often reprinted in Scotland, where it is thought a very humorous performance. Our author, who we have already seen, suffered so much by the immature fate of his first mistress, thought no more of love for many years after her decease, but seeing by accident one Elizabeth Logan, grandchild to Sir Robert Logan, who by the great resemblance she bore to his first favourite, rekindled again the flame of love; she was beautiful in his eyes because she recalled to his mind the dear image of her he mourned, and by this lucky similarity she captivated him. Though he was near 45 years of age, he married this lady; she bore to him several children; William, who was knighted in Charles II's time; Robert, and Elizabeth, who was married to one Dr. Henderson, a physician, at Edinburgh. In the time of the public troubles, Mr. Drummond, besides composing his history, wrote several tracts against the measures of the covenanters, and those engaged in the opposition of Charles I. In a piece of his called Irene, he harangues the King, nobility, gentry, clergy and commons, about their mutual mistakes, jealousies and fears; he lays before them the dismal consequences of a civil war, from indisputable arguments, and the histories of past times. The great marquis of Montrose writ a letter to him, desiring him to print this Irene, as the best means to quiet the minds of the distracted people; he likewise sent him a protection, dated August, 1645, immediately after the battle of Kylsyth, with another letter, in which he highly commends Mr. Drummond's learning and loyalty. Besides this work of Irene, he wrote the Load Star, and an Address to the Noblemen, Barons, Gentlemen, &c. who leagued themselves for the defence of the liberties and religion of Scotland, the whole purport of which is, to calm the disturbed minds of the populace, to reason the better sort into loyalty, and to check the growing evils which he saw would be the consequence of their behaviour. Those of his own countrymen, for whom he had the greatest esteem, were Sir William Alexander, afterwards earl of Stirling, Sir Robert Carr, afterwards earl of Ancram, from whom the present marquis of Lothian is descended, Dr. Arthur Johnston, physician to King Charles I. and author of a Latin Paraphrase of the Psalms, and Mr. John Adamson, principal of the college of Edinburgh. He had great intimacy and correspondence with the two famous English poets, Michael Drayton, and Ben Johnson, the latter of whom travelled from London on foot, to see him at his seat at Hawthornden. During the time Ben remained with Mr. Drummond, they often held conversation about poetry and poets, and Mr. Drummond has preserved the heads of what passed between them; and as part of it is very curious, and serves to illustrate the character of Johnson, we have inserted it in his life: though it perhaps was not altogether fair in Mr. Drummond, to commit to writing things that passed over a bottle, and which perhaps were heedlesly advanced. It is certain some of the particulars which Mr. Drummond has preferred, are not much in Ben's favour, and as few people are so wise as not to speak imprudently sometimes, so it is not the part of a man, who invites another to his table, to expose-what may there drop inadvertently; but as Mr. Drummond had only made memorandums, perhaps with no resolution to publish them, he may stand acquitted of part of this charge. It is reported of our author that he was very smart, and witty in his repartees, and had a most excellent talent at extempore versifying, above any poet of his time. In the year 1645, when the plague was raging in Scotland, our author came accidentally to Forfar, but was not allowed to enter any house, or to get lodging in the town, though it was very late; he went two miles further to Kirrimuir, where he was well received, and kindly entertained. Being informed that the towns of Forfar and Kirrimuir had a contest about a piece of ground called the Muirmoss, he wrote a letter to the Provost of Forfar, to be communicated to the town-council in haste: It was imagined this letter came from the Estates, who were then sitting at St. Andrew's; so the Common-Council was called with all expedition, and, the minister sent for to pray for direction and assistance in answering the letter, which was opened in a solemn manner. It contained the following lines, The Kirrimorians and Forforians met at Muirmoss, The Kirrimorians beat the Forforians back to the cross, [2]Sutors ye are, and sutors ye'll be T----y upon Forfar, Kirrimuir bears the gree. By this innocent piece of mirth he revenged himself on the town of Forfar. As our author was a great cavalier, and addicted to the King's party, he was forced by the reformers to send men to the army which fought against the King, and his estate lying in three different counties; he had not occasion to send one entire man, but halves, and quarters, and such like fractions, that is, the money levied upon him as his share, did not amount to the maintaining one man, but perhaps half as much, and so on through the several counties, where his estates lay; upon this he wrote the following verses to the King. Of all these forces, rais'd against the King, 'Tis my strange hap not one whole man to bring, From diverse parishes, yet diverse men, But all in halves, and quarters: great king then, In halves, and quarters, if they come, 'gainst thee, In halves and quarters send them back to me. Being reputed a malignant, he was extremely harrassed by the prevailing party, and for his verses and discourses frequently summoned before their circular tables. In the short account of his life written by himself, he says, 'that he never endeavoured to advance his fortune, or increase such things as were left him by his parents, as he foresaw the uncertainty and shortness of life, and thought this world's advantages not worth struggling for.' The year 1649, remarkable for the beheading of Charles I. put likewise a period to the life of our author: Upon hearing the dismal news that his Sovereign's blood was shed on a scaffold, he was so overwhelmed with grief, and being worn down with study, he could not overcome the shock, and though we find not that he ever was in arms for the King, yet he may be said, in some sense, to have fallen a sacrifice to his loyalty. He was a man of fine natural endowments, which were cultivated by reading and travelling; he spoke the Italian, Spanish, and French languages as well as his mother tongue; he was a judicious and great historian, a delicate poet, a master of polite erudition, a loyal subject, a friend to his country, and to sum up all, a pious christian. Before his works are prefixed several copies of verses in his praise, with which we shall not trouble the reader, but conclude the life of this great man, with the following sonnet from his works, as a specimen of the delicacy of his muse. I know, that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought, In times great period shall return to nought; That fairest states have fatal nights and days; I know that all the Muses heavenly lays, With toil of spirit, which are so dearly bought. As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. I know frail beauty like the purple flower, To which one morn, oft birth, and death affords, That love a jarring is, of minds accords, Where sense, and will, bring under reason's power: Know what I lift, all this cannot me move, But, that alas, I both must write and love. [Footnote 1: The reader will please to observe, that I have taken the most material part, of this account of Mr. Drummond, from a life of him prefixed to a 4to Edition printed at Edinburgh, 1711.] [Footnote 2: Shoemakers.] * * * * * WILLIAM ALEXANDER, Earl of STIRLING. It is agreed by the antiquaries of Scotland, where this nobleman was born, that his family was originally a branch of the Macdonalds. Alexander Macdonald, their ancestor, obtained from the family of Argyle a grant of the lands of Menstry, in Clackmananshire, where they fixed their residence, and took their sirnames from the Christian name of their predecessor[1]. Our author was born in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and during the minority of James VI. of Scotland, but on what year cannot be ascertained; he gave early discoveries of a rising genius, and much improved the fine parts he had from nature, by a very polite and extensive education. He first travelled abroad as tutor to the earl of Argyle, and was a considerable time with that nobleman, while they visited foreign countries. After his return, being happy in so great a patron as the earl of Argyle, and finished in all the courtly accomplishments, he was caressed by persons of the first fashion, while he yet moved in the sphere of a private gentleman. Mr. Alexander having a strong propensity to poetry, he declined entering upon any public employment for some years, and dedicated all his time to the reading of the ancient poets, upon which he formed his taste, and whose various graces he seems to have understood. King James of Scotland, who with but few regal qualities, yet certainly had a propension to literature, and was an encourager of learned men, took Mr. Alexander early into his favour. He accepted the poems our author presented him, with the most condescending marks of esteem, and was so warm in his interest, that in the year 1614, he created him a knight, and by a kind of compulsion, obliged him to accept the place of Master of the Requests[2]; but the King's bounty did not stop here: Our author having settled a colony in Nova Scotia in America, at his own expence, James made him a grant of it, by his Royal Deed, on the 21st of September, 1621, and intended to have erected the order of Baronet, for encouraging and advancing so good a work; but the three last years of that prince's reign being rendered troublesome to him, by reason of the jealousies and commotions which then subsisted in England, he thought fit to suspend the further prosecution of that affair, 'till a more favourable crisis, which he lived not to see. As soon as King Charles I. ascended the throne, who inherited from his father the warmest affection for his native country, he endeavoured to promote that design, which was likely to produce so great a benefit to the nation, and therefore created Sir William Alexander Lord Lieutenant of New Scotland, and instituted the order of Knight Baronet, for the encouraging, and advancing that colony, and gave him the power of coining small copper money, a privilege which some discontented British subjects complained of with great bitterness; but his Majesty, who had the highest opinion of the integrity and abilities of Sir William, did not on that account withdraw his favour from him, but rather encreased it; for in the year 1626 he made him Secretary of State for Scotch affairs, in place of the earl of Haddington, and a Peer, by the title of Viscount Stirling, and soon after raised him to the dignity of an Earl, by Letters Patent, dated June 14, 1633, upon the solemnity of his Majesty's Coronation at the Palace of Holy-rood-house in Edinburgh. His lordship enjoyed the place of secretary with the most unblemished reputation, for the space of fifteen years, even to his death, which happened on the 12th of February, 1640. Our author married the daughter of Sir William Erskine, Baronet, cousin german to the earl of Marr, then Regent of Scotland; by her he had one son, who died his Majesty's Resident in Nova Scotia in the life time of his father, and left behind him a son who succeeded his grandfather in the title of earl of Stirling. His lordship is author of four plays, which he stiles Monarchic Tragedies, viz. The Alexandræan Tragedy, Cræsus, Darius, and Julius Cæsar, all which in the opinion of the ingenious Mr. Coxeter (whose indefatigable industry in collecting materials for this work, which he lived not to publish, has furnished the present Biographers with many circumstances they could not otherwise have known) were written in his lordship's youth, and before he undertook any state employment. These plays are written upon the model of the ancients, as appears by his introducing the Chorus between the Acts; they are grave and sententious throughout, like the Tragedies of Seneca, and yet the softer and tender passions are sometimes very delicately touched. The author has been very unhappy in the choice of his verse, which is alternate, like the quatrains of the French poet Pibrach, or Sir William Davenant's heroic poem called Gondibert, which kind of verse is certainly unnatural for Tragedy, as it is so much removed from prose, and cannot have that beautiful simplicity, that tender pathos, which is indispensable to the language of tragedy; Mr. Rymer has criticised with great judgment on this error of our author, and shewn the extreme absurdity of writing plays in rhime, notwithstanding the great authority of Dryden can be urged in its defence. Writing plays upon the model of the ancients, by introducing choruses, can be defended with as little force. It is the nature of a tragedy to warm the heart, rouze the passions, and fire the imagination, which can never be done, while the story goes languidly on. The soul cannot be agitated unless the business of the play rises gradually, the scene be kept busy, and leading characters active: we cannot better illustrate this observation, than by an example. One of the best poets of the present age, the ingenious Mr. Mason of Cambridge, has not long ago published a Tragedy upon the model of the ancients, called Elfrida; the merit of this piece, as a poem has been confessed by the general reading it has obtained; it is full of beauties; the language is perfectly poetical, the sentiments chaste, and the moral excellent; there is nothing in our tongue can much exceed it in the flowry enchantments of poetry, or the delicate flow of numbers, but while we admire the poet, we pay no regard to the character; no passion is excited, the heart is never moved, nor is the reader's curiosity ever raised to know the event. Want of passion and regard to character, is the error of our present dramatic poets, and it is a true observation made by a gentleman in an occasional prologue, speaking of the wits from Charles II. to our own times, he says, From bard, to bard, the frigid caution crept, And declamation roared while passion slept. But to return to our author's plays; The Alexandræan Tragedy is built upon the differences about the succession, that rose between Alexander's captains after his decease; he has borrowed many thoughts, and translated whole speeches from Seneca, Virgil, &c. In this play his lordship seems to mistake the very essence of the drama, which consists in action, for there is scarce one action performed in view of the audience, but several persons are introduced upon the stage, who relate atchievements done by themselves and others: the two first acts are entirely foreign to the business of the play. Upon the whole it must be allowed that his lordship was a very good historian, for the reader may learn from it a great deal of the affairs of Greece and Rome; for the plot see Quintus Curtius, the thirteenth Book of Justin, Diodorus Siculus, Jofephus, Raleigh's History, &c. The Scene is in Babylon. Cræsus, a Tragedy; the Scene of this Play is laid in Sardis, and is reckoned the most moving of the four; it is chiefly borrowed from Herodotus, Clio, Justin, Plutarch's Life of Solon, Salian, Torniel. In the fifth Act there is an Episode of Abradates and Panthæa, which the author has taken from Xenophon's Cyropædeia, or The Life and Education of Cyrus, lib. vii. The ingenious Scudery has likewise built upon this foundation, in his diverting Romance called the Grand Cyrus. Darius, a Tragedy; this was his lordship's first dramatic performance; it was printed at Edinburgh in 4to. in the year 1603; it was first composed of a mixture of English and Scotch dialect, and even then was commended by several copies of verses. The Scene of this Play is laid in Babylon. The author afterwards not only polished his native language, but altered the Play itself; as to the plot consult Q. Curtius, Diodorus Siculus, Justin, Plutarch's Life of Alexander, &c. Julius Cæsar, a Tragedy. In the fifth Act of this Play, my lord brings Brutus, Cassius, Cicero, Anthony, &c. together, after the death of Cæsar, almost in the same circumstances Shakespear has done in his Play of this name; but the difference between the Anthony and Brutus of Shakespear, and these characters drawn by the earl of Stirling, is as great, as the genius of the former transcended the latter. This is the most regular of his lordship's plays in the unity of action. The story of this Play is to be found in all the Roman Histories written since the death of that Emperor. His lordship has acknowledged the stile of his dramatic works not to be pure, for which in excuse he has pleaded his country, the Scotch dialect then being in a very imperfect state. Having mentioned the Scotch dialect, it will not be improper to observe, that it is at this time much in the same degree of perfection, that the English language was, in the reigns of Henry VIII. and Queen Elizabeth; there are idioms peculiar to the Scotch, which some of their best writers have not been able entirely to forget, and unless they reside in England for some time, they seldom overcome them, and their language is greatly obscured by these means; but the reputation which some Scotch writers at present enjoy, make it sufficiently clear, that they are not much wanting in perspicuity or elegance, of which Mr. Hume, the ingenious author of Essays Moral and Political, is an instance. In the particular quality of fire, which is indispensible in a good writer, the Scotch authors have rather too much of it, and are more apt to be extravagantly animated, than correctly dull. Besides these Plays, our author wrote several other Poems of a different kind, viz. Doomsday, or the Great Day of the Lord's Judgment, first printed 1614, and a Poem divided into 12 Book, which the author calls Hours; In this Poem is the following emphatic line, when speaking of the divine vengeance falling upon the wicked; he calls it A weight of wrath, more than ten worlds could bear. A very ingenious gentleman of Oxford, in a conversation with the author of this Life, took occasion to mention the above line as the best he had ever read consisting of monysyllables, and is indeed one of the most affecting lines to be met with in any poet. This Poem, says Mr. Coxeter, 'in his MS. notes, was reprinted in 1720, by A. Johnston, who in his preface says, that he had the honour of transmitting the author's works to the great Mr. Addison, for the perusal of them, and he was pleased to signify his approbation in these candid terms. That he had read them with the greatest satisfaction, and was pleased to give it as his judgment, that the beauties of our ancient English poets are too slightly passed over by the modern writers, who, out of a peculiar singularity, had rather take pains to find fault, than endeavour to excel.' A Parænæsis to Prince Henry, who dying before it was published, it was afterwards dedicated to King Charles I.[3] Jonathan; intended to be an Heroic Poem, but the first Book of it is only extant. He wrote all these Poems in the Ottavo Rima of Tasso, or a Stanza of eight lines, six interwoven, and a Couplet in Base. His Plays and Poems were all printed together in folio, under the title of Recreations with the Muses, 1637, and dedicated to the King. The earl of Stirling lived in friendship with the most eminent wits of his time, except Ben Johnson, who complained that he was neglected by him; but there are no particulars preserved concerning any quarrel between them. My lord seems to have often a peculiar inclination to punning, but this was the characteristic vice of the times. That he could sometimes write in a very elegant strain will appear by the following lines, in which he describes love. Love is a joy, which upon pain depends; A drop of sweet, drowned in a sea of sours: What folly does begin, that fury ends; They hate for ever, who have lov'd for hours. [Footnote 1: Crawford's Peerage of Scotland.] [Footnote 2: Crawford, ubi supra.] [Footnote 3: Langbaire.] * * * * * JOSEPH HALL, Bishop of NORWICH. This prelate was born, according to his own account, July 11, 1574, in Bristow-Park, within the parish of Ashby de la Zouch, a town in Leicestershire.[1] His father was an officer under Henry Earl of Huntingdon, president of the North, who from his infancy had devoted him to the service of the church; and his mother, whom he has celebrated for her exemplary and distinguished piety, was extremely sollicitous that her favourite son would be of a profession, she herself held so much in veneration. Our author, who seems to have been very credulous in his disposition, rather religious than wise, or possessing any attainments equal to the dignity to which he rose, has preserved in his Specialities, some visions of his mother's, which he relates with an air of seriousness, sufficient to evidence his own conviction of their reality; but as they appear to have been the offspring of a disordered imagination, they have no right to a place here. In order to train him up to the ministry, his father at first resolved to place him under the care of one Mr. Pelset, lately come from Cambridge to be the public preacher at Leicester, who undertook to give him an education equally finished with that of the university, and by these means save much expence to his father: This resolution, however, was not executed, some other friends advising his father to send him to Cambridge, and persuaded him that no private tuition could possibly be equal to that of the academical. When our author had remained six years at Cambridge, he had a right to preferment, and to stand for a fellowship, had not his tutor Mr. Gilby been born in the same county with him, and the statutes not permitting two of the same shire to enjoy fellowships, and as Mr. Gilby was senior to our author, and already in possession, Mr. Hall could not be promoted. In consequence of this, he proposed to remove, when the Earl of Huntingdon, being made acquainted with this circumstance, and hearing very favourable accounts of our author, interested himself to prevent his removal. He made application to Mr. Gilby, promised to make him his chaplain, and promote him in the church, provided he would relinquish his place in the college, in favour of Mr. Hall. These promises being made with seeming sincerity, and as the Earl of Huntingdon was a man of reputation for probity, he complied with his lordship's request, and relinquished his place in the college. When he was about to enter upon his office of chaplain, to his great mortification, the nobleman on whose promises he confided, and on whom he immediately depended, suddenly died, by which accident he was thrown unprovided upon the world. This not a little affected Mr. Hall, who was shocked to think that Mr. Gilby should be thus distressed, by the generosity of his temper, which excited him to quit a certainty in order to make way for his promotion. He addressed Dr. Chadderton, then the master of the college, that the succeeding election might be stopped, and that Mr. Gilby should again possess his place; but in this request he was unsuccessful: for the Doctor told him, that Mr. Gilby was divested of all possibilty of remedy, and that they must proceed in the election the day following; when Mr. Hall was unanimously chosen into that society. Two years after this, he was chosen Rhetorician to the public schools, where, as he himself expresses it, "he was encouraged with a sufficient frequence of auditors;" but this place he soon resigned to Dr. Dod, and entered upon studies necessary to qualify him for taking orders. Some time after this, the mastership of a famous school erected at Tiverton in Devon, became vacant; this school was endowed by the founder Mr. Blundel, with a very large pension, and the care of it was principally cast upon the then Lord Chief Justice Popham. His lordship being intimately acquainted with Dr. Chadderton, requested him to recommend some learned and prudent man for the government of that school. The Dr. recommended Mr. Hall, assuring him that great advantage would arise from it, without much trouble to himself: Our author thinking proper to accept this, the Doctor carried him to London, and introduced him to Lord Chief Justice Popham, who seemed well pleased and thanked Dr. Chadderton for recommending a man so well qualified for the charge. When Dr. Chadderton and Mr. Hall had taken leave of his lordship and were returning to their lodgings, a messenger presented a letter to Mr. Hall, from lady Drury of Suffolk, earnestly requesting him to accept the rectory of Halsted, a place in her gift. This flow of good fortune not a little surprized him, and as he was governed by the maxims of prudence, he made no long hesitation in accepting the latter, which was both a better benefice, and a higher preferment. Being settled at Halsted, he found there a dangerous antagonist to his ministry, whom he calls in his Specialities, a witty, and a bold Atheist: "This was one Mr. Lilly, who by reason of his travels, (says he) and abilities of discourse and behaviour, had so deeply insinuated himself into my patron, that there were small hopes for me to work any good upon that noble patron of mine; who by the suggestion of this wicked detractor, was set off from me before he knew me. Hereupon, I confess, finding the obduredness, and hopeless condition of that man, I bent my prayers against him, beseeching God daily, that he would be pleased to remove by some means or other, that apparent hindrance of my faithful labours; who gave me an answer accordingly. For this malicious man going hastily up to London, to exasperate my patron against me, was then and there swept away by the pestilence, and never returned to do any further mischief." This account given by Mr. Hall of his antagonist, reflects no great honour upon himself: it is conceived in a spirit of bitterness, and there is more of spite against Lilly's person in it, than any tenderness or pity for his errors. He calls him a witty Atheist, when in all probability, what he terms atheism, was no more than a freedom of thinking, and facetious conversation, which to the pious churchman, had the appearance of denying the existence of God; besides, had Hall dealt candidly, he should have given his readers some more particulars of a man whom he was bold enough to denominate an Atheist, a character so very singular, that it should never be imputed to any man, without the strongest grounds. Hall in his usual spirit of enthusiasm, in order to remove this antagonist of his, has recourse to a miracle: He tells us, he went up to London and died of the Plague, which he would have us to understand was by the immediate interpolition of God, as if it were not ridiculous to suppose our author of so great importance, as that the Supreme Being should work a miracle in his favour; but as it is with natural so is it with spiritual pride, those who are possessed by either, never fail to over-rate their own significance, and justly expose themselves to the contempt of the sober part of mankind. Our author has also given us some account of his marriage, with the daughter of Mr. George Winniff, of Bretenham; he says of her, that much modesty, piety, and good disposition were lodged in her seemly presence. She was recommended to him, by the Rev. Mr. Grandig his friend, and he says, he listened to the recommendation, as from the Lord, whom he frequently consulted by prayer, before he entered into the matrimonial state. She lived with him 49 years. Not long after Mr. Hall's settlement at Halsted, he was sollicited by Sir Edmund Bacon to accompany him in a journey to the Spa in Ardenna, at the time when the Earl of Hertford went ambassador to the archduke Albert of Brussels. This request Mr. Hall complied with, as it furnished him with an opportunity of feeing more of the world, and gratified a desire he had of conversing with the Romish Jesuits. The particulars of his journey, which he has preserved in his Specialities, are too trifling to be here inserted: When he came to Brussels, he was introduced by an English gentleman, who practiced physic there, to the acquaintance of father Costrus; who held some conversation with him concerning the miracles said to be lately done, by one Lipsieus Apricollis, a woman who lived at Zichem. From particular miracles, the father turned the discourse to the difference between divine and diabolical miracles; and he told Mr. Hall, that if he could ascertain that one miracle ever was wrought in the church of England, he would embrace that persuasion: To which our author replied, that he was fully convinced, that many devils had been ejected out of persons in that church by fasting and prayer. They both believed the possibility and frequency of miracles; they only differed as to the church in which miracles were performed. Hall has censured father Costrus, as a barren man, and of superficial conversation; and it is to be feared, that whoever reads Hall's religious works will conclude much in the same manner of him. They departed from Brussels soon after this interview between father Costrus and our author, and met with nothing in their journey to and return from the Spa, worth relation, only Mr. Hall had by his zeal in defending his own church, exposed himself to the resentment of one Signior Ascanio Negro, who began notwithstanding Mr. Hall's lay-habit, to suspect him to be a clergyman, and use some indecent freedoms with him in consequence of this suspicion. Our author to avoid any impertinence which the captain was likely to be guilty of towards him, told him, Sir Edmund Bacon, the person with whom he travelled, was the grandchild of the great lord Verulam, High Chancelor of England, whose fame was extended to every country where science and philosophy prevailed, and that they were protected by the earl of Hertford, the English embassador at Brussels. Upon the Italian's being made acquainted with the quality of Sir Edmund, and the high connections of the two travellers, he thought proper to desist from any acts of impertinence, to which bigotry and ignorance would have excited him. Hall returned to England after being absent eighteen months, and was received but coldly by Sir Robert Drury his patron; there having never been much friendship between them. In consequence of this, Mr. Hall came to London, in search of a more comfortable provision; he was soon recommended by one Mr. Gurrey, tutor to the Earl of Essex, to preach before Prince Henry at Richmond. Before this accident Mr. Hall had been author of some Meditations, whom Mr. Gurrey told him, had been well received at Henry's court, and much read by that promising young Prince. He preached with success, for the Prince desired to hear him a second time, and was so well pleased with him, that he signified an inclination of having him attend about his court. Mr. Hall's reputation growing, he was taken notice of by persons of fashion, and soon obtained the living of Waltham, presented him by the Earl of Norwich. While he exercised his function at Waltham, the archdeacon of Norwich engaged him to interest himself in favour of the church of Wolverhampton, from which a patrimony was detained by a sacrilegious conveyance. In the course of this prosecution, our author observes, "that a marvellous light opened itself unexpectedly, by revealing a counterfeit seal, in the manifestation of razures, and interpolations, and misdates of unjustifiable evidences, that after many years suit, Lord Chancellor Ellesmere, upon a full hearing, gave a decree in favour of the church." During Mr. Hall's residence at Waltham, he was thrice employed by his Majesty in public service. His first public employment was to attend the Earl of Carlisle, who went on an embassy to France, and during his absence his Majesty conferred upon him the deanery of Worcester. Upon his return, he attended the King in a journey to Scotland, where he exerted himself in support of episcopacy, in opposition to the established ministry there, who were Presbyterians. Having acquired some name in polemical divinity, and being long accustomed to disputations, the King made choice of him to go to the Netherlands, and assist at the synod of Dort, in settling the controverted points of faith, for which that reverend body were there convened. Hall has been very lavish in his own praise, while he acted at the synod of Dort; he has given many hints of the supernatural assistance he was blessed with: he has informed us, that he was then in a languishing state of health; that his rest was broken, and his nights sleepless; but on the night preceding the occasion of his preaching a Latin sermon to the synod, he was favoured with, refreshing sleep, which he ascribes to the immediate care of providence. The states of Holland, he says, "sent Daniel Heinsius the poet to visit him, and were so much delighted with his comportment, that they presented him with a rich medal of gold, as a monument of their respect for his poor endeavours." Upon our author's returning home, he found the church torn to pieces, by the fierce contentions which then subsisted concerning the doctrines of Arminius: he saw this with concern, and was sensible true religion, piety, and virtue, could never be promoted by such altercation; and therefore with the little power of which he was master, he endeavoured to effect a reconciliation between the contending parties: he wrote what he calls a project of pacification, which was presented to his Majesty, and would have had a very happy influence, had not the enemies of Mr. Hall misrepresented the book, and so far influenced the King, that a royal edict for a general inhibition, buried it in silence. Hall after this contended with the Roman Catholics, who upon the prospect of the Spanish match, on the success of which they built their hopes, began to betray a great degree of insolence, and proudly boast the pedigree of their church, from the apostles themselves. They insisted, that as their church was the first, so it was the best, and that no ordination was valid which was not derived from it. Hall in answer to their assertions, made a concession, which some of his Protestant brethren thought he had no right to do; he acknowledged the priority of the Roman Church, but denied its infallibility, and consequently that it was possible another church might be more pure, and approach more to the apostolic practice than the Romish. This controversy he managed so successfully, that he was promoted to the see of Exeter; and as King James I. seldom knew any bounds to his generosity, when he happened to take a person into his favour, he soon after that removed him from Exeter, and gave him the higher bishoprick of Norwich; which he enjoyed not without some allay to his happiness, for the civil wars soon breaking out, he underwent the same severities which were exercised against other prelates, of which he has given an account in a piece prefixed to his works, called, Hall's hard Measure; and from this we shall extract the most material circumstances. The insolence of some churchmen, and the superiority they assumed in the civil government, during the distractions of Charles I. provoked the House of Commons to take some measures to prevent their growing power, which that pious monarch was too much disposed to favour. In consequence of this, the leading members of the opposition petitioned the King to remove the bishops from their seats in Parliament, and degrade them to the station at Commons, which was warmly opposed by the high church lords, and the bishops themselves, who protested against whatever steps were taken during their restraint from Parliament, as illegal, upon this principle, that as they were part of the legislature, no law could pass during their absence, at least if that absence was produced by violence, which Clarendon has fully represented. The prejudice against the episcopal government gaining ground, petitions to remove the bishops were poured in from all parts of the kingdom, and as the earl of Strafford was then so obnoxious to the popular resentment, his cause and that of the bishops was reckoned by the vulgar, synonimous, and both felt the resentment of an enraged populace. To such a fury were the common people wrought up, that they came in bodies, to the two Houses of Parliament, to crave justice, both against the earl of Strafford, and the archbishop of Canterbury, and, in short, the whole bench of spiritual Peers; the mob besieged the two Houses, and threatened vengeance upon the bishops, whenever they came out. This fury excited some motion to be made in the House of Peers, to prevent such tumults for the future, which were sent down to the House of Commons. The bishops, for their safety, were obliged to continue in the Parliament House the greatest part of the night, and at last made their escape by bye-ways and stratagems. They were then convinced that it was no longer safe for them to attend the Parliament, 'till some measures were taken to repress the insolence of the mob, and in consequence of this, they met at the house of the archbishop of York, and drew up a protest, against whatever steps should be taken during their absence, occasioned by violence. This protest, the bishops intended should first be given to the Secretary of State, and by him to the King, and that his Majesty should cause it to be read in the House of Peers; but in place of this, the bishops were accused of high treason, brought before the bar of the House of Peers, and sent to the Tower. During their confinement, their enemies in the House of Commons, took occasion to bring in a bill for taking away the votes of bishops in the House of Peers: in this bill lord Falkland concurred, and it was supported by Mr. Hambden and Mr. Pym, the oracles of the House of Commons, but met with great opposition from Edward Hyde, afterwards earl of Clarendon, who was a friend to the church, and could not bear to see their liberties infringed. The bishops petitioned to have council assigned them, in which they were indulged, in order to answer to the charge of high treason. A day was appointed, the bishops were brought to the bar, but nothing was effected; the House of Commons at last finding that there could be no proof of high treason, dropt that charge, and were content to libel them for a misdemeanor, in which they likewise but ill succeeded, for the bishops were admitted to bail, and no prosecution was carried on against them, even for a misdemeanor. Being now at liberty, the greatest part of them retired to their dioceses, 'till the storm which had threatened them should subside. Bishop Hall repaired to Norwich, where he met, from the disaffected party, a very cold reception; he continued preaching however in his cathedral at Norwich, 'till the order of sequestration came down, when he was desired to remove from his palace, while the sequestrators seized upon all his estate, both real and personal, and appraized all the goods which were in the palace. The bishop relates the following instance of oppression which was inflicted on him; 'One morning (says his lordship) before my servants were up, there came to my gates one Wright, a London trooper, attended with others requiring entrance, threatening if they were not admitted, to break open the gates, whom, I found at first sight, struggling with one of my servants for a pistol which he had in his hand; I demanded his business at that unseasonable time; he told me he came to search for arms and ammunition, of which I must be disarmed; I told him I had only two muskets in the house, and no other military provision; he not resting upon my word, searched round about the house, looked into the chests and trunks, examined the vessels in the cellar; finding no other warlike furniture, he asked me what horses I had, for his commission was to take them also; I told him how poorly I was stored, and that my age would not allow me to travel on foot; in conclusion, he took one horse away.' The committee of sequestration soon after proceeded to strip him of all the revenue belonging to his see, and as he refused to take the covenant, the magistrates of the city of Norwich, who were no friends to episcopal jurisdiction, cited him before them, for giving ordination unwarrantably, as they termed it: to this extraordinary summons the bishop answered, that he would not betray the dignity of his station by his personal appearance, to answer any complaints before the Lord Mayor, for as he was a Peer of the realm, no magistrate whatever had a right to take cognizance of his conduct, and that he was only accountable to the House of Lords, of which he was one. The bishop proceeds to enumerate the various insults he received from the enraged populace; sometimes they searched his house for malignants, at other times they threatened violence to his person; nor did their resentment terminate here; they exercised their fury in the cathedral, tore down the altar, broke the organ in pieces, and committed a kind of sacrilegious devastation in the church; they burnt the service books in the market-place, filled the cathedral with musketeers, who behaved in it with as much indecency, as if it had been an alehouse; they forced the bishop out of his palace, and employed that in the same manner. These are the most material hardships which, according to the bishop's own account, happened to him, which he seems to have born with patience and fortitude, and may serve to shew the violence of party rage, and that religion is often made a pretence for committing the most outrageous insolence, and horrid cruelty. It has been already observed, that Hall seems to have been of an enthusiastic turn of mind, which seldom consists with any brilliance of genius; and in this case it holds true, for in his sermons extant, there is an imbecility, which can flow from no other cause than want of parts. In poetry however he seems to have greater power, which will appear when we consider him in that light. It cannot positively be determined on what year bishop Hall died; he published that work of his called Hard Measure, in the year 1647, at which time he was seventy-three years of age, and in all probability did not long survive it. His ecclesiastical works are, A Sermon, preached before King James at Hampton-Court, 1624. Christian Liberty, set forth in a Sermon at Whitehall, 1628. Divine Light and Reflections, in a Sermon at Whitehall, 1640. A Sermon, preached at the Cathedral of Exeter, upon the Pacification between the two Kingdoms, 1641. The Mischief of Faction, and the Remedy of it, a Sermon, at Whitehall on the second Sunday in Lent, 1641. A Sermon, preached at the Tower, 1641. A Sermon, preached on Whitsunday in Norwich, printed 1644. A Sermon, preached on Whitsunday at Higham, printed 1652. A Sermon, preached on Easter day at Higham, 1648. The Mourner in Sion. A Sermon, preached at Higham, printed 1655. The Women's Veil, or a Discourse concerning the Necessity or Expedience of the close Covering the Heads of Women. Holy Decency in the Worship of God. Good Security, a Discourse of the Christian's Assurance. A Plain and Familiar Explication of Christ's Presence, in the Sacrament of his Body and Blood. A Letter for the Observation of the Feast of Christ's Nativity. A Letter to Mr. William Struthers, one of the Preachers at Edinburgh. Epistola D. Baltasari Willio. S.T.D. Epistola D. Lud. Crocio. S.T.D. Reverendissimo Marco Antonio de L'om. Archiep. Spalatensi. Epistola decessus sui ad Romam dissuasiva. A Modest Offer. Certain Irrefragable Propositions, worthy of serious Consideration. The Way of Peace in the Five Busy Articles, commonly known by the name of Arminius. A Letter concerning the Fall Away from Grace. A Letter concerning Religion. A Letter concerning the frequent Injection of Temptations. A Consolatory Letter to one under Censure. A Short Answer to the Nine Arguments which are brought against the Bishops sitting in Parliament. For Episcopacy and Liturgy. A Speech in Parliament. A Speech in Parliament, in Defence of the Canons made in Convocation. A Speech in Parliament, concerning the Power of Bishops in secular things. The Anthems for the Cathedral of Exeter. All these are printed in 4to, and were published 1660. There are also other Works of this author. An Edition of the whole has been printed in three Vols. folio. Besides these works, Bishop Hall is author of Satires in Six Books, lately reprinted under the title of Virgidemiarum, of which we cannot give a better account than in the words of the ingenious authors of the Monthly Review, by which Bishop Hall's genius for that kind of poetical writing will fully appear. He published these Satires in the twenty third year of his age, and was, as he himself asserts in the Prologue, the first satirist in the English language. I first adventure, follow me who list, And be the second English satyrist. And, if we consider the difficulty of introducing so nice a poem as satire into a nation, we must allow it required the assistance of no common and ordinary genius. The Italians had their Ariosto, and the French their Regnier, who might have served him as models for imitation; but he copies after the ancients, and chiefly Juvenal and Persius; though he wants not many strokes of elegance and delicacy, which shew him perfectly acquainted with the manner of Horace. Among the several discouragements which attended his attempt in that kind, he mentions one peculiar to the language and nature of the English versification, which would appear in the translation of one of Persius's Satires: The difficulty and dissonance whereof, says he, shall make good my assertion; besides the plain experience thereof in the Satires of Ariosto; save which, and one base French satire, I could never attain the view of any for my direction. Yet we may pay him almost the same compliment which was given of old to Homer and Archilochus: for the improvements which have been made by succeeding poets bear no manner of proportion to the distance of time between him and them. The verses of bishop Hall are in general extremely musical and flowing, and are greatly preferable to Dr. Donne's, as being of a much smoother cadence; neither shall we find him deficient, if compared with his successor, in point of thought and wit; but he exceeds him with respect to his characters, which are more numerous, and wrought up with greater art and strength of colouring. Many of his lines would do honour to the most ingenious of our modern poets; and some of them have thought it worth their labour to imitate him, especially Mr. Oldham. Bishop Hall was not only our first satyrist, but was the first who brought epistolary writing to the view of the public; which was common in that age to other parts of Europe, but not practised in England, till he published his own epistles. It may be proper to take notice, that the Virgidemiarum are not printed with his other writings, and that an account of them is omitted by him, through his extreme modesty, in the Specialities of his Life, prefixed to the third volume of his works in folio. The author's postscript to his satires is prefixed by the editor in the room of a preface, and without any apparent impropriety. It is not without some signatures of the bishop's good sense and taste; and, making a just allowance for the use of a few obsolete terms, and the puerile custom of that age in making affected repetitions and reiterations of the same word within the compass of a period, it would read like no bad prose at present. He had undoubtedly an excellent ear, and we must conclude he must have succeeded considerably in erotic or pastoral poetry, from the following stanza's, in his Defiance to Envy, which may be considered as an exordium to his poetical writings. Witnesse, ye muses, how I wilful sung These heady rhimes, withouten second care; And wish'd them worse my guilty thoughts among; The ruder satire should go ragg'd and bare, And shew his rougher and his hairy hide, Tho' mine be smooth, and deck'd in carelesse pride. Would we but breathe within a wax-bound quill, Pan's seven-fold pipe, some plaintive pastoral; To teach each hollow grove, and shrubby hill, Each murmuring brook, each solitary vale To found our love, and to our song accord, Wearying Echo with one changelesse word. Or lift us make two striving shepherds sing, With costly wagers for the victory, Under Menalcas judge; while one doth bring A carven bowl well wrought of beechen tree, Praising it by the story; or the frame, Or want of use, or skilful maker's name. Another layeth a well-marked lamb, Or spotted kid, or some more forward steere, And from the paile doth praise their fertile dam; So do they strive in doubt, in hope, in feare, Awaiting for their trusty empire's doome, Faulted as false by him that's overcome. Whether so me lift my lovely thought to sing, Come dance ye nimble Dryads by my side, Ye gentle wood-nymphs come; and with you bring The willing fawns that mought their music guide. Come nymphs and fawns, that haunts those shady groves, While I report my fortunes or my loves. The first three books of satires are termed by the author Toothless satires, and the three last Biting satires. He has an animated idea of good poetry, and a just contempt of poetasters in the different species of it. He says of himself, in the first satire. Nor can I crouch, and writhe my fawning tayle, To some great Patron for my best avayle. Such hunger-starven trencher-poetrie, Or let it never live, or timely die. He frequently avows his admiration of Spenser, whose cotemporary he was. His first book, consisting of nine satires, appears in a manner entirely levelled at low and abject poetasters. Several satires of the second book reprehend the contempt of the rich, for men of science and genius. We shall transcribe the sixth, being short, and void of all obscurity. A gentle squire would gladly entertaine Into his house some trencher-chaplaine; Some willing man that might instruct his sons, And that would stand to good conditions. First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed, While his young maister lieth o'er his head. Second, that he do on no default, Ever presume to sit above the salt. Third, that he never change his trencher twise. Fourth, that he use all common courtesies; Sit bare at meales, and one halfe raise and wait. Last, that he never his young maister beat, But he must ask his mother to define, How manie jerkes she would his breech should line. All these observed, he could contented bee, To give five markes and winter liverie. The seventh and last of this book is a very just and humorous satire against judicial astrology, which was probably in as high credit then, as witchcraft was in the succeeding reign. The first satire of the third book is a strong contrast of the temperance and simplicity of former ages, with the luxury and effeminacy of his own tines, which a reflecting reader would be apt to think no better than the present. We find the good bishop supposes our ancestors as poorly fed as Virgil's and Horace's rustics. He says, with sufficient energy, Thy grandsire's words favour'd of thrifty leekes, Or manly garlicke; but thy furnace reekes Hot steams of wine; and can a-loose descrie The drunken draughts of sweet autumnitie. The second is a short satire on erecting stately monuments to worthless men. The following advice is nobly moral, the subsequent sarcasm just and well expressed. Thy monument make thou thy living deeds; No other tomb than that true virtue needs. What! had he nought whereby he might be knowne But costly pilements of some curious stone? The matter nature's, and the workman's frame; His purse's cost: where then is Osmond's name? Deserv'dst thou ill? well were thy name and thee, Wert thou inditched in great secrecie. The third gives an account of a citizen's feast, to which he was invited, as he says, With hollow words, and [2] overly request. and whom he disappointed by accepting his invitation at once, and not Maydening it; no insignificant term as he applies it: for, as he says, Who looks for double biddings to a feast, May dine at home for an importune guest. After a sumptuous bill of fare, our author compares the great plenty of it to our present notion of a miser's feast--saying, Come there no more; for so meant all that cost; Never hence take me for thy second host. The fourth is levelled at Ostentation in devotion, or in dress. The fifth represents the sad plight of a courtier, whose Perewinke, as he terms it, the wind had blown off by unbonnetting in a salute, and exposed his waxen crown or scalp. 'Tis probable this might be about the time of their introduction into dress here. The sixth, which is a fragment, contains a hyperbolical relation of a thirsty foul, called Gullion, who drunk Acheron dry in his passage over it, and grounded Charon's boat, but floated it again, by as liberal a stream of urine. It concludes with the following sarcastical, yet wholesome irony. Drinke on drie foule, and pledge Sir Gullion: Drinke to all healths, but drink not to thyne owne. The seventh and last is a humorous description of a famished beau, who had dined only with duke Humfrey, and who was strangely adorned with exotic dress. To these three satires he adds the following conclusion. Thus have I writ, in smoother cedar tree, So gentle Satires, penn'd so easily. Henceforth I write in crabbed oak-tree rynde, Search they that mean the secret meaning find. Hold out ye guilty and ye galled hides, And meet my far-fetched stripes with waiting sides. In his biting satires he breathes still more of the spirit and stile of Juvenal, his third of this book being an imitation of that satirist's eighth, on Family-madness and Pride of Descent; the beginning of which is not translated amiss by our author. The principal object of his fourth satire, Gallio, would correspond with a modern Fribble, but that he supposes him capable of hunting and hawking, which are exercises rather too coarse and indelicate for ours: this may intimate perhaps, that the reign of the great Elizabeth had no character quite so unmanly as our age. In advising him to wed, however, we have no bad portrait of the Petit Maitre. Hye thee, and give the world yet one dwarfe more, Such as it got when thou thy selfe was bore. His fifth satire contrasts the extremes of Prodigality and Avarice; and by a few initials, which are skabbarded, it looks as if he had some individuals in view; though he has disclaimed such an intention in his postscript (now the preface) p. 6. lin. 25, &c. His sixth sets out very much like the first satire of Horace's first book, on the Dissatisfaction and Caprice of mankind--Qui fit Mecænas; and, after a just and lively-description of our different pursuits in life, he concludes with the following preference of a college one, which, we find in the Specialities of his life, he was greatly devoted to in his youth. The lines, which are far from inelegant, seem indeed to come from his heart, and make him appear as an exception to that too general human discontent, which was the subject of this satire. 'Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife, Oh let me lead an academick life; To know much, and to think we nothing know; Nothing to have, yet think we have enowe; In skill to want, and wanting seek for more; In weele nor want, nor wish for greater store. Envy, ye monarchs, with your proad excesse, At our low sayle, and our high happinesse. The last satire of this book is a severe one on the clergy of the church of Rome. He terms it POMH-PYMH, by which we suppose he intended to brand Roma, as the Sink of Superstition. He observes, if Juvenal, whom he calls Aquine's carping spright, were now alive, among other surprising alterations at Rome, --that he most would gaze and wonder at, Is th' horned mitre, and the bloody hat, The crooked staffe, their coule's strange form and store, Save that he saw the fame in hell before. The first satire of the fifth book is levelled at Racking Landlords. The following lines are a strong example of the taste of those times for the Punn and Paronomasia. While freezing Matho, that for one lean fee Won't term each term the term of Hillary, May now, instead of those his simple fees, Get the fee-simples of faire manneries. The second satire lashes the incongruity of stately buildings and want of hospitality, and naturally reminds us of a pleasant epigram of Martial's on the same occasion, where after describing the magnificence of a villa, he concludes however, there is no room either to sup or lodge in it. It ends with a transition on the contumely with which the parasites are treated at the tables of the great; being a pretty close imitation of Juvenal on the same subject. This satire has also a few skabbarded initials. In his third, titled, [Greek: KOINA PHIAON], where he reprehends Plato's notion of a political community of all things, are the following lines: Plato is dead, and dead is his device, Which some thought witty, none thought ever wise: Yet certes Macha is a Platonist To all, they say, save whoso do not list; Because her husband, a far traffick' man, Is a profess'd Peripatician. His last book and satire, for it consists but of one, is a humorous ironical recantation of his former satires; as the author pretends there can be no just one in such perfect times as his own. The latter part of it alludes to different passages in Juvenal; and he particularly reflects on some poetaster he calls Labeo, whom he had repeatedly lash'd before; and who was not improbably some cotemporary scribler. Upon the whole, these satires sufficiently evince both the learning and ingenuity of their author. The sense has generally such a sufficient pause, and will admit of such a punctuation at the close of the second line, and the verse is very often as harmonious too, as if it was calculated for a modern ear: tho' the great number of obsolete words retained would incline us to think the editors had not procured any very extraordinary alteration of the original edition, which we have never seen. The present one is nearly printed; and, if it should occasion another, we cannot think but a short glossary at the end of it, or explanations at the bottom of the pages, where the most uncouth and antiquated terms occur, would justly increase the value of it, by adding considerably to the perspicuity of this writer; who, in other respects, seems to have been a learned divine, a conscientious christian, a lover of peace, and well endued with patience; for the exercise of which virtue, the confusions at the latter end of his life, about the time of the death of Charles I. furnished him with frequent opportunities, the account of his own hard measures being dated in May 1647. We have met with no other poetical writings of the bishop's, except three anthems, composed for the use of his cathedral-church; and indeed, it seems as if his continual occupation after his youth, and his troubles in age, were sufficient to suppress any future propensity to satirical poetry: which we may infer from the conclusion of the first satire of his fourth book. While now my rhimes relish of the ferule still, Some nose-wise pedant saith; whose deep-seen skill Hath three times construed either Flaccus o'er, And thrice rehears'd them in his trivial flore. So let them tax me for my hot blood's rage, Rather than say I doated in my age. [Footnote 1: Specialities of this bishop's life prefixed to his works.] [Footnote 2: Slight.] * * * * * RICHARD CRASHAW. Son of an eminent divine named William Crashaw, was educated in grammar learning in Sutton's-Hospital called the Charter-House, near London, and in academical, partly in Pembroke-Hall, of which he was a scholar, and afterwards in Peterhouse, Cambridge, of which he was a fellow, where, as in the former house, he was distinguished for his Latin and English poetry. Afterwards he took the degree of master of arts; but being soon after thrown out of his fellowship, with many others of the University of Cambridge, for denying the Covenant during the time of the rebellion, he was for a time obliged to shift for himself, and struggle against want and oppression. At length being wearied with persecution and poverty, and foreseeing the calamity which threatened and afterwards fell upon his church and country, by the unbounded fury of the Presbyterians, he changed his religion, and went beyond sea, in order to recommend himself to some Popish preferment in Paris; but being a mere scholar was incapable of executing his new plan of a livelihood. Mr. Abraham Cowley hearing of his being there, endeavoured to find him out, which he did, and to his great surprize saw him in a very miserable plight: this happened in the year 1646. This generous bard gave him all the assistance he could, and obtained likewise some relief for him from Henrietta Maria the Queen Dowager, then residing at Paris. Our author receiving letters of recommendation from his Queen, he took a journey into Italy, and by virtue of those letters became a secretary to a Cardinal at Rome, and at length one of the canons or chaplains of the rich church of our lady of Loretto, some miles distant from thence, where he died in 1650. This conduct of Crashaw can by no means be justified: when a man changes one religion for another, he ought to do it at a time when no motive of interest can well be supposed to have produced it; for it does no honour to religion, nor to the person who becomes a convert, when it is evident, he would not have altered his opinion, had not his party been suffering; and what would have become of the church of England, what of the Protestant religion, what of christianity in general, had the apostles and primitive martyrs, and later champions for truth, meanly abandoned it like Crashaw, because the hand of power was lifted up against it. It is an old observation, that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church; but Crashaw took care that the church mould reap no benefit by his perseverance. Before he left England he wrote poems, entitled, Steps to the Temple; and Wood says, "That he led his life in St. Mary's church near to Peterhouse, where he lodged under Tertullian's roof of angels; there he made his nest more glad than David's swallow near the house of God, where like a primitive saint he offered more prayers in the night than others usually offer in the day. There he pen'd the poems called Steps to the Temple for Happy Souls to climb to Heaven by. To the said Steps are joined other poems, entitled, The Delights of the Muses, wherein are several Latin poems; which tho' of a more humane mixture, yet are sweet as they are innocent. He hath also written Carmen Deo Nostro, being Hymns and other sacred Poems, addressed to the Countess of Denbigh. He is said to have been master of five languages, besides his mother tongue, viz. Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, and Spanish." Mr. Crashaw seems to have been a very delicate and chaste writer; his language is pure, his thoughts natural, and his manner of writing tender. * * * * * WILLIAM ROWLEY. An author who lived in the reign of Charles I. and was some time a member of Pembroke-Hall in Cambridge. There are no particulars on record concerning this poet. He was beloved, says Langbaine, by Shakespear, Johnson, and Fletcher, and writ with the former the British Merlin, besides what he joined in writing with poets of the third class, as Heywood, Middleton, Day, and Webster. The author has six plays in print of his own writing, which are as follows; 1. A New Wonder, a Woman never vext, a Comedy, acted Anno 1632. The Widow's finding her wedding Ring (which she dropt crossing the Thames) in the Belly of a Fish, is taken from the Story of Polycrates, in the Thalia of Herodotus. 2. A Match at Midnight, a Comedy, acted by the Children of the Revels, 1633. Part of the Plot is taken from a Story in the English Rogue, Part the fourth. 3. All's lost by Lust, a Tragedy, acted at the Phoenix in Drury-lane by the Lady Elizabeth's Servants, 1633. This is esteemed a tolerable Play. 4. Shoemaker's a Gentleman, a Comedy, acted at the Red-Bull, 1638. This Play was afterwards revived at the Theatre in Dorset-Garden. Plot from Crispin and Crispianus; or the History of the Gentle Craft. 5. The Witch of Edmonton, a Tragi-Comedy, acted by the Prince's Servants at the Cock-pit in Drury-Lane, 1658. This Play was afterwards acted at Court with Applause. 6. The Birth of Merlin, a Tragi-Comedy, 1662. The Plot from Geofrey of Monmouth. Shakespear assisted in this Play. He joined with Middleton in his Spanish Gypsies, Webster in his Thracian Wonder. * * * * * THOMAS NASH. A versifier in the reign of King Charles I. was educated in the university of Cambridge, and was designed for holy orders. He was descended from a family in Hertfordshire, and was born at Leostoff in Suffolk. Whether he obtained any preferment in the church, or was honoured with any great man's patronage, is no where determined. It is reasonable to believe the contrary, because good fortune is seldom without the evidence of flattery, or envy, whereas distress and obscurity, are almost inseparable companions. This is further confirmed in some lines vehemently passionate, in a performance of his called Piers Penniless; which to say nothing of the poetry, are a strong picture of rage, and despair, and part of which as they will shew that he was no mean versifier, shall be quoted by way of specimen. In the abovementioned piece of Piers Penniless, or Supplication to the Devil, he had some reflections on the parentage of Dr. Harvey, his father being a rope-maker of Saffron-Walden. This produced contests between the Doctor and him, so that it became a paper war. Amongst other books which Mr. Nash wrote against him, was one entitled, Have with ye, to Saffron Walden; and another called, Four letters confuted. He wrote likewise a poem, called, The White Herring and the Red. He has published two plays, Dido Queen of Carthage, in which he joined with Marloe: and Summers last Will and Testament, a Comedy. Langbaine says, he could never procure a sight of either of these, but as to the play called, See me, and See me not, ascribed to him by Winstanley, he says, it is written by one Drawbridgecourt Belchier, Esq; Thomas Nash had the reputation of a sharp satirist, which talent he exerted with a great deal of acrimony against the Covenanters and Puritans of his time: He likewise wrote a piece called, The Fourfold way to Happiness, in a dialogue between a countryman, citizen, divine, and lawyer, printed in 4to. London, 1633. In an old poem called the return to Parnassus; or a scourge for Simony, Nash's character is summed up in four lines, which Mrs. Cooper thinks is impartially done. Let all his faults sleep in his mournful chest, And there for ever with his ashes rest! His stile was witty; tho he had some gall: Something he might have mended----so may all From his PIERS PENNILESS. Why is't damnation to despair and die, When life is my true happiness disease? My soul! my soul' thy safety makes me fly The faulty means that might my pain appease, Divines, and dying men may talk of Hell; But, in my heart, her sev'ral torments dwell! Ah! worthless wit to train me to this woe! Deceitful arts, that nourish discontent! Ill thrive the folly that bewitched me so! Vain thoughts adieu, for now I will repent! And yet my wants persuade me to proceed, Since none take pity of a Scholar's need! Forgive me God, altho' I curse my birth, And ban the air wherein I breath a wretch! Since misery hath daunted all my mirth And I am quite undone, thro' promise breach O friends! no friends! that then ungently frown, When changing fortune casts us headlong down! Without redress, complains my careless verse, And Midas ears relent not at my moan! In some far land will I my griefs rehearse, 'Mongst them that will be moved when I shall groan! England adieu! the soil that brought me forth! Adieu unkind where still is nothing worth! * * * * * JOHN FORD, A Gentleman of the Middle-Temple, who wrote in the reign of Charles I. He was a well-wisher to the muses, and a friend and acquaintance of most of the poets of his time. He was not only a partner with Rowley and Decker in the Witch of Edmonton, and with Decker in the Sun's Darling; but wrote likewise himself seven plays, most of which were acted at the Phænix in the Black-Fryars, and may be known by an Anagram instead of his name, generally printed in the title-page, viz, FIDE HONOR. His genius was more turned for tragedy than comedy, which occasioned an old poet to write thus of him: Deep in a dump, John Ford was alone got, With folded arms, and melancholy hat. These particulars I find in Mr. Langbaine, who gives the following account of his plays; 1. Broken Heart, a Tragedy, acted by the King's Servants at the private House in Black-Fryars, printed in 4to. London 1633, and dedicated to Lord Craven, Baron of Hamstead-Marshal: The Speaker's Names are fitted to their Qualities, and most of them are derived from Greek Etymologies. 2. Fancies Chaste and Noble, a Tragi-Comedy, acted by the Queen's Servants, at the Phoenix in Drury Lane, printed 4to. London 1638, and dedicated to Lord Randel Macdonell, Earl of Antrim, in the Kingdom of Ireland. 3. Ladies Tryal, a Tragi-Comedy, acted by both their Majesties Servants, at the Private House in Drury-Lane, printed 4to. London, 1639. 4. Lover's Melancholy, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at a Private House in Black-Fryars, and publickly at the Globe by the King's Servants, printed 4to. London 1629, and dedicated to the Society of Gray's-Inn. This Play is commended by four of the author's Friends, one of whom writes the following Tetrastich: 'Tis not the language, nor the fore-placed rhimes Of friends, that shall commend to after times The lover's melancholy: It's own worth Without a borrowed praise shall see it forth. The author, says Langbaine, has imbellished this Play with several fancies from other Writers, which he has appositely brought in, as the Story of the Contention between the Musician and the Nightingale, described in Strada's academical Prolusions, Lib. ii. Prol. 6. 5. Love's Sacrifice, a Tragedy, received generally well, acted by the Queen's Servants, at the Phoenix in Drury-Lane; printed 4to. Lond. 1663. There is a copy of verses prefixed to this Play, written by James Shirley, Esq; a dramatic writer. 6. Perkin Warbeck, a Chronicle History, and strange Truth, acted by the Queen's Servants in Drury-Lane, printed 4to. 1634, and dedicated to William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle. This Play, as several of the former, is attended with Verses written by four of the Author's friends. The Plot is founded on Truth, and may be read in all the Chronicles of Henry VII. 7. Sun's Darling, a Moral Mask, often presented by their Majesties Servants at the Cock-pit in Drury-Lane, with great Applause, printed in 4to. London 1657, dedicated to the Right Hon. Thomas Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton. This Play was wrote by our author and John Decker, but not published till after their decease. A Copy of Verses written by Mr. John Tateham is the Introduction to the Mask, at the Entry whereof the Reader will find an Explanation of the Design alluding to the Four Seasons of the Year. 8. 'Tis Pity she's a Whore, a Tragedy, printed in 4to. Mr. Langbaine says, that this equals if not exceeds any of our author's performances, and were to be commended did not he paint the incestuous love between Giovanni, and his Sister Annabella, in too beautiful colours. I have not been able to ascertain the year in which this author died; but imagine from circumstances, that it must have been some time before the Restoration, and before the Year 1657, for the Sun's Darling, written between him and Decker was published in 1657, which Mr. Langbaine says, was after their Decease. * * * * * THOMAS MIDDLETON Lived in the reign of King Charles I. he was cotemporary with Johnson, Fletcher, Maslinger and Rowley, in whose friendship he is said to have shared, and though he fell much short of the two former, yet being joined with them in writing plays, he arrived at some reputation. He joined with Fletcher and Johnson in a play called The Widow, and the highest honour that is known of this poet, is, his being admitted to make a triumvirate with two such great men: he joined with Massinger and Rowley in writing the Old Law; he was likewise assisted by Rowley in writing three plays[1]. We have not been able to find any particulars of this man's life, further than his friendship and connection already mentioned, owing to his obscurity, as he was never considered as a genius, concerning which the world thought themselves interested to preserve any particulars. His dramatic works are, 1. The Five Gallants, acted at the Black Fryars. 2. Blur, Mr. Constable, or the Spaniard's Night Walk, a Comedy, acted by the Children of St. Paul's School, 1602. 3. The Phænix, a Tragedy, acted by the Children of St. Paul's, and also before his Majesty, 1607; the story is taken from a Spanish Novel, called the Force of Love. 4. The Family of Love, a Comedy, acted by the children of his Majesty's Revels, 1608. 5. The Roaring Girl, or Moll Cutpurse, acted by the Prince's Players, 1611; part of this play was writ by Mr. Decker. 6. A Trick to catch the Old One, a Comedy, acted both at St. Paul's and Black Fryars before their Majesties, with success, 1616. 7. The Triumphs of Love and Antiquity, a Masque, performed at the Confirmation of Sir William Cokain, General of his Majesty's Forces, and Lord Mayor of the city of London, 1619. 8. The Chaste Maid of Cheapside, a pleasant Comedy, acted by the Lady Elizabeth's servants, 1620. 9. The World toss'd at Tennis, a Masque, presented by the Prince's servants, 1620. 10. The Fair Quarrel, a Comedy, acted in the year 1622, Mr. Rowley assisted in the composing this Play. 11. The Inner Temple Masque, a Masque of Heroes, represented by the Gentlemen of the Inner-Temple, 1640. 12. The Changeling, a Tragedy, acted at a private house in Drury Lane, and Salisbury Court, with applause, 1653, Mr. Rowley joined in writing this play; for the plot see the story of Alsemero, and Beatrice Joanna in Reynolds's God's Revenge against Murder. 13. The Old Law, or a New Way to Please You, a Comedy, acted before the King and Queen in Salisbury Court, printed 1656. Massenger and Rowley assisted in this Play. 14. No Wit, No Help like a Woman's, a Comedy, acted in the year 1657. 15. Women, beware Women, a Tragedy, 1657. This Play is founded on a Romance called Hyppolito and Isabella. 16. More Dissemblers besides Women, a Comedy, acted 1657. 17. The Spanish Gypsies, a Comedy, acted with applause, both at the private house in Drury Lane, and Salisbury Court, 1660; in this Play he was assisted by Mr. Rowley. Part of it is borrowed from a Spanish Novel called the Force of Blood, written originally by Cervantes. 18. The Mayor of Queenborough, a Comedy, acted by his Majesty's servants, 1661. For the plot see the Reign of Vartigas, by Stow and Speed. 19. Any Thing for a Quiet Life, acted at the Globe on the Bank Side. This is a game between the Church of England, and that of Rome, wherein the former gains the victory. 20. Michaelmas Term, a Comedy; it is uncertain whether this play was ever acted. 21. A Mad World, my Masters, a Comedy, often acted at a private house in Salisbury Court with applause. [Footnote 1: Langbaine's Lives of the Poets, p. 370.] * * * * * End of the First VOLUME. 
16469	----	Preparer's Note: This e-text is taken from a facsimile of the original 18th-century volume. The spelling, punctuation, and other quirks have largely been retained. Only the most obvious printer's errors have been corrected, and are marked [like this]. Anglistica & Americana A Series of Reprints Selected by Bernhard Fabian, Edgar Mertner, Karl Schneider and Marvin Spevack 17 GEORG OLMS VERLAGSBUCHHANDLUNG HILDESHEIM THEOPHILUS CIBBER The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Vol. II 1968 GEORG OLMS VERLAGSBUCHHANDLUNG HILDESHEIM Note The present facsimile is reproduced from a copy in the possession of the Library of the University of Göttingen. Shelfmark: H. lit. biogr. I 8464. Although the title-page of Volume I announces four volumes, the work is continued in a fifth volume of the same date. Like Volumes II, III, and IV, it is by "Mr. CIBBER, and other Hands" and is "Printed for R. GRIFFITHS". M.S. Reprografischer Nachdruck der Ausgabe London 1753 Printed in Germany Herstellung: fotokap wilhelm weihert, Darmstadt Best.-Nr. 5102040 THE LIVES OF THE POETS OF GREAT BRITAIN and IRELAND. Compiled from ample Materials scattered in a Variety of Books, and especially from the MS. Notes of the late ingenious Mr. COXETER and others, collected for this Design, By Mr. CIBBER, and other Hands. VOL. II. LONDON: Printed for R. GRIFFITHS, at the Dunciad in St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLIII VOLUME II. Contains the LIVES OF Brewer Newcastle, Duchess May Newcastle, Duke Taylour Birkenhead Habington Boyle, E. Orrery Goldsmith Head Cleveland Hobbs Holiday [sic] Cokaine Nabbes Wharton Shirley Killegrew, Anne Howel Lee Fanshaw Butler Cowley Waller Davenant Ogilby King Rochester [Massinger] Buckingham Stapleton Smith Main Otway Milton [Oldham] Philips [Roscommon] * * * * * _Just Published,_ In one small Octavo Volume, Price bound in Calf 3s. A TRANSLATION of the Ingenious Abbé DE MABLY'S _Observations on the_ ROMANS. A learned and curious Performance; wherein the Policy of that People is set in so clear a Light, and the Characters of their great Men drawn with such a masterly Pen, as cannot but recommend it to all Lovers of Classical Learning. In this Work many new Lights are cast upon the Characters and Conduct of the following celebrated Personages: Romulus, | Pompey, | Otho, Tarquin the Elder, | Cato, | Vitellius, Servius Tullus, | Cæsar, | Vespasian, Brutus, | Cicero, | Titus, The Gracchi, | Antony, | Domitian, Marius, | Augustus, | Nerva, Sylla, | Tiberius, | Trajan, Crassus, | Caligula, | Antoninus, Scipio, | Claudius, | Marcus Aurelius, Hannibal, | Nero, | Diocletian, Pyrrhus, | Galba, | Constantine the Great &c. &c. &c. Printed for R. GRIFFITHS, in _Paul's Church-Yard_. * * * * * THE LIVES OF THE POETS ANTHONY BREWER, A poet who flourished in the reign of Charles I. but of whose birth and life we can recover no particulars. He was highly esteemed by some wits in that reign, as appears from a Poem called Steps to Parnassus, which pays him the following well turned compliment. Let Brewer take his artful pen in hand, Attending muses will obey command, Invoke the aid of Shakespear's sleeping clay, And strike from utter darkness new born day. Mr. Winstanley, and after him Chetwood, has attributed a play to our author called Lingua, or the Contention of the Tongue and the Five Senses for Superiority, a Comedy, acted at Cambridge, 1606; but Mr. Langbaine is of opinion, that neither that, Love's Loadstone, Landagartha, or Love's Dominion, as Winstanley and Philips affirm, are his; Landagartha being written by Henry Burnel, esquire, and Love's Dominion by Flecknoe. In the Comedy called Lingua, there is a circumstance which Chetwood mentions, too curious, to be omitted here. When this play was acted at Cambridge, Oliver Cromwel performed the part of Tactus, which he felt so warmly, that it first fired his ambition, and, from the possession of an imaginary crown, he stretched his views to a real one; to accomplish which, he was content to wade through a sea of blood, and, as Mr. Gray beautifully expresses it, shut the Gates of Mercy on Mankind; the speech with which he is said to have been so affected, is the following, Roses, and bays, pack hence: this crown and robe, My brows, and body, circles and invests; How gallantly it fits me! sure the slave Measured my head, that wrought this coronet; They lie that say, complexions cannot change! My blood's enobled, and I am transform'd Unto the sacred temper of a king; Methinks I hear my noble Parasites Stiling me Cæsar, or great Alexander, Licking my feet,--&c. Mr. Langbaine ascribes to Brewer the two following plays, Country Girl, a Comedy, often acted with applause, printed in 4to. 1647. This play has been revived since the Restoration, under the title of Country Innocence, or the Chamber-maid turned Quaker. Love-sick King, an English Tragical History, with the Life and Death of Cartesmunda, the Fair Nun of Winchester; printed in 4to. London, 1655; this play was likewise revived 1680, and acted by the name of the Perjured Nun. The historical part of the plot is founded upon the Invasion of the Danes, in the reign of King Ethelred and Alfred. This last play of Anthony Brewer's, is one of the best irregular plays, next to those of Shakespear, which are in our language. The story, which is extremely interesting, is conducted, not so much with art, as spirit; the characters are animated, and the scene busy. Canutus King of Denmark, after having gained the city of Winchester, by the villainy of a native, orders all to be put to the sword, and at last enters the Cloister, raging with the thirst of blood, and panting for destruction; he meets Cartesmunda, whose beauty stops his ruffian violence, and melts him, as it were, into a human creature. The language of this play is as modern, and the verses as musical as those of Rowe; fire and elevation run through it, and there are many strokes of the most melting tenderness. Cartesmunda, the Fair Nun of Winchester, inspires the King with a passion for her, and after a long struggle between honour and love, she at last yields to the tyrant, and for the sake of Canutus breaks her vestal vows. Upon hearing that the enemy was about to enter the Cloister, Cartesmunda breaks out into the following beautiful exclamation: The raging foe pursues, defend us Heaven! Take virgin tears, the balm of martyr'd saints As tribute due, to thy tribunal throne; With thy right hand keep us from rage and murder; Let not our danger fright us, but our sins; Misfortunes touch our bodies, not our souls. When Canutus advances, and first sees Cartesmunda, his speech is poetical, and conceived in the true spirit of Tragedy. Ha! who holds my conquering hand? what power unknown, By magic thus transforms me to a statue, Senseless of all the faculties of life? My blood runs back, I have no power to strike; Call in our guards and bid 'em all give o'er. Sheath up your swords with me, and cease to kill: Her angel beauty cries, she must not die, Nor live but mine: O I am strangely touch'd! Methinks I lift my sword, against myself, When I oppose her--all perfection! O see! the pearled dew drops from her eyes; Arise in peace, sweet soul. In the same scene the following is extremely beautiful. I'm struck with light'ning from the torrid zone; Stand all between me, and that flaming sun! Go Erkinwald, convey her to my tent. Let her be guarded with more watchful eyes Than heaven has stars: If here she stay I shall consume to death, 'Tis time can give my passions remedy, Art thou not gone! kill him that gazeth on her; For all that see her sure must doat like me, And treason for her, will be wrought against us. Be sudden--to our tents--pray thee away, The hell on earth is love that brings delay. * * * * * THOMAS MAY, A Poet and historian of the 17th century, was descended of an ancient, but decayed family in the county of Sussex, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth[1], and was educated a fellow commoner in Sidney Sussex College in Cambridge. He afterwards removed to London, and lived about the court, where he contracted friendships with several gentlemen of fashion and distinction, especially with Endymion Porter esquire, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber to King Charles I. while [sic] he resided at court he wrote five plays, which are extant under his name. In 1622, he published at London, in 8vo. a translation of Virgil's Georgics with annotations; and in 1635, a Poem on King Edward III. It was printed under the title of the Victorious Reign of Edward III. written in seven books, by his Majesty's command. In the dedication to Charles I. our author writes thus; "I should humbly have craved your Majesty's pardon for my omission of the latter part of King Edward's reign, but that the sense of mine own defects hath put me in mind of a most necessary suit, so beg forgiveness for that part which is here written. Those great actions of Edward III. are the arguments of this poem, which is here ended, where his fortune began to decline, where the French by revolts, and private practices regained that which had been won from them by eminent and famous victories; which times may afford fitter observations for an acute historian in prose, than strains of heighth for an heroic poem." The poem thus begins, The third, and greatest Edward's reign we sing, The high atchievements of that martial King, Where long successful prowesse did advance, So many trophies in triumphed France, And first her golden lillies bare; who o're Pyrennes mountains to that western shore, Where Tagus tumbles through his yellow sand Into the ocean; stretch'd his conquering hand. From the lines quoted, the reader will be able to judge what sort of versifier our author was, and from this beginning he has no great reason to expect an entertaining poem, especially as it is of the historical kind; and he who begins a poem thus insipidly, can never expect his readers to accompany him to the third page. May likewise translated Lucan's Pharsalia, which poem he continued down to the death of Julius Cæsar, both in Latin and English verse. Dr. Fuller says, that some disgust was given to him at court, which alienated his affections from it, and determined him, in the civil wars to adhere to the Parliament. Mr. Philips in his Theatrum Poetarum, observes, that he stood candidate with Sir William Davenant for the Laurel, and his ambition being frustrated, he conceived the most violent aversion to the King and Queen. Sir William Davenant, besides the acknowledged superiority of his abilities, had ever distinguished himself for loyalty, and was patronized and favoured by men of power, especially the Marquis of Newcastle: a circumstance which we find not to have happened to May: it is true, they were both the friends of the amiable Endymion Porter, esq; but we are not informed whether that gentleman interested himself on either side. In the year 1647, was published in London in folio, The History of the Parliament of England, which began November 3, 1640, with a Short and Necessary View of some precedent Years, written by Thomas May, Esq; Secretary to the Parliament, and published by their authority. In 1650 he published in 8vo. A Breviary of the History of the Parliament of England. Besides these works, Mr. Philips tells us, he wrote a History of Henry IV. in English verse, the Comedy of the Old Wives Tale, and the History of Orlando Furioso; but the latter, Mr. Langbaine, who is a higher authority than Philips, assures us was written before May was able to hold a pen, much less to write a play, being printed in 4to. London, 1594. Mr. Winstanley says, that in his history, he shews all the spleen of a mal-content, and had he been preferred to the Bays, as he happened to be disappointed, he would have embraced the Royal interest with as much zeal, as he did the republican: for a man who espouses a cause from spite only, can be depended upon by no party, because he acts not upon any principles of honour or conviction. Our author died suddenly in the year 1652, and was interred near the tomb of Camden, on the West side of the North isle of Westminster Abbey, but his body, with several others, was dug up after the restoration, and buried in a pit in St. Margaret's church yard[2]. Mr. May's plays are, 1. Agrippina, Empress of Rome, a Tragedy, printed in 12mo. London, 1639. Our author has followed Suetonius and Tacitus, and has translated and inserted above 30 lines from Petronius Arbiter; this circumstance we advance on the authority of Langbaine, whose extensive reading has furnished him with the means of tracing the plots of most part of our English plays; we have heard that there is a Tragedy on this subject, written by Mr. Gray of Cambridge, the author of the beautiful Elegy in a Country Church Yard; which play Mr. Garrick has sollicited him to bring upon the stage; to which the author has not yet consented. 2. Antigone, the Theban Princess, a Tragedy, printed in 8vo. London, 1631, and dedicated to Endymion Porter, Esq; Our author in the contexture of this Tragedy, has made use of the Antigone of Sophocles, and the Thebais of Seneca. 3. Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, a Tragedy, acted 1626, and printed in 12mo. London, 1639, and dedicated to Sir Kenelme Digby: The author has followed the historians of those times. We have in our language two other plays upon the same subject, one by Shakespear, and the other by Dryden. 4. Heir, a Comedy, acted by the company of revels, 1620; this play is much commended by Mr. Thomas Carew, in a copy of verses prefixed to the play, where, amongst other commendations bestowed on the stile, and natural working up of the passions, he says thus of the oeconomy of the play. The whole plot doth alike itself disclose, Thro' the five Acts, as doth a lock, that goes With letters, for 'till every one be known, The lock's as fast, as if you had found none. If this comedy, is no better than these wretched commendatory lines, it is miserable indeed. 5. Old Couple, a Comedy, printed in 4to; this play is intended to expose the vice of covetousness. Footnotes: 1. Langbaine's Lives of the Poets. 2. Wood's Fasti Oxon. vol. i. p. 205. * * * * * JOHN TAYLOUR, Water-Poet, Was born in Gloucestershire, where he went to school with one Green, and having got into his accidence, was bound apprentice to a Waterman in London, which, though a laborious employment, did not so much depress his mind, but that he sometimes indulged himself in poetry. Taylour retates [sic] a whimsical story of his schoolmaster Mr. Green, which we shall here insert upon the authority of Winstanley. "Green loved new milk so well, that in order to have it new, he went to the market to buy a cow, but his eyes being dim, he cheapened a bull, and asking the price of the beast, the owner and he agreed, and driving it home, would have his maid to milk it, which she attempting to do, could find no teats; and whilst the maid and her master were arguing the matter, the bull very fairly pissed into the pail;" whereupon his scholar John Taylour wrote these verses, Our master Green was overseen In buying of a bull, For when the maid did mean to milk, He piss'd the pail half full. Our Water-poet found leisure to write fourscore books, some of which occasioned diversion enough in their time, and were thought worthy to be collected in a folio volume. Mr. Wood observes, that had he had learning equal to his natural genius, which was excellent, he might have equalled, if not excelled, many who claim a great share in the temple of the muses. Upon breaking out of the rebellion, 1642, he left London, and retired to Oxford, where he was much esteemed for his facetious company; he kept a common victualling house there, and thought he did great service to the Royal cause, by writing Pasquils against the round-heads. After the garrison of Oxford surrendered, he retired to Westminster, kept a public house in Phænix Alley near Long Acre, and continued constant in his loyalty to the King; after whose death, he set up a sign over his door, of a mourning crown, but that proving offensive, he pulled it down, and hung up his own picture[1], under which were these words, There's many a head stands for a sign, Then gentle reader why not mine? On the other side, Tho' I deserve not, I desire The laurel wreath, the poet's hire. He died in the year 1654, aged 74, and was buried in the church yard of St. Paul's Covent-Garden; his nephew, a Painter at Oxford, who lived in Wood's time, informed him of this circumstance, who gave his picture to the school gallery there, where it now hangs, shewing him to have had a quick and smart countenance. The following epitaph was written upon him, Here lies the Water-poet, honest John, Who row'd on the streams of Helicon; Where having many rocks and dangers past, He at the haven of Heaven arrived at last. Footnote: 1. Athen. Oxon. vol. ii. p. 393. * * * * * WILLIAM HABINGTON, Son of Thomas Habington, Esq; was born at Hendlip in Worcestershire, on the 4th of November 1605, and received his education at St. Omers and Paris, where he was earnestly pressed to take upon him the habit of a Jesuit; but that sort of life not suiting with his genius, he excused himself and left them[1]. After his return from Paris, he was instructed by his father in history, and other useful branches of literature, and became, says Wood, a very accomplished gentleman. This author has written, 1. Poems, 1683, in 8vo. under the title of Castara: they are divided into three parts under different titles, suitable to their subject. The first, which was written when he was courting his wife, Lucia, the beautiful daughter of William Lord Powis, is introduced by a character, written in prose, of a mistress. The second are copies to her after marriage, by the character of a wife; after which is a character of a friend, before several funeral elegies. The third part consists of divine poems, some of which are paraphrases on several texts out of Job, and the book of psalms. 2. The Queen of Arragon, a Tragi-Comedy, which play he shewed to Philip Earl of Pembroke, who having a high opinion of it, caused it to be acted at court, and afterwards to be published, the contrary to the author's inclination. 3. Observations on History, Lond. 1641, 8vo. 4. History of Edward IV. Lond. 1640, in a thin folio, written and published at the desire of King Charles I. which in the opinion of some critics of that age, was too florid for history, and fell short of that calm dignity which is peculiar to a good historian, and which in our nation has never been more happily attained than by the great Earl of Clarendon and Bishop Burnet. During the civil war, Mr. Habington, according to Wood, temporized with those in power, and was not unknown to Oliver Cromwell; but there is no account of his being raised to any preferment during the Protector's government. He died the 30th of November, 1654. We shall present the readers with the prologue to the Queen of Arragon, acted at Black-Fryars, as a specimen of this author's poetry. Ere we begin that no man may repent, Two shillings, and his time, the author sent The prologue, with the errors of his play, That who will, may take his money and away. First for the plot, 'tis no way intricate By cross deceits in love, nor so high in state, That we might have given out in our play-bill This day's the Prince, writ by Nick Machiavil. The language too is easy, such as fell Unstudied from his pen; not like a spell Big with mysterious words, such as inchant The half-witted, and confound the ignorant. Then, what must needs, afflict the amourist, No virgin here, in breeches casts a mist Before her lover's eyes; no ladies tell How their blood boils, how high their veins do swell. But what is worse no baudy mirth is here; (The wit of bottle-ale, and double beer) To make the wife of citizen protest, And country justice swear 'twas a good jest. Now, Sirs, you have the errors of his wit, Like, or dislike, at your own perils be't. Footnote: 1. Wood Athen. Oxon. v. 1, p, 100. * * * * * FRANCIS GOLDSMITH. Was the son of Francis Goldsmith, of St. Giles in the Fields in Middlesex, Esq; was educated under Dr. Nicholas Grey, in Merchant-Taylor's School, became a gentleman commoner in Pembroke-College in the beginning of 1629, was soon after translated to St. John's College, and after he had taken a degree in arts, to Grey's-Inn, where he studied the common law several years, but other learning more[1]. Mr. Langbaine says, that he could recover no other memoirs of this gentleman, but that he lived in the reign of King Charles the First, and obliged the World with a translation of a play out of Latin called, Sophompaneas, or the History of Joseph, with Annotations, a Tragedy, printed 4to. Lond. 1640, and dedicated to the Right Hon. Henry Lord Marquis of Dorchester. This Drama was written by the admirable Hugo Grotius, published by him at Amsterdam 1635, and dedicated to Vossius, Professor of History and Civil Arts in Amsterdam. He stiles it a Tragedy, notwithstanding it ends successfully, and quotes for his authority in so doing, Æschilus, Euripides, and even Vossius, in his own Art of Poetry. Some make it a Question, whether it be lawful to found a dramatic Poem on any sacred subject, and some people of tender consciences have murmured against this Play, and another of the same cast called Christ's Passion; but let us hear the opinion of Vossius himself, prefixed to this Play. "I am of opinion, (says he) it is better to chuse another argument than sacred. For it agrees not with the majesty of sacred things, to be made a play and a fable. It is also a work of very dangerous consequence, to mingle human inventions with things sacred; because the poet adds uncertainties of his own, sometimes falsities; which is not only to play with holy things, but also to graft in men's minds opinions, now and then false. These things have place, especially when we bring in God, or Christ speaking, or treating of the mysteries of religion. I will allow more where the history is taken out of the sacred scriptures; but yet in the nature of the argument is civil, as the action of David flying from his son Absolom; or of Joseph sold by his brethren, advanced by Pharaoh to the government of Egypt, and that dignity adored by, and made known unto his brethren. Of which argument is Sophompaneas, written by Hugo Grotius, embassador from the Queen of Sweden to the King of France; which tragedy, I suppose, may be set for a pattern to him, that would handle an argument from the holy scriptures." This is the opinion of Vossius, and with him all must agree who admire the truly admirable Samson Agonistes of Milton. As we have frequently mentioned Grotius, the short account of so great a man, which is inserted in Langbaine, will not be unpleasing to the reader. "Hugo Grotius, says he, was an honour to his country: he was born in the year 1583, and will be famous to posterity, in regard of those many excellent pieces he has published. In some of his writings he defended Arminianism, for which he suffered imprisonment in the castle of Louverstein, in the year 1618; at which time his associate Barnevelt lost his head on the same account. Afterwards Grotius escaped out of prison, by means of Maria Reigersberg his wife, and fled into Flanders; and thence into France, where he was kindly received by Lewis XIII. He died at Rostock in Mecclebourg, Sept. 1, 1645. His life is written at large by Melchoir Adamus, in Latin." As to our outhor's [sic] translation, which is in heroic verse, it is much commended by verses from four of his friends. He also translated Grotius's consolatory oration to his father, with epitaphs; and also his Catechism into English verse. Mr. Goldsmith died at Ashton in Northamptonshire, in September 1655, and was buried there, leaving behind him an only daughter named Katherine, afterwards the wife of Sir Henry Dacres. Footnote: 1. Wood Athen. Oxon. v. 2. p. 194. * * * * * JOHN CLEVELAND, Was the son of a vicar of Hinkley, in Leicestershire, where he was born, and received his grammatical education, under one Mr. Richard Vines, a zealous Puritan. After he had compleated his school education, he was sent to Christ's College in Cambridge, and in a short time distinguishing himself for his knowledge of the Latin tongue, and for Oratory, he was preferred to a fellowship in St. John's-College, in the said university. He continued there about nine years, and made during that time some successful attempts in poetry. At length, upon the eruption of the civil war, he was the first who espoused the Royal cause in verse, against the Presbyterians, who persecuted him in their turn with more solid severity; for he was ejected, as soon as the reins of power were in their hands. Dr. Fuller bestows upon our author the most lavish panegyric: He was (says he) a general artist, pure latinist, an exquisite orator, and what was his masterpiece, an eminent poet. Dr. Fuller thus characterizes him, but as Cleveland has not left remains behind him sufficient to convey to posterity so high an idea of his merit, it may be supposed that the Doctor spoke thus in his favour, meerly on account of their agreement in political principles. He addressed an oration, says Winstanley, to Charles I. who was so well pleased with it, that he sent for him, and gave him his hand to kiss, with great expressions of kindness. When Oliver Cromwell was in election to be member for the town of Cambridge, as he engaged all his friends and interests to oppose it; so when it was carried but by one vote, he cried out with much passion, that, that single vote had ruined church and kingdom[1], such fatal events did he presage from the success of Oliver. Mr. Cleveland was no sooner forced from the College, by the prevalence of the Parliament's interest, but he betook himself to the camp, and particularly to Oxford the head quarters of it, as the most proper sphere for his wit, learning and loyalty. Here he began a paper war with the opposite party, and wrote some smart satires against the Rebels, especially the Scots. His poem called the Mixt Assembly; his character of a London Diurnal, and a Committee-man, are thought to contain the true spirit of satire, and a just representation of the general confusion of the times. From Oxford he went to the garrison of Newark, where he acted as judge advocate till that garrison was surrendered, and by an excellent temperature, of both, says Winstanley, he was a just and prudent judge for the King, and a faithful advocate for the Country. Here he drew up a bantering answer and rejoinder to a Parliament officer, who had written to him on account of one Hill, that had deserted their side, and carried off with him to Newark, the sum of 133 l. and 8 d. We shall give part of Mr. Cleveland's answer to the officer's first letter, by which an estimate may be formed of the rest. SIXTHLY BELOVED! "It is so, that our brother and fellow-labourer in the gospel, is start aside; then this may serve for an use of instruction, not to trust in man, or in the son of man. Did not Demas leave Paul? Did not Onesimus run from his master Philemon? Also this should teach us to employ our talents, and not to lay them up in a napkin; had it been done among the cavaliers, it had been just, then the Israelite had spoiled the Egyptian; but for Simeón to plunder Levi, that--that, &c." The garrison of Newark defended themselves with much courage and resolution against the besiegers, and did not surrender but by the King's special command, after he had thrown himself into the hands of the Scots; which action of his Majesty's Cleveland passionately resented, in his poem called, the King's Disguise: Upon some private intelligence, three days before the King reached them, he foresaw, that the army would be bribed to surrender him, in which he was not mistaken. As soon as this event took place, Cleveland, who warmly adhered to the regal party, was obliged to atone for his loyalty by languishing in a jail, at Yarmouth, where he remained for some time under all the disadvantages of poverty, and wretchedness: At last being quite spent with the severity of his confinement, he addressed Oliver Cromwell in a petition for liberty, in such pathetic and moving terms, that his heart was melted with the prisoner's expostulation, and he ordered him to be set at liberty. In this address, our author did not in the least violate his loyalty, for he made no concessions to Oliver, but only a representation of the hardships he suffered, without acknowledging his sovereignty, tho' not without flattering his power. Having thus obtained his liberty, he settled himself in Gray's-Inn, and as he owed his releasement to the Protector, he thought it his duty to be passive, and not at least to act against him: But Cleveland did not long enjoy his state of unenvied ease, for he was seized with an intermitting fever, and died the 29th of April, 1685. [2]On the first of May he was buried, and his dear friend Dr. John Pearson, afterwards lord bishop of Chester, preached his funeral sermon, and gave this reason, why he declined commending the deceased, "because such praising of him would not be adequate to the expectation of the audience, seeing some who knew him must think it far below him."--There were many who attempted to write elegies upon him, and several performances of this kind, in Latin and English, are prefixed to the edition of Cleveland's works, in verse and prose, printed in 8vo, in 1677, with his effigies prefixed. From the verses of his called Smectymnuus, we shall give the following specimen, in which the reader will see he did not much excel in numbers. Smectymnuus! the goblin makes me start, I'th' name of Rabbi-Abraham, what art? Syriack? or Arabick? or Welsh? what skilt? Up all the brick-layers that Babel built? Some conjurer translate, and let me know it, 'Till then 'tis fit for a West Saxon Poet. But do the brotherhood then play their prizes? Like murmurs in religion with disguises? Out-brave us with a name in rank and file, A name, which if 'twere trained would spread a mile; The Saints monopoly, the zealous cluster, Which like a porcupine presents a muster. The following lines from the author's celebrated satire, entitled, the Rebel-Scot, will yet more amply shew his turn for this species of poetry. "Nature herself doth Scotchmen beasts confess, Making their country such a wilderness; A land that brings in question and suspence God's omnipresence; but that CHARLES came thence; But that MONTROSE and CRAWFORD'S loyal band Aton'd their sin, and christen'd half their land.-- A land where one may pray with curst intent, O may they never suffer banishment! Had Cain been Scot, God would have chang'd his doom, Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home.-- "Lord! what a goodly thing is want of shirts! How a Scotch stomach and no meat converts! They wanted food and rayment, so they took Religion for their temptress and their cook.-- Hence then you proud impostors get you gone, You Picts in gentry and devotion. You scandal to the stock of verse, a race Able to bring the gibbet in disgrace.-- "The Indian that heaven did forswear, Because he heard some Spaniards were there, Had he but known what Scots in Hell had been, He would, Erasmus-like, have hung between." It is probable that this bitterness against our brethren of North-Britain, chiefly sprang from Mr. Cleveland's resentment of the Scots Army delivering up the King to the Parliament. Footnotes: [text mark missing]. Wood fasti Oxon. p. 274. 1. Winst. Lives of the Poets 2. Winst. Lives of the Poets. * * * * * Dr. BARTEN HOLYDAY, Son of Thomas Holyday, a taylor, was born at All Saints parish, within the city of Oxford, about the latter end of Queen Elizabeth's reign; he was entered early into Christ Church, in the time of Dr, Ravis, his relation and patron, by whom he was chosen student, and having taken his degrees of batchelor and master of arts, he became archdeacon of Oxfordshire. In 1615, he entered into holy orders[1], and was in a short time taken notice of as an eloquent or rather popular preacher, by which he had two benefices confered on him both in the diocese of Oxford. In the year 1618 he went as chaplain to Sir Francis Stewart, when he accompanied to Spain the Count Gundamore, after he had continued several Years at our court as embassador, in which journey Holyday behaved in a facetious and pleasant manner, which ingratiated him in the favour of Gundamore[2]. Afterwards our author became chaplain to King Charles I. and succeeded Dr. Bridges in the archdeaconry of Oxon, before the year 1626. In 1642 he was by virtue of the letters of the said King, created, with several others, Dr. of divinity. When the rebellion broke out, he sheltered himself near Oxford; but when he saw the royal party decline so much that their cause was desperate, he began to tamper with the prevailing power; and upon Oliver Cromwell's being raised to the Protectorship, he so far coincided with the Usurper's interests, as to undergo the examination of the Friers, in order to be inducted into the rectory of Shilton in Berks, in the place of one Thomas Lawrence, ejected on account of his being non compos mentis. For which act he was much blamed and censured by his ancient friends the clergy, who adhered to the King, and who rather chose to live in poverty during the usurpation, than by a mean compliance with the times, betray the interest of the church, and the cause of their exiled sovereign. After the King's restoration he quitted the living he held under Cromwell, and returned to Eisley near Oxon, to live on his archdeaconry; and had he not acted a temporizing part it was said he might have been raised to a see, or some rich deanery. His poetry however, got him a name in those days, and he stood very fair for preferment; and his philosophy discovered in his book de Anima, and well languaged sermons, (says Wood) speaks him eminent in his generation, and shew him to have traced the rough parts, as well as the pleasant paths of poetry. His works are, 1. Three Sermons, on the Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension of our Saviour, Lond. 1626. 2. Two Sermons at Paul's Cross. 3. A Sermon on the Nature of Faith. 4. Motives to a godly Life, in Ten Sermons, Oxon, 1657. 5. Four Sermons against Disloyalty, Oxon, 1661. Technogamia; or the Marriage of Arts, a Comedy, acted publicly in Christ's Church Hall, with no great applause 1617. But the Wits of those times being willing to distinguish themselves before the King, were resolved, with leave, to act the same comedy at Woodstock, whereupon (says Wood) the author making some foolish alterations in it, it was accordingly acted on Sunday night the 26th of August 1621, but it being too grave for the King, and too scholastic for the Audience, or as some said, that the actors in order to remove their timidity, had taken too much wine before, they began, his Majesty after two acts offered several times to withdraw; at length being persuaded by some of those who were near to him, to have patience till it was ended, lest the young men should be discouraged, he sat it out, tho' much against his will; upon which these Verses were made by a certain scholar; At Christ Church Marriage done before the King Lest that those Mates should want an offering, The King himself did offer; what I pray? He offered twice or thrice to go away. 6. Survey of the World in Ten Books, a Poem, Oxon, 1661, which was judged by Scholars to be an inconsiderable piece, and by some not to be his. But being published just before his death, it was taken for a posthumous work, which had been composed by him in his younger Days[3]. He translated out of Latin into English the Satires of Persius, Oxon. 1616, in apologizing for the defects of this work, he plays upon the word _translate_: To have committed no faults in this translation, says he, would have been to translate myself, and put off man. Wood calls this despicable pun, an elegant turn. 7. Satires of Juvenal illustrated with Notes, Oxon. folio 1673. At the end of which is the Fourth Edition of Persius, before mentioned. 8. Odes of Horace, Lond. 1652; this Translation Wood says, is so near that of Sir Thomas Hawkins, printed 1638, or that of Hawkins so near this, that to whom to ascribe it he is in doubt. Dr. Holyday, who according to the same author was highly conceited of his own worth, especially in his younger Days, but who seems not to have much reason for being so, died at a Village called Eisley on the 2d day of October 1661, and was three days after buried at the foot of Bishop King's monument, under the south wall of the [a]isle joining on the south side to the choir of Christ Church Cathedral, near the remains of William Cartwright, and Jo. Gregory. Footnotes: 1. Athen. Oxon. 259. Ed. 1721. 2. Wood ubi supra. 3. Athen. Oxon. p. 260. * * * * * THOMAS NABBES. A writer, in the reign of Charles I, whom we may reckon, says Langbaine, among poets of the third rate, but who in strict justice cannot rise above a fifth. He was patronized by Sir John Suckling. He has seven plays and masks extant, besides other poems, which Mr. Langbaine says, are entirely his own, and that he has had recourse to no preceding author for assistance, and in this respect deserves pardon if not applause from the critic. This he avers in his prologue to Covent-Garden. He justifies that 'tis no borrowed strain, From the invention of another's brain. Nor did he steal the fancy. 'Tis the fame He first intended by the proper name. 'Twas not a toil of years: few weeks brought forth, This rugged issue, might have been more worth, If he had lick'd it more. Nor doth he raise From the ambition of authentic plays, Matter or words to height, nor bundle up Conceits at taverns, where the wits do sup; His muse is solitary, and alone Doth practise her low speculation. The reader from the above specimen may see what a poet he was; but as he was in some degree of esteem in his time, we thought it improper to omit him. The following are his plays; 1. The Bride, a Comedy; acted in the Year 1638 at a private House in Drury-Lane by their Majesty's Servants, printed 4to. 1640. 2. Covent Garden, a Comedy; acted in the Year 1632. 3. Hannibal and Scipio, an Historical Tragedy, acted in the year 1635. 4. Microcosmus, a Moral Masque, represented at a private house in Salisbury Court, printed 1637. 5. Spring's Glory, Vindicating Love by Temperance, against the Tenet, Sine Cerere & Baccho friget Venus; moralized in a Masque. With other Poems, Epigrams, Elegies, and Epithalamiums of the author's, printed in 4to, London, 1638. At the end of these poems is a piece called A Presentation, intended for the Prince's Birth day, May 29, 1638, annually celebrated. 6. Tottenham-Court, a Comedy, acted in the year 1633, at a private house in Salisbury Court, printed in 4to. 1638. 7. Unfortunate Lovers, a Tragedy, never acted, printed in 4to. London, 1640. Mr. Philips and Mr. Winstanley, according to their old custom, have ascribed two other anonymous plays to our author: The Woman Hater Arraigned, a Comedy, and Charles the First, a Tragedy, which Langbaine has shewn not to be his. * * * * * JAMES SHIRLEY, A very voluminous dramatic author, was born in the city of London, and: was descended from the Shirleys in Suffex or Warwickshire; he was educated in grammar learning in Merchant Taylors school, and transplanted thence to St. John's College, but in what station he lived there, we don't find. Dr. William Laud, afterwards archbishop of Canterbury, presiding over that house, conceived a great affection for our author, and was willing to cherish and improve those promising abilities early discoverable in him. Mr. Shirley had always an inclination to enter into holy orders, but, for a very particular reason, was discouraged from attempting it by Dr. Laud; this reason to some may appear whimsical and ridiculous, but has certainly much weight and force in it. Shirley had unfortunately a large mole upon his left cheek, which much disfigured him, and gave him a very forbidding appearance. Laud observed very justly, that an audience can scarce help conceiving a prejudice against a man whose appearance shocks them, and were he to preach with the tongue of an angel, that prejudice could never be surmounted; besides the danger of women with child fixing their eyes on him in the pulpit, and as the imagination of pregnant women has strange influence on the unborn infants, it is somewhat cruel to expose them to that danger, and by these means do them great injury, as ones fortune in some measure depends upon exterior comeliness[1]. But Shirley, who was resolute to be in orders, left that university soon after, went to Cambridge, there took the degrees in arts, and became a minister near St. Alban's in Hertfordshire; but never having examined the authority, and purity of the Protestant Church, and being deluded by the sophistry of some Romish priests, he changed his religion for theirs[2], quitted his living, and taught a grammar school in the town of St. Alban's; which employment he finding an intolerable drudgery, and being of a fickle unsteady temper, he relinquished it, came up to London, and took lodgings in Gray's Inn, where he commenced a writer for the stage with tolerable success. He had the good fortune to gain several wealthy and beneficent patrons, especially Henrietta Maria the Queen Consort, who made him her servant. When the civil war broke out, he was driven from London, and attended upon his Royal Mistress, while his wife and family were left in a deplorable condition behind him. Some time after that, when the Queen of England was forced, by the fury of opposition, to sollicit succours from France, in order to reinstate her husband; our author could no longer wait upon her, and was received into the service of William Cavendish, marquis of Newcastle, to take his fortune with him in the wars. That noble spirited patron had given him such distinguishing marks of his liberality, as Shirley thought himself happy in his service, especially as by these means he could at the same time serve the King. Having mentioned Henrietta Maria, Shirley's Royal Mistress, the reader will pardon a digression, which flows from tenderness, and is no more than an expression of humanity. Her life-time in England was embittered with a continued persecution; she lived to see the unhappy death of her Lord; she witnessed her exiled sons, not only oppressed with want, but obliged to quit France, at the remonstrance of Cromwel's ambassador; she herself was loaded with poverty, and as Voltaire observes, "was driven to the most calamitous situation that ever poor lady was exposed to; she was obliged to sollicit Cromwel to pay her an allowance, as Queen Dowager of England, which, no doubt, she had a right to demand; but to demand it, nay worse, to be obliged to beg it of a man who shed her Husband's blood upon a scaffold, is an affliction, so excessively heightened, that few of the human race ever bore one so severe." After an active service under the marquis of Newcastle, and the King's cause declining beyond hope of recovery, Shirley came again to London, and in order to support himself and family, returned his former occupation of teaching a school, in White Fryars, in which he was pretty successful, and, as Wood says, 'educated many ingenious youths, who, afterwards in various faculties, became eminent.' After the Restoration, some of the plays our author had written in his leisure moments, were represented with success, but there is no account whether that giddy Monarch ever rewarded him for his loyalty, and indeed it is more probable he did not, as he pursued the duke of Lauderdale's maxim too closely, of making friends of his enemies, and suffering his friends to shift for themselves, which infamous maxim drew down dishonour on the administration and government of Charles II. Wood further remarks, that Shirley much assisted his patron, the duke of Newcastle, in the composition of his plays, which the duke afterwards published, and was a drudge to John Ogilby in his translation of Homer's Iliad and Odysseys, by writing annotations on them. At length, after Mr. Shirley had lived to the age of 72, in various conditions, having been much agitated in the world, he, with his second wife, was driven by the dismal conflagration that happened in London, Anno 1666, from his habitation in Fleet-street, to another in St. Giles's in the Fields. Where, being overcome with miseries occasioned by the fire, and bending beneath the weight of years, they both died in one day, and their bodies were buried in one grave, in the churchyard of St. Giles's, on October 29, 1666. The works of this author 1. Changes, or Love in a Maze, a Comedy, acted at a private house in Salisbury Court, 1632. 2. Contention for Honour and Riches, a Masque, 1633. 3. Honoria and Mammon, a Comedy; this Play is grounded on the abovementioned Masque. 4. The Witty Fair One, a Comedy, acted in Drury Lane, 1633. 5. The Traitor, a Tragedy, acted by her Majesty's servants, 1635. This Play was originally written by Mr. Rivers, a jesuit, but altered by Shirley. 6. The Young Admiral, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at a private house in Drury Lane, 1637. 7. The Example, a Tragi-Comedy, acted in Drury Lane by her Majesty's Servants, 1637. 8. Hyde Park, a Comedy, acted in Drury Lane, 1637. 9. The Gamester, a Comedy, acted in Drury Lane, 1637; the plot is taken from Queen Margate's Novels, and the Unlucky Citizen. 10. The Royal Master, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the Theatre in Dublin, 1638. 11. The Duke's Mistress, a Tragi-Comedy, acted by her Majesty's servants, 1638. 12. The Lady of Pleasure, a Comedy, acted at a private house in Drury Lane, 1638. 13. The Maid's Revenge, a Tragedy, acted at a private house in Drury Lane, with applause, 1639. 13 [sic]. Chabot, Admiral of France, a Tragedy, acted in Drury Lane, 1639; Mr. Chapman joined in this play; the story may be found in the histories of the reign of Francis I. 15. The Ball, a Comedy, acted in Drury Lane, 1639; Mr. Chapman likewise assisted in this Comedy. 16. Arcadia, a Dramatic Pastoral, performed at the Phænix in Drury Lane by the Queen's servants, 1649. 17. St. Patrick for Ireland, an Historical Play, 1640; for the plot see Bedes's Life of St. Patrick, &c. 18. The Humorous Courtier, a Comedy, presented at a private house in Drury Lane, 1640. 19. Love's Cruelty, a Tragedy, acted by the Queen's servants, 1640. 20. The Triumph of Beauty, a Masque, 1646; part of this piece seems to be taken from Shakespear's Midsummer's Night's Dream, and Lucian's Dialogues. 21. The Sisters, a Comedy, acted at a private house in Black Fryars, 1652. 22. The Brothers, a Comedy, 1652. 23. The Doubtful Heir, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at Black Fryars, 1652. 24. The Court Secret, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at a private house in Black Fryars, 1653, dedicated to the Earl of Strafford; this play was printed before it was acted. 25. The Impostor, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at a private house in Black Fryars, 1653. 26. The Politician, a Tragedy, acted in Salisbury Court, 1655; part of the plot is taken from the Countess of Montgomery's Urania. 27. The Grateful Servant, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at a private house in Drury Lane, 1655. 28. The Gentleman of Venice, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at a private house in Salisbury Court. Plot taken from Gayron's Notes on Don Quixote. 29. The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses for Achilles's Armour, a Masque, 1658. It is taken from Ovid's Metamorphosis, b. xiii. 30. Cupid and Death, a Masque, 1658. 30 [sic]. Love Tricks, or the School of Compliments, a Comedy, acted by the Duke of York's servants in little Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1667. 31. The Constant Maid, or Love will find out the Way, a Comedy, acted at the New House called the Nursery, in Hatton Garden, 1667. 33. The Opportunity, a Comedy, acted at the private house in Drury Lane by her Majesty's servants; part of this play is taken from Shakespear's Measure for Measure. 34. The Wedding, a Comedy, acted at the Phænix in Drury Lane. 35. A Bird in a Cage, a Comedy, acted in Drury Lane. 36. The Coronation, a Comedy. This play is printed with Beaumont's and Fletcher's. 37. The Cardinal, a Tragedy, acted at a private house in Black Fryars. 38. The Triumph of Peace, a Masque, presented before the King and Queen at Whitehall, 1633, by the Gentlemen of the Four Inns of Court. We shall present the reader with a quotation taken from a comedy of his, published in Dodsley's collection of old plays, called A Bird in a Cage, p. 234. Jupiter is introduced thus speaking, Let the music of the spheres, Captivate their mortal ears; While Jove descends into this tower, In a golden streaming shower. To disguise him from the eye Of Juno, who is apt to pry Into my pleasures: I to day Have bid Ganymede go to play, And thus stole from Heaven to be Welcome on earth to Danae. And see where the princely maid, On her easy couch is laid, Fairer than the Queen of Loves, Drawn about with milky doves. Footnotes: 1. Athen. Oxon. p 376 2. Wood, ubi supra. * * * * * JAMES HOWEL, Esq; Was born at Abernant in Carmarthenshire, the place where his father was minister, in the year 1594[1]. Howel himself, in one of his familiar epistles, says, that his ascendant was that hot constellation of Cancer about the middle of the Dog Days. After he was educated in grammar learning in the free school of Hereford, he was sent to Jesus College in the beginning of 1610, took a degree in arts, and then quitted the university. By the help of friends, and a small sum of money his father assisted him with, he travelled for three years into several countries, where he improved himself in the various languages; some years after his return, the reputation of his parts was so great, that he was made choice of to be sent into Spain, to recover of the Spanish monarch a rich English ship, seized by the Viceroy of Sardinia for his master's use, upon some pretence of prohibited goods being found in it. During his absence, he was elected Fellow of Jesus College, 1623, and upon his return, was patronized by Emanuel, lord Scroop, Lord President of the North, and by him was made his secretary[2]. As he resided in York, he was, by the Mayor and Aldermen of Richmond, chose a Burgess for their Corporation to sit in that Parliament, that began at Westminster in the year 1627. Four years after, he went secretary to Robert, earl of Leicester, ambassador extraordinary from England to the King of Denmark, before whom he made several Latin speeches, shewing the occasion of their embassy, viz. to condole the death of Sophia, Queen Dowager of Denmark, Grandmother to Charles I. King of England. Our author enjoyed many beneficial employments, and at length, about the beginning of the civil war, was made one of the clerks of the council, but being extravagant in his temper, all the money he got was not sufficient to preserve him from a Jail. When the King was forced from the Parliament, and the Royal interest declined, Howel was arrested; by order of a certain committee, who owed him no good-will, and carried prisoner to the Fleet; and having now nothing to depend upon but his wits, he was obliged to write and translate books for a livelihood, which brought him in, says Wood, a comfortable subsistance, during his stay there; he is the first person we have met with, in the course of this work, who may be said to have made a trade of authorship, having written no less than 49 books on different subjects. In the time of the rebellion, we find Howel tampering with the prevailing power, and ready to have embraced their measures; for which reason, at the reiteration, he was not contin[u]ed in his place of clerk to the council, but was only made king's historiographer, being the first in England, says Wood, who bore that title; and having no very beneficial employment, he wrote books to the last. He had a great knowledge in modern histories, especially in those of the countries in which he had travelled, and he seems, by his letters, to have been no contemptible politician: As to his poetry, it is smoother, and more harmonious, than was very common with the bards of his time. As he introduced the trade of writing for bread, so he also is charged with venal flattery, than which nothing can be more ignoble and base. To praise a blockhead's wit because he is great, is too frequently practised by authors, and deservedly draws down contempt upon them. He who is favoured and patronized by a great man, at the expence of his integrity and honour, has paid a dear price for the purchase, a miserable exchange, patronage for virtue, dependance for freedom. Our author died the beginning of November, 1666, and was buried on the North side of the Temple church. We shall not trouble the reader with an enumeration of all the translations and prose works of this author; the occasion of his being introduced here, is, his having written Nuptials of Peleus and Thetis, consisting of a Masque and a Comedy, [f]or the Great Royal Ball, acted in Paris six times by the King in person, the Duke of Anjou, the Duke of York, with other Noblemen; also by the Princess Royal, Henrietta Maria, Princess of Conti, &c. printed in 4to. 1654, and addressed to the Marchioness of Dorchester. Besides this piece, his Dodona's Grove, or Vocal Forest, is in the highest reputation. His entertaining letters, many of whom were written to the greatest personages in England, and some in particular to Ben Johnson, were first published in four volumes; but in 1737, the tenth edition of them was published in one volume, which is also now become scarce. They are interspersed with occasional verses; from one of these little pieces we shall select the following specimen of this author's poetical talent. On the Author's Valentine, Mrs. METCALF. Could I charm the queen of love, To lend a quill of her white dove; Or one of Cupid's pointed wings Dipt in the fair Caftalian Springs; Then would I write the all divine Perfections of my Valentine. As 'mongst, all flow'rs the Rose excells, As Amber 'mongst the fragrant'st smells, As 'mongst all minerals the Gold, As Marble 'mongst the finest mold, As Diamond 'mongst jewels bright As Cynthia 'mongst the lesser lights[3]: So 'mongst the Northern beauties shine, So far excels my Valentine. In Rome and Naples I did view Faces of celestial hue; Venetian dames I have seen many, (I only saw them, truck'd not any) Of Spanish beauties, Dutch and French, I have beheld the quintessence[3]: Yet saw I none that could out-shine, Or parallel my Valentine. Th' Italians they are coy and quaint. But they grosly daub and paint; The Spanish kind, and apt to please, But fav'ring of the same disease: Of Dutch and French some few are comely, The French are light, the Dutch are homely. Let Tagus, Po, the Loire and Rhine Then veil unto my Valentine. Footnotes: 1. Langbaine's Lives of the Poets. 2. Athen. Oxon. p. 281. vol. ii. 3. Bad rhimes were uncommon with the poets of Howel's time. * * * * * Sir RICHARD FANSHAW Was the youngest, and tenth son of Sir Henry Fanshaw of Ware-park in Hertfordshire; he was born in the year 1607, and was initiated in learning by the famous Thomas Farnaby. He afterwards compleated his studies in the university of Cambridge, and from thence went to travel into foreign countries, by which means he became a very accomplished gentleman. In 1635 he was patronized by King Charles I. on account of his early and promising abilities; he took him into his service, and appointed him resident at the court of Spain[1]. During his embassy there, his chief business was, to demand reparation and punishment of some free-booters, who had taken ships from the English, and to endeavour the restoration of amity, trade and commerce. When the civil war broke out, he returned to England, having accomplished the purposes of his embassy abroad, and attached himself with the utmost zeal to the Royal Standard; and during those calamitous times was intrusted with many important matters of state. In 1644, attending the court at Oxford, the degree of Doctor of Civil Laws was conferred upon him[2], and the reputation of his parts every day increasing, he was thought a proper person to be secretary to Charles, Prince of Wales, whom he attended into the Western parts of England, and from thence into the Isles of Scilly and Jersey. In 1648 he was appointed treasurer of the navy, under the command of Prince Rupert, in which office he continued till the year 1650, when he was created a baronet by King Charles II. and sent envoy extraordinary to the court of Spain. Being recalled thence into Scotland, where the King then was, he served there in quality of secretary of state, to the satisfaction of all parties, notwithstanding he refused to take the covenant engagements, which Charles II. forced by the importunity of the Presbyterians, entered into, with a resolution to break them. In 1651 he was made prisoner at the battle of Worcester and committed to close custody in London, where he continued, 'till his confinement introduced a very dangerous sickness; he then had liberty granted him, upon giving bail, to go for the recovery of his health, into any place he should chuse, provided he stirred not five miles from thence, without leave from the Parliament. In February, 1659, he repaired to the King at Breda, who knighted him the April following. Upon his Majesty's reiteration, it was expected, from his great services, and the regard the King had for him, that he would have been made secretary of state, but at that period there were so many people's merits to repay, and so great a clamour for preferment, that Sir Richard was disappointed, but had the place of master of requests conferred on him, a station, in those times, of considerable profit and dignity. On account of his being a good Latin scholar, he was also made a secretary for that tongue[3]. In 1661, being one of the burgesses for the university of Cambridge, he was sworn a privy counsellor for Ireland, and having by his residence in foreign parts, qualified himself for public employment, he was sent envoy extraordinary to Portugal, with a dormant commission to the ambassador, which he was to make use of as occasion should require. Shortly after, he was appointed ambassador to that court, where he negotiated the marriage between his master King Charles II. and the Infanta Donna Catharina, daughter to King John VI. and towards the end of the same year he returned to England. We are assured by Wood, that in the year 1662, he was sent again ambassador to that court, and when he had finished his commission, to the mutual satisfaction of Charles II. and Alphonso King of Portugal, being recalled in 1663, he was sworn one of his Majesty's Privy Council. In the beginning of the year 1644 he was sent ambassador to Philip IV. King of Spain, and arrived February 29 at Cadiz, where he met with a very extraordinary and unexpected salutation, and was received with some circumstances of particular esteem. It appears from one of Sir Richard's letters, that this distinguishing respect was paid him, not only on his own, but on his master's account; and in another of his letters he discovers the secret why the Spaniard yielded him, contrary to his imperious proud nature, so much honour, and that is, that he expected Tangier and Jamaica to be restored to him by England, which occasioned his arrival to be so impatiently longed for, and magnificently celebrated. During his residence at this court King Philip died, September 17, 1665, leaving his son Charles an infant, and his dominions under the regency of his queen, Mary Anne, daughter of the emperor Ferdinand III. Sir Richard taking the advantage of his minority, put the finishing hand to a peace with Spain, which was sufficiently tired and weakened with a 25 years war, for the recovery of Portugal, which had been dismembered from the Spanish crown in 1640; the treaty of peace was signed at Madrid December 6, 1665. About the 14th of January following, his excellency took a journey into Portugal, where he staid till towards the end of March; the design of his journey certainly was to effect an accommodation between that crown and Spain, which however was not produced till 1667, by the interposition of his Britannic Majesty. Our author having finished his commission was preparing for his return to England, when June 4, 1666, he was seized at Madrid with a violent fever, which put an end to his valuable life, the 16th of the same month, the very day he intended to set out for England: his body being embalmed, it was conveyed by his lady, and all his children, then living, by land to Calais, and so to London, whence being carried to All Saints church in Hertford, it was deposited in the vault of his father-in-law, Sir John Harrison. The Author of the Short Account of his Life, prefixed to his letters, says, 'that he was remarkable for his meekness, sincerity, humanity and piety, and also was an able statesman and a great scholar, being in particular a compleat master of several modern languages, especially the Spanish, which he spoke and wrote with as much advantage, as if he had been a native.' By his lady, eldest daughter of Sir John Harrison, he had six sons, and eight daughters, whereof only one son and four daughters survived him. The following is an account of his works, 1. An English Translation in Rhyme, of the celebrated Italian Pastoral, called Il Pastor Fido, or the Faithful Shepherd, written originally by Battista Guarini, printed in London, 1644 in 4to. and 1664 8vo. 2. A Translation from English into Latin Verse, of the Faithful Shepherders, a Pastoral, written originally by John Fletcher, Gent. London, 1658. 3. In the octavo edition of the Faithful Shepherd, Anno 1664, are inserted the following Poems of our author, viz. 1st, An Ode upon the Occasion of his Majesty's Proclamation, 1630, commanding the Gentry to reside upon their Estates in the Country. 2d, A Summary Discourse of the Civil Wars of Rome, extracted from the best Latin Writers in Prose and Verse. 3d, An English Translation of the Fourth Book of Virgil's Æneid on the Loves of Dido and Æneas. 4th, Two Odes out of Horace, relating to the Civil Wars of Rome, against covetous, rich Men. 4. He translated out of Portuguese into English, The Lusiad, or Portugal's Historical Poem, written originally by Luis de Camoens, London, 1655, &c. folio. After his decease, namely, in 1671, were published these two posthumous pieces of his in 4to, Querer per solo Querer, To Love only for Love's sake, a Dramatic Romance, represented before the King and Queen of Spain, and Fiestas de Aranjuez, Festivals at Aranjuez: both written originally in Spanish, by Antonio de Mendoza, upon occasion of celebrating the Birth-day of King Philip IV. in 1623, at Aranjuez; they were translated by our author in 1654, during his confinement at Taukerley-park in Yorkshire, which uneasy situation induced him to write the following stanzas on this work, which are here inserted, as a specimen of his versification. Time was, when I, a pilgrim of the seas, When I 'midst noise of camps, and courts disease, Purloin'd some hours to charm rude cares with verse, Which flame of faithful shepherd did rehearse. But now restrain'd from sea, from camp, from court, And by a tempest blown into a port; I raise my thoughts to muse on higher things, And eccho arms, and loves of Queens and Kings. Which Queens (despising crowns and Hymen's band) Would neither men obey, nor men command: Great pleasure from rough seas to see the shore Or from firm land to hear the billows roar. We are told that he composed several other things remaining still in manuscript, which he had not leisure to compleat; even some of the printed pieces have not all the finishing so ingenious an author could have bestowed upon them; for as the writer of his Life observes, 'being, for his loyalty and zeal to his Majesty's service, tossed from place to place, and from country to country, during the unsettled times of our anarchy, some of his Manuscripts falling into unskilful hands, were printed and published without his knowledge, and before he could give them the last finishing strokes.' But that was not the case with his Translation of the Pastor Fido, which was published by himself, and applauded by some of the best judges, particularly Sir John Denham, who after censuring servile translators, thus goes on, A new and nobler way thou dost pursue To make translations and translators too. They but preserve the ashes, these the flame, True to his sense, but truer to his fame. Footnotes: 1. Short Account of Sir Richard Fanshaw, prefixed to his Letters. 2. Wood, Fast. ed. 1721, vol. ii. col. 43, 41. 3. Wood, ubi supra. * * * * * ABRAHAM COWLEY Was the son of a Grocer, and born in London, in Fleet-street, near the end of Chancery Lane, in the year 1618. His mother, by the interest of her friends, procured him to be admitted a King's scholar in Westminster school[1]; his early inclination to poetry was occasioned by reading accidentally Spencer's Fairy Queen, which, as he himself gives an account, 'used to lye in his mother's parlour, he knew not by what accident, for she read no books but those of devotion; the knights, giants, and monsters filled his imagination; he read the whole over before he was 12 years old, and was made a poet, as immediately as a child is made an eunuch.' In the 16th year of his age, being still at Westminster school, he published a collection of poems, under the title of Poetical Blossoms, in which there are many things that bespeak a ripened genius, and a wit, rather manly than puerile. Mr. Cowley himself has given us a specimen in the latter end of an ode written when he was but 13 years of age. 'The beginning of it, says he, is boyish, but of this part which I here set down, if a very little were corrected, I should not be much ashamed of it.' It is indeed so much superior to what might be expected from one of his years, that we shall satisfy the reader's curiosity by inserting it here. IX. This only grant me, that my means may lye, Too low for envy, for contempt too high: Some honour I would have; Not from great deeds, but good alone, The unknown are better than ill known, Rumour can ope the grave: Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Not on the number, but the choice of friends. X. Books should, not business, entertain the light And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night: My house a cottage, more Than palace, and should fitting be For all my use, no luxury: My garden painted o'er With nature's hand, not art, and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine Field. XI. Thus would I double my life's fading space, For he that runs it well, twice runs his race; And in this true delight, These unbought sports, that happy state, I could not fear; nor wish my fate; But boldly say, each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them: I have lived to-day. It is remarkable of Mr. Cowley, as he himself tells us, that he had this defect in his memory, that his teachers could never bring him to retain the ordinary rules of grammar, the want of which, however, he abundantly supplied by an intimate acquaintance with the books themselves, from whence those rules had been drawn. In 1636 he was removed to Trinity College in Cambridge, being elected a scholar of that house[2]. His exercises of all kinds were highly applauded, with this peculiar praise, that they were fit, not only for the obscurity of an academical life, but to have made their appearance on the true theatre of the world; and there he laid the designs, and formed the plans of most of the masculine, and excellent attempts he afterwards happily finished. In 1638 he published his Love's Riddle, written at the time of his being a scholar in Westminster school, and dedicated by a copy of verses to Sir Kenelm Digby. He also wrote a Latin Comedy entitled Naufragium Joculare, or the Merry Shipwreck. The first occasion of his entering into business, was, an elegy he wrote on the death of Mr. William Harvey, which introduced him to the acquaintance of Mr. John Harvey, the brother of his deceased friend, from whom he received many offices of kindness through the whole course of his life[3]. In 1643, being then master of arts, he was, among many others, ejected his college, and the university; whereupon, retiring to Oxford, he settled in St. John's College, and that same year, under the name of a scholar of Oxford, published a satire entitled the Puritan and the Papist. His zeal in the Royal cause, engaged him in the service of the King, and he was present in many of his Majesty's journies and expeditions; by this means he gained an acquaintance and familiarity with the personages of the court and of the gown, and particularly had the entire friendship of my lord Falkland, one of the principal secretaries of state. During the heat of the civil war, he was settled in the family of the earl of St. Alban's, and accompanied the Queen Mother, when she was obliged to retire into France. He was absent from his native country, says Wood, about ten years, during which time, he laboured in the affairs of the Royal Family, and bore part of the distresses inflicted upon the illustrious Exiles: for this purpose he took several dangerous journies into Jersey, Scotland, Flanders, Holland, and elsewhere, and was the principal instrument in maintaining a correspondence between the King and his Royal Consort, whose letters he cyphered and decyphered with his own hand. His poem called the Mistress was published at London 1647, of which he himself says, "That it was composed when he was very young. Poets (says he) are scarce thought free men of their company, without paying some duties and obliging themselves to be true to love. Sooner or later they must all pass through that trial, like some Mahometan monks, who are bound by their order once at least in their life, to make a pilgrimage to Mecca. But we must not always make a judgment of their manners from their writings of this kind, as the Romanists uncharitably do of Beza for a few lascivious sonnets composed by him in his youth. It is not in this sense that poetry is said to be a kind of painting: It is not the picture of the poet, but of things, and persons imagined by him. He may be in his practice and disposition a philosopher, and yet sometimes speak with the softness of an amorous Sappho. I would not be misunderstood, as if I affected so much gravity as to be ashamed to be thought really in love. On the contrary, I cannot have a good opinion of any man who is not at least capable of being so." What opinion Dr. Sprat had of Mr. Cowley's Mistress, appears by the following passage extracted from his Life of Cowley. "If there needed any excuse to be made that his love-verses took up so great a share in his works, it may be alledged that they were composed when he was very young; but it is a vain thing to make any kind of apology for that sort of writing. If devout or virtuous men will superciliously forbid the minds of the young to adorn those subjects about which they are most conversant, they would put them out of all capacity of performing graver matters, when they come to them: for the exercise of all men's wit must be always proper for their age, and never too much above it, and by practice and use in lighter arguments, they grow up at last to excell in the most weighty. I am not therefore ashamed to commend Mr. Cowley's Mistress. I only except one or two expressions, which I wish I could have prevailed with those that had the right of the other edition to have left out; but of all the rest, I dare boldly pronounce, that never yet was written so much on a subject so delicate, that can less offend the severest rules of morality. The whole passion of love is intimately described by all its mighty train of hopes, joys and disquiets. Besides this amorous tenderness, I know not how in every copy there is something of more useful knowledge gracefully insinuated; and every where there is something feigned to inform the minds of wise men, as well as to move the hearts of young men or women." Our author's comedy, named the Guardian, he afterwards altered, and published under the title of the Cutter of Coleman-Street. Langbaine says, notwithstanding Mr. Cowley's modest opinion of this play, it was acted not only at Cambridge, but several times afterwards privately, during the prohibition of the stage, and after the King's return publickly at Dublin; and always with applause. It was this probably that put the author upon revising it; after which he permitted it to appear publickly on the stage under a new title, at his royal highness the Duke of York's theatre. It met with opposition at first from some who envied the author's unshaken loyalty; but afterwards it was acted with general applause, and was esteemed by the critics an excellent comedy. In the year 1656 it was judged proper by those on whom Mr. Cowley depended, that he should come over into England, and under pretence of privacy and retirement, give notice of the situation of affairs in this nation. Upon his return he published a new edition of all his poems, consisting of four parts, viz. 1. Miscellanies. 2. The Mistress; or several copies of love-verses. 3. Pindarique Odes, written in imitation of the stile and manner of Pindar. 4. Davedeis, a sacred poem of the troubles of David in four books. "Which, says Dr. Sprat, was written in so young an age, that if we shall reflect on the vastness of the argument, and his manner of handling it, he may seem like one of the miracles that he there adorns; like a boy attempting Goliah. This perhaps, may be the reason, that in some places, there may be more youthfulness and redundance of fancy, than his riper judgement would have allowed. But for the main of it I will affirm, that it is a better instance and beginning of a divine poem, than ever I yet saw in any language. The contrivance is perfectly ancient, which is certainly the true form of an heroic poem, and such as was never yet done by any new devices of modern wits. The subject was truly divine, even according to God's own heart. The matters of his invention, all the treasures of knowledge and histories of the bible. The model of it comprehended all the learning of the East. The characters lofty and various; the numbers firm and powerful; the digressions beautiful and proportionable. The design, to submit mortal wit to heavenly truths. In all, there is an admirable mixture of human virtues and passions with religious raptures. The truth is, continues Dr. Sprat, methinks in other matters his wit exceeded all other men's, but in his moral and divine works it out-did itself; and no doubt it proceeded from this cause, that in the lighter kinds of poetry he chiefly represented the humours and affections of others; but in these he sat to himself, and drew the figure of his own mind. We have the first book of the Davideis translated out of English into very elegant Latin by Mr. Cowley himself." Dr. Sprat says of his Latin poetry, "that he has expressed to admiration all the numbers of verse and figures of poetry, that are scattered up and down amongst the ancients; and that there is hardly to be found in them any good fashion of speech, or colour of measure; but he has comprehended it, and given instances of it, according as his several arguments required either a majestic spirit, or passionate, or pleasant. This he observes, is the more extraordinary, in that it was never yet performed by any single poet of the ancient Romans themselves." The same author has told us, that the occasion of Mr. Cowley's falling on the pindarique way of writing, was his accidentally meeting with Pindar's works in a place where he had no other books to direct him. Having thus considered at leisure the heighth of his invention, and the majesty of his stile, he tried immediately to imitate it in English, and he performed it, says the Dr. without the danger that Horace presaged to the man that should attempt it. Two of our greatest poets, after allowing Mr. Cowley to have been a successful imitator of Pindar, yet find fault with his numbers. Mr. Dryden having told us, that our author brought Pindaric verse as near perfection as possible in so short a time, adds, "But if I may be allowed to speak my mind modestly, and without injury to his sacred ashes, somewhat of the purity of English, somewhat of more sweetness in the numbers, in a word, somewhat of a finer turn and more lyrical verse is yet wanting;" and Mr. Congreve having excepted against the irregularity of the measure of the English Pindaric odes, yet observes, "that the beauty of Mr. Cowley's verses are an attonement for the irregularity of his stanzas; and tho' he did nor imitate Pindar in the strictness of his numbers, he has very often happily copied him in the force of his figures, and sublimity of his stile and sentiments." Soon after his return to England, he was seized upon thro' mistake; the search being intended after another gentleman of considerable note in the King's party. The Republicans, who were sensible how much they needed the assistance and coalition of good men, endeavoured sometimes by promises, and sometimes by threatning, to bring our author over to their interest; but all their attempts proving fruitless, he was committed to a severe confinement, and with some difficulty at last obtained his liberty, after giving a thousand pounds bail, which Dr. Scarborough in a friendly manner took upon himself. Under these bonds he continued till Cromwell's death, when he ventured back into France, and there remained, as Dr. Sprat says, in the same situation as before, till near the time of the King's return. This account is a sufficient vindication of Mr. Cowley's unshaken loyalty, which some called in question; and as this is a material circumstance in the life of Cowley, we shall give an account of it in the words of the elegant writer of his life just now mentioned, as it is impossible to set it in a fairer, or more striking light than is already done by that excellent prelate. "The cause of his loyalty being called in question, he tells us, was a few lines in a preface to one of his books; the objection, says he, I must not pass in silence, because it was the only part of his life that was liable to misinterpretation, even by the confession of those that envied his fame. "In this case it were enough to alledge for him to men of moderate minds, that what he there said was published before a book of poetry; and so ought rather to be esteemed as a problem of his fancy and invention, than as a real image of his judgement; but his defence in this matter may be laid on a surer foundation. This is the true reason to be given of his delivering that opinion: Upon his coming over he found the state of the royal party very desperate. He perceived the strength of their enemies so united, that till it should begin to break within itself, all endeavours against it were like to prove unsuccessful. On the other side he beheld their zeal for his Majesty's cause to be still so active, that often hurried them into inevitable ruin. He saw this with much grief; and tho' he approved their constancy as much as any man living, yet he found their unreasonable shewing it, did only disable themselves, and give their adversaries great advantages of riches and strength by their defeats. He therefore believed it would be a meritorious service to the King, if any man who was known to have followed his interest, could insinuate into the Usurper's minds, that men of his principles, were now willing to be quiet, and could persuade the poor oppressed Royalists to conceal their affections for better occasions. And as for his own particular, he was a close prisoner when he writ that against which the exception is made; so that he saw it was impos[s]ible for him to pursue the ends for which he came hither, if he did not make some kind of declaration of his peaceable intentions. This was then his opinon; and the success of the thing seems to prove that it was not ill-grounded. For certainly it was one of the greatest helps to the King's affairs about the latter end of that tyranny, that many of his best friends dissembled their counsels, and acted the same designs under the disguises and names of other parties. The prelate concludes this account with observing, that, that life must needs be very unblameable, which had been tried in business of the highest consequence, and practised in the hazardous secrets of courts and cabinets, and yet there can nothing disgraceful be produced against it, but only the error of one paragraph, and single metaphor." About the year 1662, his two Books of Plants were published, to which he added afterwards four more, and all these together, with his Latin poems, were printed in London, 1678; his Books on Plants was written during his residence in England, in the time of the usurpation, the better to distinguish his real intention, by the study of physic, to which he applied. It appears by Wood's Fasti Oxon. that our poet was created Dr. of Physic at Oxford, December 2, 1657, by virtue of a mandamus from the then government. After the King's restoration, Mr. Cowley, being then past the 4Oth year of his age, the greatest part of which had been spent in a various and tempestuous condition, resolved to pass the remainder of his life in a studious retirement: In a letter to one of his friends, he talks of making a voyage to America, not from a view of accumulating wealth, but there to chuse a habitation, and shut himself up from the busy world for ever. This scheme was wildly romantic, and discovered some degree of vanity, in the author; for Mr. Cowley needed but retire a few miles out of town, and cease from appearing abroad, and he might have been sufficiently secured against the intrusion of company, nor was he of so much consequence as to be forced from his retirement; but this visionary scheme could not be carried into execution, by means of Mr. Cowley's want of money, for he had never been much on the road of gain. Upon the settlement of the peace of the nation, he obtained a competent estate, by the favour of his principal patrons, the duke of Buckingham, and the earl of St. Albans. Thus furnished for a retreat, he spent the last seven or eight years of his life in his beloved obscurity, and possessed (says Sprat) that solitude, which from his very childhood he so passionately desired. This great poet, and worthy man, died at a house called the Porch-house, towards the West end of the town of Chertsey in Surry, July 28, 1667, in the 49th year of his age. His solitude, from the very beginning, had never agreed so well with the constitution of his body, as his mind: out of haste, to abandon the tumult of the city, he had not prepared a healthful situation in the country, as he might have done, had he been more deliberate in his choice; of this, he soon began to find the inconvenience at Barn-elms, where he was afflicted with a dangerous and lingring fever. Shortly after his removal to Chertsey, he fell into another consuming disease: having languished under this for some months, he seemed to be pretty well cured of its ill symptoms, but in the heat of the summer, by staying too long amongst his labourers in the meadows, he was taken with a violent defluxion, and stoppage in his breast and throat; this he neglected, as an ordinary cold, and refused to send for his usual physicians, 'till it was past all remedy, and so in the end, after a fortnight's sickness, it proved mortal to him. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, the 3d of August following, near the ashes of Chaucer and Spenser. King Charles II. was pleased to bestow upon him the best character, when, upon the news of his death, his Majesty declared, that Mr. Cowley had not left a better man behind him in England. A monument was erected to his memory in May 1675, by George, duke of Buckingham, with a Latin inscription, written by Dr. Sprat, afterwards lord bishop of Rochester. Besides Mr. Cowley's works already mentioned, we have, by the fame hand, A Proposition for the advancement of Experimental Philosophy. A Discourse, by way of Vision, concerning the Government of Oliver Cromwel, and several Discourses, by way of Essays, in Prose and Verse. Mr. Cowley had designed a Discourse on Stile, and a Review of the Principles of the Primitive Christian Church, but was prevented by death. In Mr. Dryden's Miscellany Poems, we find a poem on the Civil War, said to be written by our author, but not extant in any edition of his works: Dr. Sprat mentions, as very excellent in their kind, Mr. Cowley's Letters to his private friends, none of which were published. As a poet, Mr. Cowley has had tribute paid him from the greatest names in all knowledge, Dryden, Addison, Sir John Denham, and Pope. He is blamed for a redundance of wit, and roughness of verification, but is allowed to have possessed a fine understanding, great reading, and a variety of genius. Let us see how Mr. Addison characterizes him in his Account of the great English Poets. Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote, O'errun with wit, and lavish of his thought; His turns too closely on the readers press, He more had pleased us, had he pleased us less: One glittering thought no sooner strikes our eyes, With silent wonder, but new wonders rise. As in the milky way, a shining white O'erflows the heavens with one continued light; That not a single star can shew his rays, Whilst jointly all promote the common blaze. Pardon, great poet, that I dare to name, Th' uncumber'd beauties of thy verse with blame; Thy fault is only wit in its' excess, But wit like thine, in any shape will please. In his public capacity, he preserved an inviolable honour and loyalty, and exerted great activity, with discernment: in private life, he was easy of access, gentle, polite, and modest; none but his intimate friends ever discovered, by his discourse, that he was a great poet; he was generous in his disposition, temperate in his life, devout and pious in his religion, a warm friend, and a social companion. Such is the character of the great Mr. Cowley, who deserves the highest gratitude from posterity, as well for his public as private conduct. He never prostituted his muse to the purposes of lewdness and folly, and it is with pleasure we can except him from the general, and too just, charge brought against the poets, That they have abilities to do the greatest service, and by misdirecting them, too frequently fawn the harlot face of loose indulgence, and by dressing up pleasure in an elegant attire, procure votaries to her altar, who pay too dear for gazing at the shewy phantom by loss of their virtue. It is no compliment to the taste of the present age, that the works of Mr. Cowley are falling into disesteem; they certainly contain more wit, and good sense, than the works of many other poets, whom it is now fashionable to read; that kind of poetry, which is known by the name of Light, he succeeds beyond any of his cotemporaries, or successors; no love verses, in our language, have so much true wit, and expressive tenderness, as Cowley's Mistress, which is indeed perfect in its kind. What Mr. Addison observes, is certainly true, 'He more had pleased us, had he pleased us less.' He had a soul too full, an imagination too fertile to be restrained, and because he has more wit than any other poet, an ordinary reader is somehow disposed to think he had less. In the particular of wit, none but Shakespear ever exceeded Cowley, and he was certainly as cultivated a scholar, as a great natural genius. In that kind of poetry which is grave, and demands extensive thinking, no poet has a right to be compared with Cowley: Pope and Dryden, who are as remarkable for a force of thinking, as elegance of poetry, are yet inferior to him; there are more ideas in one of Cowley's pindaric odes, than in any piece of equal length by those two great genius's (St. Cæcilia's ode excepted) and his pindaric odes being now neglected, can proceed from no other cause, than that they demand too much attention for a common reader, and contain sentiments so sublimely noble, as not to be comprehended by a vulgar mind; but to those who think, and are accustomed to contemplation, they appear great and ravishing. In order to illustrate this, we shall quote specimens in both kinds of poetry; the first taken from his Mistress called Beauty, the other is a Hymn to Light, both of which, are so excellent in their kind, that whoever reads them without rapture, may be well assured, that he has no poetry in his soul, and is insensible to the flow of numbers, and the charms of sense. BEAUTY. I. Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape, Who dost in ev'ry country change thy shape! Here black, there brown, here tawny, and there white; Thou flatt'rer which compli'st with every sight! Thou Babel which confound'st the eye With unintelligible variety! Who hast no certain what nor where, But vary'st still, and dost thy self declare Inconstant, as thy she-professors are. II. Beauty, love's scene and masquerade, So gay by well-plac'd lights, and distance made; False coin, and which th' impostor cheats us still; The stamp and colour good, but metal ill! Which light, or base, we find when we Weigh by enjoyment and examine thee! For though thy being be but show, 'Tis chiefly night which men to thee allow: And chuse t'enjoy thee, when thou least art thou. III. Beauty, thou active, passive ill! Which dy'st thy self as fast as thou dost kill! Thou Tulip, who thy stock in paint dost waste, Neither for physic good, nor smell, nor taste. Beauty, whose flames but meteors are, Short-liv'd and low, though thou would'st seem a star, Who dar'st not thine own home descry, Pretending to dwell richly in the eye, When thou, alas, dost in the fancy lye. IV. Beauty, whose conquests still are made O'er hearts by cowards kept, or else betray'd; Weak victor! who thy self destroy'd must be When sickness, storms, or time besieges thee! Thou unwholesome thaw to frozen age! Thou strong wine, which youths fever dost enrage, Thou tyrant which leav'st no man free! Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be! Thou murth'rer which hast kill'd, and devil which would damn me. HYMN to LIGHT. I. First born of Chaos, who so far didst come, From the old negro's darksome womb! Which when it saw the lovely child, The melancholly mass put on kind looks and smiled. II. Thou tide of glory, which no rest dost know, But ever ebb, and ever flow! Thou golden shower of a true Jove! Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to earth make love! III. Hail active nature's watchful life, and health! Her joy, her ornament and wealth! Hail to thy husband heat, and thee! Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom he! IV. Say from what golden quivers of the sky, Do all thy winged arrows fly? Swiftness and power by birth are thine, From thy great fire they came, thy fire the word divine. V. 'Tis I believe this archery to shew That so much cost in colours thou, And skill in painting dost bestow, Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heav'nly bow. VI. Swift as light, thoughts their empty career run, Thy race is finish'd, when begun; Let a Post-Angel start with thee, And thou the goal of earth shall reach as soon as he. VII. Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; And all the year doth with thee bring O thousand flowry lights, thine own nocturnal spring. VIII. Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above The sun's gilt tent for ever move, And still as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. IX. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn The humble Glow-Worms to adorn, And with those living spangles gild, (O greatness without pride!) the blushes of the Field. X. Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, And sleep, the lazy Owl of night; Asham'd and fearful to appear, They skreen their horrid shapes, with the black hemisphere. XI. With 'em there hastes, and wildly takes th' alarm, Of painted dreams, a busy swarm, At the first opening of thine eye, The various clusters break, the antick atoms fly. XII. The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts, Creep conscious to their secret rests: Nature to thee doth reverence pay, Ill omens, and ill sights removes out of thy way. XIII. At thy appearance, grief itself is said, To shake his wings, and rouze his head; And cloudy care has often took A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look. XIV. At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold; Thy sun-shine melts away his cold: Encourag'd at the sight of thee, To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. XV. Even lust, the master of a harden'd face, Blushes if thou be'st in the place, To darkness' curtains he retires, In sympathizing nights he rolls his smoaky fires. XVI. When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head, Out of the morning's purple bed, Thy choir of birds about thee play, And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. XVII. The ghosts, and monster spirits, that did presume A body's priv'lege to assume, Vanish again invisibly, And bodies gain again their visibility. XVIII. All the world's bravery that delights our eyes, Is but thy sev'ral liveries, Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landskip as thou go'st. XIX. A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st; A crown of studded gold thou bear'st, The virgin lillies in their white, Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. XX. The Violet, spring's little infant, stands, Girt in thy purple swadling-bands: On the fair Tulip thou dost dote; Thou cloath'st it in a gay and party-colour'd coat. XXI. With flame condens'd thou dost the jewels fix, And solid colours in it mix: Flora herself, envies to see Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she. XXII. Ah, goddess! would thou could'st thy hand with-hold, And be less liberal to gold; Didst thou less value to it give, Of how much care (alas) might'st thou poor man relieve! XXIII. To me the sun is more delightful far, And all fair days much fairer are; But few, ah wondrous few there be, Who do not Gold prefer, O goddess, ev'n to thee. XXIV. Thro' the soft ways of Heav'n, and air, and sea, Which open all their pores to thee, Like a clear river thou dost glide, And with thy living stream through the close channels slide. XXV. But where firm bodies thy free course oppose, Gently thy source the land overflows; Takes there possession, and does make, Of colours mingled light, a thick and standing lake. XXVI. But the vast ocean of unbounded day In th'Empyræan heav'n does stay; Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below, From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow. Footnotes: 1. Wood's Fasti Oxon, vol. ii. col. 120. 2. Essay on himself. 3. Sprat's Account of Cowley. * * * * * Sir WILLIAM DAVENANT. Few poets have been subjected to more various turns of fortune, than the gentleman whose memoirs we are now about to relate. He was amongst the first who refined our poetry, and did more for the interest of the drama, than any who ever wrote for the stage. He lived in times of general confusion, and was no unactive member of the state, when its necessities demanded his assistance; and when, with the restoration, politeness and genius began to revive, he applied himself to the promotion of these rational pleasures, which are fit to entertain a cultivated people. This great man was son of one Mr. John Davenant, a citizen of Oxford, and was born in the month of February, 1605; all the biographers of our poet have observed, that his father was a man of a grave disposition, and a gloomy turn of mind, which his son did not inherit from him, for he was as remarkably volatile, as his father was saturnine. The same biographers have celebrated our author's mother as very handsome, whose charms had the power of attracting the admiration of Shakespear, the highest compliment which ever was paid to beauty. As Mr. Davenant, our poet's father, kept a tavern, Shakespear, in his journies to Warwickshire, spent some time there, influenced, as many believe, by the engaging qualities of the handsome landlady. This circumstance has given rise to a conjecture, that Davenant was really the son of Shakespear, as well naturally as poetically, by an unlawful intrigue, between his mother and that great man; that this allegation is founded upon probability, no reader can believe, for we have such accounts of the amiable temper, and moral qualities of Shakespear, that we cannot suppose him to have been guilty of such an act of treachery, as violating the marriage honours; and however he might have been delighted with the conversation, or charmed with the person of Mrs. Davenant, yet as adultery was not then the fashionable vice, it would be injurious to his memory, so much as to suppose him guilty. Our author received the first rudiments of polite learning from Mr. Edward Sylvester, who kept a grammar school in the parish of All Saints in Oxford. In the year 1624, the same in which his father was Mayor of the city, he was entered a member of the university of Oxford, in Lincoln's-Inn College, under the tuition of Mr. Daniel Hough, but the Oxford antiquary is of opinion, he did not long remain there, as his mind was too much addicted to gaiety, to bear the austerities of an academical life, and being encouraged by some gentlemen, who admired the vivacity of his genius, he repaired to court, in hopes of making his fortune in that pleasing, but dangerous element. He became first page to Frances, duchess of Richmond, a lady much celebrated in those days, as well for her beauty, as the influence she had at court, and her extraordinary taste for grandeur, which excited her to keep a kind of private court of her own, which, in our more fashionable æra, is known by the name of Drums, Routs, and Hurricanes. Sir William afterwards removed into the family of Sir Fulk Greville, lord Brooke, who being himself a man of taste and erudition, gave the most encouraging marks of esteem to our rising bard. This worthy nobleman being brought to an immature fate, by the cruel hands of an assassin, 1628, Davenant was left without a patron, though not in very indigent circumstances, his reputation having increased, during the time he was in his lordship's service: the year ensuing the death of his patron, he produced his first play to the world, called Albovino, King of the Lombards, which met with a very general, and warm reception, and to which some very honourable recommendations were prefixed, when it was printed, in several copies of verses, by men of eminence, amongst whom, were, Sir Henry Blount, Edward Hyde, afterwards earl of Clarendon, and the honourable Henry Howard. Our author spent the next eight years of his life in a constant attendance upon court, where he was highly caressed by the most shining characters of the times, particularly by the earl of Dorset, Edward Hyde, and Lord Treasurer Weston: during these gay moments, spent in the court amusements, an unlucky accident happened to our author, which not a little deformed his face, which, from nature, was very handsome. Wood has affirmed, that this accident arose from libidinous dalliance with a handsome black girl in Axe-yard, Westminster. The plain fact is this, Davenant was of an amorous complexion, and was so unlucky as to carry the marks of his regular gallantries in the depression of his nose; this exposed him to the pleasant raillery of cotemporary wits, which very little affected him, and to shew that he was undisturbed by their merriment, he wrote a burlesque copy of verses upon himself. This accident happened pretty early in his life, since it gave occasion to the following stanzas in Sir John Suckling's Sessions of the Poets, which we have transcribed from a correct copy of Suckling's works. Will Davenant ashamed of a foolish mischance, That he had got lately travelling in France, Modestly hop'd the handsomness of his muse, Might any deformity about him excuse. Surely the company had been content, If they cou'd have found any precedent, But in all their records in verse, or prose, There was none of a laureat, who wanted a nose. Suckling here differs from the Oxford historian, in saying that Sir William's disorder was contracted in France, but as Wood is the highest authority, it is more reasonable to embrace his observation, and probably, Suckling only mentioned France, in order that it might rhime with mischance. Some time after this, Davenant was rallied by another hand, on account of this accident, as if it had been a jest that could never die; but what is more extraordinary, is, that Sir William himself could not forget the authoress of this misfortune, but has introduced her in his Gondibert, and, in the opinion of some critics, very improperly. He brings two friends, Ulfinore the elder, and Goltho the younger, on a journey to the court of Gondibert, but in this passage to shew, as he would insinuate the extream frailty of youth, they were arrested by a very unexpected accident, notwithstanding the wife councils, which Ulfinore had just received from his father[1]. The lines which have an immediate reference to this fair enchantress, are too curious to be here omitted. I. The black-ey'd beauty did her pride display, Thro' a large window, and in jewels shone, As if to please the world, weeping for day, Night had put all her starry jewels on. II. This, beauty gaz'd on both, and Ulfinore Hung down his head, but yet did lift his eyes As if he fain would see a little more, For much, tho' bashful, he did beauty prize. III [sic]. Goltho did like a blushless statue stare, Boldly her practis'd boldness did outlook; And even for fear she would mistrust her snare, Was ready to cry out, that he was took. IV. She, with a wicked woman's prosp'rous art, A seeming modesty, the window clos'd; Wisely delay'd his eyes, since of his heart She thought she had sufficiently dispos'd. V. Nicely as bridegroom's was her chamber drest, Her bed as brides, and richer than a throne; And sweeter seem'd than the Circania's nest. Though built in Eastern groves of Cinnamon. VI. The price of princes pleasure, who her love, (Tho'! but false were) at rates so costly bought, The wealth of many, but many hourly prove Spoils to some one, by whom herself is caught. VII. She sway'd by sinful beauty's destiny, Finds her tyrannic power must now expire, Who meant to kindle Goltho in her eye, But to her breast has brought the raging fire. IX [sic]. Yet even in simple love she uses art, Tho' weepings are from looser eyes, but leaks; Yet eldest lovers scarce would doubt her heart, So well she weeps, as she to Goltho speaks. During our author's attendance at court, he wrote several plays, and employed his time in framing masques, which were acted by the principal nobility of both sexes; the Queen herself condescended to take a share in one of them, which gave very great offence to the scrupulous moralists, which sprung up in those days; the particular account of this dramatic piece we shall give in the conclusion of his life, and now proceed in enumerating the incidents of it. Upon the death of Ben Johnson, which happened in the year 1637, our poet succeeded to his laurel, notwithstanding the violent opposition of his competitor Thomas May, who was so extremely affected with his disappointment, though he had been a zealous courtier, yet from resentment to the Queen, by whose interest Davenant was preferred, he commenced an enemy to the King's party, and became both an advocate and historian for the Parliament. As soon as the civil war broke out, Mr. Davenant had an early share in them and demonstrated his loyalty by speaking and acting for the King. He was accused by the Parliament for being embarked in a design in May 1641, of seducing the army from their adherence to the parliamentary authority, and bringing it again under the subjection of the King, and defence of his person. In this scheme many of Sir William's friends were engaged, viz. Mr. Henry Piercy, afterwards lord Piercy, Mr. Goring, Mr. Jermyn, Mr. Ashburnham, Sir John Suckling, and others: most of these persons, upon their design being discovered, placed their security in flight, and Mr. Davenant amongst the rest; but a proclamation being published for apprehending him, he was stopped at Feversham, sent up to town, and put into the custody of a sergeant at arms[2]. In the month of July following, our author was bailed, and not long after finding it necessary, on account of the violence of the times, to withdraw to France, he had the misfortune to be seized again in Kent by the Mayor of Canterbury; how he escaped the present danger, none of his biographers have related, but it appears that he did not, upon this occasion, suffer long confinement; he at last retired beyond sea, where he continued for some time, but the Queen sending over a considerable quantity of military stores, for the use of the earl of Newcastle's army, Mr. Davenant returned again to England, offered his service to that noble peer, who was his old friend and patron, and by him made lieutenant-general of his ordnance: this promotion gave offence to many, who were his rivals in his lordship's esteem: they remonstrated, that Sir William Davenant, being a poet, was, for that very reason, unqualified for a place of so much trust, and which demanded one of a solid, and less volatile turn of mind, than the sons of Parnassus generally are. In this complaint they paid but an indifferent compliment to the General himself, who was a poet, and had written, and published several plays. That Davenant behaved well in his military capacity is very probable, since, in the month of September, 1643, he received the honour of knighthood from the King, at the siege of Gloucester, an acknowledgment of his bravery, and signal services, which bestowed at a time when a strict scrutiny was made concerning the merit of officers, puts it beyond doubt, that Davenant, in his martial character, was as deserving as in his poetical. During these severe contentions, and notwithstanding his public character, our author's muse sometimes raised her voice, in the composition of several plays, of which we shall give some account when we enumerate his dramatic performances. History is silent as to the means which induced Davenant to quit the Northern army, but as soon as the King's affairs so far declined, as to afford no hopes of a revival, he judged it necessary to retire into France, where he was extremely well received by the Queen, into whose confidence he had the honour to be taken, and was intrusted with the negotiation of matters of the highest importance, in the summer of the year 1646. Before this time Sir William had embraced the popish religion, which circumstance might so far ingratiate him with the queen, as to trust him with the most important concerns. Lord Clarendon, who had a particular esteem for him, has given a full account of this affair, though not much to his advantage, but yet with all the tenderness due to Sir William's good intentions, and of that long and intimate acquaintance that had subsisted between them; which is the more worthy the reader's notice, as it has entirely escaped the observation of all those, who have undertaken to write this gentleman's Memoirs, though the most remarkable passage in his whole life. The King, in retiring to the Scots, had followed the advice of the French ambassador, who had promised on their behalf, if not more than he had authority to do, at least, more than they were inclined to perform; to justify, however, his conduct at home, he was inclined to throw the weight, in some measure, upon the King, and with this view, he, by an express, informed cardinal Mazarine, that his Majesty was too reserved in giving the Parliament satisfaction, and therefore desired that some person might be sent over, who had a sufficient degree of credit with the English Monarch, to persuade him to such compliances, as were necessary for his interest. 'The Queen, says the noble historian, who was never advised by those, who either understood, or valued her Husband's interest, consulted those about her, and sent Sir William Davenant, an honest man, and a witty, but in all respects unequal to such a trust, with a letter of credit to the King, who knew the person well enough under another character than was likely to give him much credit upon the argument, with which he was entrusted, although the Queen had likewise otherwise declared her opinion to his Majesty, that he should part with the church for his peace and security.' Sir William had, by the countenance of the French ambassador, easy admission to the King, who heard patiently all he had to say, and answered him in a manner, which demonstrated that he was not pleased with the advice. When he found his Majesty unsatisfied, and not disposed to consent to what was earnestly desired by those by whom he had been sent, who undervalued all those scruples of conscience, with which his Majesty was so strongly possessed, he took upon himself the liberty of offering some reasons to the king, to induce him to yield to what was proposed, and among other things said, it was the opinion and advice of all his friends; his Majesty asked, what friends? to which Davenant replied, lord Jermyn, and lord Colepepper; the King upon this observed, that lord Jermyn did not understand any thing of the church, and that Colepepper was of no religion; but, says his Majesty, what is the opinion of the Chancellor of the Exchequer? to which Davenant answered, he did not know, that he was not there, and had deserted the Prince, and thereupon mentioned the Queen's displeasure against the Chancellor; to which the King said, 'The Chancellor was an honest man, and would never desert him nor the Prince, nor the Church; and that he was sorry he was not with his son, but that his wife was mistaken.' Davenant then offering some reasons of his own, in which he treated the church with indignity, his Majesty was so transported with anger, that he gave him a sharper rebuke than he usually gave to any other man, and forbad him again, ever to presume to come into his presence; upon which poor Davenant was deeply affected, and returned into France to give an account of his ill success to those who sent him. Upon Davenant's return to Paris, he associated with a set of people, who endeavoured to alleviate the distresses of exile by some kind of amusement. The diversion, which Sir William chose was of the literary sort, and having long indulged an inclination of writing an heroic poem, and having there much leisure, and some encouragement, he was induced to undertake one of a new kind; the two first books of which he finished at the Louvre, where he lived with his old friend Lord Jermyn; and these with a preface, addressed to Mr. Hobbs, his answer, and some commendatory poems, were published in England; of which we shall give some further account in our animadversions upon Gondibert. While he employed himself in the service of the muses, Henrietta Maria, the queen dowager of England whose particular favourite he was found out business for him of another nature. She had heard that vast improvements might be made in the loyal colony of Virginia, in case proper artificers were sent there; and there being many of these in France who were destitute of employment, she encouraged Sir William to collect these artificers together, who accordingly embarked with his little colony at one of the ports in Normandy; but in this expedition he was likewise unfortunate; for before the vessel was clear of the French coast, she was met by one of the Parliament ships of war, and carried into the Isle of Wight, where our disappointed projector was sent close prisoner to Cowes Castle, and there had leisure enough, and what is more extraordinary, wanted not inclination to resume his heroic poem, and having written about half the third book, in a very gloomy prison, he thought proper to stop short again, finding himself, as he imagined under the very shadow of death. Upon this occasion it is reported of Davenant, that he wrote a letter to Hobbes, in which he gives some account of the progress he made in the third book of Gondibert, and offers some criticisms upon the nature of that kind of poetry; but why, says he, should I trouble you or myself, with these thoughts, when I am pretty certain I shall be hanged next week. This gaiety of temper in Davenant, while he was in the most deplorable circumstances of distress, carries something in it very singular, and perhaps could proceed from no other cause but conscious innocence; for he appears to have been an inoffensive good natured man. He was conveyed from the Isle of Wight to the Tower of London, and for some time his life was in the utmost hazard; nor is it quite certain by what means he was preserved from falling a sacrifice to the prevailing fury. Some conjecture that two aldermen of York, to whom he had been kind when they were prisoners, interposed their influence for him; others more reasonably conjecture that Milton was his friend, and prevented the utmost effects of party rage from descending on the head of this son of the muses. But by whatever means his life was saved, we find him two years after a prisoner of the Tower, where he obtained some indulgence by the favour of the Lord Keeper Whitlocke; upon receiving which he wrote him a letter of thanks, which as it serves to illustrate how easily and politely he wrote in prose, we shall here insert. It is far removed either from meanness or bombast, and has as much elegance in it as any letters in our language. My Lord, "I am in suspense whether I should present my thankfulness to your lordship for my liberty of the Tower, because when I consider how much of your time belongs to the public, I conceive that to make a request to you, and to thank you afterwards for the success of it, is to give you no more than a succession of trouble; unless you are resolved to be continually patient, and courteous to afflicted men, and agree in your judgment with the late wise Cardinal, who was wont to say, If he had not spent as much time in civilities, as in business, he had undone his master. But whilst I endeavour to excuse this present thankfulness, I should rather ask your pardon, for going about to make a present to you of myself; for it may argue me to be incorrigible, that, after so many afflictions, I have yet so much ambition, as to desire to be at liberty, that I may have more opportunity to obey your lordship's commands, and shew the world how much "I am, "My Lord, "Your lordship's most "Obliged, most humble, "And obedient servant, "Wm. Davenant." Our author was so far happy as to obtain by this letter the favour of Whitlocke, who was, perhaps, a man of more humanity and gentleness of disposition, than some other of the covenanters. He at last obtained his liberty entirely, and was delivered from every thing but the narrowness of his circumstances, and to redress these, encouraged by the interest of his friends, he likewise made a bold effort. He was conscious that a play-house was entirely inconsistent with the gloominess, and severity of these times; and yet he was certain that there were people of taste enough in town, to fill one, if such a scheme could be managed; which he conducted with great address, and at last brought to bear, as he had the countenance of lord Whitlocke, Sir John Maynard, and other persons of rank, who really were ashamed of the cant and hypocrisy which then prevailed. In consequence of this, our poet opened a kind of theatre at Rutland House, where several pieces were acted, and if they did not gain him reputation, they procured him what is more solid, and what he then more wanted, money. Some of the people in power, it seems, were lovers of music, and tho' they did not care to own it, they were wise enough to know that there was nothing scandalous or immoral in the diversions of the theatre. Sir William therefore, when he applied for a permission called what he intended to represent an opera; but when he brought it on the stage, it appeared quite another thing, which when printed had the following title: First day's entertainment at Rutland House by declamation and music, after the manner of the ancients. This being an introductory piece, it demanded all the author's wit to make it answer different intentions; for first it was to be so pleasing as to gain applause; and next it was to be be so remote from the very appearance of a play, as not to give any offence to that pretended sanctity that was then in fashion. It began with music, then followed a prologue, in which the author rallies the oddity of his own performance. The curtain being drawn up to the sound of slow and solemn music, there followed a grave declamation by one in a guilded rostrum, who personated Diogenes, and shewed the use and excellency of dramatic entertainments. The second part of the entertainment consisted of two lighter declamations; the first by a citizen of Paris, who wittily rallies the follies of London; the other by a citizen of London, who takes the same liberty with Paris and its inhabitants. To this was tacked a song, and after that came a short epilogue. The music was composed by Dr. Coleman, Capt. Cook, Mr. Henry Laws, and Mr. George Hudson. There were several other pieces which Sir William introduced upon this stage of the same kind, which met with as much success, as could be expected from the nature of the performances themselves, and the temper and disposition of the audience. Being thus introduced, he at last grew a little bolder, and not only ventured to write, but to act several new plays, which were also somewhat in a new taste; that is, they were more regular in their structure, and the language generally speaking, smoother, and more correct than the old tragedies. These improvements were in a great measure owing to Sir William's long residence in France, which gave him an opportunity of reading their best writers, and hearing the sentiments of their ablest critics upon dramatic entertainments, where they were as much admired and encouraged, as at that time despised in England. That these were really improvements, and that the public stood greatly indebted to Sir William Davenant as a poet, and master of a theatre, we can produce no less an authority than that of Dryden, who, beyond any of his predecessors, contemporaries, or those who have succeeded him, understood poetry as an art. In his essay on heroic plays, he thus speaks, "The first light we had of them, on the English theatre (says he) was from Sir William Davenant. It being forbidden him in the religious times to act tragedies or comedies, because they contained some matter of scandal to those good people, who could more easily dispossess their lawful sovereign, than endure a wanton jest, he was forced to turn his thoughts another way, and to introduce the examples of moral virtue written in verse, and performed in recitative music. The original of this music, and of the scenes which adorned his works, he had from the Italian opera's; but he heightened his characters, as I may probably imagine, from the examples of Corneille, and some French poets. In this condition did this part of poetry remain at his Majelty's return, when grown bolder as now owned by public authority, Davenant revived the Siege of Rhodes, and caused it to be acted as a just drama. But as few men have the happiness to begin and finish any new project, so neither did he live to make his design perfect. There wanted the fulness of a plot, and the variety of characters to form it as it ought; and perhaps somewhat might have been added to the beauty of the stile: all which he would have performed with more exactness, had he pleased to have given us another work of the fame nature. For myself and others who came after him, we are bound with all veneration to his memory, to acknowledge what advantage we received from that excellent ground work, which is laid, and since it is an easy thing to add to what is already invented, we ought all of us, without envy to him, or partiality to ourselves, to yield him the precedence in it." Immediately after the restoration there were two companies of players formed, one under the title of the King's Servants, the other, under that of the Duke's Company, both by patents, from the crown; the first granted to Henry Killigrew, Esq; and the latter to Sir William Davenant. The King's company acted first at the Red Bull in the upper end of St. John's Street, and after a year or two removing from place to place, they established themselves in Drury-Lane. It was some time before Sir William Davenant compleated his company, into which he took all who had formerly played under Mr. Rhodes in the Cock-Pit in Drury-Lane, and amongst these the famous Mr. Betterton, who appeared first to advantage under the patronage of Sir William Davenant. He opened the Duke's theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields with his own dramatic performance of the Siege of Rhodes, the house being finely decorated, and the stage supplied with painted scenes, which were by him introduced at least, if not invented, which afforded certainly an additional beauty to the theatre, tho' some have insinuated, that fine scenes proved the ruin of acting; but as we are persuaded it will be an entertaining circumstance to our Readers, to have that matter more fully explained, we shall take this opportunity of doing it. In the reign of Charles I, dramatic entertainments were accompanied with rich scenery, curious machines, and other elegant embellishments, chiefly condufted by the wonderful dexterity of that celebrated English, architect Inigo Jones. But these were employed only in masques at court, and were too expensive for the little theatres in which plays were then acted. In them there was nothing more than a ouftain of very coarse stuff, upon the drawing up of which, the stage appeared either with bare walls on the sides, coarsly matted, or covered with tapestry; so that for the place originally represented, and all the successive changes in which the poets of those times freely indulged themselves, there was nothing to help the spectator's understanding, or to assist the actor's performance, but bare imagination. In Shakespear's time so undecorated were the theatres, that a blanket supplied the place of a curtain; and it was a good observation of the ingenious Mr. Chitty, a gentleman of acknowledged taste in dramatic excellence, that the circumstance of the blanket, suggested to Shakespear that noble image in Macbeth, where the murderer invokes Thick night to veil itself in the dunnest smoke of Hell, Nor Heaven peep thro' the blanket of the dark To cry hold, hold. It is true, that while things continued in this situation, there were a great many play-houses, sometimes six or seven open at once. Of these some were large, and in part open, where they acted by day light; others smaller, but better fitted up, where they made use of candles. The plainness of the theatre made the prices small, and drew abundance of company; yet upon the whole it is doubtful, whether the spectactors in all these houses were really superior in number, to those who have frequented the theatres in later times. If the spirit and judgment of the actors supplied all deficiencies, and made as some would insinuate, plays more intelligible without scenes, than they afterwards were with them, it must be very astonishing; neither is it difficult to assign another cause, why those who were concerned in play-houses, were angry at the introduction of scenes and decorations, which was, that notwithstanding the advanced prices, their profits from that time were continually sinking; and an author, of high authority in this case, assures us, in an historical account of the stage, that the whole sharers in Mr. Hart's company divided a thousand pounds a year a-piece, before the expensive decorations became fashionable. Sir William Davehant considered things in another light: he was well acquainted with the alterations which the French theatre had received, under the auspice of cardinal Rich[e]lieu, who had an excellent taste; and he remembered the noble contrivances of Inigo Jones, which were not at all inferior to the designs of the best French masters. Sir William was likewise sensible that the monarch he served was an excellent judge of every thing of this kind; and these considerations excited in him a passion for the advancement of the theatre, to which the great figure it has since made is chiefly owing. Mr. Dryden has acknowledged his admirable talents in this way, and gratefully remembers the pains taken by our poet, to set a work of his in the fairest light possible, and to which, he ingenuously ascribes the success with which it was received. This is the hislory of the life and progress of scenery on our stage; which, without doubt, gives greater life to the entertainment of a play; but as the best purposes may be prostituted, so there is some reason to believe that the excessive fondness for decorations, which now prevails, has hurt the true dramatic taste. Scenes are to be considered as secondary in a play, the means of setting it off with lustre, and ought to engross but little attention; as it is more important to hear what a character speaks, than to observe the place where he stands; but now the case is altered. The scenes in a Harlequin Sorcerer, and other unmeaning pantomimes, unknown to our more elegant and judging fore-fathers, procure crowded houses, while the noblest strokes of Dryden, the delicate touches of Otway and Rowe, the wild majesty of Shakespear, and the heart-felt language of Lee, pass neglected, when put in competition with those gewgaws of the stage, these feasts of the eye; which as they can communicate no ideas, so they can neither warm nor reform the heart, nor answer one moral purpose in nature. We ought not to omit a cirrumstance much in favour of Sir William Davenant, which proves him to have been as good a man as a poet. When at the Restoration, those who had been active in disturbing the late reign, and secluding their sovereign from the throne, became obnoxious to the royal party, Milton was likely to feel the vengeance of the court, Davenant actuated by a noble principle of gratitude, interposed all his influence, and saved the greatest ornament of the world from the stroke of an executioner. Ten years before that, Davenant had been rescued by Milton, and he remembered the favour; an instance, this, that generosity, gratitude, and nobleness of nature is confined to no particular party; but the heart of a good man will still discover itself in acts of munificence and kindness, however mistaken he may be in his opinion, however warm in state factions. The particulars of this extraordinary affair are related in the life of Milton. Sir William Davenant continued at the head of his company of actors, and at last transferred them to a new and magnificent theatre built in Dorset-Gardens, where some of his old plays were revived with very singular circumstances of royal kindness, and a new one when brought upon the stage met with great applause. The last labour of his pen was in altering a play of Shakespear's, called the Tempest, so as to render it agreeable to that age, or rather susceptible of those theatrical improvements he had brought into fashion. The great successor to his laurel, in a preface to this play, in which he was concerned with Davenant, 'says, that he was a man of quick and piercing imagination, and soon found that somewhat might be added to the design of Shakespear, of which neither Fletcher nor Suckling had ever thought; and therefore to put the last hand to it, he designed the counterpart to Shakespear's plot, namely, that of a man who had never seen a woman, that by this means, these two characters of innocence and love might the more illustrate and commend each other. This excellent contrivance he was pleased to communicate to me, and to defire my assistance in it. I confess that from the first moment it so pleased me, that I never wrote any thing with so much delight. I might likewise do him that justice to acknowledge that my writing received daily amendments, and that is the reason why it is not so faulty, as the rest that I have done, without the help or correction of so judicious a friend. The comical parts of the sailors were also of his invention and Writing, as may easily be discovered from the stile.' This great man died at his house in little Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, April 17, 1668, aged 63, and two days afterwards was interred in Westminster-Abbey. On his gravestone is inscribed, in imitation of Ben Johnson's short epitaph, O RARE SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT! It may not be amiss to observe, that his remains rest very near the place out of which those of Mr. Thomas May, who had been formerly his rival for the bays, and the Parliament's historian, were removed, by order of the ministry. As to the family our author left behind him, some account of it will be given in the life of his son Dr. Charles Davenant, who succeeded him as manager of the theatre. Sir William's works entire were published by his widow 1673, and dedicated to James Duke of York. After many storms of adversity, our author spent the evening of his days in ease and serenity. He had the happiness of being loved by people of all denominations, and died lamented by every worthy good man. As a poet, unnumbered evidences may be produced in his favour. Amongst these Mr. Dryden is the foremost, for when his testimony can be given in support of poetical merit, we reckon all other evidence superfluous, and without his, all other evidences deficient. In his words then we shall sum up Davenant's character as a poet, and a man of genius. 'I found him, (says he) in his preface to the Tempest, of so quick a fancy, that nothing was proposed to him on which he could not quickly produce a thought extreamly pleasant and surprizing, and these first thoughts of his, contrary to the old Latin proverb, were not always the least happy, and as his fancy was quick, so likewise were the products of it remote and new. He borrowed not of any other, and his imaginations were such as could not easily enter into any other man. His corrections were sober and judicious, and he corrected his own writings much more severely than those of another man, bestowing twice the labour and pain in polishing which he used in invention.' Before we enumerate the dramatic works of Sir William Davenant, it will be but justice to his merit, to insert some animadversions on his Gondibert; a poem which has been the subject of controversy almost a hundred years; that is, from its first appearance to the present time. Perhaps the dispute had been long ago decided, if the author's leisure had permitted him to finish it. At present we see it to great disadvantage; and if notwithstanding this it has any beauties, we may fairly conclude it would have come much nearer perfection, if the story, begun with so much spirit, had been brought to an end upon the author's plan. Mr. Hobbes, the famous philosopher of Malmsbury, in a letter printed in his works, affirms, 'that he never yet saw a poem that had so much shape of art, health of morality and vigour, and beauty of expression, as this of our author; and in an epistle to the honourable Edward Howard, author of the British Princes, he thus speaks. My judgment in poetry has been once already censured by very good wits for commending Gondibert; but yet have they not disabled my testimony. For what authority is there in wit? a jester may have it; a man in drink may have it, and be fluent over night, and wise and dry in the morning: What is it? and who can tell whether it be better to have it or no? I will take the liberty to praise what I like as well as they, and reprehend what they like.'--Mr. Rymer in his preface to his translation of Rapin's Reflexions on Aristototle's [sic] Treatise of Poetry, observes, that our author's wit is well known, and in the preface to that poem, there appears some strokes of an extraordinary judgment; that he is for unbeaten tracts, and new ways of thinking, but certainly in the untried seas he is no great discoverer. One design of the Epic poets before him was to adorn their own country, there finding their heroes and patterns of virtue, where example, as they thought, would have the greater influence and power over posterity; "but this poet, says Rymer, steers a different course; his heroes are all foreigners; he cultivates a country that is nothing a-kin to him, and Lombardy reaps the honour of all. Other poets chose some action or hero so illustrious, that the name of the poem prepared the reader, and made way for its reception; but in this poem none can divine what great action he intended to celebrate, nor is the reader obliged to know whether the hero be Turk or Christian; nor do the first lines give any light or prospect into the design. Altho' a poet should know all arts and sciences, yet ought he discreetly to manage his knowledge. He must have a judgment to select what is noble and beautiful, and proper for the occasion. He must by a particular chemistry, extract the essence of things; without soiling his wit with dross or trumpery. The sort of verse Davenant makes choice of in his Gondibert might contribute much to the vitiating his stile; for thereby he obliges himself to stretch every period to the end of four lines: Thus the sense is broken perpetually with parentheses, the words jumbled in confusion, and darkness spread over all; but it must be acknowledged, that Davenant had a particular talent for the manners; his thoughts are great, and there appears something roughly noble thro' the whole." This is the substance of Rymer's observations on Gondibert. Rymer was certainly a scholar, and a man of discernment; and tho' in some parts of the criticisms he is undoubtedly right, yet in other parts he is demonstrably wrong. He complains that Davenant has laid the scene of action in Lombardy, which Rymer calls neglecting his own country; but the critic should have considered, that however well it might have pleased the poet's countrymen, yet as an epic poem is supposed to be read in every nation enlightened by science, there can no objections arise from that quarter by any but those who were of the same country with the author. His not making choice of a pompous name, and introducing his poem with an exordium, is rather a beauty than a fault; for by these means he leaves room for surprize, which is the first excellency in any poem, and to strike out beauties where they are not expected, has a happy influence upon the reader. Who would think from Milton's introduction, that so stupendous a work would ensue, and simple dignity is certainly more noble, than all the efforts and colourings which art and labour can bestow. The ingenious and learned Mr. Blackwall, Professor of Greek in the university of Aberdeen, in his enquiry into the life and writings of Homer, censures the structure of the poem; but, at the same time pays a compliment to the abilities of the author. "It was indeed (says he) a very extraordinary project of our ingenious countryman, to write an epic poem without mixing allegory, or allowing the smallest fiction throughout the composure. It was like lopping off a man's limb, and then putting him upon running races; tho' it must be owned that the performance shews, with what ability he could have acquitted himself, had he been sound and entire." Such the animadversions which critics of great name have made on Gondibert, and the result is, that if Davenant had not power to begin and consummate an epic poem, yet by what he has done, he has a right to rank in the first class of poets, especially when it is considered that we owe to him the great perfection of the theatre, and putting it upon a level with that of France and Italy; and as the theatrical are the most rational of all amusements, the latest posterity should hold his name in veneration, who did so much for the advancement of innocent pleasures, and blending instruction and gaiety together. The dramatic works of our author are, 1. Albovine King of the Lombards, a tragedy. This play is commended by eight copies of verses. The story of it is related at large, in a novel, by Bandello, and is translated by Belleforest[3]. 2. Cruel Brother, a tragedy. 3. Distresses, a tragi-comedy, printed in folio, Lond. 1673. 4. First Day's Entertainment at Rutland-House, by declamation and music, after the manner of the ancients. Of this we have already given some account. 5. The Fair Favourite, a tragi-comedy, printed in folio, 1673. 6. The Just Italian, a tragi-comedy. 7. Law against Lovers, a tragi-comedy, made up of two plays by Shakespear, viz. Measure for Measure, and Much Ado about Nothing. 8. Love and Honour, a tragi-comedy; which succeeded beyond any other of our author's plays, both on the theatre at Lincoln's-Inn, and Dorset-Garden. 9. Man's the Master, a tragi-comedy, acted upon the Duke of York's theatre. 10. Platonic Lovers, a tragi-comedy. 11. Play House to be Let. It is difficult to say, under what species this play should be placed, as it consists of pieces of different kinds blended together, several of which the author wrote in Oliver's time, that were acted separately by stealth.--The History of Sir Francis Drake, expressed by instrumental and vocal music, and by art of perspective scenes, and the cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru, were first printed in 4to. and make the third and fourth acts of this play. The second act consists of a French farce, translated from Mollier[e]'s Ganarelle, ou le Cocu Imaginaire, and purposely by our author put into a sort of jargon, common to Frenchmen newly come over. The fifth act consists of tragedy travestie; or the actions of Cæsar, Anthony and Cleopatra in burlesque verse. 12. Siege of Rhodes in two parts. These plays, during the civil war, were acted in Stilo Recitativo, but afterwards enlarged, and acted with applause at the Duke's theatre. Solyman the second took this famous city in the year 1522, which is circumstantially related by Knolles in his History of the Turks, from whence our author took the story. 13. Siege, a tragi-comedy. 14. News from Plymouth, a comedy. 15. Temple of Love, presented by Queen Henrietta, wife to King Charles I and her ladies at Whitehall, viz. The Marchioness of Hamilton; Lady Mary Herbert; Countess of Oxford; Berkshire; Carnarvon: The noble Persian Youths were represented by the Duke of Lenox, and the Earls of Newport and Desmond. 16. Triumphs of the Prince d'Amour, presented by his Highness the Prince Elector, brother-in-law to Charles I. at his palace in the Middle Temple. This masque, at the request of this honourable society, was devised and written by the author in three days, and was presented by the members thereof as an entertainment to his Highness. A list of the Masquers names, as they were ranked according to their antiquity, is subjoined to the Masque. 17. Wits, a comedy; first acted at Black-Fryars, and afterwards at the Duke of York's theatre. This piece appeared on the stage with remarkable applause. These pieces have in general been received with applause on the stage, and have been read with pleasure by people of the best taste: The greatest part of them were published in the author's life-time in 4to. and all since his death, collected into one volume with his other works, printed in folio, Lond. 1673; and dedicated by his widow to the late King James, as has been before observed. Footnotes: 1. Gond. b. iii. cant. 3. stanz. 31. 2. Athen. Oxon. vol. ii, col. 412. 3. Histories Tragiques, Tom. IV. No. XIX. * * * * * HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, The eldest son of Dr. John King lord bishop of London, whom Winstanley calls a person well fraught with episcopal qualities, was born at Wornal in Bucks, in the month of January 1591. He was educated partly in grammar learning in the free school at Thame in Oxfordshire, and partly in the College school at Westminster, from which last he was elected a student in Christ Church 1608[1], being then under the tuition of a noted tutor. Afterwards he took the degrees in arts, and entered into holy orders, and soon became a florid preacher, and successively chaplain to King James I. archdeacon of Colchester, residentiary of St. Paul's cathedral, canon and dean of Rochester, in which dignity he was installed the 6th of February 1638. In 1641, says Mr. Wood, he was made bishop of Chichester, being one of those persons of unblemished reputation, that his Majesty, tho' late, promoted to that honourable office; which he possessed without any removal, save that by the members of the Long Parliament, to the time of his death. When he was young he delighted much in the study of music and poetry, which with his wit and fancy made his conversation very agreeable, and when he was more advanced in years he applied himself to oratory, philosophy, and divinity, in which he became eminent. It happened that this bishop attending divine service in a church at Langley in Bucks, and hearing there a psalm sung, whose wretched expression, far from conveying the meaning of the Royal Psalmist, not only marred devotion, but turned what was excellent in the original into downright burlesque; he tried that evening if he could not easily, and with plainness suitable to the lowest understanding, deliver it from that garb which rendered it ridiculous. He finished one psalm, and then another, and found the work so agreeable and pleasing, that all the psalms were in a short time compleated; and having shewn the version to some friends of whose judgment he had a high opinion, he could not resist their importunity (says Wood) of putting it to the press, or rather he was glad their sollicitations coincided with his desire to be thought a poet. He was the more discouraged, says the antiquary, as Mr. George Sandys's version and another by a reformer had failed in two different extremes; the first too elegant for the vulgar use, changing both metre and tunes, wherewith they had been long acquainted; the other as flat and poor, and as lamely executed as the old one. He therefore ventured in a middle way, as he himself in one of his letters expresses it, without affectation of words, and endeavouring to leave them not disfigured in the sense. This version soon after was published with this title; The Psalms of David from the New Translation of the Bible, turned into Metre, to be sung after the old tunes used in churches, Lond. 1651, in 12mo. There is nothing more ridiculous than this notion of the vulgar of not parting with their old versions of the psalms, as if there were a merit in singing hymns of nonsense. Tate and Brady's version is by far the most elegant, and best calculated to inspire devotion, because the language and poetry are sometimes elevated and sublime; and yet for one church which uses this version, twenty are content with that of Sternhold and Hopkins, the language and poetry of which, as Pope says of Ogilvy's Virgil, are beneath criticism.-- After episcopacy was silenced by the Long Parliament, he resided in the house of Sir Richard Hobbart (who had married his sister) at Langley in Bucks. He was reinstated in his See by King Charles II. and was much esteemed by the virtuous part of his neighbours, and had the blessings of the poor and distressed, a character which reflects the highest honour upon him. Whether from a desire of extending his beneficence, or instigated by the restless ambition peculiar to the priesthood, he sollicited, but in vain, a higher preferment, and suffered his resentment to betray him into measures not consistent with his episcopal character. He died on the first day of October 1669[2], and was buried on the south side of the choir, near the communion table, belonging to the cathedral church in Chichester. Soon after there was a monument put over his grave, with an inscription, in which it is said he was, Antiquâ, eáque regia Saxonium apud Danmonios in agro Devoniensi, prosapia oriundus, That he was, Natalium Splendore illustris, pietate, Doctrina, et virtutibus illustrior, &c. This monument was erected at the charge of his widow, Anne daughter of Sir William Russel of Strensham in Worcestershire, knight and baronet. Our author's works, besides the version of the Psalms already mentioned, are as follows; A Deep Groan fetched at the Funeral of the incomparable and glorious Monarch King Charles I. printed 1649. Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, Sonnets, &c. Lond. 1657. Several Letters, among which are extant, one or more to the famous archbishop Usher, Primate of Ireland, and another to Isaac Walton, concerning the three imperfect books of Richard Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, dated the 13th of November 1664, printed at London 1665. He has composed several Anthems, one of which is for the time of Lent. Several Latin and Greek Poems, scattered in several Books. He has likewise published several Sermons, 1. Sermon preached at Paul's Cross 25th of November 1621, upon occasion of a report, touching the supposed apostasy of Dr. John King--late bishop of London, on John xv. 20, Lond. 1621; to which is also added the examination of Thomas Preston, taken before the Archbishop of Canterbury at Lambeth 20th of December 1621, concerning his being the author of the said Report. 2. David's Enlargement, Morning Sermon on Psalm xxxii. 5. Oxon. 1625. 4to. 3. Sermon of Deliverance, at the Spittal on Easter Monday, Psalm xc. 3. printed 1626, 4to. 4. Two Sermons at Whitehall on Lent, Eccles. xii. 1, and Psalm lv. 6. printed 1627, in 4to. 5. Sermon at St. Paul's on his Majesty's Inauguration and Birth, on Ezekiel xxi. 27. Lond. 1661. 4to. 6. Sermon on the Funeral of Bryan Bishop of Winchester, at the Abbey Church of Westminster, April 24, 1662, on Psalm cxvi. 15. Lond. 1662. 4to. 7. Visitation Sermon at Lewis, October 1662. on Titus ii. 1. Lond. 1663. 4to. 8. Sermon preached the 30th of January, 1664, at Whitehall, being the Day of the late King's Martyrdom, on 2. Chron. xxxv. 24, 25. Lond. 1665, 4to. To these Sermons he has added an Exposition of the Lord's Prayer, delivered in certain Sermons, on Matth. vi. 9. &c. Lond. 1628. 4to. We shall take a quotation from his version of the 104th psalm. My soul the Lord for ever bless: O God! thy greatness all confess; Whom majesty and honour vest, In robes of light eternal drest. He heaven made his canopy; His chambers in the waters lye: His chariot is the cloudy storm, And on the wings of wind is born. He spirits makes his angels quire, His ministers a flaming fire. He so did earth's foundations cast, It might remain for ever fast: Then cloath'd it with the spacious deep, Whose wave out-swells the mountains steep. At thy rebuke the waters fled, And hid their thunder-frighted head. They from the mountains streaming flow, And down into the vallies go: Then to their liquid center hast, Where their collected floods are cast. These in the ocean met, and joyn'd, Thou hast within a bank confin'd: Not suff'ring them to pass their bound, Lest earth by their excess be drown'd. He from the hills his chrystal springs Down running to the vallies brings: Which drink supply, and coolness yield, To thirsting beasts throughout the field. By them the fowls of heaven rest, And singing in their branches nest. He waters from his clouds the hills; The teeming earth with plenty fills. He grass for cattle doth produce, And every herb for human use: That so he may his creatures feed, And from the earth supply their need. He makes the clusters of the vine, To glad the sons of men with wine. He oil to clear the face imparts, And bread, the strength'ner of their hearts. The trees, which God for fruit decreed, Nor sap, nor moistning virtue need. The lofty cedars by his hand In Lebanon implanted stand. Unto the birds these shelter yield, And storks upon the fir-trees build: Wild goats the hills defend, and feed, And in the rocks the conies breed. He makes the changing moon appear, To note the seasons of the year: The sun from him his strength doth get, And knows the measure of his set. Thou mak'st the darkness of the night, When beasts creep forth that shun the light, Young lions, roaring after prey, From God their hunger must allay. When the bright sun casts forth his ray, Down in their dens themselves they lay. Man's labour, with the morn begun, Continues till the day be done. O Lord! what wonders hast thou made, In providence and wisdom laid! The earth is with thy riches crown'd, And seas, where creatures most abound. There go the ships which swiftly fly; There great Leviathan doth lye, Who takes his pastime in the flood: All these do wait on thee for food. Thy bounty is on them distill'd, Who are by thee with goodness fill'd. But when thou hid'st thy face, they die, And to their dust returned lie. Thy spirit all with life endues, The springing face of earth renews, God's glory ever shall endure, Pleas'd in his works, from change secure. Upon the earth he looketh down, Which shrinks and trembles at his frown: His lightnings touch, or thunders stroak, Will make the proudest mountains smoak. To him my ditties, whilst I live, Or being have, shall praises give: My meditations will be sweet, When fixt on him my comforts meet. Upon the earth let sinners rot, In place, and memory forgot. But thou, my soul, thy maker bless: Let all the world his praise express; Footnotes: 1. Athen. Oxon, vol. ii. p. 431. 1721 Ed. 2. Wood Athen. Oxon, p. 431, vol. 2. * * * * * PHILIP MASSINGER, A poet of no small eminence, was son of Mr. Philip Massinger, a gentleman belonging to the earl of Montgomery, in whose service he lived[1]. He was born at Salisbury, about the year 1585, and was entered a commoner in St. Alban's Hall in Oxford, 1601, where, though he was encouraged in his studies (says Mr. Wood) by the earl of Pembroke, yet he applied his mind more to poetry and romances, than to logic and philosophy. He afterwards quitted the university without a degree, and being impatient to move in a public sphere, he came to London, in order to improve his poetic fancy, and polite studies by conversation, and reading the world. He soon applied himself to the stage, and wrote several tragedies and comedies with applause, which were admired for the purity of their stile, and the oeconomy of their plots: he was held in the highest esteem by the poets of that age, and there were few who did not reckon it an honour to write in conjunction with him, as Fletcher, Middleton, Rowley, Field and Decker did[2]. He is said to have been a man of great modesty. He died suddenly at his house on the bank side in Southwark, near to the then playhouse, for he went to bed well, and was dead before morning. His body was interred in St. Saviour's church-yard, and was attended to the grave by all the comedians then in town, on the 18th of March, 1669. Sir Aston Cokain[e] has an epitaph on Mr. John Fletcher, and Mr. Philip Massinger, who, as he says, both lie buried in one grave. He prepared several works for the public, and wrote a little book against Scaliger, which many have ascribed to Scioppius, the supposed author of which Scaliger, uses with great contempt. Our author has published 14 plays of his own writing, besides those in which he joined with other poets, of which the following is the list, 1. The Bashful Lover, a Tragi-Comedy, often acted at a private house in Black Fryars, by his Majesty's Servants, with success, printed in 8vo. 1655. 2. The Bondman, an ancient Story, often acted at the Cockpit in Drury Lane, by the Lady Elizabeth's servants, printed in 4to. London, 1638, and dedicated to Philip, Earl of Montgomery. 3. The City Madam, a Comedy, acted at a private house in Black-fryars, with applause, 4to. 1659, for Andrew Pennywick one of the actors, and dedicated by him to Anne, Countess of Oxford. 4. The Duke of Milan, a Tragedy printed in 4to. but Mr. Langbaine has not been able to find out when it was acted. 5. The Emperor of the East, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the Black Fryars, and Globe Playhouse, by his Majesty's Servants, printed in 4to. London, 1632, and dedicated to John, Lord Mohune, Baron of Okehampton; this play is founded on the History of Theodosius the younger; see Socrates, lib. vii. 6. The Fatal Dowry, a Tragedy, often acted at private house in Black Fryars, by his Majesty's servants, printed in 4to. London, 1632; this play was written by our author, in conjunction with Nathaniel Field. The behaviour of Charlois in voluntarily chusing imprisonment to ransom his father's corpse, that it might receive the funeral rites, is copied from the Athenian Cymon, so much celebrated by Valerius Maximus, lib. v. c. 4. ex. 9. Plutarch and Cornelius Nepos, notwithstanding, make it a forced action, and not voluntary. 7. The Guardian, a comical History, often acted at a private house in Black Fryars, by the King's Servants, 1665. Severino's cutting off Calipso's nose in the dark, taking her for his wife Jolantre, is borrowed from the Cimerian Matron, a Romance, 8vo. the like story is related in Boccace. Day 8. Novel 7. 7 [sic]. The Great Duke of Florence, a comical History, often presented with success, at the Phænix in Drury Lane, 1636; this play is taken from our English Chronicles, that have been written in the reign of Edgar. 9. The Maid of Honour, a Tragi-Comedy, often acted at the Phænix in Drury Lane, 1632. 10. A New Way to pay Old Debts, a Comedy, acted 1633; this play met with great success on its first representation, and has been revived by Mr. Garrick, and acted on the Theatre-Royal in Drury Lane, 1750. 11. Old Law, a New Way to please You, an excellent Comedy, acted before the King and Queen in Salisbury-house, printed in 4to. London, 1656. In this play our author was assisted by Mr. Middleton, and Mr. Rowley. 12. The Picture, a Tragi-Comedy, often presented at the Globe and Black Fryars Playhouse, by the King's servants, printed in London, 1636, and dedicated to his selected friends, the noble Society of the Inner-Temple; this play was performed by the most celebrated actors of that age, Lowin, Taylor, Benfield. 13. The Renegado, a Tragi-Comedy, often acted by the Queen's Servants, at the private Playhouse in Drury Lane, printed in 4to. London, 1630. 14. The Roman Actor, performed several times with success, at a private house in the Black-Fryars, by the King's Servants; for the plot read Suetonius in the Life of Domitian, Aurelius Victor, Eutropius, lib. vii. Tacitus, lib. xiii. 15. Very Woman, or the Prince of Tarent, a Tragi-Comedy, often acted at a private house in Black Fryars, printed 1655. 16. The Virgin Martyr, a Tragedy, acted by his Majesty's Servants, with great applause, London, printed in 4to. 1661. In this play our author took in Mr. Thomas Decker for a partner; the story may be met with in the Martyrologies, which have treated of the tenth persecution in the time of Dioclesian, and Maximian. 17. The Unnatural Combat, a Tragedy, presented by the King's Servants at the Globe, printed at London 1639. This old Tragedy, as the author tells his patron, has neither Prologue nor Epilogue, "it being composed at a time, when such by-ornaments were not advanced above the fabric of the whole work." Footnotes: 1. Langbaine's Lives of the Poets. 2. Langbaine, ubi supra. * * * * * Sir ROBERT STAPLETON. This gentleman was the third son of Richard Stapleton, esq; of Carleton, in Mereland in Yorkshire, and was educated a Roman Catholic, in the college of the English Benedictines, at Doway in Flanders, but being born with a poetical turn, and consequently too volatile to be confined within the walls of a cloister, he threw off the restraint of his education, quitted a recluse life, came over to England, and commenced Protestant[1]. Sir Robert having good interest, found the change of religion prepared the way to preferment; he was made gentleman usher of the privy chamber to King Charles II. then Prince of Wales; we find him afterwards adhering to the interest of his Royal Master, for when his Majesty was driven out of London, by the threatnings and tumults of the discontented rabble, he followed him, and on the 13th of September, 1642, he received the honour of knighthood. After the battle of Edgehill, when his Majesty was obliged to retire to Oxford, our author then attended him, and was created Dr. of the civil laws. When the Royal cause declined, Stapleton thought proper to addict himself to study, and to live quietly under a government, no effort of his could overturn, and as he was not amongst the most conspicuous of the Royalists, he was suffered to enjoy his solitude unmolested. At the restoration he was again promoted in the service of King Charles II. and held a place in that monarch's esteem 'till his death. Langbaine, speaking of this gentleman, gives him a very great character; his writings, says he, have made him not only known, but admired throughout all England, and while Musæus and Juvenal are in esteem with the learned, Sir Robert's fame will still survive, the translation of these two authors having placed his name in the temple of Immortality. As to Musæus, he had so great a value for him, that after he had translated him, he reduced the story into a dramatic poem, called Hero and Leander, a Tragedy, printed in 4to. 1669, and addressed to the Duchess of Monmouth. Whether this play was ever acted is uncertain, though the Prologue and Epilogue seem to imply that it appeared on the stage. Besides these translations and this tragedy, our author has written The slighted Maid, a Comedy, acted at the Theatre in Little Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, by the Duke of York's Servants, printed in London 1663, and dedicated to the Duke of Monmouth. Pliny's Panegyric, a Speech in the Senate, wherein public Thanks are presented to the Emperor Trajan, by C. Plenius Cæcilius Secundus, Consul of Rome, Oxon, 1644. Leander's Letter to Hero, and her Answer, printed with the Loves; 'tis taken from Ovid, and has Annotations written upon it by Sir Robert. A Survey of the Manners and Actions of Mankind, with Arguments, Marginal Notes, and Annotations, clearing the obscure Places, out of the History of the Laws and Ceremonies of the Romans, London, 1647, 8vo. with the author's preface before it. It is dedicated to Henry, Marquis of Dorchester, his patron. The History of the Low-Country War, or de bello Gallico, &c. 1650, folio, written in Latin by Famianus Strada. Our author paid the last debt to nature on the eleventh day of July, 1669, and was buried in the Abbey of St. Peter at Westminster. He was uncle to Dr. Miles Stapleton of Yorkshire, younger brother to Dr. Stapleton, a Benedictine Monk, who was president of the English Benedictines at Delaware in Lorraine, where he died, 1680. Footnote: 1. Wood's Fasti, vol. ii. p. 23. * * * * * Dr. JASPER MAIN. This poet was born at Hatherleigh, in the Reign of King James I. He was a man of reputation, as well for his natural parts, as his acquired accomplishments. He received his education at Westminster school, where he continued 'till he was removed to Christ Church, Oxon, and in the year 1624 admitted student. He made some figure at the university, in the study of arts and sciences, and was sollicited by men of eminence, who esteemed him for his abilities, to enter into holy orders; this he was not long in complying with, and was preferred to two livings, both in the gift of the College, one of which was happily situated near Oxford. Much about this time King Charles I. was obliged to keep his court at Oxford, to avoid being exposed to the resentment of the populace in London, where tumults then prevailed, and Mr. Main was made choice of, amongst others, to preach before his Majesty. Soon after he was created doctor of divinity, and resided at Oxford, till the time of the mock visitation, sent to the university, when, amongst a great many others, equally distinguished for their loyalty and zeal for that unfortunate Monarch, he was ejected from the college, and stript of both his livings. During the rage of the civil war, he was patronized by the earl of Devonshire, at whose house he resided till the restoration of Charles II. when he was not only put in possession of his former places, but made canon of Christ's Church, and arch-deacon of Chichester, which preferments he enjoyed till his death. He was an orthodox preacher, a man of severe virtue, a ready and facetious wit. In his younger years he addicted himself to poetry, and produced two plays, which were held in some esteem in his own time; but as they have never been revived, nor taken notice of by any of our critics, in all probability they are but second rate performances. The Amorous War. a Tragedy, printed in 4to. Oxon. 1658. The City Match, a Comedy, acted before the King and Queen in Whitehall, and afterwards on the stage in Black Fryars, with great applause, and printed in 4to. Oxon. 1658. These two plays have been printed in folio, 4to, and 8vo. and are bound together. Besides these dramatic pieces, our author wrote a Poem upon the Naval Victory over the Dutch by the Duke of York, a subject which Dryden has likewise celebrated in his Annus Mirabilis. He published a translation of part of Lucian, said to be done by Mr. Francis Hicks, to which he added some dialogues of his own, though Winstanley is of opinion, that the whole translation is also his. In the year 1646, --47, --52, --62, he published several sermons, and entered into a controversy with the famous Presbyterian leader, Mr. Francis Cheynel, and his Sermon against False Prophets was particularly levelled at him. Cheynel's Life is written by a gentleman of great eminence in literature, and published in some of the latter numbers of of the Student, in which the character of that celebrated teacher is fully displayed. Dr. Main likewise published in the year 1647 a book called The People's War examined according to the Principles of Scripture and Reason, which he wrote at the desire of a person of quality. He also translated Dr. Donne's Latin Epigrams into English, and published them under the title of, A Sheaf of Epigrams. On the 6th of December, 1642, he died, and his remains were deposited on the North side of the choir in Christ's Church. In his will he left several legacies for pious uses: fifty pounds for the rebuilding of St. Paul's; a hundred pounds to be distributed by the two vicars of Cassington and Burton, for the use of the poor in those parishes, with many other legacies. He was a man of a very singular turn of humour, and though, without the abilities, bore some resemblance to the famous dean of St. Patrick's, and perhaps was not so subject to those capricious whims which produced so much uneasiness to all who attended upon dean Swift. It is said of Dr. Main, that his propension to innocent raillery was so great, that it kept him company even after death. Among other legacies, he bequeathed to an old servant an old trunk, and somewhat in it, as he said, that would make him drink: no sooner did the Dr. expire, than the servant, full of expectation, visited the trunk, in hopes of finding some money, or other treasure left him by his master, and to his great disappointment, the legacy, with which he had filled his imagination, proved no other than a Red Herring. The ecclesiastical works of our author are as follow, 1. A Sermon concerning Unity and Agreement, preached at Carfax Church in Oxford, August 9, 1646. 1 Cor. i. 10. 2. A Sermon against False Prophets, preached in St. Mary's Church in Oxford, shortly after the surrender of that garrison, printed in 1697. Ezek. xxii. 28. He afterwards published a Vindication of this Sermon from the aspersions of Mr. Cheynel. 3. A Sermon preached at the Consecration of the Right Reverend Father in God, Herbert, Lord Bishop of Hereford, 1662. 1 Tim. iv. 14. 4. Concio ad Academiam Oxoniensem, pro more habita inchoante Jermino, Maii 27, 1662. As a specimen of his poetry, we present a copy of verses addressed to Ben Johnson. Scorn then, their censures, who gave't out, thy wit As long upon a comedy did fit, As elephants bring forth: and thy blots And mendings took more time, than fortune plots; That such thy draught was, and so great thy thirst, That all thy plays were drawn at Mermaid[1] first: That the King's yearly butt wrote, and his wine Hath more right than those to thy Cataline. Let such men keep a diet, let their wit, Be rack'd and while they write, suffer a fit: When th' have felt tortures, which outpain the gout; Such as with less the state draws treason out; Sick of their verse, and of their poem die, Twou'd not be thy wont scene-- Footnote: 1. A tavern in Bread-street. * * * * * JOHN MILTON. The British nation, which has produced the greatest men in every profession, before the appearance of Milton could not enter into any competition with antiquity, with regard to the sublime excellencies of poetry. Greece could boast an Euripides, Eschylus, Sophocles and Sappho; England was proud of her Shakespear, Spenser, Johnson and Fletcher; but then the ancients had still a poet in reserve superior to the rest, who stood unrivalled by all succeeding times, and in epic poetry, which is justly esteemed the highest effort of genius, Homer had no rival. When Milton appeared, the pride of Greece was humbled, the competition became more equal, and since Paradise Lost is ours; it would, perhaps, be an injury to our national fame to yield the palm to any state, whether ancient or modern. The author of this astonishing work had something very singular in his life, as if he had been marked out by Heaven to be the wonder of every age, in all points of view in which he can be considered. He lived in the times of general confusion; he was engaged in the factions of state, and the cause he thought proper to espouse, he maintained with unshaken firmness; he struggled to the last for what he was persuaded were the rights of humanity; he had a passion for civil liberty, and he embarked in the support of it, heedless of every consideration of danger; he exposed his fortune to the vicissitudes of party contention, and he exerted his genius in writing for the cause he favoured. There is no life, to which it is more difficult to do justice, and at the same time avoid giving offence, than Milton's, there are some who have considered him as a regicide, others have extolled him as a patriot, and a friend to mankind: Party-rage seldom knows any bounds, and differing factions have praised or blamed him, according to their principles of religion, and political opinions. In the course of this life, a dispassionate regard to truth, and an inviolable candour shall be observed. Milton was not without a share of those failings which are inseparable from human nature; those errors sometimes exposed him to censure, and they ought not to pass unnoticed; on the other hand, the apparent sincerity of his intentions, and the amazing force of his genius, naturally produce an extream tenderness for the faults with which his life is chequered: and as in any man's conduct fewer errors are seldom found, so no man's parts ever gave him a greater right to indulgence. The author of Paradise Lost was descended of an ancient family of that name at Milton, near Abingdon in Oxfordshire. He was the son of John Milton a money-scrivener, and born the 9th of December, 1608. The family from which he descended had been long seated there, as appears by the monuments still to be seen in the church of Milton, 'till one of them, having taken the unfortunate side in the contests between the houses of York and Lancaster, was deprived of all his estate, except what he held by his wife[1]. Our author's grandfather, whose name was John Milton, was under-ranger, or reaper of the forest of Shotover, near Halton in Oxfordshire: but a man of Milton's genius needs not have the circumstance of birth called in to render him illustrious; he reflects the highest honour upon his family, which receives from him more glory, than the longest descent of years can give. Milton was both educated under a domestic tutor, and likewise at St. Paul's school under Mr. Alexander Gill, where he made, by his indefatigable application, an extraordinary progress in learning. From his 12th year he generally sat up all night at his studies, which, accompanied with frequent head-aches, proved very prejudicial to his eyes. In the year 1625 he was entered into Christ's College in Cambridge, under the tuition of Mr. William Chappel, afterwards bishop of Ross in Ireland, and even before that time, had distinguished himself by several Latin and English poems[2]. After he had taken the degree of master of arts, in 1632 he left the university, and for the space of five years lived with his parents at their house at Horton, near Colebrook in Buckinghamshire, where his father having acquired a competent fortune, thought proper to retire, and spend the remainder of his days. In the year 1634 he wrote his Masque of Comus, performed at Ludlow Castle, before John, earl of Bridgwater, then president of Wales: It appears from the edition of this Masque, published by Mr. Henry Lawes, that the principal performers were, the Lord Barclay, Mr. Thomas Egerton, the Lady Alice Egerton, and Mr. Lawes himself, who represented an attendant spirit. The Prologue, which we found in the General Dictionary, begins with the following lines. Our stedfast bard, to his own genius true, Still bad his muse fit audience find, tho' few; Scorning the judgment of a trifling age, To choicer spirits he bequeath'd his page. He too was scorned, and to Britannia's shame, She scarce for half an age knew Milton's name; But now his fame by every trumpet blown, We on his deathless trophies raise our own. Nor art, nor nature, could his genius bound: Heaven, hell, earth, chaos, he survey'd around. All things his eye, thro' wit's bright empire thrown, Beheld, and made what it beheld his own. In 1637 Our author published his Lycidas; in this poem he laments the death of his friend Mr. Edward King, who was drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas in 1637; it was printed the year following at Cambridge in 4to. in a collection of Latin and English poems upon Mr. King's death, with whom he had contracted the strongest friendship. The Latin epitaph informs us, that Mr. King was son of Sir John King, secretary for Ireland to Queen Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. and that he was fellow in Christ's-College Cambridge, and was drowned in the twenty-fifth year of his age. But this poem of Lycidas does not altogether consist in elegiac strains of tenderness; there is in it a mixture of satire and severe indignation; for in part of it he takes occasion to rally the corruptions of the established clergy, of whom he was no favourer; and first discovers his acrimony against archbishop Laud; he threatens him with the loss of his head, a fate which he afterwards met, thro' the fury of his enemies; at least, says Dr. Newton, I can think of no sense so proper to be given to the following verses in Lycidas; Besides what the grim wolf, with privy paw, Daily devours apace, and nothing said; But that two-handed engine at the door, Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Upon the death of his mother, Milton obtained leave of his father to travel, and having waited upon Sir Henry Wotton, formerly ambassador at Venice, and then provost of Eaton College, to whom he communicated his design, that gentleman wrote a letter to him, dated from the College, April 18, 1638, and printed among the Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, and in Dr. Newton's life of Milton. Immediately after the receipt of this letter our author set out for France, accompanied only with one man, who attended him thro' all his travels. At Paris Milton was introduced to the famous Hugo Grotius, and thence went to Florence, Siena, Rome, and Naples, in all which places he was entertained with the utmost civility by persons of the first distinction. When our author was at Naples he was introduced to the acquaintance of Giovanni Baptista Manso, Marquis of Villa, a Neapolitan nobleman, celebrated for his taste in the liberal arts, to whom Tasso addresses his dialogue on friendship, and whom he likewise mentions in his Gierusalemme liberata, with great honour. This nobleman shewed extraordinary civilities to Milton, frequently visited him at his lodgings, and accompanied him when he went to see the several curiosities of the city. He was not content with giving our author these exterior marks of respect only, but he honoured him by a Latin distich in his praise, which is printed before Milton's Latin poems. Milton no doubt was highly pleased with such extreme condescension and esteem from a person of the Marquis of Villa's quality; and as an evidence of his gratitude, he presented the Marquis at his departure from Naples, his eclogue, entitled Mansus; which, says Dr. Newton, is well worth reading among his Latin poems; so that it may be reckoned a peculiar felicity in the Marquis of Villa's life to have been celebrated both by Tasso and Milton, the greatest poets of their nation. Having seen the finest parts of Italy, and conversed with men of the first distinction, he was preparing to pass over into Sicily and Greece, when the news from England, that a civil war was like to lay his country in blood, diverted his purpose; for as by his education and principles he was attached to the parliamentary interest, he thought it a mark of abject cowardice, for a lover of his country to take his pleasure abroad, while the friends of liberty were contending at home for the rights of human nature. He resolved therefore to return by way of Rome, tho' he was dissuaded from pursuing that resolution by the merchants, who were informed by their correspondents, that the English jesuits there were forming plots against his life, in case he should return thither, on account of the great freedom with which he had treated their religion, and the boldness he discovered in demonstrating the absurdity of the Popish tenets; for he by no means observed the rule recommended to him by Sir Henry Wotton, of keeping his thoughts close, and his countenance open. Milton was removed above dissimulation, he hated whatever had the appearance of disguise, and being naturally a man of undaunted courage, he was never afraid to assert his opinions, nor to vindicate truth tho' violated by the suffrage of the majority. Stedfast in his resolutions, he went to Rome a second time, and stayed there two months more, neither concealing his name, nor declining any disputations to which his antagonists in religious opinions invited him; he escaped the secret machinations of the jesuits, and came safe to Florence, where he was received by his friends with as much tenderness as if he had returned to his own country. Here he remained two months, as he had done in his former visit, excepting only an excursion of a few days to Lucca, and then crossing the Appenine, and passing thro' Bologna, and Ferrara, he arrived at Venice, in which city he spent a month; and having shipped off the books he had collected in his travels, he took his course thro' Verona, Milan, and along the Lake Leman to Geneva. In this city he continued some time, meeting there with people of his own principles, and contracted an intimate friendship with Giovanni Deodati, the most learned professor of Divinity, whose annotations on the bible are published in English; and from thence returning to France the same way that he had gone before, he arrived safe in England after an absence of fifteen months, in which Milton had seen much of the world, read the characters of famous men, examined the policy of different countries, and made more extensive improvements than travellers of an inferior genius, and less penetration, can be supposed to do in double the time. Soon after his return he took a handsome house in Aldersgate-street, and undertook the education of his sister's two sons, upon a plan of his own. In this kind of scholastic solitude he continued some time, but he was not so much immersed in academical studies, as to stand an indifferent spectator of what was acted upon the public theatre of his country. The nation was in great ferment in 1641, and the clamour against episcopacy running very high, Milton who discovered how much inferior in eloquence and learning the puritan teachers were to the bishops, engaged warmly with the former in support of the common cause, and exercised all the power of which he was capable, in endeavouring to overthrow the prelatical establishment, and accordingly published five tracts relating to church government; they were all printed at London in 4to. The first was intitled, Reformation touching Church Discipline in England, and the Causes that have hitherto hindered it: two books written to a friend. The second was of Prelatical Episcopacy, and whether it may be deducted from Apostolical Times, by virtue of those Testimonies which are alledged to that purpose in some late treatises; one whereof goes under the name of James Usher archbishop of Armagh. The third was the Reason of Church Government urged against the Prelacy, by Mr. John Milton, in two books. The fourth was Animadversions upon the Remonstrants Defence against Smectymnuus; and the fifth an Apology for a Pamphlet called, a Modest Confutation of the Animadversions upon the Remonstrants against Smectymnuus; or as the title page is in some copies, an Apology for Smectymnuus, with the Reason of Church Government, by John Milton. In the year 1643 Milton married the daughter of Richard Powel, Esq; of Forrest-hill in Oxfordshire; who not long after obtaining leave of her husband to pay a visit to her father in the country, but, upon repeated messages to her, refusing to return, Milton seemed disposed to marry another, and in 1644 published the Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce; the Judgment of Martin Bucer concerning Divorce, and the year following his Tetrachordon and Colasterion. Mr. Philips observes, and would have his readers believe, that the reason of his wife's aversion to return to him was the contrariety of their state principles. The lady being educated in loyal notions, possibly imagined, that if ever the regal power should flourish again, her being connected with a person so obnoxious to the King, would hurt her father's interest; this Mr. Philips alledges, but, with submission to his authority, I dissent from his opinion. Had she been afraid of marrying a man of Milton's principles, the reason was equally strong before as after marriage, and her father must have seen it in that light; but the true reason, or at least a more rational one, seems to be, that she had no great affection for Milton's person. Milton was a stern man, and as he was so much devoted to study, he was perhaps too negligent in those endearments and tender intercourses of love which a wife has a right to expect. No lady ever yet was fond of a scholar, who could not join the lover with it; and he who expects to secure the affections of his wife by the force of his understanding only, will find himself miserably mistaken: indeed it is no wonder that women who are formed for tenderness, and whose highest excellence is delicacy, should pay no great reverence to a proud scholar, who considers the endearments of his wife, and the caresses of his children as pleasures unworthy of him. It is agreed by all the biographers of Milton, that he was not very tender in his disposition; he was rather boldly honourable, than delicately kind; and Mr. Dryden seems to insinuate, that he was not much subject to love. "His rhimes, says he, flow stiff from him, and that too at an age when love makes every man a rhymster, tho' not a poet. There are, methinks, in Milton's love-sonnets more of art than nature; he seems to have considered the passion philosophically, rather than felt it intimately." In reading Milton's gallantry the breast will glow, but feel no palpitations; we admire the poetry, but do not melt with tenderness; and want of feeling in an author seldom fails to leave the reader cold; but from whatever cause his aversion proceeded, she was at last prevailed upon by her relations, who could foresee the dangers of a matrimonial quarrel, to make a submission, and she was again received with tenderness. Mr. Philips has thus related the story.--'It was then generally thought, says he, that Milton had a design of marrying one of Dr. Davy's daughters, a very handsome and witty gentlewoman, but averse, as it is said, to this motion; however the intelligence of this caused justice Powel's family to let all engines at work to restore the married woman to the station in which they a little before had planted her. At last this device was pitched upon. There dwelt in the lane of St. Martin's Le Grand, which was hard by, a relation of our author's, one Blackborough, whom it was known he often visited, and upon this occasion the visits were more narrowly observed, and possibly there might be a combination between both parties, the friends on both sides consenting in the same action, tho' in different behalfs. One time above the rest, making his usual visits, his wife was ready in another room; on a sudden he was surprized to see one, whom he thought never to have seen more, making submission, and begging pardon on her knees before him. He might probably at first make some shew of aversion, and rejection, but partly his own generous nature, more inclinable to reconciliation than to perseverance in anger and revenge, and partly the strong intercession of friends on both sides, soon brought him to an act of oblivion and a firm league of peace for the future; and it was at length concluded that she should remain at a friend's house, till he was settled in his new house in Barbican, and all things prepared for her reception. The first fruits of her return to her husband was a brave girl, born within a year after, tho', whether by ill constitution, or want of care, she grew more and more decrepit.' Mr. Fenton observes, that it is not to be doubted but the abovementioned interview between Milton and his wife must wonderfully affect him; and that perhaps the impressions it made on his imagination contributed much to the painting of that pathetic scene in Paradise Lost, b. 10. in which Eve addresses herself to Adam for pardon and peace, now at his feet submissive in distress. About the year 1644 our author wrote a small piece in one sheet 4to, under this title, Education, to Mr. Samuel Hartly, reprinted at the end of his Poems on several occasions; and in the same year he published at London in 4to, his Areopagitica, or a speech of Mr. J. Milton for the liberty of unlicensed printing, to the Parliament of England. In 1645 his Juvenile Poems were printed at London, and about this time his zeal for the republican party had so far recommended him, that a design was formed of making him adjutant-general in Sir William Waller's army; but the new modelling the army proved an obstruction to that advancement. Soon after the march of Fairfax and Cromwell with the whole army through the city, in order to suppress the insurrection which Brown and Massey were endeavouring to raise there, against the army's proceedings, he left his great house in Barbican, for a smaller in High Holborn, where he prosecuted his studies till after the King's trial and death, when he published his Tenure of Kings and Magistrates: His Observations on the Articles of peace between James Earl of Ormond for King Charles I. on the one hand, and the Irish Rebels and Papists on the other hand; and a letter sent by Ormond to colonel Jones governor of Dublin; and a representation of the Scotch Presbytery at Belfast in Ireland. He was now admitted into the service of the Commonwealth, and was made Latin Secretary to the Council of State, who resolved neither to write nor receive letters but in the Latin tongue, which was common to all states. 'And it were to be wished,' says Dr. Newton, 'that succeeding Princes would follow their example, for in the opinion of very wise men, the universality of the French language will make way for the universality of the French Monarchy. Milton was perhaps the first instance of a blind man's possessing the place of a secretary; which no doubt was a great inconvenience to him in his business, tho' sometimes a political use might be made of it, as men's natural infirmities are often pleaded in excuse for their not doing what they have no great inclination to do. Dr. Newton relates an instance of this. When Cromwell, as we may collect from Whitlocke, for some reasons delayed artfully to sign the treaty concluded with Sweden, and the Swedish ambassador made frequent complaints of it, it was excused to him, because Milton on account of his blindness, proceeded slower in business, and had not yet put the articles of treaty into Latin. Upon which the ambassador was greatly surprized that things of such consequence should be entrusted to a blind man; for he must necessarily employ an amanuensis, and that amanuensis might divulge the articles; and said, it was very wonderful there should be only one man in England who could write Latin, and he a blind one.' Thus we have seen Milton raised to the dignity of Latin Secretary. It is somewhat strange, that in times of general confusion, when a man of parts has the fairest opportunity to play off his abilities to advantage, that Milton did not rise sooner, nor to a greater elevation; he was employed by those in authority only as a writer, which conferred no power upon him, and kept him in a kind of obscurity, who had from nature all that was proper for the field as well as the cabinet; for we are assured that Milton was a man of confirmed courage. In 1651 our author published his Pro Populo Anglicano Defensio, for which he was rewarded by the Commonwealth with a present of a thousand pounds, and had a considerable hand in correcting and polishing a piece written by his nephew Mr. John Philips, and printed at London 1652, under this title, Joannis Philippi Angli Responsio ad Apologiam Anonymi cujusdam Tenebrionis pro Rege & Populo Anglicano infantissimam. During the writing and publishing this book, he lodged at one Thomson's, next door to the Bull-head tavern Charing-Cross; but he soon removed to a Garden-house in Petty-France, next door to lord Scudamore's, where he remained from the year 1652 till within a few weeks of the Restoration. In this house, his first wife dying in child-bed, 1652, he married a second, Catherine, the daughter of Captain Woodcock of Hackney, who died of a consumption in three months after she had been brought to bed of a daughter. This second marriage was about two or three years after he had been wholly deprived of his sight; for by reason of his continual studies, and the head-ach[e], to which he was subject from his youth, and his perpetual tampering with physic, his eyes had been decaying for twelve years before. In 1654 he published his Defensio Secunda; and the year following his Defensio pro Se. Being now at ease from his state adversaries, and political controversies, he had leisure again to prosecute his own studies, and private designs, particularly his History of Britain, and his new Thesaurus Linguæ Latinæ according to the method of Robert Stevens, the manuscript of which contained three large volumes in folio, and has been made use of by the editors of the Cambridge Dictionary, printed 4to, 1693. In 1658 he published Sir Walter Raleigh's Cabinet Council; and in 1659 a Treatise of the Civil Power in Ecclesiastical Causes, Lond. 12mo. and Considerations touching the likeliest Means to remove Hirelings out of the Church; wherein are also Discourses of Tithes, Church-fees, Church-Revenues, and whether any Maintenance of Ministers can be settled in Law, Lond. 1659, 12mo. Upon the dissolution of the Parliament by the army, after Richard Cromwell had been obliged to resign the Protectorship, Milton wrote a letter, in which he lays down the model of a commonwealth; not such as he judged the best, but what might be the readiest settled at that time, to prevent the restoration of kingly government and domestic disorders till a more favourable season, and better dispositions for erecting a perfect democracy. He drew up likewise another piece to the same purpose, which seems to have been addressed to general Monk; and he published in February 1659, his ready and easy way to establish a free Commonwealth. Soon after this he published his brief notes upon a late sermon, entitled, the Fear of God and the King, printed in 4to, Lond. 1660. Just before the restoration he was removed from his office of Latin secretary, and concealed himself till the act of oblivion was published; by the advice of his friends he absconded till the event of public affairs should direct him what course to take, for this purpose he retired to a friend's house in Bartholomew-Close, near West-Smithfield, till the general amnesty was declared. The act of oblivion, says Mr. Phillips, proving as favourable to him, as could be hoped or expected, through the intercession of some that stood his friends both in Council and Parliament; particularly in the House of Commons, Mr. Andrew Marvel member for Hull, and who has prefixed a copy of verses before his Paradise Lost, acted vigorously in his behalf, and made a considerable party for him, so that together with John Goodwin of Coleman-Street, he was only so far excepted as not to bear any office in the Commonwealth; but as this is one of the most important circumstances in the life of our author, we shall give an account of it at large, from Mr. Richardson, in his life of Milton, prefixed to his Explanatory Notes, and Remarks on Paradise Lost. His words are 'That Milton escaped is well known, but not how. By the accounts we have, he was by the Act of Indemnity only incapacitated for any public employment. This is a notorious mistake, though Toland, the bishop of Sarum, Fenton, &c, have gone into it, confounding him with Goodwin; their cases were very different, as I found upon enquiry. Not to take a matter of this importance upon trust, I had first recourse to the Act itself. Milton is not among the excepted. If he was so conditionally pardoned, it must then be, by a particular instrument. That could not be after he had been purified entirely by the general indemnity, nor was it likely the King, who had declared from Breda, he would pardon all but whom the Parliament should judge unworthy of it, and had thus lodged the matter with them, should, before they came to a determination, bestow a private act of indulgence to one so notorious as Milton. It is true, Rapin says, several principal republicans applied for mercy, while the Act was yet depending, but quotes no authority; and upon search, no such pardon appears on record, though many are two or three years after, but then they are without restrictions; some people were willing to have a particular, as well as a general pardon; but whatever was the case of others, there was a reason besides what has been already noted, that no such favour would be shewn to Milton. The House of Commons, June 16, 1660, vote the King to be moved to call in his two books, and that of John Goodwin, written in justification of the murder of the King, in order to be burnt, and that the Attorney General do proceed against them by indictment. June 27, an Order of Council reciting that Vote of the 16th, and that the persons were not to be found, directs a Proclamation for calling in Milton's two books, which are here explained, to be that against Salmasius, and the Eikon Basilike, as also Goodwin's book; and a Proclamation was issued accordingly, and another to the same purpose the 13th of August: as for Goodwin he narrowly escaped for his life, but he was voted to be excepted out of the Act of Indemnity, amongst the twenty designed to have penalties inflicted short of death, and August 27, these books of Milton and Goodwin were burnt by the hangman. The Act of Oblivion, according to Kennet's Register, was passed the 29th. It is seen by this account, that Milton's person and Goodwin's are separated, tho' their books are blended together. As the King's intention appeared to be a pardon to all but actual regicides, as Burnet says, it is odd, he should assert in the same breath, almost all people were surprized that Goodwin and Milton escaped censure. Why should it be so strange, they being not concerned in the King's blood? that he was forgot, as Toland says, some people imagined, is very unlikely. However, it is certain, from what has been shewn from bishop Kennet, he was not. That he should be distinguished from Goodwin, with advantage, will justly appear strange; for his vast merit, as an honest man, a great scholar, and a most excellent writer, and his fame, on that account, will hardly be thought the causes, especially when it is remembered Paradise Lost was not produced, and the writings, on which his vast reputation stood, are now become criminal, and those most, which were the main pillars of his fame. Goodwin was an inconsiderable offender, compared with him; some secret cause must be recurred to in accounting for this indulgence. I have heard that secretary Morrice, and Sir Thomas Clarges were his friends, and managed matters artfully in his favour; doubtless they, or some body else did, and they very probably, as being powerful friends at that time. But still how came they to put their interest at such a stretch, in favour of a man so notoriously obnoxious? perplexed, and inquisitive as I was, I at length found the secret. It was Sir William Davenant obtained his remission, in return of his own life, procured by Milton's interest, when himself was under condemnation, Anno 1650. A life was owing to Milton (Davenant's) and it was paid nobly; Milton's for Davenant, at Davenant's intercession. The management of the affair in the house, whether by signifying the King's desire, or otherwise, was, perhaps by those gentlemen named.' This account Mr. Richardson had from Mr. Pope, who was informed of it by Betterton, the celebrated actor, who was first brought upon the stage by Sir William Davenant, and honoured with an intimacy with him, so that no better authority need be produced to support any fact. Milton being secured by his pardon, appeared again in public, and removed to Jewin street, where he married his third wife, Elizabeth, the daughter of Mr. Minshul of Cheshire, recommended to him by his friend Dr. Paget, to whom he was related, but he had no children by her: soon after the restoration he was offered the place of Latin secretary to the King, which, notwithstanding the importunities of his wife, he refused: we are informed, that when his wife pressed him to comply with the times, and accept the King's offer, he made answer, 'You are in the right, my dear, you, as other women, would ride in your coach; for me, my aim is to live and die an honest man.' Soon after his marriage with his third wife, he removed to a house in the Artillery Walk, leading to Bunhill-fields, where he continued till his death, except during the plague, in 1665, when he retired with his family to St. Giles's Chalfont Buckinghamshire, at which time his Paradise Lost was finished, tho' not published till 1667. Mr. Philips observes, that the subject of that poem was first designed for a tragedy, and in the fourth book of the poem, says he, there are ten verses, which, several years before the poem was begun, were shewn to me, and some others, as designed for the very beginning of the tragedy. The verses are, O thou that with surpassing glory crown'd Look'st from thy sole dominion like the god, Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams, Which brings to my remembrance, from what state I fell; how glorious once above thy sphere, 'Till pride, and worse ambition, threw me down, Warring in Heaven, 'gainst Heav'ns matchless King. Mr. Philips further observes, that there was a very remarkable circumstance in the composure of Paradise Lost, which, says he, 'I have particular reason to remember, for whereas I had the perusal of it from the very beginning, for some years, as I went from time to time to visit him, in a parcel of ten, twenty, or thirty verses at a time, which being written by whatever hand came next, might possibly want correction, as to the orthography and pointing; having, as the summer came on, not been shewn any for a considerable while, and desiring the reason thereof, was answered, that his vein never happily flowed but from the autumnal equinox to the vernal, and that whatever he attempted at other times, was never to his satisfaction, though he courted his fancy never so much; so that in all the years he was about his poem, he may be said to have spent but half his time therein.'[3] Mr. Toland imagines that Mr. Philips must be mistaken in regard to the time, since Milton, in his Latin Elegy upon the Approach of the Spring, declares the contrary, and that his poetic talent returned with the spring. This is a point, as it is not worth contending, so it never can be settled; no poet ever yet could tell when the poetic vein would flow; and as no man can make verses, unless the inclination be present, so no man, can be certain how long it will continue, for if there is any inspiration now amongst men, it is that which the poet feels, at least the sudden starts, and flashes of fancy bear a strong resemblance to the idea we form of inspiration. Mr. Richardson has informed us, 'that when Milton dictated, he used to sit leaning backwards obliquely in an easy chair, with his legs flung over the elbows of it; that he frequently composed lying a-bed in a morning, and that when he could not sleep, but lay awake whole nights, he tried, but not one verse could he make; at other times flowed easy his unpremeditated verse, with a certain Impetus as himself used to believe; then at what hour soever, he rung for his daughter to secure what came. I have been also told he would dictate many, perhaps 40 lines in a breath, and then reduce them to half the number.' I would not omit, says Mr. Richardson, the least circumstance; these indeed are trifles, but even such contract a sort of greatness, when related to what is great. After the work was ready for the press, it was near being suppressed by the ignorance, or malice of the licenser, who, among other trivial objections, imagined there was treason in that noble simile, b. i. v. 594-- --As when the sun new ris'n Looks thro' the horizontal misty air, Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon, In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs. The ignorance of this licenser, in objecting to this noble simile, has indeed perpetuated his name, but it is with no advantage; he, no doubt, imagined, that _Perplexes Monarchs_ was levelled against the reigning Prince, which is, perhaps, the highest simile in our language; how ridiculously will people talk who are blinded by prejudice, or heated by party. But to return: After Milton had finished this noble work of genius, which does honour to human nature, he disposed of it to a Bookseller for the small price of fifteen pounds; under such prejudice did he then labour, and the payment of the fifteen pounds was to depend upon the sale of two numerous impressions. This engagement with his Bookseller proves him extremely ignorant of that sort of business, for he might be well assured, that if two impressions sold, a great deal of money must be returned, and how he could dispose of it thus conditionally for fifteen pounds, appears strange; but while it proves Milton's ignorance, or inattention about his interest in this affair, it, at the same time, demonstrates the Bookseller's honesty; for he could not be ignorant what money would be got by two numerous editions. After this great work was published, however, it lay some time in obscurity, and had the Bookseller advanced the sum stipulated, he would have had reason to repent of his bargain. It was generally reported, that the late lord Somers first gave Paradise Lost a reputation; but Mr. Richardson observes, that it was known and esteemed long before there was such a man as lord Somers, as appears by a pompous edition of it printed by subscription in 1688, where, amongst the list of Subscribers, are the names of lord Dorset, Waller, Dryden, Sir Robert Howard, Duke, Creech, Flatman, Dr. Aldrich, Mr. Atterbury, Sir Roger L'Estrange, lord Somers, then only John Somers, esq; Mr. Richardson further informs us, that he was told by Sir George Hungerford, an ancient Member of Parliament, that Sir John Denham came into the House one morning with a sheet of Paradise Lost, wet from the press, in his hand, and being asked what he was reading? he answered, part of the noblest poem that ever was written in any language, or in any age; however, it is certain that the book was unknown till about two years after, when the earl of Dorset recommended it, as appears from the following story related to Mr. Richardson, by Dr. Tancred Robinson, an eminent physician in London, who was informed by Sir Fleetwood Sheppard, 'that the earl, in company with that gentleman, looking over some books in Little Britain, met with Paradise Lost; and being surprized with some passages in turning it over, bought it. The Bookseller desired his lordship to speak in its favour, since he liked it, as the impression lay on his hands as waste paper. The earl having read the poem, sent it to Mr. Dryden, who, in a short time, returned it with this answer: This man cuts us all, and the ancients too.' Critics have differed as to the source from which our [author] drew the first hint of writing Paradise Lost; Peck conjectures that it was from a celebrated Spanish Romance called Guzman, and Dr. Zachary Pearce, now bishop of Bangor, has alledged, that he took the first hint of it from an Italian Tragedy, called Il Paradiso Perso, still extant, and printed many years before he entered on his design. Mr. Lauder in his Essay on Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns, has insinuated that Milton's first hint of Paradise Lost, was taken from a Tragedy of the celebrated Grotius, called Adamus Exul, and that Milton has not thought it beneath him to transplant some of that author's beauties into his noble work, as well as some other flowers culled from the gardens of inferior genius's; but by an elegance of art, and force of nature, peculiar to him, he has drawn the admiration of the world upon passages, which in their original authors, stood neglected and undistinguished. If at any time he has adopted a sentiment of a cotemporary poet, it deserves another name than plagiary; for, as Garth expresses it, in the case of Dryden, who was charged with plagiary, that, like ladies of quality who borrow beggars children, it is only to cloath them the better, and we know no higher compliment could have been paid to these moderns, than that of Milton's doing them the honour to peruse them, for, like a Prince's accepting a present from a subject, the glory is reflected on him who offers the gift, not on the Monarch who accepts it. But as Mr. Lauder's book has lately made so great a noise in the world, we must beg leave to be a little more particular. Had Mr. Lauder pursued his plan of disclosing Milton's resources, and tracing his steps through the vast tracts of erudition that our author travelled, with candour and dispassionateness, the design would have been noble and useful; he then would have produced authors into light who were before unknown; have recommended sacred poetry, and it would have been extreamly pleasing to have followed Milton over all his classic ground, and seen where the noblest genius of the world thought proper to pluck a flower, and by what art he was able to rear upon the foundation of nature so magnificent, so astonishing a fabric: but in place of that, Mr. Lauder suffers himself to be overcome by his passion, and instead of tracing him as a man of taste, and extensive reading, he hunts him like a malefactor, and seems to be determined on his execution. Mr. Lauder could never separate the idea of the author of Paradise Lost, and the enemy of King Charles. Lauder has great reading, but greater ill nature; and Mr. Douglas has shewn how much his evidence is invalidated by some interpolations which Lauder has since owned. It is pity so much classical knowledge should have been thus prostituted by Lauder, which might have been of service to his country; but party-zeal seldom knows any bounds. The ingenious Moses Brown, speaking of this man's furious attack upon Milton, has the following pretty stanza. The Owl will hoot that cannot sing, Spite will displume the muse's wing, Tho' Phoebus self applaud her; Still Homer bleeds in Zoilus' page A Virgil 'scaped not the Mævius' rage, And Milton has his Lauder.[4] But if Lauder is hot and furious, his passion soon subsides. Upon hearing that the grand-daughter of Milton was living, in an obscure situation in Shoreditch, he readily embraced the opportunity, in his postscript, of recommending her to the public favour; upon which, some gentlemen affected with the singularity of the circumstance, and ashamed that our country should suffer the grand-daughter of one from whom it derives its most lasting and brightest honour, to languish neglected, procured Milton's Comus to be performed for her benefit at Drury Lane, on the 5th of April, 1750: upon which, Mr. Garrick spoke a Prologue written by a gentleman, who zealously promoted the benefit, and who, at this time, holds the highest rank in literature. This prologue will not, we are persuaded, be unacceptable to our readers. A PROLOGUE spoken by Mr. GARRICK, Thursday, April 5, 1750. at the Representation of COMUS, for the Benefit of Mrs. ELIZABETH FOSTER, MILTON's Grand-daughter, and only surviving descendant. Ye patriot crouds, who burn for England's fame, Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name, Whose gen'rous zeal, unbought by flatt'ring rhimes, Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times; Immortal patrons of succeeding days, Attend this prelude of perpetual praise! Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage With close malevolence, or public rage; Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore, Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. This night, distinguish'd by your smile, shall tell, That never Briton can in vain excel; The slighted arts futurity shall trust, And rising ages hasten to be just. At length our mighty bard's victorious lays Fill the loud voice of universal praise, And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb, Yields to renown the centuries to come. With ardent haste, each candidate of fame Ambitious catches at his tow'ring name: He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow: Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below; While crowds aloft the laureat dust behold, Or trace his form on circulating gold. Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay, And want hung threat'ning o'er her slow decay. What tho' she shine with no Miltonian fire, No fav'ring muse her morning dreams inspire; Yet softer claims the melting heart engage, Her youth laborious, and her blameless age: Hers the mild merits of domestic life, The patient suff'rer, and the faithful wife. Thus grac'd with humble virtue's native charms Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms, Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell, While tutelary nations guard her cell. Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wife, ye brave! 'Tis yours to crown desert--beyond the grave! In the year 1670 our author published at London in 4to. his History of Britain, that part, especially, now called England, from the first traditional Beginning, continued to the Norman Conquest, collected out of the ancientest and best authors thereof. It is reprinted in the first volume of Dr. Kennet's compleat History of England. Mr. Toland in his Life of Milton, page 43, observes, that we have not this history as it came out of his hands, for the licensers, those sworn officers to destroy learning, liberty, and good sense, expunged several passages of it, wherein he exposed the superstition, pride, and cunning of the Popish monks in the Saxon times, but applied by the sagacious licensers to Charles IId's bishops. In 1681 a considerable passage which had been suppressed in the publication of this history, was printed at London in 4to under this title. Mr. John Milton's character of the Long Parliament and Assembly of Divines in 1651, omitted in his other works, and never before printed. It is reported, and from the foregoing character it appears probable, that Mr. Milton had lent most of his personal estate upon the public faith, which when he somewhat earnestly pressed to have restored, after a long, and chargeable attendance, met with very sharp rebbukes; upon which, at last despairing of any success in this affair, he was forced to return from them poor and friendless, having spent all his money, and wearied all those who espoused his cause, and he had not, probably, mended his circumstances in those days, but by performing such service for them, as afterwards he did, for which scarce any thing would appear too great. In 1671 he published at London in 8vo. Paradise Regained, a Poem in four Books, to which is added Sampson Agonistes: there is not a stronger proof of human weakness, than Milton's preferring this Poem of Paradise Regained, to Paradise Lost, and it is a natural and just observation, that the Messiah in Paradise Regained, with all his meekness, unaffected dignity, and clear reasoning, makes not so great a figure, as when in the Paradise Lost he appears cloathed in the Terrors of Almighty vengeance, wielding the thunder of Heaven, and riding along the sky in the chariot of power, drawn, as Milton greatly expresses it, 'with Four Cherubic Shapes; when he comes drest in awful Majesty, and hurls the apostate spirits headlong into the fiery gulph of bottomless perdition, there to dwell in adamantine chains and penal fire, who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.' Dr. Newton has dissented from the general opinion of mankind, concerning Paradise Regained: 'Certainly, says he, it is very worthy of the author, and contrary to what Mr. Toland relates, Milton may be seen in Paradise Regained as well as Paradise Lost; if it is inferior in poetry, I know not whether it is inferior in sentiment; if it is less descriptive, it is more argumentative; if it does not sometimes rise so high, neither doth it ever sink below; and it has not met with the approbation it deserves, only because it has not been more read and considered. His subject indeed is confined, and he has a narrow foundation to build upon, but he has raised as noble a superstructure, as such little room, and such scanty materials would allow. The great beauty of it is the contrast between the two characters of the tempter and Our Saviour, the artful sophistry, and specious insinuations of the one, refuted by the strong sense, and manly eloquence of the other.' The first thought of Paradise Regained was owing to Elwood the Quaker, as he himself relates the occasion, in the History of his own Life. When Milton had lent him the manuscript of Paradise Lost at St. Giles's Chalfont, and he returned it, Milton asked him how he liked it, and what he thought of it? 'which I modestly and freely told him (says Elwood) and after some further discourse about it, I pleasantly said to him, thou hast said much of Paradise Lost, but what hast thou to say of a Paradise Found? He made me no answer, but sat some time in a muse, then broke off that discourse, and fell upon another subject.' When Elwood afterwards waited upon him in London, Milton shewed him his Paradise Regained, and in a pleasant tone said to him, 'this is owing to you, for you put it into my head by the question you put me at Chalfont, which before I had not thought of.' In the year 1672 he published his Artis Logicæ plenior Institutio ad Rami methodum concinnata, London, in 8vo. and in 1673, a Discourse intitled, Of True Religion, Heresy, Schism, Toleration, and what best Means may be used against the Growth of Popery, London, in 4to. He published likewise the same year, Poems, &c. on several Occasions, both English and Latin, composed at several times, with a small Tractate of Education to Mr. Hartlib, London, 8vo. In 1674 he published his Epistolarum familiarium, lib. i. & Prolusiones quædam Oratoriæ in Collegio Christi habitæ, London, in 8vo and in the same year in 4to. a Declaration of the Letters Patent of the King of Poland, John III. elected on the 22d of May, Anno Dom. 1674, now faithfully translated from the Latin copy. Mr. Wood tells us[5], that Milton was thought to be the author of a piece called the Grand Case of Conscience, concerning the Engagement Stated and Resolved; or a Strict Survey of the Solemn League and Covenant in reference to the present Engagement; but others are of opinion that the stile and manner of writing do not in the least favour that supposition. His State Letters were printed at London 1676 in 12mo. and translated into English, and printed 1694, as his Brief History of Muscovy, and of their less known Countries, lying Eastward of Russia, as far as Cathay, was in 1682 in 8vo. His Historical, Poetical, and Miscellaneous Works were printed in three volumes in folio 1698 at London, though Amsterdam is mentioned in the title page with the life of the author, by Mr. Toland; but the most compleat and elegant edition of his prose works was printed in two volumes in folio at London 1738, by the rev. Mr. Birch, now secretary to the Royal Society, with an Appendix concerning two Dissertations, the first concerning the Author of the [Greek: EIKÔN BASILIKÊ], the Portraiture of his sacred Majesty in his solitude and sufferings; and the prayer of Pamela subjoined to several editions of that book; the second concerning the Commission said to be given by King Charles I. in 1641, to the Irish Papists, for taking up arms against the Protestants in Ireland. In this edition the several pieces are disposed according to the order in which they were printed, with the edition of a Latin Tract, omitted by Mr. Toland, concerning the Reasons of the War with Spain in 1655, and several pages in the History of Great Britain, expanged by the licensers of the press, and not to be met with in any former impressions. It perhaps is not my province to make any remarks upon the two grand disputations, that have subsisted between the friends and enemies of Charles I. about the author of the Basilike, and the Commission granted to the Irish Papists; as to the last, the reader, if he pleases, may consult at the Life of Lord Broghill, in which he will find the mystery of iniquity disclosed, and Charles entirely freed from the least appearance of being concerned in granting so execrable a commission; the forgery is there fully related, and there is all the evidence the nature of the thing will admit of, that the King's memory has been injured by so base an imputation. As to the first, it is somewhat difficult to determine, whether his Majesty was or was not the author of these pious Meditations; Mr. Birch has summed up the evidence on both sides; we shall not take upon us to determine on which it preponderates; it will be proper here to observe, the chief evidence against the King in this contention, is, Dr. Gauden, bishop of Exeter, who claimed that book as his, and who, in his letters to the earl of Clarendon, values himself upon it, and becomes troublesomely sollicitous for preferment on that account; he likewise told the two princes that the Basilike was not written by their father, but by him; now one thing is clear, that Gauden was altogether without parts; his Life of Hooker, which is the only genuine and indisputed work of his, shews him a man of no extent of thinking; his stile is loose, and negligently florid, which is diametrically opposite to that of these Meditations. Another circumstance much invalidates his evidence, and diminishes his reputation for honesty. After he had, for a considerable time, professed himself a Protestant, and been in possession of an English bishopric, and discovered an ardent desire of rising in the church, notwithstanding this, he declared himself at his death a Papist; and upon the evidence of such a man, none can determine a point in disputation; for he who durst thus violate his conscience, by the basest hypocrisy, will surely make no great scruple to traduce the memory of his sovereign. In a work of Milton's called Icon Oclastes, or the Image broken, he takes occasion to charge the king with borrowing a prayer from Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, and placing it in his Meditations without acknowledging the favour. Soon after the sentence of the Regicides had been put in execution these Meditations were published, and as Anthony by shewing the body of murdered Cæsar, excited the compassion of multitudes, and raised their indignation against the enemies of that illustrious Roman; so these Meditations had much the same effect in England. The Presbyterians loudly exclaimed against the murder of the King; they asserted, that his person was sacred, and spilling his blood upon a scaffold was a stain upon the English annals, which the latest time could not obliterate. These tragical complaints gaining ground, and the fury which was lately exercised against his Majesty, subsiding into a tenderness for his memory, heightened by the consideration of his piety, which these Meditations served to revive, it was thought proper, in order to appease the minds of the people, that an answer should be wrote to them. In this task Milton engaged, and prosecuted it with vigour; but the most enthusiastic admirer of that poet, upon reading it will not fail to discover a spirit of bitterness, an air of peevishness and resentment to run through the whole. Milton has been charged with interpolating the prayer of Pamela into the King's Meditations, by the assistance of Bradshaw, who laid his commands upon the printer so to do, to blast the reputation of the King's book. Dr. Newton is of opinion that this fact is not well supported, for it is related chiefly upon the authority of Henry Hills the printer, who had frequently affirmed it to Dr. Gill, and Dr. Bernard, his physicians, as they themselves have testified; but tho' Hills was Cromwell's printer, yet afterwards he turned Papist in the reign of King James II. in order to be that King's Printer; and it was at that time he used to relate this story; so that little credit is due to his testimony. It is almost impossible to believe Milton capable of such disingenuous meanness, to serve so bad a purpose, and there is as little reason for fixing it upon him, as he had to traduce the King for profaning the duty of prayer, with the polluted trash of romances; for in the best books of devotion, there are not many finer prayers, and the King might as lawfully borrow and apply it to his own purpose, as the apostle might make quotations from Heathen poems and plays; and it became Milton, the least of all men, to bring such an accusation against the King, as he was himself particularly fond of reading romances, and has made use of them in some of the best and latest of his writings. There have been various conjectures concerning the cause that produced in Milton so great an aversion to Charles I. One is, that when Milton stood candidate for a professorship at Cambridge with his much esteemed friend Mr. King, their interest and qualifications were equal, upon which his Majesty was required by his nomination to fix the professor; his answer was, let the best-natured man have it; to which they who heard him, immediately replied; 'then we are certain it cannot be Milton's, who was ever remarkable for a stern ungovernable man.'--Whether this conjecture is absolutely true, we cannot determine; but as it is not without probability, it has a right to be believed, till a more satisfactory one can be given. In whatever light Milton may be placed as a statesman, yet as a poet he stands in one point of view without a rival; the sublimity of his conceptions, the elevation of his stile, the fertility of his imagination, and the conduct of his design in Paradise Lost is inimitable, and cannot be enough admired. Milton's character as a poet was never better pourtray'd than in the epigram under his picture written by Mr. Dryden. Three poets in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd; The next in majesty; in both the last: The force of nature could no further go, To make a third, she join'd the former two.-- This great man died at his house at Bunhill, Nov. 15, 1674, and was interred near the body of his father, in the chancel of the church of St. Giles, Cripplegate. By his first wife he had four children, a son and three daughters. The daughters survived their father. Anne married a master-builder, and died in child-bed of her first child, which died with her; Mary lived single; Deborah left her father when she was young, and went over to Ireland with a lady, and came to England again during the troubles of Ireland under King James II. She married Mr. Abraham Clark, a weaver in Spittal-fields, and died Aug. 24, 1727, in the 76th year of age. She had ten children, viz. seven sons, and three daughters, but none of them had any children except one of her sons named Caleb, and the youngest daughter, whose name is Elizabeth. Caleb went over to Fort St. George in the East-Indies, where he married and had two sons, Abraham and Isaac; of these Abraham the elder came to England with governor Harrison, but returned again upon advice of his father's death, and whether he or his brother be now living is uncertain. Elizabeth, the youngest child of Deborah, married Mr. Thomas Foster, a weaver, and lives now in Hog-lane, Shoreditch, for whom Comus, as we have already observed, was performed at Drury-Lane, and produced her a great benefit. She has had seven children, three sons and four daughters, who are all now dead. This Mrs. Foster is a plain decent looking Woman. Mr. John Ward, fellow of the Royal Society, and professor of rhetoric in Gresham-College, London, saw the above Mrs. Clark, Milton's daughter at the house of one of her relations not long before her death, when she informed me, says that gentleman, 'That she and her sisters used to read to their father in eight languages, which by practice they were capable of doing with great readiness, and accuracy, tho' they understood no language but English, and their father used often to say in their hearing, one tongue was enough for a woman. None of them were ever sent to school, but all taught at home by a mistress kept for that purpose. Isaiah, Homer, and Ovid's Metamorphoses were books which they were often called to read to their father; and at my desire she repeated a great number of verses from the beginning of both these poets with great readiness. I knew who she was upon the first sight of her, by the similitude of her countenance with her father's picture. And upon my telling her so, she informed me, that Mr. Addison told her the same thing, on her going to wait on him; for he, upon hearing she was living sent for her, and desired if she had any papers of her father's, she would bring them with her, as an evidence of her being Milton's daughter; but immediately on her being introduced to him, he said, Madam, you need no other voucher; your face is a sufficient testimonial whose daughter you are; and he then made her a handsome present of a purse of guineas, with a promise of procuring for her an annual provision for life; but he dying soon after, she lost the benefit of his generous design. She appeared to be a woman of good sense, and genteel behaviour, and to bear the inconveniencies of a low fortune with decency and prudence.' Her late Majesty Queen Caroline sent her fifty pounds, and she received presents of money from several gentlemen not long before her death. Milton had a brother, Mr. Christopher Milton who was knighted and made one of the barons of the Exchequer in King James II's reign, but he does not appear to have been a man of any abilities, at least if he had any, they are lost to posterity in the lustre of his brother's. There is now alive a grand-daughter of this Christopher Milton, who is married to one Mr. John Lookup, advocate at Edinburgh, remarkable for his knowledge of the Hebrew tongue. The lady, whom I have often seen, is extremely corpulent, has in her youth been very handsome, and is not destitute of a poetical genius. She has writ several copies of verses, published in the Edinburgh Magazines; and her face bears some resemblance to the picture of Milton. Mr. Wood, and after him Mr. Fenton, has given us the following description of Milton's person. "He was of a moderate size, well-proportioned, and of a ruddy complexion, light brown hair, and had handsome features, yet his eyes were none of the quickest. When he was a student in Cambridge, he was so fair and clear, that many called him the Lady of Christ's-College. His deportment was affable, and his gait erect and manly, bespeaking courage and undauntedness; while he had his sight he wore a sword, and was well skilled in using it. He had a delicate tuneable voice, an excellent ear, could p[l]ay on the organ, and bear a part in vocal and instrumental music."[6] The great learning and genius of Milton, have scarcely raised him more admirers, than the part he acted upon the political stage, has procured him enemies. He was in his inclination a thorough Republican, and in this he thought like a Greek or Roman, as he was very conversant with their writings. And one day Sir Robert Howard, who was a friend of Milton's, and a well wisher to the liberty of his country, asked him, how he came to side with the Republicans? Milton answered, among other things, 'Because theirs was the most frugal government; for the trappings of a Monarchy might set up an ordinary Commonwealth.' But then his attachment to Cromwell must be condemned, as being neither consistent with his republican principles, nor with his love of liberty. It may be reasonably presumed, that he was far from entirely approving of Cromwell's proceeding; but considered him as the only person who could rescue the nation from the tyranny of the Presbyterians, who he saw, were about to erect a worse dominion of their own upon the ruins of prelatical episcopacy; for if experience may be allowed to teach us, the Presbyterian government carries in it more of ecclesiastical authority, and approaches more to the thunder of the Vatican, than any other government under the sun. Milton was an enemy to spiritual slavery, he thought the chains thrown upon the mind were the least tolerable; and in order to shake the pillars of mental usurpation, he closed with Cromwell and the independants, as he expected under them greater liberty of conscience. In matters of religion too, Milton has likewise given great offence, but infidels have no reason to glory. No such man was ever amongst them. He was persuaded of the truth of the christian religion; he studied and admired the holy scriptures, and in all his writings he plainly discovers a religious turn of mind. When he wrote the Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce, he appears to have been a Calvinist; but afterwards he entertained a more favourable opinion of Arminius. Some have thought that he was an Arian, but there are more express passages in his works to overthrow this opinion, than any there are to confirm it. For in the conclusion of his Treatise on Reformation, he thus solemnly invokes the Trinity: 'Thou therefore that sittest in light and glory unapproachable, parent of angels and of men! next thee I implore omnipotent king, redeemer of that lost remnant, whose nature thou didst assume, ineffable and everlasting love! and thee the third subsistence of the divine infinitude, illuminating spirit, the joy and solace of created things! one tri-personal god-head.' In the latter part of his life he was not a professed member of any particular sect of christians; he frequented no public worship, nor used any religious rite in his family; he was an enemy to all kinds of forms, and thought that all christians had in some things corrupted the simplicity and purity of the gospel. He believed that inward religion was the best, and that public communion had more of shew in it, than any tendency to promote genuine piety and unaffected goodness. The circumstances of our author were never very mean, nor very affluent; he lived above want, and was content with competency. His father supported him during his travels. When he was appointed Latin secretary, his sallary amounted to 200 l. per ann. and tho' he was of the victorious party, yet he was far from sharing the spoils of his country. On the contrary, as we learn from his Second Defence, he sustained great losses during the civil war, and was not at all favoured in the imposition of taxes, but sometimes paid beyond his due proportion; and upon a turn of affairs, he was not only deprived of his place, but also lost 2000 l. which he had for security, put into the Excise office. In the fire of London, his house in Bread-street was burnt, before which accident foreigners have gone out of devotion, says Wood, to see the house and chamber where he was born. Some time before he died, he sold the greatest part of his library, as his heirs were not qualified to make a proper use of it, and as he thought he could dispose of it to greater advantage, than they could after his death. He died (says Dr. Newton) by one means or other worth 1500 l. besides his houshold goods, which was no incompetent subsistence for him, who was as great a philosopher as a poet. Milton seems not to have been very happy in his marriages. His first wife offended him by her elopement; the second, whose love, sweetness, and delicacy he celebrates, lived not a twelvemonth with him; and his third was said to be a woman of a most violent spirit, and a severe step-mother to his children. 'She died, says Dr. Newton, very old, about twenty years ago, at Nantwich in Cheshire, and from the accounts of those who had seen her, I have learned that she confirmed several things related before; and particularly that her husband used to compose his poetry chiefly in the winter, and on his waking on a morning would make her write down sometimes twenty or thirty verses: Being asked whether he did not often read Homer and Virgil, she understood it as an imputation upon him for stealing from these authors, and answered with eagerness, that he stole from no body but the muse that inspired him; and being asked by a lady present who the muse was, she answered, it was God's grace and holy spirit, that visited him nightly. She was likewise asked, whom he approved most of our English poets, and answered, Spenser, Shakespear, and Cowley; and being asked what he thought of Dryden, she said Dryden used sometimes to visit him, but he thought him no poet, but a good rhimist.' The reader will be pleased to observe, that this censure of Milton's was before Dryden had made any great appearance in poetry, or composed those immortal works of genius, which have raised eternal monuments to him, and carried his name to every country where poetry and taste are known. Some have thought that Dryden's genius was even superior to Milton's: That the latter chiefly shines in but one kind of poetry; his thoughts are sublime, and his language noble; but in what kind of writing has not Dryden been distinguished? He is in every thing excellent, says Congreve, and he has attempted nothing in which he has not so succeeded as to be entitled to the first reputation from it. It is not to be supposed, that Milton was governed by so mean a principle as envy, in his thus censuring Dryden. It is more natural to imagine, that as he was himself no friend to rhime, and finding Dryden in his early age peculiarly happy in the faculty of rhiming, without having thrown out any thoughts, which were in themselves distinguishedly great, Milton might, without the imputation of ill nature, characterise Dryden, as we have already seen. These are the most material incidents in the life of this great man, who if he had less honour during the latter part of his life than he deserved, it was owing to the unfavourable circumstances under which he laboured. It is always unpleasing to a good man to find that they who have been distinguished for their parts, have not been equally so for their moral qualities; and in this case we may venture to assert, that Milton was good as well as great; and that if he was mistaken in his political principles, he was honestly mistaken, for he never deviated from his first resolution; no temptations could excite him to temporise, or to barter his honour for advantage; nor did he ever once presume to partake of the spoils of his ruined country. Such qualities as these are great in themselves, and whoever possesses them, has an unexceptionable claim to rank with the good. We might have entered more minutely into the merit of Milton's poems, particularly the great work of Paradise Lost; but we should reckon it arrogant as well as superfluous in us, to criticise on a work whose beauties have been displayed by the hand of Mr. Addison. That critic has illustrated the most remarkable passages in Paradise Lost; such as are distinguished by their sublimity; and elevation; such whose excellence is propriety; others raised by the nobleness of the language; and those that are remarkable for energy and strong reasoning. A later critic, the ingenious author of the Rambler, has animadverted upon Milton's versification with great judgment; and has discovered in some measure that happy art, by which Milton has conducted so great a design, with such astonishing success. From these two writers may be drawn all the necessary assistances for reading the Paradise Lost with taste and discernment; and as their works are in almost in every body's hands, it would be needless to give any abstract of them here. Footnotes: 1. Philips's Life of Milton, p. 4. Preface prefixed to the English Translation of his Letters of State. 2. Birch's Critical Account of Milton's Life and Writings. 3. Life of Milton, p. 40. 4. Gentleman's Magazine. 5. Fasti Oxon. col. 275. 6. Fasti Oxon. p. 266. Ed. 1721. * * * * * Mrs. KATHERINE PHILIPS, The celebrated Orinda, was daughter of John Fowles of Bucklersbury, a merchant in London. She was born in the parish of St. Mary Wool Church, 1631. Mr. Aubrey tells us, (in a MS. of his in Mr. Ashmole's study, No. 18. Vol. 23.) that she had the early part of her education from her cousin Mrs. Blacker. At eight years old she was removed to a school at Hackney, and soon made great improvements under the care of Mrs. Salmon; so great that whoever reads the account that Mr. Aubrey gives of her at that time of her life, will consider her succeeding progress to be no more than what might be naturally expected from such indications of genius. He tells us, 'that she was very apt to learn, and made verses when she was at school; that she devoted herself to religious duties when she was very young; that she would then pray by herself an hour together; that she had read the bible through before she was full five years old; that she could say, by heart, many chapters and passages of scripture; was a frequent hearer of sermons, which she would bring away entire in her memory.' The above is extracted from Mr. Ballard's account of the Ladies of Great Britain, who have been celebrated for their writings; and serves to shew the early piety of this amiable lady, who lived to be distinguished for her ripened understanding.--She became afterwards a perfect mistress of the French tongue, and learned the Italian under the tuition of her ingenious and worthy friend Sir Charles Cotterel. She was instructed in the Presbyterian principles, which it appears by her writings, she deserted, as soon as her reason was strong enough to exert itself in the examination of religious points. She warmly embraced the royal interest, and upon many occasions was a strenuous advocate for the authority of the established church. She was married to James Philips of the Priory of Cardigan, Esq; about the year 1647. By this gentleman she had one son, who died in his infancy, and one daughter, married to a gentleman of Pembrokeshire. She proved an excellent wife, not only in the conjugal duties, and tender offices of love, but was highly serviceable to her husband in affairs, in which few wives are thought capable of being useful; for his fortune being much encumbered, she exerted her interest with Sir Charles Cotterel, and other persons of distinction, who admired her understanding (for she had few graces of person) in her husband's favour, who soon extricated him from the difficulties under which he laboured. It no where appears that the husband of Mrs. Philips was a man of any abilities, and if he met with respect in the world, it was probably reflected from his wife. This lady had too much piety and good sense to suffer her superior understanding to make her insolent; on the other hand, she always speaks of her husband with the utmost respect, under the name of Antenor. In a letter to Sir Charles Cotterel, after having mentioned her husband in the most respectful terms, and of his willingness to forward her journey to London, in order to settle his perplexed affairs, she adds "And I hope God will enable me to answer his expectations, by making me an instrument of doing some handsome service, which is the only ambition I have in the world, and which I would purchase with the hazard of my life. I am extreamly obliged to my lady Cork for remembering me with so much indulgence; for her great desire to be troubled with my company; but above all for her readiness to assist my endeavours for Antenor, which is the most generous kindness can be done me." As this lady was born with a genius for poetry, so she began early in life to improve it, and composed many poems on various occasions for her amusement, in her recess at Cardigan, and retirement elsewhere. These being dispersed among her friends and acquaintance, were by an unknown hand collected together, and published in 8vo. 1663, without her knowledge or consent. This accident is said to have proved so oppressive to our poetess, as to throw her into a fit of illness, and she pours out her complaints in a letter to Sir Charles Cotterel, in which she laments, in the most affecting manner, the misfortune and the injuries which had been done to her by this surreptitious edition of her Poems. That Mrs. Philips might be displeased that her Poems were published without her consent, is extremely probable, as by these means they might appear without many graces, and ornaments which they otherwise would have possessed; but that it threw her into a fit of illness, no body who reads the human heart can believe. Surreptitious editions are a sort of compliment to the merit of an author; and we are not to suppose Mrs. Philips so much a saint, as to be stript of all vanity, or that natural delight, which arises from the good opinion of others, however aukwardly it may be discovered; and we may venture to affirm, that Mrs. Philips's illness proceeded from some other cause, than what is here assigned. The reputation of her abilities procured her the esteem of many persons of distinction and fashion, and upon her going into Ireland with the viscountess of Duncannon, to transact her husband's affairs there, her great merit soon made her known to those illustrious peers, Ormond, Orrery, and Roscommon, and many other persons of the first fashion, who shewed her singular marks of their esteem. While Mrs. Philips remained in that kingdom, at the pressing importunity of the abovementioned noblemen, but particularly lord Roscommon, she translated, from the French of Corneille, the tragedy of Pompey, which was brought upon the Irish stage somewhat against her inclination; however it was several times acted in the new theatre there, with very great applause in the years 1663 and 1664, in which last year it was made public. It was afterwards acted with equal applause at the Duke of York's theatre, 1678. This play is dedicated to the Countess of Cork. Lord Roscommon wrote the Prologue, wherein he thus compliments the ladies and the translator. But you bright nymphs, give Cæsar leave to woo, The greatest wonder of the world, but you; And hear a muse, who has that hero taught To speak as gen'rously, as e'er he fought; Whose eloquence from such a theme deters All tongues but English, and all pens but hers. By the just fates your sex is doubly blest, You conquer'd Cæsar, and you praise him best. She also translated from the French of Corneille, a Tragedy called Horace; Sir John Denham added a fifth Act to this Play, which was acted at Court by Persons of Quality. The Duke of Monmouth spoke the Prologue, in which are these lines. So soft that to our shame we understand They could not fall but from a lady's hand. Thus while a woman Horace did translate, Horace did rise above the name of fate. While Mrs. Philips was in Ireland, she was happy in carrying on her former intimacy with the famous Jeremy Taylor, the bishop of Down and Connor, who had some time before done her much honour by writing, and publishing a Discourse on the Nature, Offices, and Measures of Friendship, with Rules for conducting it, in a letter addressed to her. It is probable that this prelate's acquaintance with so accomplished a lady as Mrs. Philips, might be one reason of his entertaining so high an opinion of the fair sex in general; it is certain he was a great admirer of them, by which the good sense, as well as piety, of that great man is demonstrated; for whoever has studied life, examined the various motives of human actions, compared characters, and, in a word, scrutinized the heart, will find that more real virtue, more genuine and unaffected goodness exist amongst the female sex, than the other, and were their minds cultivated with equal care, and did they move in the bustle of life, they would not fall short of the men in the acute excellences; but the softness of their natures exempts them from action, and the blushes of beauty are not to be effaced by the rough storms of adversity: that man is happy who enjoys in the conjugal state, the endearments of love and innocence, and if his wife is less acquainted with the world than he, she makes a large amends, by the artless blandishments of a delicate affection. We are persuaded our fair readers will not be displeased if we insert a paragraph from the discourse already mentioned by this worthy churchman; it appearing to be so sincere a tribute to their merit. 'But by the way, madam, you may see how I differ from the majority of those cynics, who would not admit your sex into the community of a noble friendship. I believe some wives have been the best friends in the world; and few stories can outdo the nobleness and piety of that lady, that sucked the poisonous purulent matter from the wounds of the brave Prince in the holy land, when an assassin had pierced him with a venomed arrow: and if it be told that women cannot retain council, and therefore can be no brave friends, I can best confute them by the story of Porcia, who being fearful of the weakness of her sex, stabbed herself in the thigh to try how she could bear pain; and finding herself constant enough to that sufferance, gently chid her Brutus for not trusting her, since now she perceived, that no torment could wrest that secret from her, which she hoped might be entrusted to her. If there were no more things to be said for your satisfaction, I could have made it disputable, which have been more illustrious in their friendship, men or women. I cannot say that women are capable of all those excellencies by which men can oblige the world, and therefore a female friend, in some cases, is not so good a counsellor as a wise man, and cannot so well defend my honour, nor dispose of relief and assistances, if she be under the power of another; but a woman can love as passionately, and converse as pleasantly, and retain a secret as faithfully, and be useful in her proper ministries, and she can die for her friend, as well as the bravest Roman knight; a man is the best friend in trouble, but a woman may be equal to him in the days of joy: a woman can as well increase our comforts, but cannot so well lessen our sorrows, and therefore we do not carry women with us when we go to fight; but in peaceful cities and times, women are the beauties of society, and the prettinesses of friendship, and when we consider that few persons in the world have all those excellences by which friendship can be useful, and illustrious, we may as well allow women as men to be friends; since they have all that can be necessary and essential to friendships, and those cannot have all by which friendships can be accidentally improved.' Thus far this learned prelate, whose testimony in favour of women is the more considerable, as he cannot be supposed to have been influenced by any particular passion, at least for Mrs. Philips, who was ordinary in her person and was besides a married lady. In the year 1663 Mrs. Philips quitted Ireland, and went to Cardigan, where she spent the remaining part of that, and the beginning of the next year, in a sort of melancholy retirement; as appears by her letters, occasioned, perhaps, by the bad success of her husband's affairs. Going to London, in order to relieve her oppressed spirits with the conversation of her friends there, she was seized by the smallpox, and died of it (in Fleet street,) to the great grief of her acquaintance, in the 32d year of her age, and was buried June 22, 1664, in the church of St. Bennet Sherehog[1], under a large monumental stone, where several of her ancestors were before buried. Mr. Aubrey in his manuscript abovementioned, observes, that her person was of a middle stature, pretty fat, and ruddy complexioned. Soon after her death, her Poems and Translations were collected and published in a volume in folio, to which was added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey and Horace, Tragedies; with several other Translations out of French, London 1667, with her picture, a good busto, before them, standing on a pedestal, on which is inscribed Orinda; it was printed again at London 1678. In a collection of Letters published by Mr. Thomas Brown, in 1697, are printed four Letters from Mrs. Philips to the Honourable Berenice. Many years after her death, were published a volume of excellent Letters from Mrs. Philips to Sir Charles Cotterel with the ensuing title, Letters from Orinda to Polliarchus, 8vo. London 1705. Major Pack, in his Essay on Study, inserted in his Miscellanies, gives the following character of these Letters; 'The best Letters I have met with in our English tongue, are those of the celebrated Mrs. Philips to Sir Charles Cotterel; as they are directed all to the same person, so they run all in the same strain, and seem to have been employed in the service of a refined and generous friendship. In a word, they are such as a woman of spirit and virtue, should write to a courtier of honour, and true gallantry.' The memory of this ingenious lady has been honoured with many encomiums. Mr. Thomas Rowe in his epistle to Daphne, pays the following tribute to her fame. At last ('twas long indeed!) Orinda came, To ages yet to come an ever glorious name; To virtuous themes, her well tun'd lyre she strung; Of virtuous themes in easy numbers sung. Horace and Pompey in her line appear, } With all the worth that Rome did once revere: } Much to Corneille they owe, and much to her. } Her thoughts, her numbers, and her fire the same, She soar'd as high, and equal'd all his fame. Tho' France adores the bard, nor envies Greece The costly buskins of her Sophocles. More we expected, but untimely death, Soon stopt her rising glories with her breath. More testimonies might be produced in favour of Mrs. Philips, but as her works are generally known, and are an indelible testimony of her merit, we reckon it superfluous. Besides the poetical abilities of the amiable Orinda, she is said to have been of a generous, charitable disposition, and a friend to all in distress. As few ladies ever lived more happy in her friends than our poetess, so those friends have done justice to her memory, and celebrated her, when dead, for those virtues they admired, when living. Mr. Dryden more than once mentions her with honour, and Mr Cowley has written an excellent Ode upon her death. As this Ode will better shew the high opinion once entertained of Mrs. Philips, than any thing we can say, after giving a specimen of her poetry, we shall conclude with this performance of Cowley's, which breathes friendship in every line, and speaks an honest mind: so true is the observation of Pope, upon the supposition that Cowley's works are falling into oblivion, Lost is his epic, nay, pindaric art, But still I love the language of his heart. Mrs. Philips's poetry has not harmony of versification, or amorous tenderness to recommend it, but it has a force of thinking, which few poets of the other sex can exceed, and if it is without graces, it has yet a great deal of strength. As she has been celebrated for her friendship, we shall present the reader with an Ode upon that subject, addressed to her dearest Lucasia. I. Come my Lucasia, since we see That miracles men's faith do move By wonder, and by prodigy; To the dull angry world lets prove There's a religion in our love. II. For tho' we were designed t'agree, That fate no liberty destroys, But our election is as free As angels, who with greedy choice Are yet determined to their joys. III. Our hearts are doubled by the loss, Here mixture is addition grown; We both diffuse, and both engross: And we whose minds are so much one, Never, yet ever are alone. IV. We court our own captivity, Than thrones more great and innocent: 'Twere banishment to be set free, Since we wear fetters whose intent Not bondage is, but ornament. V. Divided joys are tedious found, And griefs united easier grow: We are ourselves, but by rebound, And all our titles shuffled so, Both princes, and both subjects too. VI. Our hearts are mutual victims laid, While they (such power in friendship lies) Are altars, priests, and offerings made: And each heart which thus kindly dies, Grows deathless by the sacrifice. On the DEATH of Mrs. PHILIPS. I. Cruel disease! ah, could it not suffice, Thy old and constant spite to exercise Against the gentlest and the fairest sex, Which still thy depredations most do vex? Where still thy malice, most of all (Thy malice or thy lust) does on the fairest fall, And in them most assault the fairest place, The throne of empress beauty, ev'n the face. There was enough of that here to assuage, (One would have thought) either thy lust or rage; Was't not enough, when thou, profane disease, Didst on this glorious temple seize: Was't not enough, like a wild zealot, there, All the rich outward ornaments to tear, Deface the innocent pride of beauteous images? Was't not enough thus rudely to defile, But thou must quite destroy the goodly pile? And thy unbounded sacrilege commit On th'inward holiest holy of her wit? Cruel disease! there thou mistook'st thy power; No mine of death can that devour, On her embalmed name it will abide An everlasting pyramide, As high as heav'n the top, as earth, the basis wide. II. All ages past record, all countries now, In various kinds such equal beauties show, That ev'n judge Paris would not know On whom the golden apple to bestow, Though goddesses to his sentence did submit, Women and lovers would appeal from it: Nor durst he say, of all the female race, This is the sovereign face. And some (tho' these be of a kind that's rare, That's much, oh! much less frequent than the fair) So equally renown'd for virtue are, That is the mother of the gods might pose, When the best woman for her guide she chose. But if Apollo should design A woman Laureat to make, Without dispute he would Orinda take, Though Sappho and the famous nine Stood by, and did repine. To be a Princess or a Queen Is great; but 'tis a greatness always seen; The world did never but two women know, Who, one by fraud, th'other by wit did rise To the two tops of spiritual dignities, One female pope of old, one female poet now. III. Of female poets, who had names of old, Nothing is shown, but only told, And all we hear of them perhaps may be Male-flatt'ry only, and male-poetry. Few minutes did their beauties light'ning waste, The thunder of their voice did longer last, But that too soon was past. The certain proofs of our Orinda's wit, In her own lasting characters are writ, And they will long my praise of them survive, Though long perhaps too that may live, The trade of glory manag'd by the pen Though great it be, and every where is found. Does bring in but small profit to us men; 'Tis by the number of the sharers drown'd. Orinda on the female coasts of fame, Ingrosses all the goods of a poetic name. She does no partner with her see, Does all the business there alone, which we Are forc'd to carry on by a whole company. IV. But wit's like a luxuriant vine; Unless to virtue's prop it join, Firm and erect towards Heav'n bound; Tho' it with beauteous leaves and pleasant fruit be crown'd, It lyes deform'd, and rotting on the ground. Now shame and blushes on us all, Who our own sex superior call! Orinda does our boasting sex out do, Not in wit only, but in virtue too. She does above our best examples rise, In hate of vice, and scorn of vanities. Never did spirit of the manly make, And dipp'd all o'er in learning's sacred lake, A temper more invulnerable take. No violent passion could an entrance find, Into the tender goodness of her mind; Through walls of stone those furious bullets may Force their impetuous way, When her soft breast they hit, damped and dead they lay. V. The fame of friendship which so long had told Of three or four illustrious names of old, 'Till hoarse and weary with the tale she grew, Rejoices now t'have got a new, A new, and more surprizing story, Of fair Leucasia's and Orinda's glory. As when a prudent man does once perceive That in some foreign country he must live, The language and the manners he does strive To understand and practise here, That he may come no stranger there; So well Orinda did her self prepare, In this much different clime for her remove, To the glad world of poetry and love. Footnote: 1. Ballard's Memoirs. * * * * * MARGARET, Duchess of NEWCASTLE, The second wife of William Cavendish, duke of Newcastle, was born at St. John's near Colchester in Essex, about the latter end of the reign of King James I. and was the youngest daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, a gentleman of great spirit and fortune, who died when she was very young. The duchess herself in a book intitled Nature's Pictures, drawn by Fancy's pencil to the life, has celebrated both the exquisite beauty of her person, and the rare endowments of her mind. This lady's mother was remarkably assiduous in the education of her children, and bestowed upon this, all the instructions necessary for forming the minds of young ladies, and introducing them into life with advantage. She found her trouble in cultivating this daughter's mind not in vain, for she discovered early an inclination to learning, and spent so much of her time in study and writing, that some of her Biographers have lamented her not being acquainted with the learned languages, which would have extended her knowledge, corrected the exuberances of genius, and have been of infinite service to her, in her numerous compositions. In the year 1643 she obtained leave of her mother to go to Oxford, where the court then resided, and was made one of the Maids of Honour to Henrietta Maria, the Royal Consort of King Charles I. and when the Queen was forced to leave the arms of her Husband, and fly into France, by the violence of the prevailing power, this lady attended her there. At Paris she met with the marquis of Newcastle, whose loyalty had likewise produced his exile; who, admiring her person and genius, married her in the year 1645. The marquis had before heard of this lady, for he was a patron and friend of her gallant brother, lord Lucas, who commanded under him in the civil wars. He took occasion one day to ask his lordship what he could do for him, as he had his interest much at heart? to which he answered, that he was not sollicitous about his own affairs, for he knew the worst could be but suffering either death, or exile in the Royal cause, but his chief sollicitude was for his sister, on whom he could bestow no fortune, and whose beauty exposed her to danger: he represented her amiable qualities, and raised the marquis's curiosity to see her, and from that circumstance arose the marquis's affection to this lady. From Paris they went to Rotterdam, where they resided six months: from thence they returned to Antwerp, where they settled, and continued during the time of their exile, as it was the most quiet place, and where they could in the greatest peace enjoy their ruined fortune. She proved a most agreeable companion to the marquis, during the gloomy period of exile, and enlivened their recess, both by her writing and conversation, as appears by the many compliments and addresses he made her on that occasion. The lady undertook a voyage into England, in order to obtain some of the marquis's rents, to supply their pressing necessities, and pay the debts they had been there obliged to contract; and accordingly went with her brother to Goldsmith's Hall, where, it seems, the committee of sequestration sat, but could not obtain the smallest sum out of the marquis's vast inheritance, which, amounted to 20,000 l. per annum; and had it not been for the generosity and tenderness of Sir Charles Cavendish (who greatly reduced his own fortune, to support his brother in distress) they must have been exposed to extreme poverty. Having raised a considerable sum, by the generosity of her own, and the marquis's, relations, she returned to Antwerp, where she continued with her lord, till the restoration of Charles II, upon which, the marquis, after six years banishment, made immediate preparation for his return to his native country, leaving his lady behind him to dispatch his affairs there, who, having conducted them to his lordship's satisfaction, she soon followed her consort into England. Being now restored to the sunshine of prosperity, she dedicated her time to writing poems, philosophical discourses, orations and plays. She was of a generous turn of mind, and kept a great many young ladies about her person, who occasionally wrote what she dictated. Some of them slept in a room, contiguous to that in which her Grace lay, and were ready, at the call of her bell, to rise any hour of the night, to write down her conceptions, lest they should escape her memory. The young ladies, no doubt, often dreaded her Grace's conceptions, which were frequent, but all of the poetical or philosophical kind, for though she was very beautiful, she died without issue: she is said to have been very reserved and peevish, perhaps owing to the circumstance just mentioned, of having never been honoured with the name of mother. Mr. Jacob says, that she was the most voluminous writer of all the female poets; that she had a great deal of wit, and a more than ordinary propensity to dramatic poetry; and Mr. Langbaine tells us, that all the language and plots of her plays were her own, which, says he, is a commendation preferable to fame built on other people's foundation, and will very well atone for some faults in her numerous productions. As the Duchess is said to be negligent, in regard to chronology in her historical writings, so others have been equally remiss, in this respect, with regard to her Grace, for, among the many authors who have taken notice of her, not one has mentioned the year in which she died, and even her monumental inscription, where one might reasonably expect it, is silent, both in respect to her age, and the time of her death. But Mr. Fulman, in the 15th volume of his MS. collections in the Corpus Christi College Archives, observes, that she died in London Anno 1673, and was buried at Westminster, January 7, 1673-4, where an elegant monument is erected to her memory, of which, take the following account given by Dr. Crul in the Antiquities of that Church. 'Against the skreen of the chapel of St. Michael, is a most noble spacious tomb of white marble, adorned with two pillars of black marble, with entablatures of the Corinthian order, embellished with arms, and most curious trophy works; on the pedestal lye two images, in full proportion, of white marble in a cumbent posture, in their robes, representing William Cavendish, duke of Newcastle, and Margaret his duchess, his second and last wife, being the daughter of Sir Charles, and the sister of lord Lucas of Colchester; who as she had deservedly acquired the reputation of a lady of uncommon wit, learning, and liberality; so the duke her husband had rendered himself famous for his loyalty, and constant fidelity to the royal family, during the civil wars in this kingdom and in Scotland. The duke having caused this stately monument to be erected here to the memory of his lady, died soon after in the year 1676, aged 84, and was interred here.' The Epitaph for the Duchess. "Here lies the loyal Duke of Newcastle and his Duchess, his second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble family, for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Duchess was a wise, witty, and learned Lady, which her many books do well testify: She was a most virtuous, and loving, and careful wife, and was with her Lord all the time of his banishment and miseries; and when they came home never parted with him in his solitary retirements." The following is a catalogue of her works, in which we have taken pains to be as accurate as possible, in order to do justice to the poetical character of this lady. 1. The World's Olio. 2. Nature's Picture drawn by Fancy's Pencil to the Life. In this volume there are several feigned stories of natural descriptions, as comical, tragical, and tragi-comical, poetical, romancical, philosophical, and historical, both in prose and verse, some all verse, some all prose, some mixt; partly prose, and partly verse; also some morals, and some dialogues, Lond. 1656. folio. 3. Orations of different sorts, on different occasions, Lond. 1662. 4. Philosophical and Physical Opinions, 1633, folio. 5. Observations on Experimental Philosophy; to which is added, the Description of a New World. Mr. James Bristow began to translate some of these Philosophical Discourses into Latin. 6. Philosophical Letters; or modest Reflections on some Opinions in Natural Philosophy, maintained by several famous and learned authors of this age, expressed by way of letters, Lond. 1664, fol. 7. Poems and Fancies, Lond. 1664, folio. 8. Sociable Letters, 1664, folio. 9. The Life of the Duke of Newcastle her husband, which was translated into Latin, and is thought to be the best performance of this lady. 10. Observations of the Duke's, with Remarks of her own, In the Library of the late Mr. Thomas Richardson was the Duchess of Newcastle's poems, 2 Vol. fol. MS. and in the library of the late bishop Willis was another MS. of her poems in folio. Her Dramatic Works are, 1. Apocryphal Ladies, a Comedy; it is not divided into acts. 2. Bell in Campo, a Tragedy, in two parts. 3. Blazing World, a Comedy. 4. Bridals, a Comedy. 5. Comical Hash, a Comedy. 6. Convent of Pleasure, a Comedy. 7. Female Academy, a Comedy. 8. Lady Contemplation, a Comedy, in two parts. 9. Love's Adventure, in two parts, a Comedy. 10. Matrimonial Troubles, in two parts; the second being a Tragedy, or as the authoress stiles it, a Tragi-comedy. 11. Nature's three Daughters, Beauty, Love, and Wit, a Comedy, in two parts. 12. Presence, a Comedy. 13. Public Wooing, a Comedy, in which the Duke wrote several of the suitors speeches. 14. Religious, a Tragi-Comedy. 15. Several Wits, a Comedy. 16. Sociable Companions, or the Female Wits, a Comedy. 17. Unnatural Tragedy. Act II. Scene III. the Duchess inveighs against Mr. Camden's Britannia. 18. Wit's Cabal, a Comedy, in two parts. 19. Youth's Glory, and Death's Banquet, a Tragedy in two parts. Mr. Langbaine has preserved part of the general prologue to her plays, which we shall insert as a specimen of her versification: But noble readers, do not think my plays Are such as have been writ in former days; As Johnson, Shakespear, Beaumont, Fletcher writ, Mine want their learning, reading, language, wit. The Latin phrases, I could never tell, But Johnson could, which made him write so well. Greek, Latin poets, I could never read, Nor their historians, but our English Speed: I could not steal their wit, nor plots out-take; All my plays plots, my own poor brain did make. From Plutarch's story, I ne'er took a plot, Nor from romances, nor from Don Quixote. * * * * * WILLIAM CAVENDISH, Baron Ogle, viscount Mansfield, earl, marquis, and duke of Newcastle, justly reckoned one of the most finished gentlemen, as well as the most distinguished patriot, general, and statesman of his age. He was son of Sir Charles Cavendish, youngest son of Sir William Cavendish, and younger brother of the first earl of Devonshire, by Katherine daughter of Cuthbert lord Ogle[1]. He was born in the year 1592, and discovered in his infancy a promptness of genius, and a love of literature. His father took care to have him instructed by the best masters in every science. He no sooner appeared at the court of King James I. than the reputation of his abilities drew the attention of that monarch upon him, who made him a knight of the Bath 1610, at the creation of Henry Prince of Wales[2]. In 1617 his father died, who left him a great estate; and having interest at court, he was by letters patent, dated Nov. 3, 1620, raised to the dignity of a peer of the realm, by the stile and title of baron Ogle, and viscount Mansfield; and having no less credit with King Charles I. than he had with his father, in the third year of the reign of that prince, he was advanced to the higher title of earl of Newcastle upon Tyne, and at the same time he was created baron Cavendish of Balsovor. Our author's attendance upon court, tho' it procured him honour, yet introduced him very early into difficulties; and it appears by Strafford's letters, that he did not stand well with the favourite duke of Buckingham, who was jealous of his growing interest, and was too penetrating not to discover, that the quickness of his lordship's parts would soon suggest some methods of rising, independent of the favourite, and perhaps shaking his influence. "But these difficulties, says Clarendon, (for he was deeply plunged in debt) tho' they put him on the thoughts of retirement, never in the least prevented him from demonstrating his loyalty when the King's cause demanded it." Notwithstanding the earl's interest was not high with the ministers, yet he found means so to gain and to preserve the affection of his Majesty, that in the year 1638, when it was thought necessary to take the Prince of Wales out of the hands of a woman, his Majesty appointed the earl his governor, and by entrusting to his tuition the heir apparent of his kingdoms, demonstrated the highest confidence in his abilities and honour[3]. In the spring of the year 1639, the troubles of Scotland breaking out, induced the King to assemble an army in the North, soon after which he went to put himself at the head of it, and in his way was splendidly entertained by the earl at his seat at Welbeck, as he had been some years before when he went into Scotland to be crowned, which in itself, tho' a trivial circumstance, yet such was the magnificence of this noble peer, that both these entertainments found a place in general histories, and are computed by the duchess of Newcastle, who wrote the life of her lord, to have amounted to upwards of ten thousand pounds. He invited all the neighbouring gentry to pay their compliments to his Majesty, and partake of the feast, and Ben Johnson was employed in fitting such scenes and speeches as he could best devise; and Clarendon after mentioning the sumptuousness of those entertainments, observes, that they had a tendency to corrupt the people, and inspire a wantonness, which never fails to prove detrimental to morals. As such an expedition as the King's against the Scots required immense sums, and the King's treasury being very empty, his lordship contributed ten thousand pounds, and raised a troop of horse, consisting of about 200 knights and gentlemen, who served at their own charge, and was honoured with the title of the Prince's troop[4]. Tho' these instances of loyalty advanced him in the esteem of the King, yet they rather heightened than diminished the resentment of the ministers, of which the earl of Holland having given a stronger instance, than his lordship's patience could bear, he took notice of it in such a way, as contributed equally to sink his rival's reputation, and raise his own; and as there is something curious in the particular manner in which the earl of Holland's character suffered in this quarrel, we shall upon the authority of the duchess of Newcastle present it to the reader. The troop which the earl of Newcastle raised was stiled the Prince's, but his lordship commanded it as captain. When the army drew near Berwick, he sent Sir William Carnaby to the earl of Holland, then general of the horse, to know where his troop should march; his answer was, next after the troops of the general officers. The earl of Newcastle sent again to represent, that having the honour to march with the Prince's colours, he thought it not fit to march under any of the officers of the field; upon which the general of the horse repeated his orders, and the earl of Newcastle ordered the Prince's colours to be taken off the staff, and marched without any. When the service was over, his lordship sent Mr. Francis Palmer, with a challenge to the earl of Holland, who consented to a place, and hour of meeting; but when the earl of Newcastle came thither, he found not his antagonist, but his second. The business had been disclosed to the King, by whose authority (says Clarendon) the matter was composed; but before that time, the earl of Holland was never suspected to want courage; and indeed he was rather a cunning, penetrating, than a brave honest man, and was remarkably selfish in his temper. The earl of Newcastle however found himself hard pressed by the ministerial faction, and being unwilling to give his Majesty any trouble about himself, he was generous enough to resign his place as governor to the Prince, and the marquis of Hertford was appointed in his room. His lordship having no more business at court, and being unwilling to expose himself further to the machinations of his enemies, thought proper to retire to the country, where he remained quiet till he received his Majesty's orders to revisit Hull: Tho' this order came at twelve o'clock at night, yet such was his unshaken loyalty and affection, that he went directly, and tho' forty miles distant, he entered the place with only three or four servants early the next morning. He offered to his Majesty, says Clarendon, to have secured for him that important fortress, and all the magazines that were in it; but instead of receiving such a command, he had instructions sent him to obey the orders of the Parliament, who suspecting his principles not to be favourable to the schemes of opposition then engaged in, called him to attend the service of the house; and some disaffected members formed a design to have attacked him, but his character being unexceptionable, their scheme proved abortive, and he had leave to retire again into the country. This he willingly did, as he saw the affairs of state hastening to confusion and his country ready to be steeped in blood, and sacrificed to the fury of party. But when the opposition rose high, and it would have been cowardice to have remained unactive, he embraced the royal cause, accepted a commission for raising men, to take care of the town of Newcastle, and the four adjoining counties, in which he was so expeditious and successful, that his Majesty constituted him general of all the forces raised North of Trent; and likewise general and commander in chief of such as might be raised in the counties of Lincoln, Nottingham, Chester, Leicester, Rutland, Cambridge, Huntingdon, Norfolk, Suffolk, and Essex, with power to confer the honour of knighthood, coin money, print, and set forth such declarations as should seem to him expedient: of all which extensive powers, tho freely conferred, and without reserve, his lordship made a very sparing use; but with respect to the more material point of raising men, his lordship prosecuted it with such diligence, that in three months he had an army of eight thousand horse, foot, and dragoons, with which he marched directly into Yorkshire; and his forces having defeated the enemy at Pierce Bridge, his lordship advanced to York, where Sir Thomas Glenham, the governor, presented him with the keys, and the earl of Cumberland and many of the nobility resorted thither to compliment, and assist his lordship[5]. In the course of this civil war, we find the earl of Newcastle very successful in his master's service; he more than once defeated Sir Thomas Fairfax the general of the Parliament, and won several important forts and battles; for which his Majesty in gratitude for his services, by letters patent, dated the 27th of Oct. 1643, advanced him to the dignity of marquiss of Newcastle; and in the preamble of his patent, all his services (says Dugdale) are mentioned with suitable encomiums. In the year 1644, after Prince Rupert had been successful in raising the siege of York, and flushed with the prosperity of his arms, against the consent of the marquis, he risked the battle of Marston Moor, in which the marquis's infantry were cut to pieces. Seeing the King's affairs in these counties totally undone, he made the best of his way to Scarborough, and from thence with a few of the principal officers of his army took shipping for Hamburgh, and left his estates, which were valued at upwards of twenty thousand pounds per ann. to be plundered by the Parliament's forces. After staying six months at Hamburgh, he went by sea to Amsterdam, and from thence made a journey to Paris, where he continued for some time, and where, notwithstanding the vast estate he had when the civil war broke out, his circumstances were now so bad, that himself and his young wife, were reduced to pawn their cloaths for sustenance[6]. He removed afterwards to Antwerp, that he might be nearer his own country; and there, tho' under very great difficulties, he resided for several years, while the Parliament in the mean time levied vast sums upon his estate, insomuch that the computation of what he lost by the disorders of those times, tho' none of the particulars can be disproved, amount to an incredible sum; but notwithstanding all these severities of fortune, he never lost his spirit, and was often heard to say, that if he was not much mistaken, the clouds of adversity which then hung over his country, would be dispersed at last by the King's restoration; that rebellion would entangle itself in its own toils, and after an interval of havock and confusion, order would return once more by the restoration of an exiled Prince. Notwithstanding the hardships of an eighteen years banishment, in which he experienced variety of wretchedness, he retained his vigour to the last. He was honoured by persons of the highest distinction abroad, and Don John of Austria and several princes of Germany visited him[7]. But what comforted him most, was the company frequently of his young King, who in the midst of his sufferings bestowed upon him the most noble Order of the Garter. The gloomy period at last came to an end, and the marquis returned to his country with his sovereign; and by letters patent dated the 16th of March 1664, he was advanced to the dignity of earl of Ogle, and duke of Newcastle. He spent the evening of his days in a country retirement, and indulged himself in those studies, with which he was most affected. This noble person from his earliest youth was celebrated for his love of the muses, and was the great patron of the poets, in the reign of King Charles I. This propension has drawn on him, tho' very unjustly, the censure of some grave men. Lord Clarendon mentions it, with decency; but Sir Philip Warwick, in his history of the rebellion, loses all patience, and thinks it sufficient to ruin this great general's character, that he appointed Sir William Davenant, a poet, his lieutenant general of the ordnance, insinuating that it was impossible a man could have a turn for poetry, and a capacity for any thing else at the same time; in which observation, Sir Philip has given a convincing proof of his ignorance of poetry, and want of taste. The example of the glorious Sidney is sufficient to confute this historian; and did not Mr. Chillingworth combat with great success, though in other branches of literature, against the Papal church, by the dint of reason and argument, and at the same time served as engineer in the royal army with great ability[8]? The truth is, this worthy nobleman having himself a taste for the liberal arts, was always pleased to have men of genius about him, and had the pleasure to rescue necessitous merit from obscurity. Ben Johnson was one of his favourites, and he addressed to him some of his verses, which may be seen in his works. In the busy scenes of life it does not appear that this nobleman suffered his thoughts to stray so far from his employment, as to turn author; but in his exile, resuming his old taste of breaking and managing horses, (than which there cannot be a more manly exercise) he thought fit to publish his sentiments upon a subject of which he was perfectly master. The title is, The New Method for managing Horses, with cuts, Antwerp 1658. This book was first written in English, and afterwards translated into French, by his lordship's directions. This great man died in the possession of the highest honours and fairest reputation the 25th of December 1676, in the 84th year of his age. His grace was twice married, but had issue only by his first lady. His titles descended to his son, Henry earl of Ogle, who was the last heir male of his family, and died 1691, with whom the title of Newcastle in the line of Cavendish became extinct. In his exile he wrote two comedies, viz. The Country Captain, a Comedy, printed at Antwerp 1649, afterwards presented by his Majesty's servants at Black-Fryars, and very much commended by Mr. Leigh. Variety, a Comedy, presented by his Majesty's Servants at Black-Fryars, and first printed in 1649, and generally bound with the Country Captain; it was also highly commended in a copy of verses by Mr. Alexander Brome. He likewise has written The Humourous Lovers, a Comedy, acted by his royal highness's servants, Lond. 1677, 4to. This was received with great applause, and esteemed one of the best plays of that time. The Triumphant Widow; or, the Medley of Humours, a Comedy, acted by his royal highness's servants, Lond. 1677, 4to. which pleased Mr. Shadwell so well, that he transcribed a part of it into his Bury Fair, one of the most taking plays of that poet. Shadwell says of his grace, that he was the greatest master of wit, the most exact observer of mankind, and the most accurate judge of humour, that ever he knew. Footnotes: 1. Dugdale's Baron. vol. 2. 2. Dugdale vol. 2. p. 421. 3. Dugdale, ubi supra. 4. Rushworth's collection, vol. 1. p. 929. 5. Clarendon, p. 283. 6. Life of the D. of Newcastle, p. 56. 7. Ashmole's order of the garter. 8. See his life by Mr. des Maizeaux. * * * * * Sir JOHN BIRKENHEAD. Winstanley, in his short account of this gentleman, says, that they who are ignorant of his works, must plead ignorance of all wit and learning; but the truth is, though he made some figure in his time, yet it was not so considerable as to transmit his name with any lustre to posterity, and Winstanley has been too peremptory, in secluding those from wit, who should be ignorant of the fame of Birkenhead. This observation, however, excited us to a search after some particulars concerning him; for Winstanley himself has given very few, and closes his life in his usual way, with only informing the readers that he lived in such a reign. The best account we could find of him, is in the Athenæ Oxon. of Wood. Our author was son of Randal Birkenhead of Northwich in Cheshire, Sadler, and was born there; he became a servitor of Oriel College, under the tuition of Humphrey Lloyd, afterwards lord bishop of Bangor. He continued in the college till he was made bachelor of arts, and then becoming Amanuensis to Dr. Laud, afterwards archbishop of Canterbury, who, taking a liking to him for his ingenuity, did, by his diploma make him master of arts, An. 1639, and by his letters commendatory thereupon, he was elected probationer fellow of All-Souls College, in the year following. After the rebellion broke out, and the King set up his court at Oxford, our author was appointed to write the Mercurii Aulici, which being very pleasing to the loyal party, his Majesty recommended him to the electors, that they would chuse him moral philosophy reader; which being accordingly done, he continued in that office, with little profit from it, till 1648, at which time he was not only turned out thence, but from his fellowship, by the Presbyterian visitors. Afterwards, in this destitute situation, Wood observes, that he retired to London, and made shift to live upon his wits; having some reputation in poetry, he was often applied to by young people in love, to write epistles for them, and songs, and sonnets on their mistresses: he was also employed in translating and writing other little things, so as to procure a tolerable livelihood. Having, in this manner, supported the gloomy period of confusion, he was, at his Majesty's restoration, by virtue of his letters, sent to the university, created doctor of the civil law, and in 1661 he was elected a Burgess for Wilton, to serve in that Parliament which began at Westminster the 8th of May, the same year. In 1662, November 14, he received the honour of knighthood, and January 1663 he was constituted one of the masters of requests, in the room of Sir Richard Fanshaw, when he went ambassador into Spain, he being then also master of the faculties, and a member of the Royal Society. An anonymous writer tells us, that Sir John Berkenhead was a poor alehouse-keeper's son, and that he rose by lying, or buffooning at court, to be one of the masters of requests, and faculty office, and also got by gifts at court 3000 l. This is a poor reflexion upon him, and indeed rather raises, than detracts from his reputation, for a man certainly must have merit, who can rise without the advantage of fortune or birth, whereas these often procure a fool preferment, and make him eminent, who might otherwise have lived and died in obscurity. It is said of Birkenhead, that when an unmannerly Member of Parliament, in opposing him, took occasion to say, that he was surprized to hear an alehouse-keeper's son talk so confidently in the House, he coolly replied, I am an alehouse-keeper's son, I own it, and am not ashamed of it, but had the gentleman, who upbraided me with my birth, been thus descended, in all probability he would have been of the same profession himself; a reply at once, sensible and witty. Mr. Wood, however, seems to be of opinion, that he was too much given to bantering, and that if he had thrown less of the buffoon or mimic into his conversation, his wit would have been very agreeable. He is charged by Wood with a higher failing, which ought indeed rather to be construed one of the blackest crimes, that is, ingratitude to those who assisted him in distress, whom, says he, he afterwards slighted. This is a heavy charge, and, if true, not a little diminishes his reputation, but methinks some apology may even be made for his slighting those who assisted him in distress; we find they were such persons as could never challenge esteem, young men in love, for whom he wrote sonnets, and for whom he might have no friendship; it often happens, that men of parts are so unhappy as to be obliged to such people, with whom, were their situation otherwise, it would be beneath them to associate; and it is no wonder when prosperity returns, that they, in some measure, forget obligations they owed to those of a rank so much inferior: and something must be allowed to that pride, which a superior understanding naturally inspires. Our author's works are Mercurius Aulicus. Communicating the Intelligence, and the Affairs of the Court at Oxford to the rest of the Kingdom, the first of these was published on the 1st of January, 1642, and were carried on till about the end of 1645, after which time they were published but now and then. They were printed weekly in one sheet, and sometimes in more, in 4to, and contain, says Wood, a great deal of wit and buffoonery. News from Pembroke and Montgomery, or Oxford Manchestered, &c. printed in 1648 in one sheet 4to. It is a feigned speech, as spoken by Philip, earl of Pembroke, in the Convocation House at Oxford, April 12, 1648, when he came to visit, and undo the University, as Edward, Earl of Manchester had done that of Cambridge, while he was Chancellor thereof. It is exceeding waggish, and much imitating his Lordship's way of speaking. Paul's Church-yard; Libri Theologici, Politici, Historici, mundinis Paulinis (una cum Templo) prostant venales, &c. printed in three several sheets in 4to. Anno 1649. These Pamphlets contain feigned Titles of Books, and Acts of Parliaments, and several Questions, all reflecting on the Reformers, and Men in those times. The Four Legg'd Quaker, a Ballad, to the Tune of the Dog and Elders Maid, London 1659, in three columns in one side of a sheet of paper. A New Ballad of a famous German Prince, without date. The Assembly Man, written 1647, London 1663, in three sheets in 4to. The copy of it was taken from the author by those that said they could not rob, because all was theirs; at length after it had slept several years, the author published it to avoid false copies; it is also printed in a Book entitled Wit and Loyalty Revived, in a Collection of some smart Satires in Verse and Prose, on the late times, London 1682, said to be written by Cowley, our Author, and the famous Butler; he hath also scattered Copies of Verses and Translations extant, to which are vocal Compositions, set by Henry Lawes, such as Anacreon's Ode, called The Lute. An Anniversary on the Nuptial of John, Earl of Bridgwater. He has also wrote a Poem on his staying in London, after the Act of Banishment for Cavaliers, and another called the Jolt, made upon Cromwel's being thrown off the Coach-box of his own Coach, which he would drive through Hyde Park, drawn by six German Horses, sent him as a present by the Count of Oldenburgh, while his Secretary John Thurloe sat in the Coach, July 1654. Our author died within the Precincts of Whitehall, in the year 1679, and was buried in the Church-yard of St. Martin's in the Fields, leaving behind him a collection of Pamphlets, which came into the hands of his executors, Sir Richard Mason, and Sir Muddeford Bramston. * * * * * ROGER BOYLE, Earl of ORRERY, Was younger brother of Richard earl of Burlington and Cork, and fifth son of Richard, stiled the great earl of Cork. He was born April 25, 1621, and independent of the advantage of his birth and titles, was certainly one of the ablest politicians, as well as most accomplished noblemen of his age. By the influence of his father with lord deputy Faulkland, he was raised to the dignity of baron Broghill, in the kingdom of Ireland in 1628, when only seven years old[1]. He received his education at the college of Dublin, where he studied with so much diligence as gave great hopes of his future atchievements, and the rapid progress he made in erudition, induced his father to send him about 1636 to make the tour of France and Italy, under the care of one Mr. Marcomes, and in the company of lord Kynalmeaky, his elder brother; and this method the earl took to perfect all his sons, after they had gone through the course of a domestic education; and it is remarkable, that all his children travelled under the same gentleman's protection, who has no small honour reflected on him from his illustrious pupils. Upon his return from his travels, he found a war ready to break out against the Scots, and was pressed by the earl of Northumberland, the commander in chief of the expedition, to share in reducing them; but this commotion subsiding, his lordship employed himself another way. By his father's desire, who loved to settle his children early in the world, he married lady Margaret Howard, daughter to the earl of Suffolk, and setting out for Ireland, landed there the very day the rebellion broke out, viz. Oct. 23, 1641. The post assigned him in this time of danger, was the defence of his father's castle of Lismore; in which he gave proofs of the most gallant spirit, as well as political conduct: The first of which he shewed in the vigorous sally he made to the relief of Sir Richard Osborn, who was besieged in his own house by the rebels, till relieved by lord Broghill, who raised the siege, and saved him and all his family[2]; and a strong proof of the latter, by advising Sir William St. Leger, then president of Munster, to act vigorously against the Irish, notwithstanding they produced the King's commission, which he was penetrating enough to discern to be a forgery. After the cessation in Ireland, lord Broghill came to Oxford, then the residence of King Charles I. and paid his duty to that monarch, and was honoured with many private audiences, when he represented to his Majesty, the temper and disposition of the Irish Papists, and the falshood of the pretended Committee they had sent over to mislead his Majesty, that the King was convinced the Irish never meant to keep the cessation, and that therefore it was not the interest of the English subjects to depend upon it. Now that we have mentioned the Irish Papists, one thing must not be omitted, as it is both curious in itself, and reflects honour on lord Broghill. Many years after the reduction of these rebels, his lordship, who was then earl of Orrery, happened to pay a visit to the duke of Ormond at Kilkenny, where he met with lord Muskerry, who headed the insurrection, and produced a false commission for what he did. Finding Muskerry in an open good humour, he took occasion to retire with him, and to ask him in a pleasant manner, how he came by that commission which had so much the appearance of being genuine: 'Lord Muskerry answered, I'll be free, and unreserved with you, my lord; it was a forged commission drawn up by one Walsh, a lawyer, and others; who having a writing to which the Great Seal was affixed, one of the company very dextrously took off the sealed wax from the label of that writing, and fixed it to the label of the forged commission. Whilst this was doing another accident happened, which startled all present; and almost disconcerted the scheme. The forged commision being finished, while the parchment was handling and turning, in order to put on the seal, a tame wolf which lay asleep by the fire, awakened at the crackling of the parchment, and running to it, seized it, and tore it to pieces, notwithstanding their haste and struggle to prevent him; so that after all their pains, they were obliged to begin a new, and write it all over again.'[3] Lord Orrery struck with the daring wickedness of this action, could not help expressing himself to that effect, while Muskerry replied merrily, it would have been impossible to have kept the people together without this device. 'Till the death of King Charles I. we find lord Broghill warm in the royal interest, and that he abhorred those measures which he foresaw would distract his country; and as soon as that melancholy event happened, he quitted his estate[4] as ruined past all hopes, and hid himself in the privacy of a close retirement. How he came, afterwards to alter his conduct, and join with a party he before so much abhorred, we shall endeavour to shew. Upon his lordship's coming from Ireland, he withdrew to Marston in Somersetshire, where he had leisure to reflect on the ruined state of the Kingdom[5]; and when he revolved in his mind its altered and desperate situation, he was ashamed to think that he should remain an idle spectator of his country's miseries, being of a different opinion from Mr. Addison: 'That when vice prevails, and wicked men bear sway, the post of honour is a private station.' These reflexions roused him to action, and produced a scheme worthy of himself. He resolved to attempt something in favour of the King; and accordingly under the pretence of going to the Spa for his health, he determined to cross the seas, and apply to Charles II. for a commission to raise forces in Ireland, in order to restore his Majesty, and recover his own estate. Having formed this resolution, he desired the earl of Warwick, who had an interest with the prevailing party, to procure a licence for him to go to the Spa. He communicated his scheme to some confirmed royalists, in whom he thought he could confide, and having rais'd a considerable sum of money, he came up to London to prosecute his voyage. Lord Broghil[l], however, was betrayed, and the committee, who then took upon them the government of the realm, threatened him with destruction. Cromwell interceeded, and being sensible of his lordship's great abilities, obtained a permission to talk privately with him before they proceeded to extremities. Cromwell waited upon Broghill, and reproached him gently for his intention, which his lordship denied; but Cromwell producing letters of his writing to several Royalists, in whom he confided, he found it was in vain to dissemble any longer. The General then told him, that he was no stranger to his merit, tho' he had never before seen him; and that as the reduction of Ireland was intrusted to him, he had authority from the Committee to offer his lordship a command in that war, and insisted upon his answer immediately, as the Committee were then sitting, and waiting his return. Lord Broghill was infinitely surprized at so generous and unexpected an offer from Cromwell: He thought himself at liberty, by all the rules of honour to serve against the Irish, whose cruelty and rebellion were equally detested by the royal party, as by the Parliament; and his life and freedom being in danger if he refused, he accepted the commission, and immediately repaired to Bristol to wait there till forces should be sent him. This story we have from Mr. Morrice, who heard it from lord Orrery himself; and he adds, that it is very probable his lordship's design was betrayed out of pure love and affection by his sister Ranelagh, but how this love and affection enabled her to foresee that Cromwell would interpose to remove the danger which she exposed him to, is left by the reverend author unaccounted for. Ever after this interposition and friendly offer of Cromwell, we find gratitude binding lord Broghill to a faithfull service in his interest; and in the course of his ministry to Cromwell, he prevented many shameful acts of cruelty, which would have been otherwise perpetrated. No sooner had Broghill arrived in Ireland, but his old friends flocked round him, and demonstrated the great heig[h]th of popularity to which he had risen in that kingdom; nor did his accepting this new commission make him negligent of their interest, for he did all he could for the safety of their persons and estates. An opportunity soon presented in which he very remarkably distinguished himself. He engaged at Macroom (with two thousand horse and dragoons) a party of Irish, consisting of upwards of five thousand, whom he totally defeated, and took their general the titular bishop of Ross prisoner[6]. This battle was fought May 10, 1650. Lord Broghill offered the bishop his life, if he would order those who were in the castle of Carigdrog-hid to surrender, which he promised; but when he was conducted to the place, he persuaded the garrison to defend it to the last extremity. Upon this lord Broghill caused him to be hanged; (tho' Mr. Morrice says, the soldiers hanged him without orders) and then commanded his heavy artillery to be brought up, which astonished his own army exceedingly, they knowing he had not so much as a single piece of battering cannon. He caused, however, several large trees to be cut, and drawn at a distance by his baggage horses; the besieged judging by the slowness of their motion, they were a vast size, capitulated before they came up, as his lordship advised, threatening otherwise to give them no quarter. He relieved Cromwell at Clonmell, and assisted both him and his father-in-law Ireton in their expedition; but because he could not moderate the fury of one, and mitigate the cruelty of the other, he incurred the displeasure of both; and Ireton was heard to say, that neither he nor Cromwell could be safe while Broghill had any command. Notwithstanding the aversion of Ireton to his lordship, yet he took care not to remit any of his diligence in prosecuting the war, he marched to that general's assistance at the siege of Limerick, and by his conduct and courage was the means of that town's falling into the hands of the Commonwealth; and till Ireland was entirely reduced, he continued active in his commission. When Oliver rose to the dignity of Lord Protector, he sent for lord Broghill, merely to have his advice; and we are told by Oldmixon in his history of the Stewarts, that he then proposed to Cromwell to marry his daughter to King Charles II. and that as the Prince was then in distress abroad, he doubted not but his necessity would make him comply with the offer; he represented to the Protector the great danger to which he was exposed by the fickle humour of the English, who never doat long upon a favourite, but pull that man from eminence to day, whom they had but yesterday raised out of the dust; that this match would rivet his interest, by having the lawful prince so nearly allied to him; and perhaps his grandchild the indisputed heir of the crown. That he might then rule with more safety, nor dread either the violence of the Royalists, or the insidious enemies of his own government. Upon hearing this, Cromwell made a pause, and looking stedfastly in my lord's face, he asked him if he was of opinion, that the exiled prince could ever forgive his father's murderer; he answered as before, that his necessity was great, and in order to be restored to his crown, would even sacrifice his natural resentment to his own ease and grandeur; but Cromwell could not be induced to believe that ever Charles could pardon him. Whether lord Broghill was serious in this proposal cannot be determined; but if he was, it is certain, he had a mean opinion of Charles; to have capitulated upon any terms with Cromwell, would have been betraying the dignity of his birth, and his right to reign; but to have stooped so low, as to take to his arms a child of his, who had murdered his father, and driven him to his exile, would have been an instance of the most infamous meanness that ever was recorded in history; and all the blemishes of that luxurious Prince's character, and the errors of his reign collected, do not amount to any thing so base, as would have been those nuptials. In the year 1656 it was proposed to his lordship by the Protector to go down to Scotland, with an absolute authority, either because he suspected Monk, or was willing to give the people of that country some satisfaction, who complained of his severity; but he was very unwilling to receive the charge, and took it at last upon these conditions[7]: The first was: that he should be left to himself, and receive no orders; and the second, that no complaints should find credit, or procure directions in his absence; and the third, that he should be recalled in a year. He was very acceptable to the Scotch, and gained a great influence over them by speaking and acting with moderation. After his return, he was with Whitlock and Thurloe admitted into all the confidence that could be expected from a person in the Protector's circumstances; who if he had any chearful moments, spent them in their company, where he appeared quite another person than in the ordinary course of his conduct, which was built on a policy suited to his condition, the people he had to deal with, and the critical juncture of the times. Our author stood high in Cromwell's favour to the last; and it was, no doubt, in some measure owing to his gratitude, that he attached himself so firmly to his son and successor Richard. It perhaps will appear strange, but it is supported by evidence, that Cromwell did not love his own family so well as lord Broghill did. Being asked upon his death-bed whom he appointed his successor, he answered, "That in such a closet his will would be found," in which he named Fleetwood, but one of the Protector's daughters getting first to the drawer, she took the will and destroyed it[8]. Thus Richard against his father's intention obtained the government, which, however, it is very plain he was not fit to hold; for all the art and industry of Broghill could never so govern his proceedings, but that some steps either too violent or too remiss were taken, by which his administration fell into contempt; and doubtless the reason why Cromwell excluded his son, was, that he discovered his weakness, and found him without a capacity of reigning. When the oppression of committees, the general distraction amongst the people, and the anarchy into which the English affairs had fallen, began to point towards a restoration, we find lord Broghill declaring early for the King, going over into Ireland, there sounding the minds of the officers, and preparing that kingdom for the reception of his Majesty with open arms. Thus we have seen him discharge with honour the debt of gratitude he owed to Cromwell; but notwithstanding the figure he made in the service, it is by no means clear that ever he was warmly attached to the republic; he was detected in having drank the King's health in company with the Protector's children, which Oliver very prudently thought proper to pass over. After the restoration, Broghill wanted not enemies, who insinuated things against him to King Charles, and blamed his tardiness in procuring his Majesty's return; but his lordship made it clear, that he was the first who declared for him in Ireland, and the most zealous, as well as the most powerful promoter of his interest. His Majesty was so well satisfied with his lordship's proceedings, that he wrote to him with his own hand, and thanked him for his loyalty[9]. On September 5, 1660, as an incontested proof of his Majesty's affection for his lordship, he by letters patent advanced him to the honour of earl of Orrery in the county of Cork[10]; and Sir Maurice Eustace, a friend of the duke of Ormond's, being appointed chancellor, Roger earl of Orrery, and Charles Coote, earl of Montrath, were with him made lords justices, about the close of that memorable year. From that time till his death we find lord Orrery in the highest esteem in the three nations: He was employed by his Majesty to confer with the earl of Clarendon, whose imperious steps, it seems, had highly disobliged his master, and when that great man fell, the King made an offer of the seals to the earl of Orrery, who on account of his want of bodily vigour, declined it. At the same time he accepted a most arduous and unpleasing office from the King, and that was, to expostulate with the duke of York, and bring him to ask pardon for the haughty and insolent measures he took in supporting the chancellor. His Majesty warmly pressed him to become a favourer of the French alliance, and for the reduction of the Dutch; neither of which were at all agreeable to his notions, and therefore that he might more concisely express the mischievous consequences he apprehended from these measures, he reduced his thoughts into a poem; and this was very well received by the King, who thought to have made some impression on him, in his turn, in a long audience he gave him for that purpose; but the earl's duty would not permit him to coincide in his opinion with the King, when he was sensible that the King's scheme was contrary to the interest of the nation; and this led him in plain terms to declare, that he never would concur in counsels to aggrandize France, which was already too great; or to break the power of the Dutch, which was barely sufficient for their own defence[11]. There is a particular circumstance in relation to this affair, which must not be omitted. When lord Orrery came from the audience of his Majesty, he was met by the earl of Danby, who asked him, whether he had closed with the King's proposals; to which lord Orrery answered, no. Then replied the other statesman, "Your lordship may be the honester man, but you will never be worth a groat." This passage is the more remarkable, because Danby was of the same opinion with Orrery, and temporized purely for the sake of power, which cost him afterwards a long imprisonment, and had very near lost him his life: So dear do such men often pay for sacrificing honour to interest. In the year 1679, Oct. 16, this great statesman died in the full possession of honours and fame: he had lived in the most tumultuous times; he had embarked in a dangerous ocean, and he had the address to steer at last to a safe haven. As a man, his character was very amiable; he was patient, compassionate, and generous; as a soldier, he was of undaunted courage; as a statesman, of deep penetration, and invincible industry; and as a poet, of no mean rank. Before we give an account of his works, it will not be amiss, in order to illustrate the amiable character of lord Orrery, to shew, that tho' he espoused the Protector's interest, yet he was of singular service to the nation, in restraining the violence of his cruelty, and checking the domineering spirit of those slaves in authority, who then called themselves the legislature. The authors of the Biographia Britannica, say, 'that our author opposed in Parliament, and defeated, the blackest measure Cromwell ever entered into, which was the passing a law for decimating the royal party, and his lordship's conduct in this, was by far the greatest action of his whole life. He made a long and an elaborate speech, in which he shewed the injustice, cruelty, and folly, of that truly infamous and Nero-like proposition. Finding that he was likely to lose the question upon the division, which probably would have issued in losing his life also; he stood up and boldly observed, "That he did not think so many Englishmen could be fond of slavery." 'Upon which so many members rose and followed him, that the Speaker without telling, declared from the chair the Noes have it, and the bill was accordingly thrown out. Upon this, he went immediately up to Cromwell, and said, "I have done you this day as great a service as ever I did in my life. How? returned Cromwell; by hindring your government, replied my lord, from becoming hateful, which already begins to be disliked; for if this bill had passed, three kingdoms would have risen up against you; and they were your enemies, and not your friends who brought it in." 'This Cromwell so firmly believed, that he never forgave nor trusted them afterwards.' King Charles II. put my lord upon writing plays, which he did, upon the occasion of a dispute that arose in the Royal presence, about writing plays in rhime. Some affirmed, that it was to be done, others that it would spoil the fancy to be so confined; but lord Orrery was of another opinion, and his Majesty being willing, that a trial should be made, laid his commands on his lordship, to employ some of his leisure time that way, which his lordship readily complied with, and soon after composed the Black Prince. It is difficult to give a full and accurate account of this nobleman's compositions; for it must be owned, he was a better statesman than a poet, and fitter to act upon the wide theatre of life, than to write representations for the circumscribed theatre of the stage. In the light of an author he is less eminent, and lived a life of too much hurry to become proficient in poetry, a grace which not only demands the most extensive abilities, but much leisure and contemplation. But if he was not extremely eminent as a poet, he was far removed above contempt, and deserves to have full mention made of all his writings; and we can easily forgive want of elegance and correctness in one who was of so much service to his country, and who was born rather to live than to write a great part. According to the least exceptionable account, his works are as follow: 1. The Irish Colours displayed, in a reply of an English Protestant, to an Irish Roman Catholic, Lond. 1662, 4to. 2. An Answer to a scandalous Letter lately printed and subscribed be a Peter Walsh, procurator for the Secular and Romish priests of Ireland: This was the same infamous Walsh who forged the commisssion to act against the Protestants. In this letter his lordship makes a full discovery of the treachery of the Irish rebels, Dublin 1662, 4to. Lond. 1662, 4to. 3. A Poem on his Majesty's Restoration, presented by the earl himself to the King. 4. A Poem on the Death of the celebrated Mr. Abraham Cowley, Lond. 1667, fol. reprinted by Dr. Sprat, before his edition of Cowley's works; also reprinted and much commended by Mr. Budgel. 5. History of Henry V. a tragedy. Lond. 1668, fol. In this play Mr. Harris who played Henry, wore the Duke of York's coronation suit; and Betterton, who played Owen Tudor, by which he got reputation, wore the King's; and Mr. Liliston, to whom the part of the Duke of Burgundy was given, wore the Earl of Oxford's. 6. Mustapha the Son of Solyman the Magnificent, a Tragedy, Lond. 1667, fol. This play succeeded tollerably well. 7. The Black Prince, a Tragedy, Lond. 1672, fol. When this play was begun his lordship lay ill of the gout, and after he had finished two acts of it, he sent it to the King for his perusal, and at the same time told his Majesty, that while he laboured under that disorder, he had done these two acts; and perhaps would do no more till he was taken ill again; upon which his Majesty pleasantly said, that if it was not to be compleated till the return of the gout, he wished him a lusty fit of it[12]. 8. Tryphon, a Tragedy, Lond. 1672, fol. These four plays were collected, and printed in fol. 1690, and make the entire first volume of the new edition of the earl's Dramatic Works. 9. Parthenissa, a Romance, in three volumes, Lond. 1665, 4to. 1677, fol. This romance is divided into six parts, the last written at the desire of, and therefore dedicated to, her royal highness the Princess Henrietta Maria, Duchess of Orleans, sister to King Charles II. 10. A Dream. This poem has been before mentioned. In it, the genius of France is introduced, saying every thing the French ministers could insinuate to inveigle King Charles II. to endeavour at making himself arbitrary, or to deceive him into a mean and scandalous dependence on Lewis XIV. to all which the ghost of Charles I. is next brought in, giving reasons why the sole foundation of a Monarch's power, is the love and confidence of his people. 11. The Art of War, Lond. 1677, fol. This work he addresses to the King, in a large dedication, which was but the first part of what he intended upon the subject; and was so strangely received, that the second never appeared. 12. Poems on most of the festivals of the church. This work, tho' printed and published, was never finished by our author. It was written in the last year of his life, under much weakness of body; and Budgel observes, very justly, that his poetry in this composition runs low; and indeed his characteristical fault as a poet, is want of elevation. His posthumous works are these; 1. Mr. Anthony, a Comedy, 4to. Lond. 1692. 2. Guzman, a Comedy. 1693, 4to. upon a Spanish plot, and written in the Spanish manner. 3. Herod the Great, a Tragedy, Lond. 1694, 4to. 4. Altemira a Tragedy, brought upon the stage by Mr. Francis Manning 1702, dedicated to Lionel earl of Orrery, grandson to the author, with a prologue by lord viscount Bolingbroke. We may add to them his state letters, which have been lately published in one volume fol. The rest of his lordship's political papers perished in the flames, when his house at Charleville was burnt in the year 1690, by a party of King James's soldiers, with the duke of Berwick at their head. We shall give a specimen of his lordship's poetry from a speech in Altemira, in a scene between Altemira and her lover. ALTEM. I can forgive you all my Lycidor, But leaving me, and leaving me for war, For that, so little argument I find, My reason makes the fault look more unkind. LYCIDOR. You see my griefs such deep impressions give, I'd better die than thus afflicted live. Yet to those sorrows under which I groan, Can you still think it fit to add your own? ALTEM. 'Tis only you, have your own troubles wrought, For they alas! are not impos'd but sought; Did you but credit what you still profess, That I alone can make your happiness: You would not your obedience now decline, But end by paying it, your griefs and mine. Footnotes: 1. Earl of Cork's True Remembrance. 2. Morrice's Memoirs of E. Orrery, chap. 6. 3. Memoirs of the Earl of Orrery, p. 36. 4. Carte's Life of the Duke of Ormond. 5. Memoirs of the Interregnum, p. 133. 6. Cox's History of Ireland, vol. 2. part 2d. p. 16. 7. Thurloe's State Papers. 8. Morrice's Memoirs chap. 5. 9. Budgel's Memoirs of the family of the Boyles. 10. Collin's peerage, vol. iv. p. 26. 11. Love's Memoirs of the Earl of Orrery. 12. Memoirs of the Earl of Orrery. * * * * * RICHARD HEAD Was the son of a minister in Ireland, who being killed in the rebellion there in 1641, amongst the many thousands who suffered in that deplorable massacre, our author's mother came with her son into England, and he having, says Winstanley, been trained up in learning, was by the help of some friends educated at Oxford, in the same college where his father formerly had been a student; but as his circumstances were mean, he was taken away from thence, and bound apprentice to a bookseller in London, but his genius being addicted to poetry, before his time was expired, he wrote a piece called Venus Cabinet unlocked; and afterwards he married and set up for himself, in which condition, he did not long continue, for being addicted to gaming, he ruined his affairs. In this distress he went over to Ireland, and composed his Hic & Ubique, a noted comedy; and which gained him some reputation. He then returned to England, reprinted his comedy, and dedicated it to the duke of Monmouth, from whom he received no great encouragement. This circumstance induced him to reflect, that the life of an author was at once the most dissipated and unpleasing in the world; that it is in every man's power to injure him, and that few are disposed to promote him. Animated by these reflexions, he again took a house, and from author resumed his old trade of a bookseller, in which, no doubt he judged right; for while an author (be his genius and parts ever so bright) is employed in the composition of one book, a bookseller may publish twenty; so that in the very nature of things, a bookseller without oppression, a crime which by unsuccessful writers is generally imputed to them, may grow rich, while the most industrious and able author can arrive at no more than a decent competence: and even to that, many a great genius has never attained. No sooner had Mr. Head a little recovered himself, than we find him cheated again by the syren alurements of pleasure and poetry, in the latter of which, however, it does not appear he made any proficiency. He failed a second time, in the world, and having recourse to his pen, wrote the first part of the English Rogue, which being too libertine, could not be licensed till he had expunged some of the most luscious descriptions out of it. Mr. Winstanley, p. 208, has informed us, that at the coming out of this first part, he was with him at the Three Cup tavern in Holborn drinking a glass of Rhenish, and made these verses upon him, What Gusman, Buscan, Francion, Rablais writ, I once applauded for most excellent wit; But reading thee, and thy rich fancy's store, I now condemn what I admir'd before. Henceforth translations pack away, be gone, No Rogue so well writ, as the English one. We cannot help observing, that Winstanley has a little ridiculously shewn his vanity, by informing the world, that he could afford to drink a glass of Rhenish; and has added nothing to his reputation by the verses, which have neither poetry nor wit in them. This English Rogue, described in the life of Meriton Latroon, a witty extravagant, was published anno 1666, in a very large 8vo. There were three more parts added to it by Francis Kirkman and Mr. Head in conjunction. He also wrote Jackson's Recantation; or the Life and Death of a notorious highwayman, then hanging in chains at Hamstead, 1674. Proteus Redivivus; or, the Art of wheedling, Lond. 1675. The Floating Island; or a voyage from Lambethanio to Ramalia. A Discovery of Old Brazil. The Red Sea. He wrote a Pamphlet against Dr. Wild, in answer to Wild's letter directed to his friend, upon occasion of his Majesty's declaration for liberty of conscience: This he concludes in the following manner, by which it will be seen that he was but a poor versifier. Thus, Sir, you have my story, but am sorry (Taunton excuse) it is no better for ye, However read it, as your pease are shelling; For you will find, it is not worth the telling. Excuse this boldness, for I can't avoid Thinking sometimes you are but ill employ'd. Fishing for souls more fit, than frying fish; That makes me throw pease-shellings in your dish. You have a study, books wherein to look, How comes it then the Doctor turn'd a cook? Well Doctor Cook, pray be advised hereafter, Don't make your wife the subject of our laughter. I find she's careless, and your maid a slut, To let you grease your Cassock for your gut. You are all three in fault, by all that's blest; Mend you your manners first, then teach the rest. Mr. Winstanley says, that our author met with a great many afflictions and crosses in his time, and was cast away at sea, as he was going to the Isle of Wight 1678. * * * * * THOMAS HOBBS. This celebrated philosopher was son of Thomas Hobbs, vicar of Westport, within the Liberty of Malmesbury, and of Charlton in Wilts, and was born at Westport on the 5th of April 1588[1]. It is related by Bayle, that his mother being frighted at the rumours of the report of the Spanish Armada, was brought to bed of him before her time, which makes it somewhat surprizing that he should live to so great an age. He had made an extraordinary progress in the languages before he arrived at his 14th year, when he was sent to Oxford, where he studied for five years Aristotle's philosophy. In the year 1607 he took the degree of batchelor of arts, and upon the recommendation of the principal of the college, he entered into the service of William Cavendish, baron Hardwicke, soon afterwards earl of Devonshire[2], by whom being much esteemed for his pleasantry and humour, he was appointed tutor to his son lord William Cavendish, several years younger than Hobbs. Soon after our author travelled with this young nobleman thro' France and Italy, where he made himself master of the different languages of the countries thro' which he travelled; but finding that he had in a great measure forgot his Greek and Latin, he dedicated his leisure hours to the revival of them, and in order to fix the Greek language more firmly in his mind, upon his return to England, he set about and accomplished a translation of Thucydides, who appeared to him preferable to all other Greek historians, and by rendering him into English he meant to shew his countrymen from the Athenian history, the disorders and confusions of a democratical government. In the year 1628, the earl of Devonshire dying, after our author had served him 20 years, he travelled again into France with a son of Sir Gervas Clifton; at which time, and during which preregrination (says Wood) 'he began to make an inspection into the elements of Euclid, and be delighted with his method, not only for the theorems contained in it, but for his art of reasoning. In these studies he continued till 1631, when his late pupil the earl of Devonshire called him home in order to undertake the education of his son, then only thirteen years of age, in all the parts of juvenile literature; and as soon as it was proper for him to see the world, Hobbs again set out for France and Italy, and directed his young pupil to the necessary steps for accomplishing his education. When our author was at Paris, he began to search into the fundamentals of natural science, and contracted an intimacy with Marius Marsennus a Minim, conversant in that kind of philosophy, and a man of excellent moral qualities. In 1637 he was recalled to England, but finding the civil war ready to break out, and the Scots in arms against the King, instigated by a mean cowardice, he deferred his country in distress, and returned to Paris, that he might without interruption pursue his studies there, and converse with men of eminence in the sciences. The Parliament prevailing, several of the Royalists were driven from their own country, and were obliged to take shelter in France. The Prince of Wales was reduced likewise to quit the kingdom and live at Paris: Hobbs was employed to teach the young Prince mathematics, in which he made great proficiency; and our author used to observe, that if the Prince's application was equal to the quickness of his parts, he would be the foremost man in his time in every species of science. All the leisure hours that Hobbs enjoyed in Paris, he dedicated to the composition of a book called, The Leviathan, a work by which he acquired a great name in Europe; and which was printed at London while he remained at Paris. Under this strange name he means the body politic. The divines of the church of England who attended King Charles II. in France, exclaimed vehemently against this performance, and said that it contained a great many impious assertions, and that the author was not of the royal party. Their complaints were regarded, and Hobbs was discharged the court; and as he had extremely provoked the Papists, he thought it not safe for him to continue longer in France, especially as he was deprived of the protection of the King of England. He translated his Leviathan into Latin, and printed it with an appendix in 1668. About ten years afterwards, the Leviathan was printed in Low Dutch. The character of this work is drawn as under, by bishop Burnet. 'His [Hobbs's] main principles were, that all men acted under an absolute necessity, in which he seemed protected by the then received doctrine of absolute decrees. He seemed to think that the universe was god, and that souls were material, Thought being only subtle and imperceptible motion. He thought interest and fear were the chief principles of society; and he put all morality in the following that which was our own private will or advantage. He thought religion had no other foundation than the laws of the land; and he put all the law in the will of the Prince, or of the people: For he writ his book at first in favour of absolute monarchy, but turned it afterwards to gratify the Republican party.' Upon his return to England, he lived retired at the seat of the earl of Devonshire, and applied himself to the study of philosophy; and as almost all men who have written any thing successfully would be thought poets, so Hobbs laid claim to that character, tho' his poetry is too contemptible for crit[i]cism. Dr. White Kennet in his memoirs of the family of Cavendish informs us, 'That while Mr. Hobbs lived in the earl of Devonshire's family, his professed rule was to dedicate the morning to his health, and the afternoon to his studies; and therefore at his first rising he walked out, and climbed any hill within his reach; or if the weather was not dry, he fatigued himself within doors, by some exercise or other till he was in a sweat, recommending that practice upon his opinion, that an old man had more moisture than heat; and therefore by such motion heat was to be acquired, and moisture expelled; after this he took a breakfast, and then went round the lodgings to wait upon the earl, the countess, and the children, and any considerable strangers, paying some short addresses to them all. He kept these rounds till about 12 o'clock, when he had a little dinner provided for him, which he eat always by himself without ceremony. Soon after dinner he retired into his study, and had his candle, with ten or twelve pipes of tobacco laid by him, then shutting the door he fell to smoaking and thinking, and writing for several hours.' He retained a friend or two at court to protect him if occasion should require; and used to say, it was lawful to make use of evil instruments to do ourselves good. 'If I were cast (said he) into a deep pit, and the Devil should put down his cloven foot, I should take hold of it to be drawn out by it.' Towards the end of his life he read very few books, and the earl of Clarendon says, that he had never read much but thought a great deal; and Hobbs himself used to observe, that if he had read as much as other philosophers, he should have been as ignorant as they. If any company came to visit him, he would be free of his discourse, and behave with pleasantry, till he was pressed, or contradicted, and then he had the infirmities of being short and peevish, and referring them to his writings, for better satisfaction. His friends who had the liberty of introducing strangers to him, made these terms with them before admission, that they should not dispute with the old man, or contradict him. In October 1666, when proceedings against him were depending, with a bill against atheism and profaneness, he was at Chatsworth, and appeared extremely disturbed at the news of it, fearing the messengers would come for him, and the earl of Devonshire would deliver him up, the two houses of Parliament commit him to the bishops, and they decree him a heretic. This terror upon his spirits greatly disturbed him. He often confessed to those about him, that he meant no harm, was no obstinate man, and was ready to make any satisfaction; for his prevailing principle and resolution was, to suffer for no cause whatever. Under these apprehensions of danger, he drew up, in 1680, an historical naration of heresy, and the punishments thereof, endeavouring to prove that there was no authority to determine heresy, or to punish it, when he wrote the Leviathan. Under the same fears he framed an apology for himself and his writings; observing, that the exceptionable things in his Leviathan were not his opinions, so much as his suppositions, humbly submited to those who had the ecclesiastical power, and never since dogmatically maintained by him either in writing or discourse; and it is much to be suspected, as Dr. Kennet observes, that upon this occasion, he began to make a more open shew of religion and church communion. He now frequented the chapel, joined in the service, and was generally a partaker of the sacrament; and when any strangers used to call in question his belief, he always appealed to his conformity in divine service, and referred them to the chaplain for a testimony of it. Others thought it a meer compliance with the orders of the family; and observed, he never went to any parish church, and even in the chapel upon Sundays he went out after prayers, and would not condescend to hear the sermon, and when any friend asked the reason of it, he gave no other answer but this, that preachers could tell him nothing but what he knew. He did not conceal his hatred to the clergy; but it was visible his aversion proceeded from the dread of their civil power and interest. He had often a jealousy that the bishops would burn him; and of all the bench he was most afraid of Dr. Seth Ward, bishop of Sarum, because he had most offended him. Dr. Kennet further observes, that his whole life was governed by his fears. In the first Parliament of 1640, while it seemed to favour the measures of the court, he wrote a little tract in English wherein he demonstrated as himself tells us, that all the power and rights necessary for the peace of the kingdom, were inseparably annexed to the sovereignty of the King's person. But in the second parliament of that year, when they proceeded fiercely against those who had written or preached in defence of the regal power; he was the first that fled, went over into France, and there continued eleven years. Whether from the dread of assassination, or as some have thought from the notion of ghosts and spirits, is uncertain, but he could not endure to be left in an empty house; whenever the earl of Devonshire removed, he would accompany him; even in his last stage from Chatsworth to Hardwick, when in a weak condition, he dared not be left behind, but made his way upon a feather bed in a coach, tho' he survived the journey but a few days. He could not bear any discourse of death, and seemed to cast off all thoughts of it; he delighted to reckon upon longer life. The winter before he died he had a warm coat made him, which he said must last him three years, and then he would have such another. A few days after his removal to Hardwick, Wood says that he was struck with a dead palsy, which stupified his right side from head to foot, depriving him of his speech and reason at the same time; but this circumstance is not so probable, since Dr. Kennet has told us, that in his last sickness he frequently enquired, whether his disease was curable; and when it was told him that he might have ease but no remedy, he used these expressions. 'I shall be glad then to find a hole to creep out of the world at;' which are reported to be his last sensible words, and his lying some days following in a state of stupefaction, seemed to be owing to his mind, more than to his body. The only thought of death which he appeared to entertain in time of health, was to take care of some inscription on his grave; he would suffer some friends to dictate an epitaph, amongst which he was best pleased with these words: "This is the true Philosopher's Stone." He died at Hardwick, as above-mentioned, on the 4th of Dec. 1679. Notwithstanding his great age, for he exceeded 90 at his death, he retained his judgment in great vigour till his last sickness. Some writers of his life maintain, that he had very orthodox notions concerning the nature of God and of all the moral virtues; notwithstanding the general notion of his being a downright atheist; that he was affable, kind, communicative of what he knew, a good friend, a good relation, charitable to the poor, a lover of justice, and a despiser of money. This last quality is a favourable circumstance in his life, for there is no vice at once more despicable and the source of more base designs than avarice. His warmest votaries allow, that when he was young he was addicted to the fashionable libertinism of wine and women, and that he kept himself unmarried lest wedlock should interrupt him in the study of philosophy. In the catalogue of his faults, meanness of spirit and cowardice may be justly imputed to him. Whether he was convinced of the truth of his philosophy, no man can determine; but it is certain, that he had no resolution to support and maintain his notions: had his doctrines been of ever so much consequence to the world, Hobbs would have abjured them all, rather than have suffered a moment's pain on their account. Such a man may be admired for his invention, and the planning of new systems, but the world would never have been much illuminated, if all the discoverers of truth, like the philosopher of Malmsbury, had had no spirit to assert it against opposition. In a piece called the Creed of Mr. Hobbs examined, in a feigned Conference between him and a Student of Divinity, London 1670, written by Dr. Tenison, afterwards archbishop of Canterbury, the Dr. charges Mr. Hobbs with affirming, 'that God is a bodily substance, though most refined, and forceth evil upon the very wills of men; framed a model of government pernicious in its consequences to all nations; subjected the canon of scripture to the civil powers, and taught them the way of turning the Alcoran into the Gospel; declared it lawful, not only to dissemble, but firmly to renounce faith in Christ, in order to avoid persecution, and even managed a quarrel against the very elements of Euclid.' Hobbs's Leviathan met with many answers, immediately after the restoration, especially one by the earl of Clarendon, in a piece called a Brief View and Survey of the dangerous and pernicious Errors to Church and State, in Mr. Hobbs's Book entitled Leviathan, Oxon. 1676. The university of Oxford condemned his Leviathan, and his Book de Cive, by a decree passed on the 21st of July 1638, and ordered them to be publickly burnt, with several other treatises excepted against. The following is a catalogue of his works, with as full an account of them as consists with our plan. He translated into English the History of the Grecian War by Thucydides, London 1628, and 1676 in fol. and since reprinted in two volumes in octavo. De Mirabilibus Pecci, a Latin Poem, printed at London 1636; it was translated into English by a person of quality, and the translation was published with the original at London 1678. Elementa Philosophica, seu Politica de Cive, id est, de Vita civili & politicâ prudenter instituendâ, Paris 1642 in 4to. Mr. Hobbs printed but a few copies of this book, and revised it afterwards, and made several additions to it, with which improvements it was printed at Amsterdam, under the direction of Monsieur Forbier, who published a French translation of it. Dr. John Bramhall, bishop of Derry in Ireland, in the Preface to his Book entitled a Defence of true Liberty, from an antecedent and extrinsical Necessity, tells us, 'that ten years before he had given Mr. Hobbs about sixty exceptions, one half political, and the other half theological to that book, and every exception justified by a number of reasons, to which he never yet vouchsafed any answer.' Gassendus, in a letter to Sorbiere, tells us, that our author's Book de Cive, deserves to be read by all who would have a deep insight into the subject. Puffendorf observes, that he had been much obliged to Mr. Hobbs, whose hypothesis in this book, though it favours a little of irreligion, is in other respects sufficiently ingenious and sound. An Answer to Sir William Davenant's Epistle or Preface to Gondibert, Paris 1650, 12mo. and afterwards printed with Gondibert. See Davenant. Human Nature, or the Fundamental Elements of Policy, being a Discovery of the Faculties, Acts, and Passions of the Soul of Man, from their original Causes, according to such philosophical Principles as are not commonly known or asserted. De Corpore Politico, or the Elements of Law, London 1650. Leviathan, or the Matter, Power, and Form of a Commonwealth, London 1651 in fol. reprinted again in fol. 1680; a Latin Version was published at Amsterdam 1666 in 4to; it was likewise translated into Low Dutch, and printed at Amsterdam 1678 in 4to. To the English editions is subjoined a Review of the Leviathan. A Compendium of Aristotle's Rhetoric and Rhamus's Logic. A Letter about Liberty and Necessity, London 1654 in 12mo. to this piece several answers were given, especially by Dr. Bernard Laney, and Dr. Bramhall, bishop of Derry, London 1656 in 4to. Elementorum Philosophiæ sectio prima de Corpore, London 1655 in 8vo; in English, London 1656 in 4to. sectio secunda, London 1657 in 4to. Amsterdam 1680 in 4to. Six Lessons to the Professors of Mathematics of the Institution of Sir Henry Saville, London 1656 in 4to; this is written against Dr. Seth Ward, and Dr. John Wallis. The Remarks of the Absurd Geometry, Rural Language, &c. of Dr. John Wallis, London 1657 in 8vo. Dr. Wallis having published in 1655 his Elenchus Geometriæ Hobbianæ. It occasioned a notable controversy between these two great men. Examinatio et Emendatio Mathematicæ hodiernæ, &c. in sex Dialogis, London 1660, in 4to. Amsterdam 1668 in 4to. Dialogus Physicus, sive de Natura Aeris, London 1661 in 4to. De Duplicatione Cubi, London 1661, 4to. Amsterdam 1668 in 4to. Problemata Physica, una cum magnitudine Circuli, London 1662, 4to. De Principiis et Ratiocinatione Geometrarum, contra sastuosum Professorem Geometræ, Amsterdam 1668 in 4to. Quadratura Circuli, Cubatio sphæræ, Duplicatio Cubi; una cum Responsione ad Objectiones Geometriæ Professoris Saviliani Oxoniæ editas Anno 1669, London in 4to. 1669. Rosetum Geometricum, sive Propositiones aliquot frustra antehac tentatæ, cum censura brevi Doctrinæ Wallisianæ de Motu, London 1671 in 4to. There is an account of this book in the Philosophical Transactions, Numb. 72, for the year 1671. Three Papers presented to the Royal Society against Dr. Wallis, with Considerations on Dr. Wallis's Answer to them, London 1671, 4to. Lux Mathematica &c. Censura Doctrinæ Wallisianæ de Libra. Rosetura Hobbesii, London 1672 in quarto. Principia et Problemata aliquot Geometrica ante desperata, nunc breviter explicata & demonstrata, London 1674, 4to. Epistola ad Dom. Ant. Wood Authorem Historiæ & Antiquitat Universit. Oxon. dated April 20, 1674; the substance of this letter is to complain of the figure which Mr. Wood makes him appear in, in that work; Hobbs, who had an infinite deal of vanity, thought he was entitled to higher encomiums, and more a minute relation of his life than that gentleman gave. An Answer was written to it by Dr. Fell, in which Hobbs is treated with no great ceremony. A Letter to William, Duke of Newcastle, concerning the Controversy he had with Dr. Laney, Bishop of Ely, about Liberty and Necessity, London 1670 in 12mo. Decameron Phisiologicum, or Ten Dialogues on Natural Philosophy, London 1678, 8vo. To this is added the Proportion of a Straight Line to hold the Arch of a Quadrant; an account of this book is published in the Philosophical Transactions, Numb. 138. His Last Words, and Dying Legacy, printed December 1679, and published by Charles Blunt, Esq; from the Leviathan, in order to expose Mr. Hobbs's Doctrine. His Memorable Sayings in his Books, and at the Table, printed with his picture before it. Behemoth, the History of the Civil Wars of England, from 1640 to 1660, printed London, 1679. Vita Thomæ Hobbs; this is a Latin Poem, written by himself, and printed in 4to, 1679. Historical Narration of Heresy, and the Punishment thereof, London 1680, in four sheets and a half in folio, and in 1682 in 8vo. of this we have already made some mention. Vita Thomæ Hobbs, written by himself in prose, and printed at Caropolis, i.e. London, and prefixed to Vitæ Hobbianæ Auctarium 1681 in 8vo. and 1682 in 4to. A Brief of the Art of Rhetoric, containing the Substance of all that Aristotle hath written in his three Books on that Subject, printed in 12mo. but without a date. A Dialogue between a Philosopher and a Student of the Common Law of England. An Answer to Archbishop Bramhall's Book called the Catching of the Leviathan, London 1682 in 8vo. Seven Philosophical Problems, and two Positions of Geometry, London 1682 in 8vo. dedicated to the King 1662. An Apology for himself and his Writings, of which we have already taken notice. Historia Ecclesiastica carmine elegiaco concinnata, London 1688 in 8vo. Tractatus Opticus, inserted in Mersennus's Cogitata Physico-Mathematica, Paris 1644 in 4to. He translated into English Verse the Voyages of Ulysses, or Homer's Odysseys. B. ix, x, xi, xii. London 1674 in 8vo. Homer's Iliads and Odysse[y]s, London 1675, and 1677 in 12mo; to which is prefixed a Preface concerning Heroic Poetry. Mr. Pope in his Preface to his Translation of Homer's Iliad, says, 'that Mr. Hobbs, in his Version, has given a correct explanation of the sense in general, but for particulars and circumstances, lops them, and often omits the most beautiful. As for its being a close translation, I doubt not, many have been led into that error by the shortness of it, which proceeds not from the following the original line by line, but from the contractions above mentioned. He sometimes omits whole similes and sentences, and is now and then guilty of mistakes, into which no writer of his learning could have fallen but through carelessness. His poetry, like Ogilby's, is too mean for criticism.' He left behind likewise several MSS. Mr. Francis Peck has published two original Letters of our author; the first is dated at Paris October 21, 1634, in which he resolves the following question. Why a man remembers less his own face, which he sees often in a glass, than the face of a friend he has not seen a great time? The other Letter is dated at Florence, addressed to his friend Mr. Glen 1636, and relates to Dr. Heylin's History of the Sabbath. Thus have we given some account of the life and writings of the famous Philosopher of Malmsbury, who made so great a figure in the age in which he lived, but who, in the opinion of some of the best writers of that time, was more distinguished for his knowledge than his morals, and there have not been wanting those who have declared, that the lessons of voluptuousness and libertinism, with which he poisoned the mind of the young King Charles II. had so great an effect upon the morals of that Prince, that our nation dearly suffered by this tutorage, in having its wealth and treasure squandered by that luxurious Monarch. Hobbs seems not to have been very amiable in his life; he was certainly incapable of true friendship, for the same cowardice, or false principle, which could instigate him to abandon truth, would likewise teach him to sacrifice his friend to his own safety. When young, he was voluptuous, when old, peevish, destitute alike of resolution and honour. However high his powers, his character is mean, he flattered the prevailing follies, he gave up virtue to fashion, and if he can be produced as a miracle of learning, he can never be ranked with those venerable names, who have added virtue to erudition, and honour to genius; who have illuminated the world by their knowledge, and reformed it by example. Footnotes: 1. Wood, ubi supra. 2. Athen. Oxon. p. 251. * * * * * Sir ASTON COKAINE, A gentleman who lived in the reign of Charles I. He was son of Thomas Cokaine, esq; and descended from a very ancient family at Ambourne in the Peak of Derbyshire; born in the year 1608, and educated at both the universities[1]. Mr. Langbaine observes, that Sir Aston's predecessors had some evidence to prove themselves allied to William the Conqueror, and in those days lived at Hemmingham Castle in Essex. He was a fellow-commoner at Trinity College in Cambridge, as he himself confesseth in one of his books. After he had left the university, he went to the Inns of Court, where continuing awhile for fashion's sake, he travelled afterwards with Sir Kenelm Digby into France, Italy, Germany, &c. and was absent the space of twelve years, an account of which he has written to his son[2], but it does not appear to have been printed. He lived the greatest part of his time in a lordship belonging to him called Pooley, in the parish of Polesworth in Warwickshire, and addicted himself much to books and the study of poetry. During the civil wars he suffered much for his religion, which was that of Rome, and the King's cause; he pretended then to be a baronet, created by King Charles I. after by violence he had been drawn from the Parliament, about June 10, 1641; yet he was not deemed so by the officers of the army, because no patent was enrolled to justify it, nor any mention of it made in the docquet books belonging to the clerk of the crown in Chancery, where all Patents are taken notice of which pass the Great Seal. Sir Aston was esteemed by some a good poet, and was acknowledged by all a great lover of the polite arts; he was addicted to extravagance; for he wasted all he had, which, though he suffered in the civil wars, he was under no necessity of doing from any other motive but profusion. Amongst our author's other poetical productions, he has written three plays and a masque, which are in print, which we shall give in the same order with Mr. Langbaine. 1. A Masque, presented at Bretbie in Derbyshire, on Twelfth-Night 1639. This Entertainment was presented before the Right Honourable Philip, first Earl of Chesterfield, and his Countess, two of their sons acting in it. 2. The Obstinate Lady, a Comedy, printed in 8vo. London 1650. Langbaine observes, that Sir Aston's Obstinate Lady, seems to be a cousin Jerman to Massinger's Very Woman, as appears by comparing the characters. 3. The Tragedy of Ovid, printed in 8vo. 1669. 'I know not (says Mr. Langbaine) why the author calls this Ovid's Tragedy, except that he lays the scene in Tomos, and makes him fall down dead with grief, at the news he received from Rome, in sight of the audience, otherwise he has not much business on the stage, and the play ought rather to have taken the name of Bassane's Jealousy, and the dismal Effects thereof, the Murder of his new Bride Clorina, and his Friend Pyrontus.' 4. Trapolin creduto Principe, or Trapolin supposed a Prince, an Italian Tragi-Comedy, printed in 8vo. London 1658. The design of this play is taken from one he saw acted at Venice, during his abode in that city; it has been since altered by Mr. Tate, and acted at the Theatre in Dorset-Garden; it is now acted under the title of Duke and No Duke. He has written besides his plays, What he calls a Chain of Golden Poems, embellished with Mirth, Wit, and Eloquence. Another title put to these runs thus: Choice Poems of several sorts; Epigrams in three Books. He translated into English an Italian Romance, called Dianea, printed at London 1654. Sir Aston died at Derby, upon the breaking of the great Frost in February 1683, and his body being conveyed to Polesworth in Warwickshire beforementioned, was privately buried there in the chancel of the church. His lordship of Pooley, which had belonged to the name of Cokaine from the time of King Richard II. was sold several years before he died, to one Humphrey Jennings, esq; at which time our author reserved an annuity from it during life. The lordship of Ambourne also was sold to Sir William Boothby, baronet. There is an epigram of his, directed to his honoured friend Major William Warner, which we shall here transcribe as a specimen of his poetry, which the reader will perceive is not very admirable. Plays, eclogues, songs, a satyr I have writ, A remedy for those i' th' amorous fit: Love elegies, and funeral elegies, Letters of things of diverse qualities, Encomiastic lines to works of some, A masque, and an epithalamium, Two books of epigrams; all which I mean Shall in this volume come upon the scene; Some divine poems, which when first I came To Cambridge, I writ there, I need not name. Of Dianea, neither my translation, Omitted here, as of another fashion. For Heaven's sake name no more, you say I cloy you; I do obey you; therefore friend God b'wy you. Footnotes: 1. Athen. Oxon. p. 756, vol. ii. 2. Wood, ubi supra. * * * * * Sir GEORGE WHARTON Was descended of an ancient family in Westmoreland, and born at Kirby-Kendal in that county, the 4th of April 1617, spent some time at Oxford, and had so strong a propensity to the study of astronomy and mathematics, that little or no knowledge of logic and philosophy was acquired by him[1]. After this, being possesed of some patrimony, he retired from the university, and indulged his genius, till the breaking out of the civil wars, when he grew impatient of sollitude, and being of very loyal principles turned all his inheritance into money, and raised for his Majesty a gallant troop of horse, of which he himself was captain. After several generous hazards of his person, he was routed, about the 21st of March 1645, near Stow on the Would in Glouceste[r]shire, where Sir Jacob Astley was taken prisoner, and Sir George himself received several scars of honour, which he carried to his grave[2]. After this he retired to Oxford the then residence of the King, and had in recompence of his losses an employment conferred upon him, under Sir John Heydon, then lieutenant-general of the ordnance, which was to receive and pay off money, for the service of the magazine, and artillery; at which time Sir Edward Sherborne was commissary-general of it. It was then, that at leisure hours he followed his studies, was deemed a member of Queen's-College, being entered among the students there, and might with other officers have had the degree of master of arts conferred on him by the members of the venerable convocation, but neglected it. After the surrender of the garrison of Oxford, from which time, the royal cause daily declined, our author was reduced to live upon expedients; he came to London, and in order to gain a livelihood, he wrote several little things, which giving offence to those in power, he was seized on, and imprisoned, first in the Gatehouse, then in Newgate, and at length in Windsor Castle, at which time, when he expected the fevered stroke of an incensed party to fall upon him, he found William Lilly, who had formerly been his antagonist, now his friend, whose humanity and tenderness, he amply repaid after the restoration, when he was made treasurer and paymaster of his Majesty's ordnance, and Lilly stood proscribed as a rebel. Sir George who had formerly experienced the calamity of want, and having now an opportunity of retrieving his fortune, did not let it slip, but so improved it, that he was able to purchase an estate, and in recompence of his stedfast suffering and firm adherence to the cause of Charles I. and the services he rendered Charles II. he was created a baronet by patent, dated 31st of December 1677. Sir George was esteemed, what in those days was called, a good astrologer, and Wood calls him, in his usual quaint manner, a thorough paced loyalist, a boon companion, and a waggish poet. He died in the year 1681, at his house at Enfield in Middlesex, and left behind him the name of a loyal subject, and an honest man, a generous friend, and a lively wit. We shall now enumerate his works, and are sorry we have not been able to recover any of his poems in order to present the reader with a specimen. Such is commonly the fate of temporary wit, levelled at some prevailing enormity, which is not of a general nature, but only subsists for a while. The curiosity of posterity is not excited, and there is little pains taken in the preservation of what could only please at the time it was written. His works are Hemeroscopions; or Almanacks from 1640 to 1666, printed all in octavo, in which, besides the Gesta Britannorum of that period, there is a great deal of satirical poetry, reflecting on the times. Mercurio-cælico Mastix; or an Anti caveat to all such as have had the misfortune to be cheated and deluded by that great and traiterous impostor, John Booker, in answer to his frivolous pamphlet, entitled, Mercurius Cælicus; or, a Caveat to the People of England, Oxon. 1644, in twelve sheets in 4to. England's Iliads in a Nutshell; or a Brief Chronology of the Battles, Sieges, Conflicts, &c. from December 1641, to the 25th of March 1645, printed Oxon. 1645. An Astrological Judgment upon his Majesty's present March, begun from Oxon. 7th of May 1645 printed in 4to. Bellum Hybernicale; or Ireland's War, Astrologically demonstrated from the late Celestial Congress of two Malevolent Planets, Saturn and Mars, in Taurus, the ascendant of that kingdom, &c. printed 1647, 40. Merlini Anglici Errata; or the Errors, Mistakes, &c. of Mr. William Lilly's new Ephemeris for 1647, printed 1647. Mercurius Elenictus; communicating the unparallelled Proceedings at Westminster, the head quarters, and other places, printed by stealth in London. This Mercury which began the 29th of October came out sheet by sheet every week in 4to. and continuing interruptedly till the 4th of April 1649, it came out again with No. 1, and continued till towards the end of that year. Mr. Wood says, he has seen several things that were published under the name of Mercurius Elenictus; particularly the Anatomy of Westminster Juncto; or a summary of their Designs against the King and City, printed 1648 in one sheet and a half, 4to. and also the first and second part of the Last Will and Testament of Philip Earl of Pembroke, &c. printed 1649; but Mr. Wood is not quite positive whether Wharton is the author of them or no. A Short Account of the Fasts and Festivals, as well of the Jews as Christians, &c. The Cabal of the Twelve Houses astrological, from Morinus, written 1659; and approved by William Oughtred. A learned and useful Discourse teaching the right observation, and keeping of the holy feast of Easter, &c. written 1665. Apotelesma; or the Nativity of the World, and revolution thereof. A Short Discourse of Years, Months, and Days of Years. Something touching the Nature of Eclipses, and also of their Effects. Of the Crises in Diseases, &c. Of the Mutations, Inclinations, and Eversions, &c. Discourse of the Names, Genius, Species, &c. of all Comets. Tracts teaching how Astrology may be restored from Marinus. Secret Multiplication of the Effects of the Stars, from Cardan. Sundry Rules, shewing by what laws the Weather is governed, and how to discover the Various Alterations of the same. He also translated from Latin into English the Art of divining by Lines and Signatures, engraven in the Hand of Man, written by John Rockman, M.D. Lond. 1652, 8vo. This is sometimes called Wharton's Chiromancy. Most of these foregoing treatises were collected and published together, anno 1683, in 8vo, by John Gadbury; together with select poems, written and published during the civil wars. Footnotes: 1. Wood Athen Oxon. v. ii. 2. Wood, ubi supra. * * * * * ANNE KILLEGREW. This amiable young lady, who has been happy in the praises of Dryden, was daughter of Dr. Henry Killegrew, master of the Savoy, and one of the prebendaries of Westminster. She was born in St. Martin's-Lane in London, a little before the restoration of King Charles II. and was christened in a private chamber, the offices of the Common prayer not being then publickly allowed. She gave the earliest discoveries of a great genius, which being improved by the advantage of a polite education, she became eminent in the arts of poetry and painting, and had her life been prolonged, she might probably have excelled most of the prosession in both[1]. Mr. Dryden is quite lavish in her praise; and we are assured by other cotemporary writers of good probity, that he has done no violence to truth in the most heightened strains of his panegyric: let him be voucher for her skill in poetry. Art she had none, yet wanted none, For nature did that art supply, So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy; Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. That great poet is pleased to attribute to her every poetical excellence. Speaking of the purity and chastity of her compositions, he bestows on them this commendation, Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, } Unmix'd with foreign filth and undefil'd; } Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. } She was a great proficient in the art of painting, and drew King James II, and his Queen; which pieces are also highly applauded by Mr. Dryden. She drew several history pieces, also some portraits for her diversion, exceeding well, and likewise some pieces of still life. Those engaging and polite accomplishments were the least of her perfections; for she crowned all with an exemplary piety, and unblemished virtue. She was one of the maids of honour to the Duchess of York, and died of the small-pox in the very flower of her age, to the unspeakable grief of her relations and acquaintance, on the 16th day of June 1685, in her 25th year. On this occasion, Mr. Dryden's muse put on a mournful habit, and in one of the most melting elegiac odes that ever was written, has consigned her to immortality. In the eighth stanza he does honour to another female character, whom he joins with this sweet poetess. Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth, the much lamented virgin lies! Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life, and beauty too; But like a hardened felon took a pride To work more mischievously flow, And plundered first, and then destroy'd. O! double sacrilege, on things divine, To rob the relique, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died; Heav'n by the same disease did both translate, As equal was their souls, so equal was their fate. Miss Killegrew was buried in the chancel of St. Baptist's chapel in the Savoy hospital, on the North side of which is a very neat monument of marble and free-stone fixed in the wall, with a Latin inscription, a translation of which into English is printed before her poems. The following verses of Miss Killegrew's were addressed to Mrs. Philips. Orinda (Albion, and her sex's grace) Ow'd not her glory to a beauteous face. It was her radiant soul that shone within, Which struck a lustre thro' her outward skin; That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye, Advanc'd her heighth, and sparkled in her eye. Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame. But high'r 'mongst the stars it fixt her name; What she did write, not only all allow'd, But evr'y laurel, to her laurel bow'd! Soon after her death, her Poems were published in a large thin quarto, to which Dryden's ode in praise of the author is prefixed. Footnote: 1. Ballard's Memoirs of Learned Ladies. * * * * * NAT. LEE. This eminent dramatic poet was the son of a clergyman of the church of England, and was educated at Westminster school under Dr. Busby. After he left this school, he was some time at Trinity College, Cambridge; whence returning to London, he went upon the stage as an actor. Very few particulars are preserved concerning Mr. Lee. He died before he was 34 years of age, and wrote eleven tragedies, all of which contain the divine enthusiasm of a poet, a noble fire and elevation, and the tender breathings of love, beyond many of his cotemporaries. He seems to have been born to write for the Ladies; none ever felt the passion of love more intimately, none ever knew to describe it more gracefully, and no poet ever moved the breasts of his audience with stronger palpitations, than Lee. The excellent Mr. Addison, whose opinion in a matter of this sort, is of the greatest weight, speaking of the genius of Lee, thus proceeds[1]. "Among our modern English poets, there is none who was better turned for tragedy than our author; if instead of favouring the impetuosity of his genius, he had restrained it, and kept it within proper bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully suited for tragedy; but frequently lost in such a cloud of words, that it is hard to see the beauty of them. There is an infinite fire in his works, but so involved in smoke, that it does not appear in half its lustre. He frequently succeeds in the passionate part of the tragedy; but more particularly where he slackens his efforts, and eases the stile of those epithets and metaphors in which he so much abounds." It is certain that our author for some time was deprived of his senses, and was confined in Bedlam; and as Langbaine observes, it is to be regretted, that his madness exceeded that divine fury which Ovid mentions, and which usually accompany the best poets. Est Deus in nobus agitante calescimus illo. His condition in Bedlam was far worse; in a Satire on the Poets it is thus described, There in a den remov'd from human eyes, Possest with muse, the brain-sick poet lies, Too miserably wretched to be nam'd; For plays, for heroes, and for passion fam'd: Thoughtless he raves his sleepless hours away In chains all night, in darkness all the day. And if he gets some intervals from pain, } The fit returns; he foams and bites his chain, } His eye-balls roll, and he grows mad again. } The reader may please to observe, the two last lines are taken from Lee himself in his description of madness in Cæsar Borgia, which is inimitable. Dryden has observed, that there is a pleasure in being mad, which madmen only know, and indeed Lee has described the condition in such lively terms, that a man can almost imagine himself in the situation, To my charm'd ears no more of woman tell, Name not a woman, and I shall be well: Like a poor lunatic that makes his moan, And for a while beguiles his lookers on; He reasons well.--His eyes their wildness lose He vows the keepers his wrong'd sense abuse. But if you hit the cause that hurt his brain, } Then his teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his chain, } His eye-balls roll, and he is mad again. } If we may credit the earl of Rochester, Mr. Lee was addicted to drinking; for in a satire of his, in imitation of Sir John Suckling's Session of the Poets, which, like the original, is destitute of wit, poetry, and good manners, he charges him with it. The lines, miserable as they are, we shall insert; Nat. Lee stept in next, in hopes of a prize; Apollo remembring he had hit once in thrice: By the rubies in's face, he could not deny, But he had as much wit as wine could supply; Confess'd that indeed he had a musical note, But sometimes strain'd so hard that it rattled in the throat; Yet own'd he had sense, and t' encourage him for't He made him his Ovid in Augustus's court. The testimony of Rochester indeed is of no great value, for he was governed by no principles of honour, and as his ruling passion was malice, he was ready on all occasions to indulge it, at the expence of truth and sincerity. We cannot ascertain whether our author wrote any of his plays in Bedlam, tho' it is not improbable he might have attempted something that way in his intervals. Mad people have often been observed to do very ingenious things. I have seen a ship of straw, finely fabricated by a mad ship-builder; and the most lovely attitudes have been represented by a mad statuary in his cell. Lee, for aught we know, might have some noble flights of fancy, even in Bedlam; and it is reported of him, that while he was writing one of his scenes by moon-light, a cloud intervening, he cried out in ecstasy, "Jove snuff the Moon;" but as this is only related upon common report, we desire no more credit may be given to it, than its own nature demands. We do not pretend notwithstanding our high opinion of Lee, to defend all his rants and extravagancies; some of them are ridiculous, some bombast, and others unintelligible; but this observation by no means holds true in general; for tho' some passages are too extravagant, yet others are nobly sublime, we had almost said, unequalled by any other poet. As there are not many particulars preserved of Lee's life, we think ourselves warranted to enlarge a little upon his works; and therefore we beg leave to introduce to our reader's acquaintance a tragedy which perhaps he has not for some time heard of, written by this great man, viz. Lucius Junius Brutus, the Father of his country. We mention this tragedy because it is certainly the finest of Lee's, and perhaps one of the most moving plays in our language. Junius Brutus engages in the just defence of the injured rights of his country, against Tarquin the Proud; he succeeds in driving him out of Rome. His son Titus falls in love, and interchanges vows with the tyrant's daughter; his father commands him not to touch her, nor to correspond with her; he faithfully promises; but his resolutions are baffled by the insinuating and irresistible charms of Teraminta; he is won by her beauties; he joins in the attempt to restore Tarquin; the enterprize miscarries, and his own father sits in judgment upon him, and condemns him to suffer. The interview between the father and son is inexpressibly moving, and is only exceeded by that between the son and his Teraminta. Titus is a young hero, struggling between love and duty. Teraminta an amiable Roman lady, fond of her husband, and dutiful to her father. There are throughout this play, we dare be bold to affirm, as affecting scenes as ever melted the hearts of an audience. Why it is not revived, may be difficult to account for. Shall we charge it to want of taste in the town, or want of discernment in the managers? or are our present actors conscious that they may be unequal to some of the parts in it? yet were Mr. Quin engaged, at either theatre, to do the author justice in the character of Brutus, we are not wanting in a Garrick or a Barry, to perform the part of Titus; nor is either stage destitute of a Teraminta. This is one of those plays that Mr. Booth proposed to revive (with some few alterations) had he lived to return to the stage: And the part of Brutus was what he purposed to have appeared in. As to Lee's works, they are in every body's hands, so that we need not trouble the reader with a list of them. In his tragedy of the Rival Queens, our author has shewn what he could do on the subject of Love; he has there almost exhausted the passion, painted it in its various forms, and delineated the workings of the human soul, when influenced by it. He makes Statira thus speak of Alexander. Not the spring's mouth, nor breath of Jessamin, Nor Vi'lets infant sweets, nor op'ning buds Are half so sweet as Alexander's breast! From every pore of him a perfume falls, He kisses softer than a Southern wind Curls like a Vine, and touches like a God! Then he will talk! good Gods! how he will talk! Even when the joy he sigh'd for is possess'd, He speaks the kindest words, and looks such things, Vows with such passion, swears with so much grace That 'tis a kind of Heaven to be deluded by him. If I but mention him the tears will fall, Sure there is not a letter in his name, But is a charm to melt a woman's eyes. His Tragedy of Theodosius, or the Force of Love, is the only play of Lee's that at present keeps possession of the stage, an argument, in my opinion, not much in favour of our taste, that a Genius should be so neglected. It is said, that Lee died in the night, in the streets, upon a frolic, and that his father never assisted him in his frequent and pressing necessity, which he was able to do. It appears that tho' Lee was a player, yet, for want of execution, he did not much succeed, though Mr. Cibber says, that he read excellently, and that the players used to tell him, unless they could act the part as he read it, they could not hope success, which, it seems, was not the case with Dryden, who could hardly read to be understood. Lee was certainly a man of great genius; when it is considered how young he died, he performed miracles, and had he lived 'till his fervour cooled, and his judgment strengthened, which might have been the consequence of years, he would have made a greater figure in poetry than some of his contemporaries, who are now placed in superior rank. Footnote: 1. Spectator. No. 39, vol. 1st. * * * * * SAMUEL BUTLER, The celebrated author of Hudibras, was born at Strensham in Worcestershire, 1612; His father, a reputable country farmer, perceiving in his son an early inclination to learning, sent him for education to the free-school of Worcester, under the care of Mr. Henry Bright, where having laid the foundation of grammar learning, he was sent for some time to Cambridge, but was never matriculated in that university[1]. After he had resided there six or seven years, he returned to his native county, and became clerk to Mr. Jefferys of Earl's-Croom, an eminent justice of the peace for that county, with whom he lived for some years, in an easy, though, for such a genius, no very reputable service; during which time, through the indulgence of a kind master, he had sufficient leisure to apply himself to his favourite studies, history and poetry, to which, for his diversion, he added music and painting. The anonymous author of Butler's Life tells us, that he had seen some pictures of his drawing, which were preserved in Mr. Jefferys's family, which I mention not (says he) 'for the excellency of them, but to satisfy the reader of his early inclination to that noble art; for which also he was afterwards entirely loved by Mr. Samuel Cooper, one of the most eminent Painters of his time.' Wood places our poet's improvement in music and painting, to the time of his service under the countess of Kent, by whose patronage he had not only the opportunity of consulting all kinds of books, but conversing also with the great Mr. Selden, who has justly gained the epithet of a living library of learning, and was then conversant in that lady's family, and who often employed our poet to write letters beyond sea, and translate for him. He lived some time also with Sir Samuel Luke, a gentleman of a good family in Bedfordshire, and a famous commander under Oliver Cromwel. Much about this time he wrote (says the author of his Life) 'the renowned Hudibras; as he then had opportunities of conversing with the leaders of that party, whose religion he calls hypocrisy, whose politics rebellion, and whose speeches nonsense;' he was of an unshaken loyalty, though he was placed in the house of a rebel, and it is generally thought, that under the character of Hudibras, he intended to ridicule Sir Samuel Luke. After the restoration of Charles II. he was made secretary to the earl of Carbury, lord president of the principality of Wales, who appointed him steward of Ludlow Castle, when the court was revived there; and about this time he married one Mrs. Herbert, a gentlewoman of very good family. Anthony Wood says, she was a widow, and that Butler supported himself by her jointure; for though in his early years he had studied the common law, yet he had made no advantage by the practice of it; but others assert, that she was not a widow, and that though she had a competent fortune, it proved of little or no advantage to Butler, as most of it was unfortunately lost by being put out on bad security. Mr. Wood likewise says, that he was secretary to the duke of Buckingham, when that lord was chancellor of the university of Cambridge, and the life writer assures us he had a great kindness for him: but the late ingenious major Richardson Pack tells a story, which, if true, overthrows both their assertions, and as it is somewhat particular, we shall give it a place here. Mr. Wycherley had taken every opportunity to represent to his grace the duke of Buckingham, how well Mr. Butler had deserved of the Royal Family, by writing his inimitable Hudibras, and that it was a reproach to the court, that a person of his loyalty and wit should languish in obscurity, under so many wants. The duke seemed always to hearken to him with attention, and, after some time, undertook to recommend his pretentions to his Majesty. Mr. Wycherly, in hopes to keep him steady to his word, obtained of his Grace to name a day, when he might introduce that modest, unfortunate poet to his new patron; at last an appointment was made, Mr. Butler and his friend attended accordingly, the duke joined them. But, as the devil would have it (says the major) 'the door of the room, where he sat, was open, and his Grace, who had seated himself near it, observing a pimp of his acquaintance (the creature too was a knight) trip by with a brace of ladies, immediately quitted his engagement to follow another kind of business, at which he was more ready, than at doing good offices to men of desert, though no one was better qualified than he, both in regard to his fortune, and understanding to protect them, and from that hour to the day of his death, poor Butler never found the least effect of his promise, and descended to the grave oppressed with want and poverty.' The excellent lord Buckhurst, the late earl of Dorset and Middlesex, was a friend to our poet, who, as he was a man of wit and parts himself, knew how to set a just value on those who excelled. He had also promises of places and employment from lord chancellor Clarendon, but, as if poor Butler had been doomed to misfortunes, these proved[2] meer court promises. Mr. Butler in short, affords a remarkable instance of that coldness and neglect, which great genius's often experience from the court and age in which they live; we are told indeed by a gentleman, whose father was intimate with Butler, Charles Longueville, Esq; that Charles II. once gave him a gratuity of three hundred pounds, which had this compliment attending it, that it passed all the offices without any fee, lord Danby being at that time high treasurer, which seems to be the only court favour he ever received; a strange instance of neglect! when we consider King Charles was so excessive fond of this poem of Hudibras; that he carried it always in his pocket, he quoted it almost on every occasion, and never mentioned it, but with raptures. This is movingly represented in a poem of our author's, published in his remains called Hudibras at Court. He takes occasion to justify his poem, by hinting its excellences in general, and paying a few modest compliments to himself, of which we shall transcribe the following lines. Now you must know, sir Hudibras, With such perfections gifted was, And so peculiar in his manner, That all that saw him did him honour; Amongst the rest, this prince was one, Admired his conversation: This prince, whose ready wit, and parts Conquer'd both men and women's hearts; Was so o'ercome with knight and Ralph, That he could never claw it off. He never eat, nor drank, nor slept, But Hudibras still near him kept; Nor would he go to church or so, But Hudibras must with him go; Nor yet to visit concubine, Or at a city feast to dine, But Hudibras must still be there, Or all the fat was in the fire. Now after all was it not hard, That he should meet with no reward, That fitted out the knight and squire, This monarch did so much admire? That he should never reimburse The man for th' equipage and horse, Is sure a strange ungrateful thing In any body, but a King. But, this good King, it seems was told By some, that were with him too bold, If e'er you hope to gain your ends, Caress your foes, and trust your friends. Such were the doctrines that were taught, 'Till this unthinking King was brought To leave his friends to starve and die; A poor reward for loyalty. After having lived to a good old age, admired by all, though personally known but to few, he died September 25, 1680, and was buried at the expence of his good friend Mr. Longueville of the Temple, in the church-yard of St. Paul's Covent-Garden. Mr. Longueville had a strong inclination to have him buried in Westminster Abbey, and spoke with that view to several persons who had been his admirers, offering to pay his part, but none of them would contribute; upon which he was interred privately, Mr. Longueville, and seven or eight more, following him to the grave. Mr. Alderman Barber erected a monument to Butler in Westminster-Abbey. The poem entitled Hudibras, by which he acquired so high a reputation, was published at three different times; the first part came out in 1668 in 8vo. afterwards came out the second part, and both were printed together, with several additions, and annotations; at last, the third and last part was published, but without any annotations, as appears by the printed copy 1678. The great success and peculiarity of manner of this poem has produced many unsuccessful imitations of it, and some vain attempts have been made to translate some parts of it into Latin. Monsieur Voltaire gives it a very good character, and justly observes, that though there are as many thoughts as words in it, yet it cannot be successfully translated, on account of every line's having some allusion to English affairs, which no foreigner can be supposed to understand, or enter into. The Oxford antiquary ascribes to our author two pamphlets, supposed falsely, he says, to be William Prynne's; the one entitled Mola Asinaria, or the Unreasonable and Insupportable Burthen pressed upon the Shoulders of this Groaning Nation, London 1659, in one sheet 4to. the other, Two Letters: One from John Audland, a Quaker, to William Prynne; the other, Prynne's Answer, in three sheets fol. 1672. The life writer mentions a small poem in one sheet in 4to. on Du Val, a notorious highwayman, said to be written by Butler. These pieces, with a great many others, are published together, under the title of his Posthumous Works. The life writer abovementioned has preserved a fragment of Mr. Butler's, given by one whom he calls the ingenious Mr. Aubrey, who assured him he had it from the poet himself; it is indeed admirable, and the satire sufficiently pungent against the priests. No jesuit e'er took in hand To plant a church in barren land; Nor ever thought it worth the while A Swede or Russ to reconcile. For where there is no store of wealth, Souls are not worth the charge of health. Spain in America had two designs: To sell their gospel for their mines: For had the Mexicans been poor, No Spaniard twice had landed on their shore. 'Twas gold the Catholic religion planted, Which, had they wanted gold, they still had wanted. Mr. Dryden[3] and Mr. Addison[4] have joined in giving testimony against our author, as to the choice of his verse, which they condemn as boyish and being apt to degenerate into the doggrel; but while they censure his verse, they applaud his matter, and Dryden observes, that had he chose any other verse, he would even then have excelled; as we say of a court favourite, that whatever his office be, he still makes it uppermost, and most beneficial to him. We cannot close the life of this great man, without a reflection on the degeneracy of those times, which suffered him to languish in obscurity; and though he had done more against the Puritan interest, by exposing it to ridicule, than thousands who were rioting at court with no pretensions to favour, yet he was never taken notice of, nor had any calamity redressed, which leaves a stain on those who then ruled, that never can be obliterated. A minister of state seldom fails to reward a court tool, and a man of pleasure pays his instruments for their infamy, and what character must that ministration bear, who allow wit, loyalty and virtue to pass neglected, and, as Cowley pathetically expresses it, 'In that year when manna rained on all, why should the muses fleece be only dry.' The following epigram is not unworthy [of] a place here. Whilst Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No gen'rous patron would a dinner give; But lo behold! when dead, the mould'ring dust, Rewarded with a monumental bust! A poet's fate, in emblem here is shewn, He ask'd for bread, and he received--a stone. Footnotes: 1. Life of Butler, p 6. 2. Posthumous Works of Wycherly, published by Mr. Theobald. 3. Juv. Ded. 4. Spect. No. 6. Vol. i. * * * * * EDMUND WALLER Esq; Was descended of a family of his name in Buckinghamshire, a younger branch of the Wallers of Kent. He was born March 3, 1605 at Coleshill, which gives Warwickshire the honour of his birth. His father dying when he was very young, the care of his education fell to his mother, who sent him to Eton School, according to the author of his life, but Mr. Wood says, 'that he was mostly educated in grammaticals under one Dobson, minister of Great Wycombe in Bucks, who had been educated in Eton school,' without mentioning that Mr. Waller had been at all at Eton school: after he had acquired grammar learning, he was removed to King's college in Cambridge, and it is manifest that he must have been extremely assiduous in his studies, since he acquired so fine a taste of the ancients, in so short a time, for at sixteen or seventeen years of age, he was chosen into the last Parliament of King James I. and served as Burgess for Agmondesham. In the year 1623, when Prince Charles nearly escaped being cast away in the road of St. Andre, coming from Spain, Mr. Waller wrote a Poem on that occasion, at an age when, generally speaking, persons of the acutest parts just begin to shew themselves, and at a time when the English poetry had scarce any grace in it. In the year 1628 he addressed a Poem to his Majesty, on his hearing the news of the duke of Buckingham's death, which, with the former, procured him general admiration: harmony of numbers being at that time so great a novelty, and Mr. Waller having, at once, so polished and refined versification, it is no wonder that he enjoyed the felicity of an universal applause. These poems recommended him to court-favour, and rendered him dear to persons of the best taste and distinction that then flourished. A Writer of his life observes, as a proof of his being much caressed by people of the first reputation, that he was one of the famous club, of which the great lord Falkland, Sir Francis Wainman, Mr. Chillingworth, Mr. Godolphin, and other eminent men were members. These were the immortals of that age, and to be associated with them, is one of the highest encomiums which can possibly be bestowed, and exceeds the most laboured strain of a panegyrist. A circumstance related of this club, is pretty remarkable: One evening, when they were convened, a great noise was heard in the street, which not a little alarmed them, and upon enquiring the cause, they were told, that a son of Ben Johnson's was arrested. This club was too generous to suffer the child of one, who was the genuine son of Apollo, to be carried to a Jail, perhaps for a trifle: they sent for him, but in place of being Ben Johnson's son, he proved to be Mr. George Morley, afterwards bishop of Winchester. Mr. Waller liked him so well, that he paid the debt, which was no less than one hundred pounds, on condition that he would live with him at Beconsfield, which he did eight or ten years together, and from him Mr. Waller used to say, that he learned a taste of the ancient poets, and got what he had of their manner. But it is evident from his poems, written before this incident of Mr. Morley's arrest, that he had early acquired that exquisite Spirit; however, he might have improved it afterwards, by the conversation and assistance of Mr. Morley, to whom this adventure proved very advantageous. It is uncertain, at what time our author was married, but, it is supposed, that his first wife Anne, daughter and heir of Edward Banks, esq; was dead before he fell in love with lady Dorothy Sidney, daughter to the earl of Leicester, whom he celebrates under the name of Sacharissa. Mr. Waller's passion for this lady, has been the subject of much conversation; his verses, addressed to her, have been renowned for their delicacy, and Sacharissa has been proposed, as a model to succeeding poets, in the celebration of their mistresses. One cannot help wishing, that the poet had been as successful in his Addresses to her, as he has been in his love-strains, which are certainly the sweetest in the world. The difference of station, and the pride of blood, perhaps, was the occasion, that Sacharissa never became the wife of Waller; though in reality, as Mr. Waller was a gentleman, a member of parliament, and a person of high reputation, we cannot, at present, see so great a disproportion: and, as Mr. Waller had fortune, as well as wit and poetry, lord Leicester's daughter could not have been disgraced by such an alliance. At least we are sure of one thing, that she lives for ever in Waller's strains, a circumstance, which even her beauty could not have otherwise procured, nor the lustre of the earl of Sunderland, whom she afterwards married: the countess of Sunderland, like the radiant circles of that age, long before this time would have slept in oblivion, but the Sacharissa of Waller is consigned to immortality, and can never die but with poetry, taste, and politeness. Upon the marriage of that lady to lord Spenser, afterwards earl of Sunderland, which was solemnized July 11, 1639, Mr. Waller wrote the following letter to lady Lucy Sidney, her sister, which is so full of gallantry, and so elegantly turned, that it will doubtedly give pleasure to our readers to peruse it. MADAM, 'In this common joy at Penshurst[1], I know, none to whom complaints may come less unseasonable than to your ladyship, the loss of a bedfellow, being almost equal to that of a mistress, and therefore you ought, at least, to pardon, if you consent not to the imprecations of the deserted, which just Heaven no doubt will hear. May my lady Dorothy, if we may yet call her so, suffer as much, and have the like passion for this young lord, whom she has preferred to the rest of mankind, as others have had for her; and may his love, before the year go about, make her taste of the first curse imposed upon womankind, the pains of becoming a mother. May her first born be none of her own sex, nor so like her, but that he may resemble her lord, as much as herself. May she, that always affected silence and retirement, have the house filled with the noise and number of her children, and hereafter of her grand-children; and then may she arrive at that great curse, so much declined by fair ladies, old age; may she live to be very old, and yet seem young; be told so by her glass, and have no aches to inform her of the truth; and when she shall appear to be mortal, may her lord not mourn for her, but go hand in hand with her to that place, where we are told there is neither marrying, nor giving in marriage, that being there divorced, we may all have an equal interest in her again! my revenge being immortal, I wish all this may befall her posterity to the world's end, and afterwards! To you, madam, I wish all good things, and that this loss may, in good time, be happily supplied, with a more constant bedfellow of the other sex. Madam, I humbly kiss your hands, and beg pardon for this trouble, from 'Your ladyship's 'most humble servant, 'E. WALLER.' He lived to converse with lady Sunderland when she was very old, but his imprecations relating to her glass did not succeed, for my lady knew she had the disease which nothing but death could cure; and in a conversation with Mr. Waller, and some other company at lady Wharton's, she asked him in raillery, 'When, Mr. Waller, will you write such fine verses upon me again?' 'Oh Madam,' said he, 'when your ladyship is as young again.' In the year 1640, Mr. Waller was returned Burgess for Agmondesham, in which Parliament he opposed the court measures. The writer of his life observes[2], 'that an intermission of Parliaments for 12 years disgusted the nation, and the House met in no good humour to give money. It must be confessed, some late proceedings had raised such jealousies as would be sure to discover themselves, whenever the King should come to ask for a supply; and Mr. Waller was one of the first to condemn those measures. A speech he made in the House upon this occasion, printed at the end of his poems, gives us some notion of his principles as to government.' Indeed we cannot but confess he was a little too inconstant in them, and was not naturally so steady, as he was judicious; which variable temper was the cause of his losing his reputation, in a great measure, with both parties, when the nation became unhappily divided. His love to poetry, and his indolence, laid him open to the insinuations of others, and perhaps prevented his fixing so resolutely to any one party, as to make him a favourite with either. As Mr. Waller did not come up to the heighths of those who were for unlimited monarchy, so he did not go the lengths of such as would have sunk the kingdom into a commonwealth, but had so much credit at court, that in this parliament the King particularly sent to him, to second his demands of some subsidies to pay the army; and Sir Henry Vane objecting against first voting a supply, because the King would not accept it, unless it came up to his proportion; Mr. Waller spoke earnestly to Sir Thomas Jermyn, comptroller of the houshold, to save his master from the effects of so bold a falsity; for, says he, I am but a country gentleman, and cannot pretend to know the King's mind: but Sir Thomas durst not contradict the secretary; and his son the earl of St. Alban's, afterwards told Mr. Waller, that his father's cowardice ruined the King. In the latter end of the year 1642, he was one of the commissioners appointed by the Parliament, to present their propositions for peace to his Majesty at Oxford. Mr. Whitelocke, in his Memorials, tells us, that when Mr. Waller kissed the King's hand in the garden at Christ's Church, his Majesty said to him, 'though you are last, yet you are not the worst, nor the least in our favour.' The discovery of a plot, continues Mr. Whitelocke, 'then in hand in London to betray the Parliament, wherein Mr. Waller was engaged, with Chaloner, Tomkins, and others, which was then in agitation, did manifest the King's courtship of Mr. Waller to be for that service.' In the beginning of the year 1643, our poet was deeply engaged in the design for the reducing the city of London, and the Tower, for the service of his Majesty, which being discovered, he was imprisoned, and fined ten thousand pounds. As this is one of the most memorable circumstances in the life of Waller, we shall not pass it slightly over, but give a short detail of the rise, progress, and discovery of this plot, which issued not much in favour of Mr. Waller's reputation. Lord Clarendon observes[3], 'that Mr. Waller was a gentleman of very good fortune and estate, and of admirable parts, and faculties of wit and eloquence, and of an intimate conversation and familiarity with those who had that reputation. He had, from the beginning of the Parliament, been looked upon by all men, as a person of very entire affections to the King's service, and to the established government of church and state; and by having no manner of relation to the court, had the more credit and interest to promote the service of it. When the ruptures grew so great between the King, and the two houses, that many of the Members withdrew from those councils, he, among the rest, absented himself, but at the time the standard was set up, having intimacy and friendship with some persons now of nearness about the King, with his Majesty's leave he returned again to London, where he spoke, upon all occasions, with great sharpness and freedom, which was not restrained, and therefore used as an argument against those who were gone upon pretence, that they were not suffered to declare their opinion freely in the House; which could not be believed, when all men knew what liberty Mr. Waller took, and spoke every day with impunity, against the proceedings of the House; this won him a great reputation with all people who wished well to the King; and he was looked upon as the boldest champion the crown had in either House, so that such Lords and Commons who were willing to prevent the ruin of the kingdom, complied in a great familiarity with him, at a man resolute in their ends, and best able to promote them; and it may be, they believed his reputation at court so good, that he would be no ill evidence there of other men's zeal and affection; so all men spoke their minds freely to him, both of the general distemper, and of the passions and ambition of particular persons, all men knowing him to be of too good a fortune, and too wary a nature, to engage himself in designs of hazard.' Mr. Tomkins already mentioned, had married Waller's sister, and was clerk of the Queen' council, and of very good fame for honesty and ability; great interest and reputation in the city, and conversed much with those who disliked the proceedings of the Parliament, from whom he learned the dispositions of the citizens on all accidents, which he freely communicated to his brother Waller, as the latter imparted to him whatever observations he made from those with whom he conversed. Mr. Waller told him, that many lords and commons were for a peace. Mr. Tomkins made the same relation with respect to the most substantial men of London, which Mr. Waller reported to the well affected members of both houses; and Mr. Tomkins to the well affected citizens; whence they came to a conclusion, that if they heartily united in the mutual assistance of one another, they should be able to prevent those tumults which seemed to countenance the distractions, and both parties would be excited to moderation. The lord Conway at that time coming from Ireland incensed against the Scotch, discontented with the Parliament here, and finding Waller in good esteem with the earl of Nor[t]humberland, and in great friendship with the earl of Portland, entered into the same familiarity; and being a soldier, in the discourses they had, he insinuated, it was convenient to enquire into the numbers of the well affected in the city, that they might know whom they had to trust to. Mr. Waller telling Mr. Tomkins this, the latter imparted it to his confidents there; and it was agreed, that some trusty persons in every ward and parish about London should make a list of all the inhabitants, and by guessing at their several affections, compute the strength of that party which opposed an accommodation, and that which was for it. Lord Clarendon declares, that he believes this design, was to beget such a combination among the well affected parties, that they would refuse to conform to those ordinances of the twentieth part, and other taxes for the support of the war; and thereby or by joint petitioning for peace, and discountenancing the other who petitioned against it, to prevail with the Parliament to incline to a determination of the war, 'but that there ever was, says the earl, 'any formed design either of letting the King's army into London, which was impossible to be effected, or raising an army there, and surprizing the Parliament, or any person of it, or of using any violence in, or upon the city, I could never yet see cause to believe.' But it unluckily happened, that while this combination was on foot, Sir Nicholas Crisp procured a commission of array to be sent from Oxford to London, which was carried by the lady Aubigny, and delivered to a gentleman employed by Sir Nicholas to take it of her; and this being discovered at the same time Mr. Waller's plot was, the two conspiracies were blended into one; tho' the earl of Clarendon is satisfied that they were two distinct designs. His lordship relates the discovery of Mr. Waller's plot in this manner: 'A servant of Mr. Tomkins, who had often cursorily overheard his master and Mr. Waller discourse of the subject which we are upon, placed himself behind the hangings, at a time when they were together; and there whilst either of them discovered the language and opinion of the company which they kept, overheard enough to make him believe, that his information and discovery could make him welcome to those whom he thought concerned, and so went to Mr. Pym, and acquainted him with all he had heard, or probably imagined. The time when Mr. Pym was made acquainted with it, is not known; but the circumstance of publishing it was such as filled all men with apprehensions.' 'It was on Wednesday the 31st of May, their solemn fast day, when being all at their sermon in St. Margaret's church, Westminster, according to their custom, a letter or message was brought privately to Mr. Pym; who thereupon with some of the most active members rose from their seats, and after a little whispering together, removed out of the church. This could not but exceedingly affect those who stayed behind. Immediately they sent guards to all the prisons, at Lambeth-house, Ely-house, and such places where malignants were in custody, with directions to search the prisoners, and some other places which they thought fit should be suspected. After the sermon was ended, the houses met, and were only then told, that letters were intercepted going to the King and the court at Oxford, which expressed some notable conspiracy in hand, to deliver up the Parliament and the city into the hands of the Cavaliers; and that the time for the execution of it drew near. Hereupon a committee was appointed to examine all persons they thought fit, and to apprehend some nominated at that time; and the same night this committee apprehended Mr. Waller and Mr. Tomkins, and the next day such as they suspected.' The Houses were, or seemed to be, so alarmed with the discovery of the plot, that six days after they took a sacred vow and covenant, which was also taken by the city and army, denouncing war against the King more directly than they had done before. The earl of Portland and lord Conway were imprisoned on Mr. Waller's accusation, and often confronted with him before the committee, where they as peremptorily denying, as he charging them, and there being no other witness but him against them, they were kept a while in restraint, and then bailed. Mr. Waller, after he had had 'says the earl of Clarendon, with incredible dissimulation, acted such a remorse of conscience, that his trial was put off out of christian compassion, till he should recover his understanding (and that was not till the heat and fury of the prosecutors was abated by the sacrifices they had made) and by drawing visitants to himself of the most powerful ministers of all factions, had by his liberality and penitence, his receiving vulgar and vile sayings from them with humility and reverence, as clearer convictions, and informations than in his life he had ever had; and distributing great sums to them for their prayers and ghostly council, so satisfied them, that they satisfied others; was brought at his suit to the bar of the House of Commons on on the 4th of July 1643, where being a man in truth very powerful in language, and who, by what he spoke, and the manner of speaking it, exceedingly captivated the good will, and benevolence of his hearers, with such flattery, as was most exactly calculated to that meridian, with such a submission as their pride took delight in, and such a dejection of mind and spirit, as was like to couzen the major part. He laid before them, their own danger and concernment if they should suffer one of their body, how unworthy and monstrous soever, to be tried by the soldiers, who might thereby grow to such power hereafter, that they would both try those they would not be willing should be tried, and for things which they would account no crime, the inconvenience and insupportable mischief whereof wise commonwealths had foreseen and prevented, by exempting their own members from all judgments but their own. He prevailed, not to be tried by a Council of War, and thereby preserved his dear-bought life; so that in truth he did as much owe the keeping his head to that oration, as Cataline did the loss of his to those of Tully; and having done ill, very well, he by degrees drew that respect to his parts, which always carries some companion to the person, that he got leave to compound for his transgression and them to accept of ten thousand pounds for his liberty; whereupon he had leave to recollect himself in another country (for his liberty was to be banishment) how miserable he had made himself in obtaining that leave to live out of his own. And there cannot be a greater evidence of the inestimable value of his parts, than that he lived in the good affection and esteem of many, the pity of most, and the reproach and scorn of few, or none.' After this storm had subsided, Mr. Waller travelled into France, where he continued several years. He took over his lady's jewels to support him, and lived very hospitably at Paris, and except that of lord Jermyn, afterwards earl of St. Alban's, who was the Queen of England's prime minister when she kept her court there, there was no English table but Mr. Waller's; which was so costly to him, that he used to say, 'he was at last come to the Rump Jewel.' Upon his return to England, such was the unsteadiness of his temper, he sided with those in power, particularly the Lord Protector, with whom he lived in great intimacy as a companion, tho' he seems not to have acted for him. He often declared that he found Cromwell very well acquainted with the Greek and Roman story; and he frequently took notice, that in the midst of their discourse, a servant has come to tell him, that such and such attended; upon which Cromwell would rise and stop them; talking at the door, where Mr. Waller could over-hear him say, 'The lord will reveal, the lord will help,' and several such expressions; which when he returned to Mr. Waller, he excused, saying, 'Cousin Waller, I must talk to these men after their own way.' In 1654 he wrote a panegyric on Oliver Cromwell, as he did a poem on his death in 1658. At the restoration he was treated with great civility by King Charles II, who always made him one of his party in his diversions at the duke of Buckingham's, and other places, and gave him a grant of the provostship of Eaton-College; tho' that grant proved of no effect. He sat in several Parliaments after the restoration, and wrote a panegyric upon his Majesty's return, which however, was thought to fall much short of that which he before had wrote on Cromwell. The King one day asked him in raillery, 'How is it Waller, that you wrote a better encomium on Cromwell than on me.' May it please your Majesty, answered the bard, with the most admirable fineness, 'Poets generally succeed best in fiction.' Mr. Waller continued in the full vigour of his genius to the end of his life; his natural vivacity bore up against his years, and made his company agreeable to the last; which appears from the following little story. King James II having ordered the earl of Sunderland to desire Mr. Waller to attend him one afternoon; when he came, the King carried him into his closet, and there asked him how he liked such a picture? 'Sir, says Mr. Waller, my eyes are dim, and I know not whose it is.' The King answered, 'It is the Princess of Orange;' and says Mr. Waller, 'she is like the greatest woman in the world.' 'Whom do you call so, said the King,' 'Queen Elizabeth, said he.' 'I wonder, Mr. Waller, replied the King, you should think so; but I must confess, she had a wise council;' and Sir, said Mr. Waller, 'did you ever know a Fool chuse a wise one.' Mr. Waller died of a dropsy October 21, 1687. Finding his distemper encrease, and having yielded all hopes of recovery, he ordered his son-in-law Dr. Peter Birch, to desire all his children to join with him, and give him the sacrament. He at the same time professed himself a believer in revealed religion with great earnestness, telling them, that he remembered when the duke of Buckingham, once talked profanely before King Charles, he told him, 'My lord, I am a great deal older than your grace, and I believe I have heard more arguments for atheism, than ever your grace did; but I have lived long enough to see, there was nothing in them, and so I hope will your grace.' It is said, that had Mr. Waller lived longer, he would have inclined to the revolution, which by the violent measures of James II. he could foresee would happen. He was interred in the church-yard of Beaconsfield, where a monument is erected to his memory, the inscriptions on it were written by Mr. Thomas Rymer. He left several children behind him: He bequeathed his estate to his second son Edmund, his eldest, Benjamin, being so far from inheriting his father's wit, that he had not a common portion. Edmund, the second Son, used to be chosen member of Parliament for Agmondesham, and in the latter part of his life turned Quaker. William, the third son, was a merchant in London, and Stephen, the fourth, a civilian. Of the daughters, Mary was married to Dr. Peter Birch, prebendary of Westminster; another to Mr. Harvey of Suffolk, another to Mr. Tipping of Oxfordshire. These are the most material circumstances in the life of Mr. Waller, a man whose wit and parts drew the admiration of the world upon him when he was living, and has secured him the applause of posterity. As a statesman, lord Clarendon is of opinion, he wanted steadiness, and even insinuates, that he was deficient in point of honour; the earl at least construes his timidity, and apparent cowardice, in a way not very advantageous to him. All men have honoured him as the great refiner of English poetry, who restored numbers to the delicacy they had lost, and joined to melifluent cadence the charms of sense. But as Mr. Waller is unexceptionally the first who brought in a new turn of verse, and gave to rhime all the graces of which it was capable, it would be injurious to his fame, not to present the reader with the opinions of some of the greatest men concerning him, by which he will be better able to understand his particular excellencies, and will see his beauties in full glow before him. To begin with Mr. Dryden, who, in his dedication to the Rival Ladies, addressed to the earl of Orrery, thus characterizes Waller. 'The excellency and dignity of rhime were never fully known till Mr. Waller sought it: He first made writing easily an art; first shewed us to conclude the sense most commonly in distichs, which in the verses of those before him, runs on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath to overtake it.' Voltaire, in his letters concerning the English nation, speaking of British poets, thus mentions Waller. 'Our author was much talked of in France. He had much the same reputation in London that Voiture had in Paris; and in my opinion deserved it better. Voiture was born in an age that was just emerging from barbarity; an age that was still rude and ignorant; the people of which aimed at wit, tho' they had not the least pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead of sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than diamonds. Voiture born with an easy and frivolous genius, was the first who shone in this Aurora of French literature. Had he come into the world after those great genius's, who spread such glory over the age of Lewis XIV, he would either have been unknown, would have been despised, or would have corrected his stile. Waller, tho' better than Voiture, was not yet a finished poet. The graces breathe in such of Waller's works as are wrote in a tender strain; but then they are languid thro' negligence, and often disfigured with false thoughts. The English had not at this time attained the art of correct writing; but his serious compositions exhibit a strength and vigour, which could not have been expected from the softness and effeminacy of his other pieces.' The anonymous author of the preface to the second part of our author's poems, printed in the year 1690, has given his character at large, and tells us; 'That Waller is a name that carries every thing in it that is either great, or graceful in poetry. He was indeed the parent of English verse, and the first who shewed us our tongue had beauty and numbers in it. The tongue came into his hands like a rough diamond; he polished it first, and to that degree, that artists since have admired the workmanship without pretending to mend it. He undoubtedly stands first in the list of refiners; and for ought I know the last too; for I question whether in Charles II's reign; the English did not come to its full perfection, and whether it had not had its Augustan age, as well as the Latin.' Thus far this anonymous author. If I may be permitted to give my opinion in so delicate a point as the reputation of Waller, I shall take the liberty to observe, that had he, in place of preceding, succeeded those great wits who flourished in the reign of Charles II, he could never have rose to such great reputation, nor would have deserved it: No small honour is due to him for the harmony which he introduced, but upon that chiefly does his reputation stand. He certainly is sometimes languid; he was rather a tender than a violent lover; he has not that force of thinking, that amazing reach of genius for which Dryden is renowned, and had it been his lot to have appeared in the reign of Queen Anne, I imagine, he would not have been ranked above the second class of poets. But be this as it may, poetry owes him the highest obligations for refining it, and every succeeding genius will be ready to acknowledge, that by copying Waller's strains, they have improved their own, and the more they follow him, the more they please. Mr. Waller altered the Maid's Tragedy from Fletcher, and translated the first Act of the Tragedy of Pompey from the French of Corneille. Mrs. Katharine Philips, in a letter to Sir Charles Cotterell, ascribes the translation of the first act to our author; and observes, that Sir Edward Filmer did one, Sir Charles Sidley another, lord Buckhurst another; but who the fifth, says she, I cannot learn. Mrs. Philips then proceeds to give a criticism on this performance of Waller's, shews some faults, and points out some beauties, with a spirit and candour peculiar to her. The best edition of our author's works is that published by Mr. Fenton, London 1730, containing poems, speeches, letters, &c. In this edition is added the preface to the first edition of Mr. Waller's poems after the restoration, printed in the year 1664. As a specimen of Mr. Waller's poetry, we shall give a transcript of his Panegyric upon Oliver Cromwell. A Panegyric to my Lord PROTECTOR, of the present greatness and joint interest of his Highness and this Nation. In the YEAR 1654. While with a strong, and yet a gentle hand You bridle faction, and our hearts command, Protect us from our selves, and from the foe, Make us unite, and make us conquer too; Let partial spirits still aloud complain, Think themselves injur'd that they cannot reign, And own no liberty, but where they may Without controul upon their fellows prey. Above the waves as Neptune shew'd his face To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race; So has your Highness, rais'd above the rest, Storms of Ambition tossing us represt. Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, Restor'd by you, is made a glorious state; The feat of empire, where the Irish come, And the unwilling Scotch, to fetch their doom. The sea's our own, and now all nations greet, With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet. Your pow'r extends as far as winds can blow, Or swelling sails upon the globe may go. Heav'n, that hath plac'd this island to give law, To balance Europe, and her states to awe, In this conjunction doth on Britain smile; The greatest leader, and the greatest isle. Whether this portion of the world were rent By the rude ocean from the Continent, Or thus created, it was sure design'd To be the sacred refuge of mankind. Hither th' oppressed shall henceforth resort Justice to crave, and succour at your court; And then your Highness, not for our's alone, But for the world's Protector shall be known. Fame swifter than your winged navy flies Thro' ev'ry land that near the ocean lies, Sounding your name, and telling dreadful News To all that piracy and rapine use. With such a chief the meanest nation blest, Might hope to lift her head above the rest: What may be thought impossible to do By us, embraced by the seas, and you? Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we Whole forests send to reign upon the sea, And ev'ry coast may trouble or relieve; But none can visit us without your leave. Angels and we have this prerogative, That none can at our happy seats arrive; While we descend at pleasure to invade The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid. Our little world, the image of the great, Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set, Of her own growth hath all that nature craves, And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves. As Ægypt does not on the clouds rely, But to the Nile owes more than to the sky; So what our Earth and what our heav'n denies, Our ever-constant friend the sea, supplies. The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know, Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow; Without the worm in Persian silks we shine, And without planting drink of ev'ry vine. To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs. Gold (tho' the heaviest Metal) hither swims: Our's is the harvest where the Indians mow, We plough the deep, and reap what others sow. Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds; Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds; Rome (tho' her eagle thro' the world had flown) Cou'd never make this island all her own. Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince too, France conq'ring Henry flourish'd, and now you; For whom we staid, as did the Grecian state, Till Alexander came to urge their fate. When for more world's the Macedonian cry'd, He wist not Thetys in her lap did hide Another yet, a word reserv'd for you, To make more great than that he did subdue. He safely might old troops to battle lead Against th' unwarlike Persian, and the Mede; Whose hasty flight did from a bloodless field, More spoils than honour to the visitor yield. A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold, The Caledonians arm'd with want and cold, Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame, Been from all ages kept for you to tame. Whom the old Roman wall so ill confin'd, With a new chain of garrisons you bind: Here foreign gold no more shall make them come, Our English Iron holds them fast at home. They that henceforth must be content to know No warmer region than their hills of snow, May blame the sun, but must extol your grace, Which in our senate hath allow'd them place. Preferr'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown, Falling they rise, to be with us made one: So kind dictators made, when they came home, Their vanquish'd foes free citizens of Rome. Like favour find the Irish, with like fate Advanc'd to be a portion of our state: While by your valour, and your bounteous mind, Nations, divided by the sea, are join'd. Holland, to gain your friendship, is content To be our out-guard on the continent: She from her fellow-provinces wou'd go, Rather than hazard to have you her foe. In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse (Preventing posts) the terror and the news; Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar: But our conjunction makes them tremble more. Your never-failing sword made war to cease, And now you heal us with the acts of peace Our minds with bounty and with awe engage, Invite affection, and restrain our rage. Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, Than in restoring such as are undone: Tygers have courage, and the rugged bear, But man alone can whom he conquers, spare. To pardon willing; and to punish, loath; You strike with one hand, but you heal with both. Lifting up all that prostrate lye, you grieve You cannot make the dead again to live. When fate or error had our Age mis-led, And o'er this nation such confusion spread; The only cure which cou'd from heav'n come down, Was so much pow'r and piety in one. One whose extraction's from an ancient line, Gives hope again that well-born men may shine: The meanest in your nature mild and good, The noble rest secured in your blood. Oft have we wonder'd, how you hid in peace A mind proportion'd to such things as these; How such a ruling sp'rit you cou'd restrain, And practise first over your self to reign. Your private life did a just pattern give How fathers, husbands, pious sons shou'd live; Born to command, your princely virtues slept Like humble David's while the flock he kept: But when your troubled country call'd you forth, Your flaming courage, and your matchless worth Dazling the eyes of all that did pretend, To fierce contention gave a prosp'rous end. Still as you rise, the state, exalted too, Finds no distemper while 'tis chang'd by you; Chang'd like the world's great scene, when without noise The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys. Had you, some ages past, this race of glory Run, with amazement we shou'd read your story; But living virtue, all atchievements past, Meets envy still to grapple with at last. This Cæsar found, and that ungrateful age, With losing him, went back to blood and rage. Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke, But cut the bond of union with that stroke. That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars Gave a dim light to violence and wars, To such a tempest as now threatens all, Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall. If Rome's great senate cou'd not wield that sword Which of the conquer'd world had made them lord, What hope had our's, while yet their pow'r was new, To rule victorious armies, but by you? You, that had taught them to subdue their foes, Cou'd order teach, and their high sp'rits compose: To ev'ry duty you'd their minds engage, Provoke their courage, and command their rage. So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane, And angry grows; if he that first took pain To tame his youth, approach the haughty beast, He bends to him, but frights away the rest. As the vext world, to find repose, at last Itself into Augustus' arms did cast: So England now doth, with like toil opprest, Her weary head upon your bosom rest. Then let the muses, with such notes as these, Instruct us what belongs unto our peace; Your battles they hereafter shall indite, And draw the image of our Mars in fight; Tell of towns storm'd, of armies overcome, Of mighty kingdoms by your conduct won, How, while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choak Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke. Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And ev'ry conqueror creates a muse; Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing, But there, my lord, we'll bays and olive bring, To crown your head; while you in triumph ride O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside: While all your neighbour princes unto you, Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence and bow. Footnotes: 1. The ancient seat of the Sydneys family in Kent; now in the possession of William Perry, esq; whose lady is niece to the late Sydney, earl of Leicester. A small, but excellent poem upon this delightful seat, was published by an anonymous hand, in 1750, entitled, PENSHURST. See Monthly Review, vol. II. page 331. 2. Life, p. 8, 9. 3. History of the Rebellion, Edit. Oxon. 1707, 8vo. * * * * * JOHN OGILBY, This poet, who was likewise an eminent Geographer and Cosmographer, was born near Edinburgh in the year 1600[1]. His father, who was of an ancient and genteel family, having spent his estate, and being prisoner in the King's Bench for debt, could give his son but little education at school; but our author, who, in his early years discovered the most invincible industry, obtained a little knowledge in the Latin grammar, and afterwards so much money, as not only to procure his father's discharge from prison, but also to bind himself apprentice to Mr. Draper a dancing master in Holbourn, London. Soon after, by his dexterity in his profession, and his complaisant behaviour to his master's employers, he obtained the favour of them to lend him as much money as to buy out the remaining part of his time, and set up for himself; but being afterwards appointed to dance in the duke of Buckingham's great Masque, by a false step, he strained a vein in the inside of his leg, which ever after occasioned him to halt. He afterwards taught dancing to the sisters of Sir Ralph Hopton, at Wytham in Somersetshire, where, at leisure, he learned to handle the pike and musket. When Thomas earl of Strafford became Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, he was retained in his family to teach the art of dancing, and being an excellent penman, he was frequently employed by the earl to transcribe papers for him. In his lordship's family it was that he first gave proofs of his inclination to poetry, by translating some of Æsop's Fables into English verse, which he communicated to some learned men, who understood Latin better than he, by whose assistance and advice he published them. He was one of the troop of guards belonging to the earl, and composed an humourous piece entitled the Character of a Trooper. About the time he was supported by his lordship, he was made master of the revels for the kingdom of Ireland, and built a little theatre for the representation of dramatic entertainments, in St. Warburgh's street in Dublin: but upon the breaking out of the rebellion in that kingdom, he was several times in great danger of his life, particularly when he narrowly escaped being blown up in the castle of Rathfarnam. About the time of the conclusion of the war in England, he left Ireland, and being shipwrecked, came to London in a very necessitous condition. After he had made a short stay in the metropolis, he travelled on foot to Cambridge, where his great industry, and love of learning, recommended him to the notice of several scholars, by whose assistance he became so compleat a master of the Latin tongue, that in 1646 he published an English translation of Virgil, which was printed in large 8vo. and dedicated to William marquis of Hereford. He reprinted it at London 1654 in fol. with this title; The Works of Publius Virgilius Maro, translated and adorned with Sculptures, and illustrated with Annotations; which, Mr. Wood tells us, was the fairest edition, that till then, the English press ever produced. About the year 1654 our indefatigable author learned the Greek language, and in four year's time published in fol. a translation of Homer's Iliad, adorned with excellent sculptures, illustrated with Annotations, and addressed to King Charles II. The same year he published the Bible in a large fol. at Cambridge, according to the translation set forth by the special command of King James I. with the Liturgy and Articles of the Church of England, with Chorographical Sculptures. About the year 1662 he went into Ireland, then having obtained a patent to be made master of the revels there, a place which Sir William Davenant sollicited in vain. Upon this occasion he built a theatre at Dublin, which cost him 2000 l. the former being ruined during the troubles. In 1664 he published in London, in fol. a translation of Homer's Odyssey, with Sculptures, and Notes. He afterwards wrote two heroic poems, one entitled the Ephesian Matron, the other the Roman Slave, both dedicated to Thomas earl of Ossory. The next work he composed was an Epic Poem in 12 Books, in honour of King Charles I. but this was entirely lost in the fire of London in September 1666, when Mr. Ogilby's house in White Fryars was burnt down, and his whole fortune, except to the value of five pounds, destroyed. But misfortunes seldom had any irretrievable consequences to Ogilby, for by his insinuating address, and most astonishing industry, he was soon able to repair whatever loss he sustained by any cross accident. It was not long till he fell on a method of raising a fresh sum of money. Procuring his house to be rebuilt, he set up a printing-office, was appointed his Majesty's Cosmographer and Geographic Printer, and printed many great works translated and collected by himself and his assistants, the enumeration of which would be unnecessary and tedious. This laborious man died September 4, 1676, and was interred in the vault under part of the church in St. Bride's in Fleet-street. Mr. Edward Philips in his Theatrum Poetarum stiles him one of the prodigies, from producing, after so late an initiation into literature, so many large and learned volumes, as well in verse as in prose, and tells us, that his Paraphrase upon Æsop's Fables, is generally confessed to have exceeded whatever hath been done before in that kind. As to our author's poetry, we have the authority of Mr. Pope to pronounce it below criticism, at least his translations; and in all probability his original epic poems which we have never seen, are not much superior to his translations of Homer and Virgil. If Ogilby had not a poetical genius, he was notwithstanding a man of parts, and made an amazing proficiency in literature, by the force of an unwearied application. He cannot be sufficiently commended for his virtuous industry, as well as his filial piety, in procuring, in so early a time of life, his father's liberty, when he was confined in a prison. Ogilby seems indeed to have been a good sort of man, and to have recommended himself to the world by honest means, without having recourse to the servile arts of flattery, and the blandishments of falshood. He is an instance of the astonishing efficacy of application; had some more modern poets been blessed with a thousandth part of his oeconomy and industry, they needed not to have lived in poverty, and died of want. Although Ogilby cannot be denominated a genius, yet he found means to make a genteel livelihood by literature, which many of the sons of Parnassus, blessed with superior powers, curse as a very dry and unpleasing soil, but which proceeds more from want of culture, than native barrenness. Footnote: 1. Athen Oxon. vol. ii. p. 378. * * * * * WILMOT, Earl of ROCHESTER. It is an observation founded on experience, that the poets have, of all other men, been most addicted to the gratifications of appetite, and have pursued pleasure with more unwearied application than men of other characters. In this respect they are indeed unhappy, and have ever been more subject to pity than envy. A violent love of pleasure, if it does not destroy, yet, in a great measure, enervates all other good qualities with which a man may be endowed; and as no men have ever enjoyed higher parts from nature, than the poets, so few, from this unhappy attachment to pleasure, have effected so little good by those amazing powers. Of the truth of this observation, the nobleman, whose memoirs we are now to present to the reader, is a strong and indelible instance, for few ever had more ability, and more frequent opportunities, for promoting the interests of society, and none ever prostituted the gifts of Heaven to a more inglorious purpose. Lord Rochester was not more remarkable for the superiority of his parts, than the extraordinary debauchery of his life, and with his dissipations of pleasure, he suffered sometimes malevolent principles to govern him, and was equally odious for malice and envy, as for the boundless gratifications of his appetites. This is, no doubt, the character of his lordship, confirmed by all who have transmitted any account of him: but if his life was supremely wicked, his death was exemplarily pious; before he approached to the conclusion of his days, he saw the follies of his former pleasures, he lived to repent with the severest contrition, and charity obliges all men to believe that he was as sincere in his protestations of penitence, as he had been before in libertine indulgence. The apparent sorrow he felt, arising from the stings and compunctions of conscience, entitle him to the reader's compassion, and has determined us to represent his errors with all imaginable tenderness; which, as it is agreeable to every benevolent man, so his lordship has a right to this indulgence, since he obliterated his faults by his penitence, and became so conspicuous an evidence on the side of virtue, by his important declarations against the charms of vice. Lord Rochester was son of the gallant Henry lord Wilmot, who engaged with great zeal in the service of King Charles I. during the civil wars, and was so much in favour with Charles II. that he entrusted his person to him, after the unfortunate battle of Worcester, which trust he discharged with so much fidelity and address, that the young King was conveyed out of England into France, chiefly by his care, application and vigilance. The mother of our author was of the ancient family of the St. Johns in Wiltshire, and has been celebrated both for her beauty and parts. In the year 1648, distinguished to posterity, by the fall of Charles I. who suffered on a scaffold erected before the window of his own palace, our author was born at Dichley, near Woodstock, in the same county, the scene of many of his pleasures, and of his death. His lordship's father had the misfortune to reap none of the rewards of suffering loyalty, for he died in 1660, immediately before the restoration, leaving his son as the principal part of his inheritance, his titles, honours, and the merit of those extraordinary services he had done the crown; but though lord Wilmot left his son but a small estate, yet he did not suffer in his education by these means, for the oeconomy of his mother supplied that deficiency, and he was educated suitable to his quality. When he was at school (it is agreed by all his biographers) he gave early instances of a readiness of wit; and those shining parts which have since appeared with so much lustre, began then to shew themselves: he acquired the Latin to such perfection, that, to his dying day, he retained a great relish for the masculine firmness, as well as more elegant beauties of that language, and was, says Dr. Burnet, 'exactly versed in those authors who were the ornaments of the court of Augustus, which he read often with the peculiar delight which the greatest wits have often found in those studies.' When he went to the university, the general joy which over-ran the nation upon his Majesty's return, amounted to something like distraction, and soon spread a very malignant influence through all ranks of life. His lordship tasted the pleasures of libertinism, which then broke out in a full tide, with too acute a relish, and was almost overwhelmed in the abyss of wantonness. His tutor was Dr. Blandford, afterwards promoted to the sees of Oxford and Worcester, and under his inspection he was committed to the more immediate care of Phinehas Berry, fellow of Wadham College, a man of learning and probity, whom his lordship afterwards treated with much respect, and rewarded as became a great man; but notwithstanding the care of his tutor, he had so deeply engaged in the dissipations of the general jubilee, that he could not be prevailed upon to renew his studies, which were totally lost in the joys more agreeable to his inclination. He never thought of resuming again the pursuit of knowledge, 'till the fine address of his governor, Dr. Balfour, won him in his travels, by degrees, to those charms of study, which he had through youthful levity forsaken, and being seconded by reason, now more strong, and a more mature taste of the pleasure of learning, which the Dr. took care to place in the most agreeable and advantageous light, he became enamoured of knowledge, in the pursuit of which he often spent those hours he sometimes stole from the witty, and the fair. He returned from his travels in the 18th year of his age, and appeared at court with as great advantage as any young nobleman ever did. He had a graceful and well proportioned person, was master of the most refined breeding, and possessed a very obliging and easy manner. He had a vast vivacity of thought, and a happy flow of expression, and all who conversed with him entertained the highest opinion of his understanding; and 'tis indeed no wonder he was so much caressed at a court which abounded with men of wit, countenanced by a merry prince, who relished nothing so much as brilliant conversation. Soon after his lordship's return from his travels, he took the first occasion that offered, to hazard his life in the service of his country. In the winter of the year 1665 he went to sea, with the earl of Sandwich, when he was sent out against the Dutch East India fleet, and was in the ship called the Revenge, commanded by Sir Thomas Tiddiman, when the attack was made on the port of Bergen in Norway, the Dutch Ships having got into that port. It was, says Burnet, 'as desperate an attempt as ever was made, and during the whole action, the earl of Rochester shewed as brave and resolute a courage as possible. A person of honour told me he heard the lord Clifford, who was in the same ship, often magnify his courage at that time very highly; nor did the rigour of the season, the hardness of the voyage, and the extreme danger he had been in, deter him from running the like the very next occasion; for the summer following he went to sea again, without communicating his design to his nearest relations. He went aboard the ship commanded by Sir Edward Spragge, the day before the great sea-fight of that year; almost all the volunteers that went in that ship were killed. During the action, Sir Edward Spragge not being satisfied with the behaviour of one of the captains, could not easily find a person that would undertake to venture through so much danger to carry his command to the captain; this lord offered himself to the service, and went in a little boat, through all the shot, and delivered his message, and returned back to Sir Edward, which was much commended by all that saw it.' These are the early instances of courage, which can be produced in favour of lord Rochester, which was afterwards impeached, and very justly, for in many private broils, he discovered a timid pusillanimous spirit, very unsuitable to those noble instances of the contrary, which have just been mentioned. The author of his life prefixed to his works, which goes under the name of M. St. Evremond, addressed to the Duchess of Mazarine, but which M. Maizeau asserts not to be his, accounts for it, upon the general observation of that disparity between a man and himself, upon different occasions. Let it suffice, says he, 'to observe, that we differ not from one another, more than we do from ourselves at different times.' But we imagine another, and a stronger reason may be given, for the cowardice which Rochester afterwards discovered in private broils, particularly in the affair between him and the earl of Mulgrave, in which he behaved very meanly[1]. The courage which lord Rochester shewed in a naval engagement, was in the early part of his life, before he had been immersed in those labyrinths of excess and luxury, into which he afterwards sunk. It is certainly a true observation, that guilt makes cowards; a man who is continually subjected to the reproaches of conscience, who is afraid to examine his heart, lest it should appear too horrible, cannot have much courage: for while he is conscious of so many errors to be repented of, of so many vices he has committed, he naturally starts at danger, and flies from it as his greatest enemy. It is true, courage is sometimes constitutional, and there have been instances of men, guilty of every enormity, who have discovered a large share of it, but these have been wretches who have overcome all sense of honour, been lost to every consideration of virtue, and whose courage is like that of the lion of the desart, a kind of ferocious impulse unconnected with reason. Lord Rochester had certainly never overcome the reproaches of his conscience, whose alarming voice at last struck terror into his heart, and chilled the fire of the spirits. Since his travels, and naval expeditions, he seemed to have contracted a habit of temperance, in which had he been so happy as to persevere, he must have escaped that fatal rock, on which he afterwards split, upon his return to court, where love and pleasure kept their perpetual rounds, under the smiles of a prince, whom nature had fitted for all the enjoyments of the most luxurious desires. In times so dissolute as these, it is no wonder if a man of so warm a constitution as Rochester, could not resist the too flattering temptations, which were heightened by the participation of the court in general. The uncommon charms of Rochester's conversation, induced all men to court him as a companion, tho' they often paid too dear for their curiosity, by being made the subject of his lampoons, if they happened to have any oddities in their temper, by the exposing of which he could humour his propensity to scandal. His pleasant extravagancies soon became the subject of general conversation, by which his vanity was at once flattered, and his turn of satire rendered more keen, by the success it met with. Rochester had certainly a true talent for satire, and he spared neither friends nor foes, but let it loose on all without discrimination. Majesty itself was not secure from it; he more than once lampooned the King, whose weakness and attachment to some of his mistresses, he endeavoured to cure by several means, that is, either by winning them from him, in spite of the indulgence and liberality they felt from a royal gallant, or by severely lampooning them and him on various occasions; which the King, who was a man of wit and pleasure, as well as his lordship, took for the natural sallies of his genius, and meant rather as the amusements of his fancy, than as the efforts of malice; yet, either by a too frequent repetition, or a too close and poignant virulence, the King banished him [from] the court for a satire made directly on him; this satire consists of 28 stanzas, and is entitled The Restoration, or the History of the Insipids; and as it contains the keenest reflexions against the political conduct, and private character of that Prince, and having produced the banishment of this noble lord, we shall here give it a place, by which his lordship's genius for this kind of writing will appear. The RESTORATION, or The History of INSIPIDS, a LAMPOON. I. Chaste, pious, prudent, Charles the second, The miracle of thy restoration, May like to that of quails be reckon'd, Rain'd on the Israelitish nation; The wish'd for blessing from Heaven sent, Became their curse and punishment. II. The virtues in thee, Charles, inherent, Altho' thy count'nance be an odd piece, Prove thee as true a God's Vicegerent, As e'er was Harry with his cod-piece: For chastity, and pious deeds, His grandsire Harry Charles exceeds. III. Our Romish bondage-breaker Harry, Espoused half a dozen wives. Charles only one resolv'd to marry, And other mens he never ----; Yet has he sons and daughters more Than e'er had Harry by threescore. IV. Never was such a faith's defender; He like a politic Prince, and pious, Gives liberty to conscience tender, And does to no religion tie us; Jews, Christians, Turks, Papists, he'll please us With Moses, Mahomet, or Jesus. V. In all affairs of church or state He very zealous is, and able, Devout at pray'rs, and sits up late At the cabal and council-table. His very dog, at council-board, Sits grave and wise as any lord. VI. Let Charles's policy no man flout, The wisest Kings have all some folly; Nor let his piety any doubt; Charles, like a Sov'reign, wise and holy, Makes young men judges of the bench, And bishops, those that love a wench. VII. His father's foes he does reward, Preserving those that cut off's head; Old cavaliers, the crown's best guard, He lets them starve for want of bread. Never was any King endow'd With so much grace and gratitude. VIII. Blood, that wears treason in his face, Villain compleat in parson's gown, How much is he at court in grace, For stealing Ormond and the crown! Since loyalty does no man good, Let's steal the King, and out-do Blood. IX. A Parliament of knaves and sots (Members by name you must not mention) He keeps in pay, and buys their votes, Here with a place, there with a pension: When to give money he can't cologue 'em, He does with scorn prorogue, prorogue 'em. X. But they long since, by too much giving, Undid, betray'd, and sold the nation, Making their memberships a living, Better than e'er was sequestration. God give thee, Charles, a resolution To damn the knaves by dissolution. XI. Fame is not grounded on success, Tho' victories were Cæsar's glory; Lost battles make not Pompey less, But left him stiled great in story. Malicious fate does oft devise To beat the brave, and fool the wise. XII. Charles in the first Dutch war stood fair To have been Sov'reign of the deep, When Opdam blew up in the air, Had not his Highness gone to sleep: Our fleet slack'd sails, fearing his waking, The Dutch had else been in sad taking. XIII. The Bergen business was well laid, Tho' we paid dear for that design; Had we not three days parling staid, The Dutch fleet there, Charles, had been thine: Tho' the false Dane agreed to fell 'em, He cheated us, and saved Skellum. XIV. Had not Charles sweetly chous'd the States, By Bergen-baffle grown more wise; And made 'em shit as small as rats, By their rich Smyrna fleet's surprise: Had haughty Holmes, but call'd in Spragg, Hans had been put into a bag. XV. Mists, storms, short victuals, adverse winds, And once the navy's wise division, Defeated Charles's best designs, 'Till he became his foes derision: But he had swing'd the Dutch at Chatham, Had he had ships but to come at 'em. XVI. Our Black-Heath host, without dispute, (Rais'd, put on board, why? no man knows) Must Charles have render'd absolute Over his subjects, or his foes: Has not the French King made us fools, By taking Maestricht with our tools? XVII. But Charles, what could thy policy be, To run so many sad disasters; To join thy fleet with false d'Estrees To make the French of Holland masters? Was't Carewell, brother James, or Teague, That made thee break the Triple League? XVIII. Could Robin Viner have foreseen The glorious triumphs of his master; The Wool-Church statue Gold had been, Which now is made of Alabaster. But wise men think had it been wood, 'Twere for a bankrupt King too good. XIX. Those that the fabric well consider. Do of it diversly discourse; Some pass their censure on the rider, Others their judgment on the horse. Most say, the steed's a goodly thing, But all agree, 'tis a lewd King. XX. By the lord mayor and his grave coxcombs, Freeman of London, Charles is made; Then to Whitehall a rich Gold box comes, Which was bestow'd on the French jade[2]: But wonder not it should be so, sirs, When Monarchs rank themselves with Grocers. XXI. Cringe, scrape no more, ye city-fops, Leave off your feasting and fine speeches; Beat up your drums, shut up your shops, The courtiers then will kiss your breeches. Arm'd, tell the Popish Duke that rules, You're free-born subjects, not French mules. XXII. New upstarts, bastards, pimps, and whores, That, locust-like, devour the land, By shutting up th'Exchequer-doors, When there our money was trapann'd, Have render'd Charles's restoration But a small blessing to the nation. XXIII. Then, Charles, beware thy brother York, Who to thy government gives law; If once we fall to the old sport, You must again both to Breda; Where, spite of all that would restore you, Grown wise by wrongs, we should abhor you. XXIV. If, of all Christian blood the guilt Cries loud of vengeance unto Heav'n, That sea by treach'rous Lewis spilt, Can never be by God forgiv'n: Worse scourge unto his subjects, lord! Than pest'lence, famine, fire, or sword. XXV. That false rapacious wolf of France, The scourge of Europe, and its curse, Who at his subjects cries does dance, And studies how to make them worse; To say such Kings, Lord, rule by thee, Were most prodigious blasphemy. XXVI. Such know no law, but their own lust; Their subjects substance, and their blood, They count it tribute due and just, Still spent and spilt for subjects good. If such Kings are by God appointed, The devil may be the Lord's anointed. XXVII. Such Kings! curs'd be the pow'r and name, Let all the world henceforth abhor 'em; Monsters, which knaves sacred proclaim, And then, like slaves, fall down before 'em. What can there be in Kings divine? The most are wolves, goats, sheep, or swine. XXVIII. Then farewel, sacred Majesty, Let's pull all brutish tyrants down; Where men are born, and still live free, There ev'ry head doth wear a crown: Mankind, like miserable frogs, Prove wretched, king'd by storks and dogs. Much about this time the duke of Buckingham was under disgrace, for things of another nature, and being disengaged from any particular attachment in town, he and lord Rochester resolved, like Don Quixote of old, to set out in quest of adventures; and they met with some that will appear entertaining to our readers, which we shall give upon the authority of the author of Rochester's Life, prefixed to his works. Among many other adventures the following was one: There happened to be an inn on New-market road to be lett, they disguised themselves in proper habits for the persons they were to assume, and jointly took this inn, in which each in his turn officiated as master; but they soon made this subservient to purposes of another nature. Having carefully observed the pretty girls in the country with whom they were most captivated, (they considered not whether maids, wives, or widows) and to gain opportunities of seducing them, they invited the neighbours, who had either wives or daughters, to frequent feasts, where the men were plied hard with good liquor, and the women sufficiently warmed to make but as little resistance as would be agreeable to their inclinations, dealing out their poison to both sexes, inspiring the men with wine, and other strong liquors, and the women with love; thus they were able to deflower many a virgin, and alienate the affections of many a wife by this odd stratagem; and it is difficult to say, whether it is possible for two men to live to a worse purpose. It is natural to imagine that this kind of life could not be of long duration. Feasts so frequently given, and that without any thing to pay, must give a strong suspicion that the inn-keepers must soon break, or that they were of such fortune and circumstances, as did not well suit the post they were in.--This their lordships were sensible of, but not much concerned about it, since they were seldom found long to continue in the same sort of adventures, variety being the life of their enjoyments. It was besides, near the time of his Majesty's going to Newmarket, when they designed, that the discovery of their real plots, should clear them of the imputation of being concerned in any more pernicious to the government. These two conjectures meeting, they thought themselves obliged to dispatch two important adventures, which they had not yet been able to compass.--There was an old covetous miser in the neighbourhood, who notwithstanding his age, was in possession of a very agreeable young wife. Her husband watched her with the same assiduity he did his money, and never trusted her out of his sight, but under the protection of an old maiden sister, who never had herself experienced the joys of love, and bore no great benevolence to all who were young and handsome. Our noble inn-keepers had no manner of doubt of his accepting a treat, as many had done, for he loved good living with all his heart, when it cost him nothing; and except upon these occasions he was the most temperate and abstemious man alive; but then they could never prevail with him to bring his wife, notwithstanding they urged the presence of so many good wives in the neighbourhood to keep her company. All their study was then how to deceive the old sister at home, who was set as a guardian over that fruit which the miser could neither eat himself, nor suffer any other to taste; but such a difficulty as this was soon to be overcome by such inventions. It was therefore agreed that lord Rochester should be dressed in woman's cloaths, and while the husband was feasting with my lord duke, he should make trial of his skill with the old woman at home. He had learned that she had no aversion to the bottle when she could come secretly and conveniently at it. Equipped like a country lass, and furnished with a bottle of spiritous liquors, he marched to the old miser's house. It was with difficulty he found means to speak with the old woman, but at last obtained the favour; where perfect in all the cant of those people, he began to tell the occasion of his coming, in hopes she would invite him to come in, but all in vain; he was admitted no further that the porch, with the house door a-jar: At last, my lord finding no other way, fell upon this expedient. He pretended to be taken suddenly ill, and tumbled down upon the threshold. This noise brings the young wife to them, who with much trouble persuades her keeper to help her into the house, in regard to the decorum of her sex, and the unhappy condition she was in. The door had not been long shut, till our imposter by degrees recovers, and being set on a chair, cants a very religious thanksgiving to the good gentlewoman for her kindness, and observed how deplorable it was to be subject to such fits, which often took her in the street, and exposed her to many accidents, but every now and then took a sip of the bottle, and recommended it to the old benefactress, who was sure to drink a hearty dram. His lordship had another bottle in his pocket qualified with a Opium, which would sooner accomplish his desire, by giving the woman a somniferous dose, which drinking with greediness, she soon fell fast asleep. His lordship having so far succeeded, and being fired with the presence of the young wife, for whom he had formed this odd scheme, his desires became impetuous, which produced a change of colour, and made the artless creature imagine the fit was returning. My lord then asked if she would be so charitable as to let him lie down on the bed; the good-natured young woman shewed him the way, and being laid down, and staying by him at his request, he put her in mind of her condition, asking about her husband, whom the young woman painted in his true colours, as a surly, jealous old tyrant. The rural innocent imagining she had only a woman with her, was less reserved in her behaviour and expressions on that account, and his lordship soon found that a tale of love would not be unpleasing to her. Being now no longer able to curb his appetite, which was wound up beyond the power of restraint, he declared his sex to her, and without much struggling enjoyed her. He now became as happy as indulgence could make him; and when the first transports were over, he contrived the escape of this young adultress from the prison of her keeper. She hearkened to his proposals with pleasure, and before the old gentlewoman was awake, she robbed her husband of an hundred and fifty pieces, and marched off with lord Rochester to the inn, about midnight. They were to pass over three or four fields before they could reach it, and in going over the last, they very nearly escaped falling into the enemy's hands; but the voice of the husband discovering who he was, our adventurers struck down the field out of the path, and for the greater security lay down in the grass. The place, the occasion, and the person that was so near, put his lordship in mind of renewing his pleasure almost in sight of the cuckold. The fair was no longer coy, and easily yielded to his desires. He in short carried the girl home and then prostituted her to the duke's pleasure, after he had been cloyed himself. The old man going home, and finding his sitter asleep, his wife fled, and his money gone, was thrown into a state of madness, and soon hanged himself. The news was soon spread about the neighbourhood, and reached the inn, where both lovers, now as weary of their purchase as desirous of it before, advised her to go to London, with which she complied, and in all probability followed there the trade of prostitution for a subsistance. The King, soon after this infamous adventure, coming that way, found them both in their posts at the inn, took them again into favour, and suffered them to go with him to Newmarket. This exploit of lord Rochester is not at all improbable, when his character is considered; His treachery in the affair of the miser's wife is very like him; and surely it was one of the greatest acts of baseness of which he was ever guilty; he artfully seduced her, while her unsuspecting husband was entertained by the duke of Buckingham; he contrived a robbery, and produced the death of the injured husband; this complicated crime was one of those heavy charges on his mind when he lay on his death-bed, under the dreadful alarms of his conscience. His lordship's amours at court made a great noise in the world of gallantry, especially that which he had with the celebrated Mrs. Roberts, mistress to the King, whom she abondoned for the possession of Rochester's heart, which she found to her experience, it was not in her power long to hold. The earl, who was soon cloyed with the possession of any one woman, tho' the fairest in the world, forsook her. The lady after the first indignation of her passion subsided, grew as indifferent, and considered upon the proper means of retrieving the King's affections. The occasion was luckily given her one morning while she was dressing: she saw the King coming by, she hurried, down with her hair disheveled, threw herself at his feet, implored his pardon, and vowed constancy for the future. The King, overcome with the well-dissembled agonies of this beauty, raised her up, took her in his arms, and protested no man could see her, and not love her: he waited on her to her lodging, and there compleated the reconciliation. This easy behaviour of the King, had, with many other instances of the same kind, determined my lord Hallifax to assert, "That the love of King Charles II, lay as much as any man's, in the lower regions; that he was indifferent as to their constancy, and only valued them for the sensual pleasure they could yield." Lord Rochester's frolics in the character of a mountebank are well known, and the speech which he made upon the occasion of his first turning itinerant doctor, has been often printed; there is in it a true spirit of satire, and a keenness of lampoon, which is very much in the character of his lordship, who had certainly an original turn for invective and satirical composition. We shall give the following short extract from this celebrated speech, in which his lordship's wit appears pretty conspicuous. "If I appear (says Alexander Bendo) to any one like a counterfeit, even for the sake of that chiefly ought I to be construed a true man, who is the counterfeit's example, his original, and that which he employs his industry and pains to imitate and copy. Is it therefore my fault if the cheat, by his wit and endeavours, makes himself so like me, that consequently I cannot avoid resembling him? Consider, pray, the valiant and the coward, the wealthy merchant and the bankrupt; the politician and the fool; they are the same in many things, and differ but in one alone. The valiant man holds up his hand, looks confidently round about him, wears a sword, courts a lord's wife, and owns it; so does the coward. One only point of honour, and that's courage, which (like false metal, one only trial can discover) makes the distinction. The bankrupt walks the exchange, buys bargains, draws bills, and accepts them with the richest, whilst paper and credit are current coin; that which makes the difference is real cash, a great defect indeed, and yet but one, and that the last found out, and still till then the least perceived.--Now for the politician; he is a grave, diliberating, close, prying man: Pray are there not grave, deliberating, close, prying fools? If therefore the difference betwixt all these (tho' infinite in effect) be so nice in all appearance, will you yet expect it should be otherwise between the false physician, astrologer, &c. and the true? The first calls himself learned doctor, sends forth his bills, gives physic and council, tells, and foretells; the other is bound to do just as much. It is only your experience must distinguish betwixt them, to which I willingly submit myself." When lord Rochester was restored again to the favour of King Charles II, he continued the same extravagant pursuits of pleasure, and would even use freedoms with that Prince, whom he had before so much offended; for his satire knew no bounds, his invention was lively, and his execution sharp. He is supposed to have contrived with one of Charles's mistress's the following stratagem to cure that monarch of the nocturnal rambles to which he addicted himself. He agreed to go out one night with him to visit a celebrated house of intrigue, where he told his Majesty the finest women in England were to be found. The King made no scruple to assume his usual disguise and accompany him, and while he was engaged with one of the ladies of pleasure, being before instructed by Rochester how to behave, she pick'd his pocket of all his money and watch, which the king did not immediately miss. Neither the people of the house, nor the girl herself was made acquainted with the quality of their visitor, nor had the least suspicion who he was. When the intrigue was ended, the King enquired for Rochester, but was told he had quitted the house, without taking leave. But into what embarassment was he thrown when upon searching his pockets, in order to discharge the reckoning, he found his money gone; he was then reduced to ask the favour of the Jezebel to give him credit till tomorrow, as the gentleman who came in with him had not returned, who was to have pay'd for both. The consequence of this request was, he was abused, and laughed at; and the old woman told him, that she had often been served such dirty tricks, and would not permit him to stir till the reckoning was paid, and then called one of her bullies to take care of him. In this ridiculous distress stood the British monarch; the prisoner of a bawd, and the life upon whom the nation's hopes were fixed, put in the power of a ruffian. After many altercations the King at last proposed, that she should accept a ring which he then took off his finger, in pledge for her money, which she likewise refused, and told him, that as she was no judge of the value of the ring, she did not chuse to accept such pledges. The King then desired that a Jeweller might be called to give his opinion of the value of it, but he was answered, that the expedient was impracticable, as no jeweller could then be supposed to be out of bed. After much entreaty his Majesty at last prevailed upon the fellow, to knock up a jeweller and shew him the ring, which as soon as he had inspected, he stood amazed, and enquired, with eyes fixed upon the fellow, who he had got in his house? to which he answered, a black-looking ugly son of a w----, who had no money in his pocket, and was obliged to pawn his ring. The ring, says the jeweller, is so immensely rich, that but one man in the nation could afford to wear it; and that one is the King. The jeweller being astonished at this accident, went out with the bully, in order to be fully satisfied of so extraordinary an affair; and as soon as he entered the room, he fell on his knees, and with the utmost respect presented the ring to his Majesty. The old Jezebel and the bully finding the extraordinary quality of their guest, were now confounded, and asked pardon most submissively on their knees. The King in the best natured manner forgave them, and laughing, asked them, whether the ring would not bear another bottle. Thus ended this adventure, in which the King learned how dangerous it was to risk his person in night-frolics; and could not but severely reprove Rochester for acting such a part towards him; however he sincerely resolved never again to be guilty of the like indiscretion. These are the most material of the adventures, and libertine courses of the lord Rochester, which historians and biographers have transmitted to posterity; we shall now consider him as an author. He seems to have been too strongly tinctured with that vice which belongs more to literary people, than to any other profession under the fun, viz. envy. That lord Rochester was envious, and jealous of the reputation of other men of eminence, appears abundantly clear from his behaviour to Dryden, which could proceed from no other principle; as his malice towards him had never discovered itself till the tragedies of that great poet met with such general applause, and his poems were universally esteemed. Such was the inveteracy he shewed to Mr. Dryden, that he set up John Crown, an obscure man, in opposition to him, and recommended him to the King to compose a masque for the court, which was really the business of the poet laureat; but when Crown's Conquest of Jerusalem met with as extravagant success as Dryden's Almanzor's, his lordship then withdrew his favour from Crown, as if he would be still in contradiction to the public. His malice to Dryden is said to have still further discovered itself, in hiring ruffians to cudgel him for a satire he was supposed to be the author of, which was at once malicious, cowardly, and cruel: But of this we shall give a fuller account in the life of Mr. Dryden. Mr. Wolsely, in his preface to Valentinian, a tragedy, altered by lord Rochester from Fletcher, has given a character of his lordship and his writings, by no means consistent with that idea, which other writers, and common tradition, dispose us to form of him. 'He was a wonderful man, says he, whether we consider the constant good sense, and agreeable mirth of his ordinary conversation, or the vast reach and compass of his inventions, and the amazing depth of his retired thoughts; the uncommon graces of his fashion, or the inimitable turns of his wit, the becoming gentleness, the bewitching softness of his civility, or the force and fitness of his satire; for as he was both the delight, the love, and the dotage of the women, so was he a continued curb to impertinence, and the public censure of folly; never did man stay in his company unentertained, or leave it uninstructed; never was his understanding biassed, or his pleasantness forced; never did he laugh in the wrong place, or prostitute his sense to serve his luxury; never did he stab into the wounds of fallen virtue, with a base and a cowardly insult, or smooth the face of prosperous villany, with the paint and washes of a mercenary wit; never did he spare a sop for being rich, or flatter a knave for being great. He had a wit that was accompanied with an unaffected greatness of mind, and a natural love to justice and truth; a wit that was in perpetual war with knavery, and ever attacking those kind of vices most, whose malignity was like to be the most dissusive, such as tended more immediately to the prejudice of public bodies; and were a common nusance to the happiness of human kind. Never was his pen drawn but on the side of good sense, and usually employed like the arms of the ancient heroes, to stop the progress of arbitrary oppression, and beat down the brutishness of headstrong will: to do his King and country justice, upon such public state thieves as would beggar a kingdom to enrich themselves: these were the vermin whom to his eternal honour his pen was continually pricking and goading; a pen, if not so happy in the success, yet as generous in the aim, as either the sword of Theseus, or the club of Hercules; nor was it less sharp than that, or less weighty than this. If he did not take so much care of himself as he ought, he had the humanity however, to wish well to others; and I think I may truly affirm he did the world as much good by a right application of satire, as he hurt himself by a wrong pursuit of pleasure.' In this amiable light has Mr. Wolsely drawn our author, and nothing is more certain, than that it is a portraiture of the imagination, warmed with gratitude, or friendship, and bears but little or no resemblance to that of Rochester; can he whose satire is always levelled at particular persons, be said to be the terror of knaves, and the public foe of vice, when he himself has acknowledged that he satirized only to gratify his resentment; for it was his opinion, that writing satires without being in a rage, was like killing in cold blood. Was his conversation instructive whose mouth was full of obscenity; and was he a friend to his country, who diffused a dangerous venom thro' his works to corrupt its members? in which, it is to be feared he has been but too successful. Did he never smooth the face of prosperous villainy, as, Mr. Wolsely expresses it, the scope of whose life was to promote and encourage the most licentious debauchery, and to unhinge all the principles of honour?--Either Mr. Wolsely must be strangely mistaken? or all other writers who have given us accounts of Rochester must be so; and as his single assertions are not equal to the united authorities of so many, we may reasonably reject his testimony as a deviation from truth. We have now seen these scenes of my lord Rochester's life, in which he appears to little advantage; it is with infinite pleasure we can take a view of the brighter side of his character; to do which, we must attend him to his death-bed. Had he been the amiable man Mr. Wolsely represents him, he needed not have suffered so many pangs of remorse, nor felt the horrors of conscience, nor been driven almost to despair by his reflexions on a mispent life. Rochester lived a profligate, but he died a penitent. He lived in defiance of all principles; but when he felt the cold hand of death upon him, he reflected on his folly, and saw that the portion of iniquity is, at last, sure to be only pain and anguish. Dr. Burnet, the excellent bishop of Sarum (however he may be reviled by a party) with many other obligations conferred upon the world, has added some account of lord Rochester in his dying moments. No state policy in this case, can well be supposed to have biased him, and when there are no motives to falsehood, it is somewhat cruel to discredit assertions. The Dr. could not be influenced by views of interest to give this, or any other account of his lordship; and could certainly have no other incentive, but that of serving his country, by shewing the instability of vice, and, by drawing into light an illustrious penitent, adding one wreath more to the banners of virtue. Burnet begins with telling us, that an accident fell out in the early part of the Earl's life, which in its consequences confirmed him in the pursuit of vicious courses. "When he went to sea in the year 1665, there happened to be in the same ship with him, Mr. Montague, and another gentleman of quality; these two, the former especially, seemed persuaded that they mould never return into England. Mr. Montague said, he was sure of it; the other was not so positive. The earl of Rochester and the last of these entered into a formal engagement, not without ceremonies of religion, that if either of them died, he should appear and give the other notice of the future state, if there was any. But Mr. Montague would not enter into the bond. When the Day came that they thought to have taken the Dutch fleet in the port of Bergen, Mr. Montague, tho' he had such a strong presage in his mind of his approaching death, yet he bravely stayed all the while in the place of the greatest danger. The other gentleman signalized his courage in the most undaunted manner, till near the end of the action; when he fell on a sudden into such a trembling, that he could scarce stand: and Mr. Montague going to him to hold him up, as they were in each other; arms, a cannon ball carried away Mr. Montague's belly, so that he expired in an hour after." The earl of Rochester told Dr. Burnet, that these presages they had in their minds, made some impression on him that there were separate beings; and that the soul either by a natural sagacity, or some secret notice communicated to it, had a sort of divination. But this gentleman's never appearing was a snare to him during the rest of his life: Though when he mentioned this, he could not but acknowledge, it was an unreasonable thing for him to think that beings in another state were not under such laws and limits that they could not command their motion, but as the supreme power should order them; and that one who had so corrupted the natural principles of truth as he had, had no reason to expect that miracles should be wrought for his conviction. He told Dr. Burnet another odd presage of approaching death, in lady Ware, his mother-in-law's family. The chaplain had dreamed that such a day he should die; but being by all the family laughed out of the belief of it, he had almost forgot it, till the evening before at supper; there being thirteen at table, according to an old conceit that one of the family must soon die; one of the young ladies pointed to him, that he was the person. Upon this the chaplain recalling to mind his dream, fell into some disorder, and the lady Ware reproving him for his superstition, he said, he was confident he was to die before morning; but he being in perfect health, it was not much minded. It was saturday night, and he was to preach next day. He went to his chamber and set up late as it appeared by the burning of his candle; and he had been preparing his notes for his sermon, but was found dead in his bed next morning. These things his lordship said, made him incline to believe that the soul was of a substance distinct from matter; but that which convinced him of it was, that in his last sickness, which brought him so near his death, when his spirits were so spent he could not move or stir, and did not hope to live an hour, he said his reason and judgment were so clear and strong, that from thence he was fully persuaded, that death was not the dissolution of the soul, but only the separation of it from matter. He had in that sickness great remorse for his past life; but he afterwards said, they were rather general and dark horrors, than any conviction of transgression against his maker; he was sorry he had lived so as to waste his strength so soon, or that he had brought such an ill name upon himself; and had an agony in his mind about it, which he knew not well how to express, but believed that these impunctions of conscience rather proceeded from the horror of his condition, than any true contrition for the errors of his life. During the time Dr. Burnet was at lord Rochester's house, they entered frequently into conversation upon the topics of natural and reveal'd religion, which the Dr. endeavoured to enlarge upon and explain in a manner suitable to the condition of a dying penitent; his lordship expressed much contrition for his having so often violated the laws of the one, against his better knowledge, and having spurned the authority of the other in the pride of wanton sophistry. He declared that he was satisfied of the truth of the christian religion, that he thought it the institution of heaven, and afforded the most natural idea of the supreme being, as well as the most forcible motives to virtue of any faith professed amongst men. 'He was not only satisfied (says Dr. Burnet) of the truth of our holy religion, merely as a matter of speculation, but was persuaded likewise of the power of inward grace, of which he gave me this strange account. He said Mr. Parsons, in order to his conviction, read to him the 53d chapter of the prophesies of Isaiah, and compared that with the history of our Saviour's passion, that he might there see a prophesy concerning it, written many ages before it was done; which the Jews that blasphemed Jesus Christ still kept in their hands as a book divinely inspired. He said, as he heard it read, he felt an inward force upon him, which did so enlighten his mind and convince him, that he could resist it no longer, for the words had an authority which did shoot like rays or beams in his mind, so that he was not only convinced by the reasonings he had about it, which satisfied his understanding, but by a power, which did so effectually constrain him that he ever after firmly believed in his Saviour, as if he had seen him in the clouds.' We are not quite certain whether there is not a tincture of enthusiasm in this account given by his lordship, as it is too natural to fly from one extreme to another, from the excesses of debauchery to the gloom of methodism; but even if we suppose this to have been the case, he was certainly in the safest extreme; and there is more comfort in hearing that a man whose life had been so remarkably profligate as his, should die under such impressions, than quit the world without one pang for past offences. The bishop gives an instance of the great alteration of his lordship's temper and dispositions (from what they were formerly) in his sickness. 'Whenever he happened to be out of order, either by pain or sickness, his temper became quite ungovernable, and his passions so fierce, that his servants were afraid to approach him. But in this last sickness he was all humility, patience, and resignation. Once he was a little offended with the delay of a servant, who he thought made not haste enough, with somewhat he called for, and said in a little heat, that damn'd fellow.' Soon after, says the Dr. I told him that I was glad to find his stile so reformed, and that he had so entirely overcome that ill habit of swearing, only that word of calling any damned which had returned upon him was not decent; his answer was, 'O that language of fiends, which was so familiar to me, hangs yet about me, sure none has deserved more to be damned than I have done; and after he had humbly asked God pardon for it, he desired me to call the person to him that he might ask him forgiveness; but I told him that was needless, for he had said it of one who did not hear it, and so could not be offended by it. In this disposition of mind, continues the bishop, all the while I was with him four days together; he was then brought so low that all hope of recovery was gone. Much purulent matter came from him with his urine, which he passed always with pain, but one day with inexpressible torment; yet he bore it decently, without breaking out into repinings, or impatient complaints. Nature being at last quite exhausted, and all the floods of life gone, he died without a groan on the 26th of July 1680, in the 33d year of his age. A day or two before his death he lay much silent, and seemed extremely devout in his contemplations; he was frequently observed to raise his eyes to heaven, and send forth ejaculations to the searcher of hearts, who saw his penitence, and who, he hoped, would forgive him.' Thus died lord Rochester, an amazing instance of the goodness of God, who permitted him to enjoy time, and inclined his heart to penitence. As by his life he was suffered to set an example of the most abandoned dissoluteness to the world; so by his death, he was a lively demonstration of the fruitlessness of vicious courses, and may be proposed as an example to all those who are captivated with the charms of guilty pleasure. Let all his failings now sleep with him in the grave, and let us only think of his closing moments, his penitence, and reformation. Had he been permitted to have recovered his illness, it is reasonable to presume he would have been as lively an example of virtue as he had ever been of vice, and have born his testimony in favour of religion. He left behind him a son named Charles, who dying on the 12th of November, was buried by his father on the 7th of December following: he also left behind him three daughters. The male line ceasing, Charles II. conferred the title of earl of Rochester on Lawrence viscount Killingworth, a younger son of Edward earl of Clarendon. We might now enumerate his lordship's writings, of which we have already given some character; but unhappily for the world they are too generally diffused, and we think ourselves under no obligations to particularize those works which have been so fruitful of mischief to society, by promoting a general corruption of morals; and which he himself in his last moments wished he could recal, or rather that he never had composed. Footnotes: 1. See the Life of Sheffield Duke of Buckingham. 2. The Duchess of Portsmouth. * * * * * GEORGE VILLIERS, Duke of BUCKINGHAM. Son and heir of George, duke, marquis, and earl of Buckingham, murdered by Felton in the year 1628. This nobleman was born at Wallingford-House in the parish of St. Martin's in the Fields on the 30th of January 1627, and baptized there on the 14th of February following, by Dr. Laud, then bishop of Bath and Wells, afterwards archbishop of Canterbury. Before we proceed to give any particulars of our noble author's life, we must entreat the reader's indulgence to take a short view of the life of his grace's father, in which, some circumstances extremely curious will appear; and we are the more emboldened to venture upon this freedom, as some who have written this life before us, have taken the same liberty, by which the reader is no loser; for the first duke of Buckingham was a man whose prosperity was so instantaneous, his honours so great, his life so dissipated, and his death so remarkable, that as no minister ever enjoyed so much power, so no man ever drew the attention of the world more upon him. No sooner had he returned from his travels, and made his first appearance at court, than he became a favourite with King James, who, (says Clarendon) 'of all wise men he ever knew, was most delighted and taken with handsome persons and fine cloaths.' He had begun to be weary of his favourite the earl of Somerset, who was the only one who kept that post so long, without any public reproach from the people, till at last he was convicted of the horrid conspiracy against the life of Sir Thomas Overbury, and condemned as a murderer. While these things were in agitation, Villiers appeared at court; he was according to all accounts, the gayest and handsomest man in his time, of an open generous temper, of an unreserved affability, and the most engaging politeness. In a few days he was made cup-bearer to the King, by which he was of course to be much in his presence, and so admitted to that conversation with which that prince always abounded at his meals. He had not acted five weeks on this stage, to use the noble historian's expression, till he mounted higher, being knighted, and made gentleman of the bed-chamber, and knight of the most noble order of the garter, and in a short time a baron, a viscount, an earl, a marquis, and lord high-admiral of England, lord warden of the cinque ports, master of the horse, and entirely disposed all the favours of the King, acting as absolutely in conferring honours and distinctions, as if he himself had wore the diadem. We find him soon after making war or peace, according to humour, resentment, or favour. He carried the prince of Wales into Spain to see the Infanta, who was proposed to him as a wife; and it plainly enough appears, that he was privy to one intrigue of prince Charles, and which was perhaps the only one, which that prince, whom all historians, whether friends or enemies to his cause; have agreed to celebrate for chastity, and the temperate virtues. There is an original letter of prince Charles to the duke, which was published by Mr. Thomas Hearne, and is said once to have belonged to archbishop Sancroft. As it is a sort of curiosity we shall here insert it, "STENNY, "I have nothing now to write to you, but to give you thankes both for the good councell ye gave me, and for the event of it. The King gave mee a good sharpe potion, but you took away the working of it by the well relished comfites ye sent after it. I have met with the partie, that must not be named, once alreddie, and the culler of wryting this letter shall make mee meet with her on saturday, although it is written the day being thursday. So assuring you that the bus'ness goes safely onn, I rest "Your constant friend "CHARLES. "I hope you will not shew the King this letter, but put it in the safe custody of mister Vulcan." It was the good fortune of this nobleman to have an equal interest with the son as with the father; and when prince Charles ascended the throne, his power was equally extensive, and as before gave such offence to the House of Commons and the people, that he was voted an enemy to the realm, and his Majesty was frequently addressed to remove him from his councils. Tho' Charles I. had certainly more virtues, and was of a more military turn than his father, yet in the circumstance of doating upon favourites, he was equally weak. His misfortune was, that he never sufficiently trusted his own judgment, which was often better than that of his servants; and from this diffidence he was tenacious of a minister of whose abilities he had a high opinion, and in whose fidelity he put confidence. The duke at last became so obnoxious, that it entered into the head of an enthusiast, tho' otherwise an honest man, one lieutenant Felton, that to assassinate this court favourite, this enemy of the realm, would be doing a grateful thing to his country by ridding it of one whose measures in his opinion, were likely soon to destroy it.-- The fate of the duke was now approaching, and it is by far the most interesting circumstance in his life. We shall insert, in the words of the noble historian, the particular account of it. 'John Felton, an obscure man in his own person, who had been bred a soldier, and lately a lieutenant of foot, whose captain had been killed on the retreat at the Isle of Ree, upon which he conceived that the company of right ought to have been conferred upon him; and it being refused him by the duke of Buckingham, general of the army, had given up his commission and withdrawn himself from the army. He was of a melancholic nature, and had little conversation with any body, yet of a gentleman's family in Suffolk, of a good fortune, and reputation. From the time that he had quitted the army he resided at London; when the House of Commons, transported with passion and prejudice against the duke, had accused him to the House of Peers for several misdemeanors and miscarriages, and in some declarations had stiled him the cause of all the evils the kingdom suffered, and an enemy to the public. 'Some transcripts of such expressions, and some general invectives he met with amongst the people, to whom this great man was not grateful, wrought so far upon this melancholic gentleman, that he began to believe he should do God good service if he killed the duke. He chose no other instrument to do it than an ordinary knife, which he bought of a common cutler for a shilling, and thus provided, he repaired to Portsmouth, where he arrived the eve of St. Bartholomew. The duke was then there, in order to prepare and make ready the fleet and the army, with which he resolved in a few days to transport himself to the relief of Rochelle, which was then besieged by cardinal Richelieu, and for the relief whereof the duke was the more obliged, by reason that at his being at the Isle of Ree, he had received great supplies of victuals, and some companies of their garrison from the town, the want of both which they were at this time very sensible of, and grieved at. 'This morning of St. Bartholomew, the duke had received letters, in which he was advertised, that Rochelle had relieved itself; upon which he directed that his breakfast might be speedily made ready, and he would make haste to acquaint the King with the good news, the court being then at Southwick, about five miles from Portsmouth. The chamber in which he was dressing himself was full of company, and of officers in the fleet and army. There was Monsieur de Soubize, brother to the duke de Rohan, and other French gentlemen, who were very sollicitous for the embarkation of the army, and for the departure of the fleet for the relief of Rochelle; and they were at that time in much trouble and and perplexity, out of apprehension that the news the duke had received that morning might slacken the preparations of the voyage, which their impatience and interest, persuaded them was not advanced with expedition; and so they held much discourse with the duke of the impossibility that his intelligence could be true, and that it was contrived by the artifice and dexterity of their enemies, in order to abate the warmth and zeal that was used for their relief, the arrival of which relief, those enemies had much reason to apprehend; and a longer delay in sending it, would ease them of that terrible apprehension; their forts and works towards the sea, and in the harbour being almost finished. 'This discourse, according to the natural custom of that nation, and by the usual dialect of that language, was held with such passion and vehemence, that the standers-by who understood not French, did believe they were angry, and that they used the duke rudely. He being ready, and informed that his breakfast was ready, drew towards the door, where the hangings were held up; and in that very passage turning himself to speak with Sir Thomas Fryer, a colonel of the army, who was then speaking near his ear, he was on a sudden struck over his shoulder upon the breast with a knife; upon which, without using any other words, than that the villain has killed me, and in the same moment pulling out the knife himself, he fell down dead, the knife having pierced his heart. No man had ever seen the blow, or the man who gave it; but in the confusion they were in, every man made his own conjecture, and declared it as a thing known, most agreeing, that it was done by the French, from the angry discourse they thought they had heard from them, and it was a kind of miracle, that they were not all killed that instant: The sober sort that preserved them from it, having the same opinion of their guilt, and only reserving them for a more judicial examination, and proceeding. 'In the crowd near the door, there was found upon the ground a hat, in the inside whereof, there was sewed upon the crown a paper, in which were writ four or five lines of that declaration made by the House of Commons, in which they had stiled the duke an enemy to the kingdom; and under it a short ejaculation towards a prayer. It was easily enough concluded, that the hat belonged to the person who had committed the murder, but the difficulty remained still as great, who that person should be; for the writing discovered nothing of the name; and whosoever it was, it was very natural to believe, that he was gone far enough not to be found without a hat. In this hurry, one running one way, another another way, a man was seen walking before the door very composedly without a hat; whereupon one crying out, here's the fellow that killed the duke, upon which others run thither, every body asking which was he; to which the man without the hat very composedly answered, I am he. Thereupon some of those who were most furious suddenly run upon the man with their drawn swords to kill him; but others, who were at least equally concerned in the loss and in the sense of it, defended him; himself with open arms very calmly and chearfully exposing himself to the fury and swords of the most enraged, as being very willing to fall a sacrifice to their sudden anger, rather than be kept for deliberate justice, which he knew must be executed upon him. 'He was now enough known, and easily discovered to be that Felton, whom we mentioned before, who had been a lieutenant in the army; he was quickly carried into a private room by the persons of the best condition, some whereof were in authority, who first thought fit, so far to dissemble, as to mention the duke only grievously wounded, but not without hopes of recovery. Upon which Felton smiled, and said, he knew well enough he had given him a blow that had determined all their hopes. Being then asked at whose instigation he had performed that horrid, wretched act, he answered them with a wonderful assurance, That they should not trouble themselves in that enquiry; that no man living had credit or power enough with him to have engaged or disposed him, to such an action, that he had never entrusted his purpose or resolution to any man; that it proceeded from himself, and the impulse of his own conscience, and that the motives thereunto will appear if his hat were found. He spoke very frankly of what he had done, and bore the reproaches of them that spoke to him, with the temper of a man who thought he had not done amiss. But after he had been in prison some time, where he was treated without any rigour, and with humanity enough; and before and at his tryal, which was about four months after, at the King's Bench, he behaved himself with great modesty, and wonderful repentance; being as he said convinced in his conscience that he had done wickedly, and asked pardon of the King and Duchess, and all the Duke's servants, whom he acknowledged he had offended, and very earnestly besought the judges that he might have his hand struck off, with which he had performed that impious act before he should be put to death.' This is the account lord Clarendon gives in the first volume of his history, of the fall of this great favourite, which serves to throw a melancholy veil over the splendor of his life, and demonstrates the extreme vanity of exterior pomp, and the danger those are exposed to who move on the precipice of power. It serve[s] to shew that of all kind of cruelty, that which is the child of enthusiasm is the word, as it is founded upon something that has the appearance of principles; and as it is more stedfast, so does it diffuse more mischief than that cruelty which flows from the agitations of passion: Felton blindly imagined he did God service by assassination, and the same unnatural zeal would perhaps have prompted him to the murder of a thousand more, who in his opinion were enemies to their country. The above-mentioned historian remarks, that there were several prophecies and predictions scattered about, concerning the duke's death; and then proceeds to the relation of the most astonishing story we have ever met with. As this anecdote is countenanced by so great a name, I need make no apology for inserting it, it has all the evidence the nature of the thing can admit of, and is curious in itself. 'There was an officer in the King's wardrobe in Windsor-Castle of a good reputation for honesty and discretion, and then about the age of fifty years, or more. This man had been bred in his youth in a school in the parish where Sir George Villiers the father of the Duke lived, and had been much cherished and obliged in that season of his age, by the said Sir George, whom afterwards he never saw. About six months before the miserable end of the duke of Buckingham, about midnight, this man, being in his bed at Windsor, where his office was, and in very good health, there appeared to him, on the side of his bed, a man of very venerable aspect, who fixing his eyes upon him, asked him, if he knew him; the poor man half dead with fear, and apprehension, being asked the second time, whether he remembered him, and having in that time called to his memory, the presence of Sir George Villiers, and the very cloaths he used to wear, in which at that time he used to be habited; he answered him, That he thought him to be that person; he replied, that he was in the right, that he was the same, and that he expected a service from him; which was, that he should go from him to his son the duke of Buckingham, and tell him, if he did not somewhat to ingratiate himself to the people, or at least, to abate the extreme malice they had against him, he would be suffered to live but a short time, and after this discourse he disappeared, and the poor man, if he had been at all waking, slept very well till the morning, when he believed all this to be a dream, and considered it no otherwise. 'Next night, or shortly after, the same person appeared to him again in the same place, and about the same time of the night, with an aspect a little more severe than before; and asking him whether he had done as he required him? and perceiving he had not, he gave him very severe reprehensions, and told him, he expected more compliance from him; and that if he did not perform his commands, he should enjoy no peace of mind, but should be always pursued by him: Upon which he promised to obey him. 'But the next morning waking exceedingly perplexed with the lively representation of all that had passed, he considered that he was a person at such a distance from the duke, that he knew not how to find any admittance into his presence, much less any hope to be believed in what he should say, so with great trouble and unquietness he spent some time in thinking what he should do. The poor man had by this time recovered the courage to tell him, That in truth he had deferred the execution of his commands, upon considering how difficult a thing it would be for him to get access to the duke, having acquaintance with no person about him; and if he could obtain admission to him, he would never be able to persuade him that he was sent in such a manner, but he should at best be thought to be mad, or to be set on and employed by his own or the malice of other men to abuse the duke, and so he should be sure to be undone. The person replied, as he had done before, that he should never find rest, till he should perform what he required, and therefore he were better to dispatch it; that the access to his son was known to be very easy; and that few men waited long for him, and for the gaining him credit, he would tell him two or three particulars, which he charged him never to mention to any person living, but to the duke himself; and he should no sooner hear them, but he would believe all the rest he should say; and so repeating his threats he left him. 'In the morning the poor man more confirmed by the last appearance, made his journey to London, where the court then was. He was very well known to Sir Ralph Freeman, one of the masters of the requests, who had married a lady that was nearly allied to the duke, and was himself well received by him. To him this man went; and tho' he did not acquaint him with all the particulars, he said enough to him to let him see there was somewhat extraordinary in it, and the knowledge he had of the sobriety and discretion of the man, made the more impression on him. He desired that by his means he might be brought to the duke, to such a place, and in such a manner as should be thought fit; affirming, that he had much to say to him; and of such a nature as would require much privacy, and some time and patience in the hearing. Sir Ralph promised he would speak first to the duke of him, and then he should understand his pleasure, and accordingly on the first opportunity he did inform him of the reputation and honesty of the man, and then what he desired, and all he knew of the matter. The duke according to his usual openness and condescension told him, that he was the next day, early, to hunt with the King; that his horses should attend him to Lambeth Bridge, where he would land by five o'Clock in the morning, and if the man attended him there at that hour, he would walk and speak with him as long as should be necessary. Sir Ralph carried the man with him next morning, and presented him to the duke at his landing, who received him courteously, and walked aside in conference near an hour, none but his own servants being at that hour near the place, and they and Sir Ralph at such a distance, that they could not hear a word, though the duke sometimes spoke, and with great commotion, which Sir Ralph the more easily perceived, because he kept his eyes always fixed upon the duke; having procured the conference, upon somewhat he knew, there was of extraordinary; and the man told him in his return over the water, that when he mentioned those particulars, which were to gain him credit, the substance whereof he said he durst not impart to him, the duke's colour changed, and he swore he could come by that knowledge only by the devil, for that those particulars were known only to himself, and to one person more, who, he was sure, would never speak of it. 'The duke pursued his purpose of hunting, but was observed to ride all the morning with great pensiveness, and in deep thoughts, without any delight in the exercise he was upon, and before the morning was spent, left the field, and alighted at his mother's lodgings at Whitehall, with whom he was shut up for the space of two or three hours, the noise of their discourse frequently reaching the ears of those who attended in the next rooms and when the duke left her, his countenance appeared full of trouble, with a mixture of anger: a countenance that was never before observed in him in any conversation with her, towards whom he had a profound reverence, and the countess herself was, at the duke's leaving her, found overwhelmed in tears, and in the highest agony imaginable; whatever there was of all this, it is a notorious truth, that when the news of the duke's murder (which happened within a few months) was brought to his mother, she seemed not in the least degree surprized, but received it as if she had foreseen it, nor did afterwards express such a degree of sorrow, as was expected from such a mother, for the loss of such a son.' This is the representation which lord Clarendon gives of this extraordinary circumstance, upon which I shall not presume to make any comment; but if ever departed spirits were permitted to interest themselves with human affairs, and as Shakespear expresses it, revisit the glimpses of the moon, it seems to have been upon this occasion: at least there seems to be such rational evidence of it, as no man, however fortified against superstition, can well resist. But let us now enter upon the life of the son of this great man; who, if he was inferior to his father as a statesman, was superior in wit, and wanted only application to have made a very great figure, even in the senate, but his love of pleasure was immoderate, which embarrassed him in the pursuit of any thing solid or praise-worthy. He was an infant when his father's murder was perpetrated, and received his early education from several domestic tutors, and was afterwards sent to the university of Cambridge: when he had finished his course there, he travelled with his brother lord Francis, under the care of William Aylesbury, esquire. Upon his return, which was after the breaking out of the civil wars, he was conducted to Oxford, and presented to his Majesty, then there, and entered into Christ Church. Upon the decline of the King's cause, the young duke of Buckingham attended Prince Charles into Scotland, and was present in the year 1651 at the battle of Worcester, where he escaped beyond sea, and was soon after made knight of the garter. He came afterwards privately into England, and, November 19, 1657, married Mary, the daughter and heir of Thomas lord Fairfax, by whose interest he recovered all or most of his estate, which he had lost before. After the restoration, at which time he is said to have possessed an estate of 20,000 l. per annum, he was made one of the lords of the King's bed-chamber, and of the privy council, lord lieutenant of Yorkshire, and, at last, master of the horse. In the year 1666, being discovered to have maintained secret correspondence by letters, and other transactions, tending to raise mutinies among some of his Majesty's forces, and stir up sedition among his people, and to have carried on other traiterous designs and practices, he absconded, upon which a proclamation was issued the same year for apprehending him. Mr. Thomas Carte, in his Life of the Duke of Ormond[1], tells us, 'that the duke's being denied the post of president of the North, was probably the reason of his disaffection to the King; and, that just before the recess of the Parliament, one Dr. John Heydon was taken up for treasonable practices, in sowing a sedition in the navy, and engaging persons in a conspiracy to seize the Tower. The man was a pretender to great skill in astrology, but had lost much of his reputation, by prognosticating the hanging of Oliver to his son Richard Cromwel and Thurloe, who came to him in disguise, for the calculation of nativities, being dressed like distressed cavaliers. He was for that put into prison, and continued in confinement sixteen months, whilst Cromwel outlived the prediction four years. This insignificant fellow was mighty great with the duke of Buckingham, who, notwithstanding the vanity of the art, and the notorious ignorance of the professor of it, made him cast not only his own, but the King's nativity; a matter of dangerous curiosity, and condemned by a statute which could only be said to be antiquated, because it had not for a long time been put in execution. This fellow he had likewise employed, among others, to excite the seamen to mutiny, as he had given money to other rogues to put on jackets to personate seamen, and to go about the country begging in that garb, and exclaiming for want of pay, while the people oppressed with taxes, were cheated of their money by the great officers of the crown. Heydon pretended to have been in all the duke's secrets, for near four years past, and that he had been all that time designing against the King and his government, that his grace thought the present reason favourable for the execution of his design, and had his agents at work in the navy and in the kingdom, to ripen the general discontents of the people, and dispose them to action, that he had been importuned by him to head the first party he could get together, and engage in an insurrection, the duke declaring his readiness to appear and join in the undertaking, as soon as the affair was begun. Some to whom Heydon unbosomed himself, and had been employed by him to carry letters to the duke of Buckingham, discovered the design. Heydon was taken up, and a serjeant at arms sent with a warrant by his Majesty's express order to take up the duke, who, having defended his house by force, for some time at least, found means to escape. The King knew Buckingham to be capable of the blackest designs, and was highly incensed at him for his conduct last sessions, and insinuating that spirit into the Commons, which had been so much to the detriment of the public service. He could not forbear expressing himself with more bitterness against the duke, than was ever dropped from him upon any other occasion. When he was sollicited in his behalf, he frankly said, that he had been the cause of continuing the war, for the Dutch would have made a very low submission, had the Parliament continued their first vigorous vote of supplying him, but the duke's cabals had lessened his interest both abroad and at home, with regard to the support of the war. In consequence of this resentment, the King put him out of the privy council, bedchamber, and lieutenancy of York, ordering him likewise to be struck out of all commissions. His grace absconding, a proclamation was issued out, requiring his appearance, and surrender of himself by a certain day.' Notwithstanding this appearance of resentment against him, yet Charles, who was far from being of an implacable temper, took Buckingham again into favour, after he had made an humble submission; he was restored to his place in the council, and in the bedchamber in 1667, and seemed perfectly confirmed in the good graces of the King, who was, perhaps, too much charmed with his wit to consider him as an enemy. In the year 1670, the duke was supposed to be concerned in Blood's attempt on the life of the duke of Ormond. This scheme was to have conveyed that nobleman to Tyburn, and there to have hanged him; for which purpose he was taken out of his coach in St. James's Street, and carried away by Blood and his son beyond Devonshire House, Piccadilly, but then rescued. Blood afterwards endeavoured to steal the crown out of the Tower, but was seized; however, he was not only pardoned, but had an estate of five hundred pounds a year given him in Ireland, and admitted into an intimacy with the King. The reason of Blood's malice against the duke of Ormond was, because his estate at Sorney was forfeited for his treason in the course of government, and must have been done by any lord lieutenant whatever. This, together with the instigation of some enemy of the duke of Ormond's at court, wrought upon him so, that he undertook the assassination. Mr. Carte supposes, that no man was more likely to encourage Blood in this attempt, than the duke of Buckingham, who, he says was the most profligate man of his time, and had so little honour in him, that he would engage in any scheme to gratify an irregular passion. The duke of Ormond had acted with some severity against him, when he was detected in the attempt of unhinging the government, which had excited so much resentment, as to vent itself in this manner. Mr. Carte likewise charges the duchess of Cleveland with conspiring against Ormond, but has given no reasons why he thinks she instigated the attempt. The duchess was cousin to the duke of Buckingham, but it appears in the Annals of Gallantry of those times, that she never loved him, nor is it probable she engaged with him in so dangerous a scheme. That Buckingham was a conspirator against Ormond, Mr. Carte says, there is not the least doubt; and he mentions a circumstance of his guilt too strong to be resisted. That there were reasons to think him the person who put Blood upon the attempt of the duke of Ormond, (says he) 'cannot well be questioned, after the following relation, which I had from a gentleman (Robert Lesly of Glaslough, in the county of Monaghan, esquire) whose veracity and memory, none that knew him, will ever doubt, who received it from the mouth of Dr. Turner, bishop of Ely. The earl of Ossory came in one day, not long after the affair, and seeing the duke of Buckingham standing by the King, his colour rose, and he spoke to this effect; My lord, I know well, that you are at the bottom of this late attempt of Blood's upon my father, and therefore I give you fair warning, if my father comes to a violent end by sword or pistol, or the more secret way of poison, I shall not be at a loss to know the first author of it; I shall consider you as the assassin; I shall treat you as such, and wherever I meet you, I shall pistol you, though you stood behind the King's chair, and I tell it you in his Majesty's presence, that you may be sure I shall keep my word.' I know not whether this will be deemed any breach of decorum to the King, in whose presence it was said, but, in my opinion, it was an act of spirit and resentment worthy of a son, when his father's life was menaced, and the villain (Blood) who failed in the attempt, was so much courted, caressed, and in high favour immediately afterwards. In June 1671, the duke was installed chancellor of the university of Cambridge, and the same year was sent ambassador to the King of France; who being pleased with his person and errand, entertained him very nobly for several days together; and upon his taking leave, gave him a sword and belt set with Pearls and Diamonds, to the value of 40,000 pistoles. He was afterwards sent to that King at Utrecht in June 1672, together with Henry earl of Arlington, and George lord Hallifax. He was one of the cabal at Whitehall, and in the beginning of the session of Parliament, February 1672, endeavoured to cast the odium of the Dutch war from himself, upon lord Arlington, another of the cabal. In June 1674, he resigned the chancellorship of Cambridge. About this time he became a great favourer of the Nonconformists. February 16, 1676, his grace, and James earl of Salisbury, Anthony earl of Shaftsbury, and Philip lord Wharton, were committed to the Tower by order of the House of Lords, for a contempt, in refusing to retract what they had said the day before, when the duke, immediately after his Majesty had ended his speech to both Houses, endeavoured to shew from law and reason, that the long prorogation was nulled, and the Parliament was consequently dissolved. The chief of our author's works is, The Rehearsal, a Comedy, first acted on December 7, 1671. It is said that the duke was assisted in writing this play, by his Chaplain Dr. Thomas Sprat, Martin Clifford, esquire, master of the Charterhouse, and Mr. Samuel Butler, author of Hudibras. Jacob, in his Lives of the Poets, observes, 'that he cannot exactly learn when his grace began this piece; but this much, says he, we may certainly gather from the plays ridiculed in it, that it was before the end of 1663, and finished before 1664, because it had been several times rehearsed, the players were perfect in their parts, and all things in readiness for its acting, before the great plague in 1665, and that then prevented it, for what was then intended, was very different from what now appears. In that he called his poet Bilboa, by which name Sir Robert Howard was the person pointed at. During this interval, many plays were published, written in heroic rhime, and on the death of Sir William Davenant 1669, whom Mr. Dryden succeeded in the laurel, it became still in greater vogue; this moved the duke to change the name of his poet, from Bilboa to Bayes.' This character of Bayes is inimitably drawn; in it the various foibles of poets (whether good, bad or indifferent) are so excellently blended as to make the most finished picture of a poetical coxcomb: 'Tis such a master-piece of true humour as will ever last, while our English tongue is understood, or the stage affords a good comedian to play it. How shall I now avoid the imputation of vanity, when I relate, that this piece, on being revived (when I[2] first appeared in the part of Bayes) at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden in the year 1739, was, in that one season (continued to 1740) played upwards of forty nights, to great audiences, with continued mirthful applause. As this is a truth, I give it to the candid; and let the relation take its chance, though it should not be thought by some (who may not abound in good nature) that I only mean by this, to pay due regard to the merit of the piece, though it speaks for itself; for, without extraordinary merit in the writing, it could never have gained such an uncommon run, at the distance of fourscore years from its being first written, when most of those pieces were forgot which it particularly satirises; or, if remembered, they were laughed into fame by the strong mock-parodies with which this humorous piece of admirable burlesque abounds. Mr. Dryden, in revenge for the ridicule thrown on him in this piece, exposed the duke under the name of Zimri in his Absalom and Achitophel. This character, drawn by Dryden, is reckoned a masterpiece; it has the first beauty, which is truth; it is a striking picture, and admirably marked: We need make no apology for inserting it here; it is too excellent to pass unnoticed. In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome. Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was every thing by starts, and nothing long; But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was Chymist, fidler, statesman, and buffoon: Then all for women, painting, rhiming, drinking; Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, In something new to wish, or to enjoy! Railing, and praising were his usual themes, And both, to shew his judgment, in extremes; So over violent, or over civil, That every man with him was God, or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late, He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laught himself from court, then sought relief, By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief. Thus wicked, but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left. It is allowed by the severest enemies of this nobleman, that he had a great share of vivacity, and quickness of parts, which were particularly turned to ridicule; but while he has been celebrated as a wit, all men are silent as to other virtues, for it is no where recorded, that he ever performed one generous disinterested action in his whole life; he relieved no distressed merit; he never shared the blessing of the widow and fatherless, and as he lived a profligate, he died in misery, a by-word and a jest, unpitied and unmourned. He died April 16, 1687, Mr. Wood says, at his house in Yorkshire, but Mr. Pope informs us, that he died at an inn in that county, in very mean circumstances. In his Epistle to lord Bathurst, he draws the following affecting picture of this man, who had possessed an estate of near 50,000 l. per annum, expiring, In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed, Where tawdry yellow, strove with dirty red, Great Villiers lies--alas! how chang'd from him That life of pleasure, and that foul of whim! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury[3] and love; Or just as gay in council, in a ring Of mimick'd statesmen and their merry king. No wit to flatter left of all his store! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more; There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. His grace's fate, sage Cutler could foresee, And well (he thought) advised him, 'live like me.' As well, his grace replied, 'like you, Sir John! That I can do, when all I have is gone:' Besides the celebrated Comedy of the Rehearsal, the duke wrote the following pieces; 1. An Epitaph on Thomas, Lord Fairfax, which has been often reprinted. 2. A Short Discourse upon the Reasonableness of Men's having a Religion or Worship of God. This Piece met with many Answers, to which, the Duke wrote Replies. 3. A Demonstration of the above Duty. 4. Several Poems, particularly, Advice to a Painter to draw my Lord Arlington. Timon, a Satire on several Plays, in which he was assisted by the Earl of Rochester; a Consolatory Epistle to Julian Secretary to the Muses; upon the Monument; upon the Installment of the Duke of Newcastle; the Rump-Parliament, a Satire; the Mistress; the Lost Mistress; a Description of Fortune. 5. Several Speeches. Footnotes: 1. B. vi. vol. ii. p. 347. 2. T.C. 3. The countess of Shrewsbury, a woman abandoned to gallantries. The earl her husband was killed by the duke of Buckingham; and it has been said that, during the combat, she held the duke's horses in the habit of a page. * * * * * MATTHEW SMITH, Esquire. _(The following Account of this Gentleman came to our Hands too late to be inserted in the Chronological Series.)_ This gentleman was the son of John Smith, an eminent Merchant at Knaresborough in the county of York, and descended from an ancient family of that name, seated at West-Herrington and Moreton House in the county pal. of Durham. Vide Philpot's Visitation of Durham, in the Heralds Office, page 141. He was a Barrister at Law, of the Inner-Temple, and appointed one of the council in the North, the fifteenth of King Charles I. he being a Loyalist, and in great esteem for his eminence and learning in his profession; as still further appears by his valuable Annotations on Littleton's Tenures he left behind him in manuscript. He also wrote some pieces of poetry, and is the author of two dramatical performances. 1. The Country Squire, or the Merry Mountebank, a Ballad Opera of one Act. 2. The Masquerade du Ciel, a Masque, which was published the year that he died, 1640, by John Smith of Knaresborough, Esq; (eldest son and heir to this Matthew, by Anne his wife, daughter of Henry Roundell, esq; who dedicated it to the Queen. He was a person of the greatest loyalty, and very early addicted to arms, which made him extreamly zealous and active during the civil wars, in joining with the Royalists, particularly at the battle of Marston-Moor 1644, when he personally served under Prince Rupert, for which he and his family were plundered and sequestered. He also fined twice for Sheriff, to avoid the oaths in those days.) * * * * * THOMAS OTWAY. This excellent poet was not more remarkable for moving the tender passions, than for the variety of fortune, to which he was subjected. We have some where read an observation, that the poets have ever been the least philosophers, and were always unhappy in a want of firmness of temper, and steadiness of resolution: of the truth of this remark, poor Mr. Otway is a lively instance; he never could sufficiently combat his appetite of extravagance and profusion, to live one year in a comfortable competence, but was either rioting in luxurious indulgence, or shivering with want, and exposed to the insolence and contempt of the world. He was the son of Mr. Humphry Otway, rector of Wolbeding in Sussex, and was born at Trottin in that county, on March 3, 1651. He received his education at Wickeham school, near Winchester, and became a commoner of Christ Church in Oxford, in the beginning of the year 1669. He quitted the university without a degree, and retired to London, though, in the opinion of some historians, he went afterwards to Cambridge, which seems very probable, from a copy of verses of Mr. Duke's to him, between whom subsisted a sincere friendship till the death of Mr. Otway. When our poet came to London, the first account we hear of him, is, that he commenced player, but without success, for he is said to have failed in want of execution, which is so material to a good player, that a tolerable execution, with advantage of a good person, will often supply the place of judgment, in which it is not to be supposed Otway was deficient. Though his success as an actor was but indifferent, yet he gained upon the world by the sprightliness of his conversation, and the acuteness of his wit, which, it seems, gained him the favour of Charles Fitz Charles, earl of Plymouth, one of the natural sons of King Charles II. who procured him a cornet's Pommission in the new raised English forces designed for Flanders. All who have written of Mr. Otway observe, that he returned from Flanders in very necessitous circumstances, but give no account how that reverse of fortune happened: it is not natural to suppose that it proceeded from actual cowardice, or that Mr. Otway had drawn down any disgrace upon himself by misbehaviour in a military station. If this had been the case, he wanted not enemies who would have improved the circumstance, and recorded it against him, with a malicious satisfaction; but if it did not proceed from actual cowardice, yet we have some reason to conjecture that Mr. Otway felt a strong disinclination to a military life, perhaps from a consciousness that his heart failed him, and a dread of misbehaving, should he ever be called to an engagement; and to avoid the shame of which he was apprehensive in consequence of such behaviour, he, in all probability, resigned his commission, which could not but disoblige the earl of Plymouth, and expose himself to necessity. What pity is it, that he who could put such masculine strong sentiments into the mouth of such a resolute hero as his own Pierre, should himself fail in personal courage, but this quality nature withheld from him, and he exchanged the chance of reaping laurels in the field of victory, for the equally uncertain, and more barren laurels of poetry. The earl of Rochester, in his Session of the Poets, has thus maliciously recorded, and without the least grain of wit, the deplorable circumstances of Otway. Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear Zany, And swears for heroics he writes best of any; Don Carlos his pockets so amply had filled, That his mange was quite cured, and his lice were all killed. But Apollo had seen his face on the stage, } And prudently did not think fit to engage } The scum of a playhouse, for the prop of an age. } Mr. Otway translated out of French into English, the History of the Triumvirate; the First Part of Julius Cæsar, Pompey and Crassus, the Second Part of Augustus, Anthony and Lepidus, being a faithful collection from the best historians, and other authors, concerning the revolution of the Roman government, which happened under their authority, London 1686 in 8vo. Our author finding his necessities press, had recourse to writing for the stage, which he did with various success: his comedy has been blamed for having too much libertinism mixed with it; but in tragedy he made it his business, for the most part, to observe the decorum of the stage. He has certainly followed nature in the language of his tragedy, and therefore shines in the passionate parts more than any of our English poets. As there is something familiar and domestic in the fable of his tragedy, he has little pomp, but great energy in his expressions; for which reason, though he has admirably succeeded in the tender and melting parts of his tragedies, he sometimes falls into too great a familiarity of phrase in those, which, by Aristotle's rule, ought to have been raised and supported by the dignity of expression. It has been observed by the critics, that the poet has founded his tragedy of Venice Preservcd, on so wrong a plot, that the greatest characters in it are those of rebels and traitors. Had the hero of this play discovered the same good qualities in defence of his country, that he shewed for his ruin and subversion, the audience could not enough pity and admire him; but as he is now represented, we can only say of him, what the Roman historian says of Catiline, that his fall would have been glorious (si pro Patria sic concidisset) had he so fallen, in the service of his country. Mr. Charles Gildon, in his Laws of Poetry, stiles Mr. Otway a Poet of the first Magnitude, and tells us, and with great justice, that he was perfect master of the tragic passions, and draws them every where with a delicate and natural simplicity, and therefore never fails to raise strong emotions in the soul. I don't know of a stronger instance of this force, than in the play of the Orphan; the tragedy is composed of persons whose fortunes do not exceed the quality of such as we ordinarily call people of condition, and without the advantage of having the scene heightened by the importance of the characters; his inimitable skill in representing the workings of the heart, and its affection, is such that the circumstances are great from the art of the poet, rather than from the figure of the persons represented. The whole drama is admirably wrought, and the mixture of passions raised from affinity, gratitude, love, and misunderstanding between brethren, ill usage from persons obliged slowly returned by the benefactors, keeps the mind in a continual anxiety and contrition. The sentiments of the unhappy Monimia are delicate and natural, she is miserable without guilt, but incapable of living with a consciousness of having committed an ill act, though her inclination had no part in it. Mrs. Barry, the celebrated actress, used to say, that in her part of Monimia in the Orphan, she never spoke these words, Ah! poor Castalio, without tears; upon which occasion Mr. Gildon observes, that all the pathetic force had been lost, if any more words had been added, and the poet would have endeavoured, in vain, to have heightened them, by the addition of figures of speech, since the beauty of those three plain simple words is so great by the force of nature, that they must have been weakened and obscured by 'the finest flowers of rhetoric. The tragedy of the Orphan is not without great blemishes, which the writer of a criticism on it, published in the Gentleman's Magazine, has very judiciously and candidly shewn. The impetuous passion of Polydore breaks out sometimes in a language not sufficiently delicate, particularly in that celebrated passage where he talks of rushing upon her in a storm of love. The simile of the bull is very offensive to chaste ears, but poor Otway lived in dissolute times, and his necessity obliged him to fan the harlot-face of loose desire, in compliance to the general corruption. Monimia staying to converse with Polydor, after he vauntingly discovers his success in deceiving her, is shocking; had she left him abruptly, with a wildness of horror, that might have thrown him under the necessity of seeking an explanation from Castalio, the scene would have ended better, would have kept the audience more in suspence, and been an improvement of the consequential scene between the brothers; but this remark is submitted to superior judges. Venice Preferred is still a greater proof of his influence over our passions, and the faculty of mingling good and bad characters, and involving their fortunes, seems to be the distinguished excellence of this writer. He very well knew that nothing but distressed virtue can strongly touch us with pity, and therefore, in this play, that we may have a greater regard for the conspirators, he makes Pierre talk of redressing wrongs, and repeat all the common place of male contents. To see the sufferings of my fellow-creatures, And own myself a man: to see our senators Cheat the deluded people with a shew Of Liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of! They say by them our hands are free from fetters, Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds; Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow; Drive us like wrecks down the rough tide of power Whilst no hold's left, to save us from destruction: All that bear this are villains, and I one, Not to rouse up at the great call of nature, And check the growth of these domestic spoilers, Who make us slaves, and tell us 'tis our charter. Jaffier's wants and distresses, make him prone enough to any desperate resolution, yet says he in the language of genuine tenderness, But when I think what Belvidera feels, The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, I own myself a coward: bear my weakness, If throwing thus my arms about thy neck, I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom. Jaffier's expostulation afterwards, is the picture of all who are partial to their own merit, and generally think a relish of the advantages of life is pretence enough to enjoy them. Tell me, why good Heaven Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit, Aspiring thoughts, and elegant desires That fill the happiest man? ah rather why Didst thou not form me, sordid as my fate, Base minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens. How dreadful is Jaffier's soliloquy, after he is engaged in the conspiracy. I'm here; and thus the shades of night surround me, I look as if all hell were in my heart, And I in hell. Nay surely 'tis so with me; For every step I tread, methinks some fiend Knocks at my breast, and bids it not be quiet. I've heard how desperate wretches like myself Have wandered out at this dead time of night To meet the foe of mankind in his walk: Sure I'm so curst, that though of Heaven forsaken, No minister of darkness, cares to tempt me. Hell, hell! why sleep'st thou? The above is the most awful picture of a man plunged in despair, that ever was drawn by a poet; we cannot read it without terror: and when it is uttered as we have heard it, from the late justly celebrated Booth, or those heart-affecting actors Garrick, and Barry, the flesh creeps, and the blood is chilled with horror. In this play Otway catches our hearts, by introducing the episode of Belvidera. Private and public calamities alternately claim our concern; sometimes we could wish to see a whole State sacrificed for the weeping Belvidera, whose character and distress are so drawn as to melt every heart; at other times we recover again, in behalf of a whole people in danger. There is not a virtuous character in the play, but that of Belvidera, and yet so amazing is the force of the author's skill in blending private and public concerns, that the ruffian on the wheel, is as much the object of pity, as if he had been brought to that unhappy fate by some honourable action. Though Mr. Otway possessed this astonishing talent of moving the passions, and writing to the heart, yet he was held in great contempt by some cotemporary poets, and was several times unsuccessful in his dramatic pieces. The merits of an author are seldom justly estimated, till the next age after his decease; while a man lives in the world, he has passion, prejudice, private and public malevolence to combat; his enemies are industrious to obscure his fame, by drawing into light his private follies; and personal malice is up in arms against every man of genius. Otway was exposed to powerful enemies, who could not bear that he should acquire fame, amongst whom Dryden is the foremost. The enmity between Dryden and Otway could not proceed from jealousy, for what were Otway's, when put in the ballance with the amazing powers of Dryden? like a drop to the ocean: and yet we find Dryden declared himself his open enemy; for which, the best reason that can be assigned is, that Otway was a retainer to Shadwell, who was Dryden's aversion. Dryden was often heard to say, that Otway was a barren illiterate man, but 'I confess, says he, he has a power which I have not;' and when it was asked him, what power that was? he answered, 'moving the passions.' This truth was, no doubt, extorted from Dryden, for he seems not to be very ready in acknowledging the merits of his cotemporaries. In his preface to Du Fresnoy's Art of Painting, which he translated, he mentions Otway with respect, but not till after he was dead; and even then he speaks but coldly of him. The passage is as follows, 'To express the passions which are seated on the heart by outward signs, is one great precept of the painters, and very difficult to perform. In poetry the very same passions, and motions of the mind are to be expressed, and in this consists the principal difficulty, as well as the excellency of that art. This (says my author) is the gift of Jupiter, and to speak in the same Heathen language, is the gift of our Apollo, not to be obtained by pains or study, if we are not born to it; for the motions which are studied, are never so natural, as those which break out in the heighth of a real passion. Mr. Otway possessed this part as thoroughly as any of either the ancients or moderns. I will not defend every thing in his Venice Preserved, but I must bear this testimony to his memory, that the passions are truly touched in it, though, perhaps, there is somewhat to be desired, both in the grounds of them, and the heighth and elegance of expression; but nature is there, which is the greatest beauty.' Notwithstanding our admiration of Dryden, we cannot, without some indignation, observe, how sparing he is in the praises of Otway, who, considered as a tragic writer, was surely superior to himself. Dryden enchants us indeed with flow'ry descriptions, and charms us with (what is called) the magic of poetry; but he has seldom drawn a tear, and millions of radiant eyes have been witnesses for Otway, by those drops of pity which they have shed. Otway might be no scholar, but that, methinks, does not detract from the merit of a dramatist, nor much assist him in succeeding. For the truth of this we may appeal to experience. No poets in our language, who were what we call scholars, have ever written plays which delight or affect the audience. Shakespear, Otway and Southern were no scholars; Ben Johnson, Dryden and Addison were: and while few audiences admire the plays of the latter, those of the former are the supports of the stage. After suffering many eclipses of fortune, and being exposed to the most cruel necessities, poor Otway died of want, in a public house on Tower-hill, in the 33rd year of his age, 1685. He had, no doubt, been driven to that part of the town, to avoid the persecution of his creditors and as he durst not appear much abroad to sollicit assistance, and having no means of getting money in his obscure retreat, he perished. It has been reported, that Mr. Otway, whom delicacy had long deterred from borrowing small sums, driven at last to the most grievous necessity ventured out of his lurking place, almost naked and shivering, and went into a coffee-house on Tower-hill, where he saw a gentleman, of whom he had some knowledge, and of whom he sollicited the loan of a shilling. The gentleman was quite shocked, to see the author of Venice Preserved begging bread, and compassionately put into his hand a guinea. Mr. Otway having thanked his benefactor, retired, and changed the guinea to purchase a roll; as his stomach was full of wind by excess of fasting, the first mouthful choaked him, and instantaneously put a period to his days. Who can consider the fate of this gentleman, without being moved to pity? we can forgive his acts of imprudence, since they brought him to so miserable an end; and we cannot but regret, that he who was endowed by nature with such distinguished talents, as to make the bosom bleed with salutary sorrow, should himself be so extremely wretched, as to excite the same sensations for him, which by the power of his eloquence and poetry, he had raised for imaginary heroes. We know, indeed, of no guilty part of Otway's life, other than those fashionable faults, which usually recommend to the conversation of men in courts, but which serve for excuses for their patrons, when they have not a mind to provide for them. From the example of Mr. Otway, succeeding poets should learn not to place any confidence in the promises of patrons; it discovers a higher spirit, and reflects more honour on a man to struggle nobly for independance, by the means of industry, than servilely to wait at a great man's gate, or to sit at his table, meerly to afford him diversion: Competence and independence have surely more substantial charms, than the smiles of a courtier, which are too frequently fallacious. But who can read Mr Otway's story, without indignation at those idols of greatness, who demand worship from men of genius, and yet can suffer them to live miserably, and die neglected? The dramatic works of Mr. Otway are, 1. Alcibiades, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 1675, dedicated to Charles, Earl of Middlesex. The story of this play is taken from Cor. Nepos, and Plutarch's Life of Alcibiades. 2. Titus and Berenice, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1677, dedicated to John, Earl of Rochester. This play consists of but three Acts, and is a translation from M. Racine into heroic verse; for the story see Suetonius, Dionysius, Josephus; to which is added the Cheats of Scapin, a Farce, acted the same year. This is a translation from Moliere, and is originally Terence's Phormio. 3. Friendship in Fashion, a Comedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1678, dedicated to the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex. This play was revived at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, 1749, and was damned by the audience, on account of the immorality of the design, and the obscenity of the dialogue. 4. Don Carlos, Prince of Spain, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 1679. This play, which was the second production of our author, written in heroic verse, was acted with very great applause, and had a run of thirty nights; the plot from the Novel called Don Carlos. 5. The Orphan, or the Unhappy Marriage, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 1680, dedicated to her Royal Highness the Duchess. It is founded on the History of Brandon, and a Novel called the English Adventurer. Scene Bohemia. 6. The History and Fall of Caius Marius, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1680, dedicated to Lord Viscount Falkland. The characters of Marius Junior and Lavinia, are borrowed literally from Shakespear's Romeo and Juliet, which Otway has acknowledged in his Prologue. 7. The Soldier's Fortune, a Comedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1681. This play is dedicated to Mr. Bentley his Bookseller; for the copy money, as he tells us himself, see Boccace's Novels, Scarron's Romances. 8. The Atheist, or the Second Part of the Soldier's Fortune, a Comedy, acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 1684, dedicated to Lord Eland, the eldest son to the Marquis of Hallifax. 9. Venice Preserved, or a Plot Discovered, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1685, dedicated to the Duchess of Portsmouth. Of this we have already given some account, and it is so frequently acted, that any enlargement would be impertinent. It is certainly one of the most moving plays upon the English stage; the plot from a little book, giving an account of the Conspiracy of the Spaniards against Venice. Besides his plays, he wrote several poems, viz. The Poet's Complaint to his Muse, or a Satire against Libels, London; 1680, in 4to. Windsor Castle, or a Monument to King Charles the Second. Miscellany Poems, containing a New Translation of Virgil's Eclogues, Ovid's Elegies, Odes of Horace, London 1864. He translated likewise the Epistle of Phædra to Hyppolitus, printed in the Translation of Ovid's Epistles, by several hands. He wrote the Prologue to Mrs. Bhon's City Heiress. Prefixed to Creechis Lucretius, there is a copy of verses written by Mr. Otway, in praise of that translation. * * * * * JOHN OLDHAM. This eminent satyrical poet, was the son of the reverend Mr. John Oldham, a nonconformist minister, and grandson to Mr. John Oldham, rector of Nun-Eaton, near Tedbury in Gloucestershire. He was born at Shipton (where his father had a congregation, near Tedbury, and in the same county) on the 9th of August 1653. He was educated in grammar learning, under the care of his father, till he was almost fitted for the university; and to be compleatly qualified for that purpose, he was sent to Tedbridge school, where he spent about two years under the tuition of Mr. Henry Heaven, occasioned by the earnest request of alderman Yeats of Bristol, who having a son at the same school, was desirous that Mr. Oldham should be his companion, which he imagined would much conduce to the advancement of his learning. This for some time retarded Oldham in the prosecution of his own studies, but for the time he lost in forwarding Mr. Yeat's son, his father afterwards made him an ample amends. Mr. Oldham being sent to Edmund Hall in Oxford, was committed to the care of Mr. William Stephens: of which hall he became a bachelor in the beginning of June 1670. He was soon observed to be a good latin scholar, and chiefly addicted himself to the study of poetry, and other polite acquirements[1]. In the year 1674, he took the degree of bachelor of arts, but left the university before he compleated that degree by determination, being much against his inclination compelled to go home and live for some time with his father. The next year he was very much afflicted for the death of his dear friend, and constant companion, Mr. Charles Mervent, as appears by his ode upon that occasion. In a short time after he became usher to the free-school at Croyden in Surry. Here it was, he had the honour of receiving a visit from the earl of Rochester, the earl of Dorset, Sir Charles Sedley, and other persons of distinction, meerly upon the reputation of some verses which they had seen in manuscript. The master of the school was not a little surprized, at such a visit, and would fain have taken the honour of it to himself, but was soon convinced that he had neither wit nor learning enough to make a party in such company. This adventure was no doubt very happy for Mr. Oldham, as it encreased his reputation and gained him the countenance of the Great, for after about three years continuance at Croyden school, he was recommended by his good friend Harman Atwood, Esq; to Sir Edward Thurland, a judge, near Rygate in the same county, who appointed him tutor to his two grandsons. He continued in this family till 1680. After this he was sometime tutor to a son of Sir William Hicks, a gentleman living within three or four miles of London, who was intimately acquainted with a celebrated Physician, Dr. Richard Lower, by whose peculiar friendship and encouragement, Mr. Oldham at his leisure hours studied physic for about a year, and made some progress in it, but the bent of his poetical genius was too strong to become a proficient in any school but that of the muses. He freely acknowledges this in a letter to a friend, written in July 1678. While silly I, all thriving arts refuse, } And all my hopes, and all my vigour lose, } In service of the worst of jilts a muse. } * * * * * Oft I remember, did wise friends dissuade, And bid me quit the trifling barren trade. Oft have I tryed (heaven knows) to mortify This vile and wicked bent of poetry; But still unconquered it remains within, Fixed as a habit, or some darling sin. In vain I better studies there would sow; Oft have I tried, but none will thrive or grow. All my best thoughts, when I'd most serious be, Are never from its foul infection free: Nay God forgive me when I say my prayers, I scarce can help polluting them with verse. The fab'lous wretch of old revers'd I seem, Who turn whatever I touch to dross of rhime. Our author had not been long in London, before he was found out by the noblemen who visited him at Croyden, and who now introduced him to the acquaintance of Mr. Dryden. But amongst the Men of quality he was most affectionately caressed by William Earl of Kingston, who made him an offer of becoming his chaplain; but he declined an employment, to which servility and dependence are so necessarily connected. The writer of his life observes, that our author in his satire addressed to a friend, who was about to quit the university, and came abroad into the world, lets his friend know, that he was frighted from the thought of such an employment, by the scandalous sort of treatment which often accompanies it. This usage deters men of generous minds from placing themselves in such a station of life; and hence persons of quality are frequently excluded from the improving, agreeable conversation of a learned and obsequious friend. In this satire Mr. Oldham writes thus, Some think themselves exalted to the sky, If they light on some noble family. Diet and horse, and thirty-pounds a year, Besides the advantage of his lordship's ear. The credit of the business and the state, Are things that in a youngster's sense found great. Little the unexperienced wretch does know, What slavery he oft must undergo; Who tho' in silken stuff, and cassoc drest, Wears but a gayer livery at best. When diner calls, the implement must wait, With holy words to consecrate the meat; But hold it for a favour seldom known, If he be deign'd the honour to sit down. Soon as the tarts appear, Sir Crape withdraw, Those dainties are not for a spiritual maw. Observe your distance, and be sure to stand Hard by the cistern, with your cap in hand: There for diversion you may pick your teeth, Till the kind voider comes for your relief, For meer board wages, such their freedom sell, Slaves to an hour, and vassals to a bell: And if th' employments of one day be stole, They are but prisoners out upon parole: Always the marks of slavery remain, And they tho' loose, still drag about their chain. And where's the mighty prospect after all, A chaplainship serv'd up, and seven years thrall? The menial thing, perhaps for a reward, Is to some slender benefice prefer'd, With this proviso bound that he must wed, } My lady's antiquated waiting maid, } In dressing only skill'd, and marmalade. } Let others who such meannesses can brook, Strike countenance to ev'ry great man's look: Let those, that have a mind, turn slave to eat, And live contented by another's plate: I rate my freedom higher, nor will I, For food and rayment track my liberty. But if I must to my last shift be put, To fill a bladder, and twelve yards of gut, Richer with counterfeited wooden leg, And my right arm tyed up, I'll choose to beg. I'll rather choose to starve at large, than be, The gaudiest vassal to dependancy. The above is a lively and animated description of the miseries of a slavish dependance on the great, particularly that kind of mortification which a chaplain must undergo. It is to be lamented, that gentlemen of an academical education should be subjected to observe so great a distance from those, over whom in all points of learning and genius they may have a superiority. Tho' in the very nature of things this must necessarily happen, yet a high spirit cannot bear it, and it is with pleasure we can produce Oldham, as one of those poets who have spurned dependence, and acted consistent with the dignity of his genius, and the lustre of his profession. When the earl of Kingston found that Mr. Oldham's spirit was too high to accept his offer of chaplainship, he then caressed him as a companion, and gave him an invitation to his house at Holmes-Pierpont, in Nottinghamshire. This invitation Mr. Oldham accepted, and went into the country with him, not as a dependant but friend; he considered himself as a poet, and a clergyman, and in consequence of that, he did not imagine the earl was in the least degraded by making him his bosom companion. Virgil was the friend of Mæcenas, and shone in the court of Augustus, and if it should be observed that Virgil was a greater poet than Oldham, it may be answered, Mæcenas was a greater man than the Earl of Kingston, and the court of Augustus much more brilliant than that of Charles II. Our author had not been long at the seat of this Earl, before, being seized with the small pox, he died December 9, 1683, in the 30th year of his age, and was interred with the utmost decency, his lordship attending as chief mourner, in the church there, where the earl soon after erected a monument to his memory.--Mr. Oldham's works were printed at London 1722, in two volumes 12mo. They chiefly consist of Satires, Odes, Translations, Paraphrases of Horace, and other authors; Elegiac Verses, Imitations, Parodies, Familiar Epistles, &c.--Mr. Oldham was tall of stature, the make of his body very thin, his face long, his nose prominent, his aspect unpromising, and satire was in his eye. His constitution was very tender, inclined to a consumption, and it was not a little injured by his study and application to learned authors, with whom he was greatly conversant, as appears from his satires against the Jesuits, in which there is discovered as much learning as wit. In the second volume of the great historical, geographical, and poetical Dictionary, he is stiled the Darling of the Muses, a pithy, sententious, elegant, and smooth writer: "His translations exceed the original, and his invention seems matchless. His satire against the Jesuits is of special note; he may be justly said to have excelled all the satirists of the age." Tho' this compliment in favour of Oldham is certainly too hyperbolical, yet he was undoubtedly a very great genius; he had treasured in his mind an infinite deal of knowledge, which, had his life been prolonged, he might have produced with advantage, for his natural endowments seem to have been very great: But he is not more to be reverenced as a Poet, than for that gallant spirit of Independence he discovered, and that magnaninity [sic] which scorned to stoop to any servile submissions for patronage: He had many admirers among his contemporaries, of whom Mr. Dryden professed himself one, and has done justice to his memory by some excellent verses, with which we shall close this account. Farewel too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think, and call my own; For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, And knaves and tools were both abhorred alike. To the same goal did both our studies drive, The last set out, the soonest did arrive, Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place, While his young friend perform'd and won the race. O early ripe! to thy abundant store, What could advancing age have added more? It might, what nature never gives the young, Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue. But satire needs not those, and wit will shine, Thro' the harsh cadence of a rugged line: A noble error, and but seldom made, When poets are by too much force betray'd. Thy gen'rous fruits, tho' gather'd e'er their prime, } Still shewed a quickness; and maturing time } But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhime. } Once more, hail and farewel: Farewel thou young, But ah! too short, Marcellus of our tongue; Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound, But fate, and gloomy night encompass thee around. Footnote: 1. Life of Mr. Oldham, prefixed to his works, vol. i. edit. Lond. 1722. * * * * * (DILLON) (WENTWORTH) Earl of ROSCOMMON, This nobleman was born in Ireland during the lieutenancy of the earl of Strafford, in the reign of King Charles I. Lord Strafford was his godfather, and named him by his own surname. He passed some of his first years in his native country, till the earl of Strafford imagining, when the rebellion first broke out, that his father who had been converted by archbishop Usher to the Protestant religion, would be exposed to great danger, and be unable to protect his family, sent for his godson, and placed him at his own seat in Yorkshire, under the tuition, of Dr. Hall, afterwards bishop of Norwich; by whom he was instructed in Latin, and without learning the common rules of grammar, which he could never retain in his memory, he attained to write in that language with classical elegance and propriety, and with so much ease, that he chose it to correspond with those friends who had learning sufficient to support the commerce. When the earl of Strafford was prosecuted, lord Roscommon went to Caen in Normandy, by the advice of bishop Usher, to continue his studies under Bochart, where he is said to have had an extraordinary impulse of his father's death, which is related by Mr. Aubrey in his miscellany, 'Our author then a boy of about ten years of age, one day was as it were madly extravagant, in playing, getting over the tables, boards, &c. He was wont to be sober enough. They who observed him said, God grant this proves no ill luck to him. In the heat of this extravagant fit, he cries out my father is dead. A fortnight after news came from Ireland, that his father was dead. This account I had from Mr. Knowles who was his governor, and then with him, since secretary to the earl of Strafford; and I have heard his Lordship's relations confirm the same.' The ingenious author of lord Roscommon's life, publish'd in the Gentleman's Magazine for the month of May, 1748, has the following remarks on the above relation of Aubrey's. 'The present age is very little inclined to favour any accounts of this sort, nor will the name of Aubrey much recommend it to credit; it ought not however to be omitted, because better evidence of a fact is not easily to be found, than is here offered, and it must be, by preserving such relations, that we may at least judge how much they are to be regarded. If we stay to examine this account we shall find difficulties on both sides; here is a relation of a fact given by a man who had no interest to deceive himself; and here is on the other hand a miracle which produces no effect; the order of nature is interrupted to discover not a future, but only a distant event, the knowledge of which is of no use to him to whom it is revealed. Between these difficulties what way shall be found? Is reason or testimony to be rejected? I believe what Osborne says of an appearance of sanctity, may be applied to such impulses, or anticipations. "Do not wholly slight them, because they may be true; but do not easily trust them, because they may be false."' Some years after he travelled to Rome, where he grew familiar with the most valuable remains of antiquity, applying himself particularly to the knowledge of medals, which he gained in great perfection, and spoke Italian with so much grace and fluency, that he was frequently mistaken there for a native. He returned to England upon the restoration of King Charles the IId, and was made captain of the band of pensioners, an honour which tempted him to some extravagancies. In the gaieties of that age (says Fenton) he was tempted to indulge a violent passion for gaming, by which he frequently hazarded his life in duels, and exceeded the bounds of a moderate fortune. This was the fate of many other men whose genius was of no other advantage to them, than that it recommended them to employments, or to distinction, by which the temptations to vice were multiplied, and their parts became soon of no other use, than that of enabling them to succeed in debauchery. A dispute about part of his estate, obliging him to return to Ireland, he resigned his post, and upon his arrival at Dublin, was made captain of the guards to the duke of Ormond. When he was at Dublin he was as much as ever distempered with the same fatal affection for play, which engaged him in one adventure, which well deserves to be related. 'As he returned to his lodgings from a gaming table, he was attacked in the dark by three ruffians, who were employed to assassinate him. The earl defended himself with so much resolution, that he dispatched one of the aggressors, while a gentleman accidentally passing that way interposed, and disarmed another; the third secured himself by flight. This generous assistant was a disbanded officer of a good family and fair reputation; who by what we call partiality of fortune, to avoid censuring the iniquities of the times, wanted even a plain suit of clothes to make a decent appearance at the castle; but his lordship on this occasion presenting him to the duke of Ormond, with great importunity prevailed with his grace that he might resign his post of captain of the guards to his friend, which for about three years the gentleman enjoyed, and upon his death, the duke returned the commission to his generous benefactor.'[1] His lordship having finished his affairs in Ireland, he returned to London, was made master of the horse to the dutchess of York, and married the lady Frances, eldest daughter of the earl of Burlington, and widow of colonel Courtnay. About this time, in imitation of those learned and polite assemblies, with which he had been acquainted abroad; particularly one at Caen, (in which his tutor Bochartus died suddenly while he was delivering an oration) he began to form a society for refining and fixing the standard of our language. In this design, his great friend Mr. Dryden was a particular assistant; a design, says Fenton, of which it is much more easy to conceive an agreeable idea, than any rational hope ever to see it brought to perfection. This excellent design was again set on foot, under the ministry of the earl of Oxford, and was again defeated by a conflict of parties, and the necessity of attending only to political disquisitions, for defending the conduct of the administration, and forming parties in the Parliament. Since that time it has never been mentioned, either because it has been hitherto a sufficient objection, that it was one of the designs of the earl of Oxford, by whom Godolphin was defeated; or because the statesmen who succeeded him have not more leisure, and perhaps less taste for literary improvements. Lord Roscommon's attempts were frustrated by the commotions which were produced by King James's endeavours to introduce alterations in religion. He resolved to retire to Rome, alledging, 'it was best to sit next the chimney when the chamber smoaked.' It will, no doubt, surprize many of the present age, and be a just cause of triumph to them, if they find that what Roscommon and Oxford attempted in vain, shall be carried into execution, in the most masterly manner, by a private gentleman, unassisted, and unpensioned. The world has just reason to hope this from the publication of an English Dictionary, long expected, by Mr. Johnson; and no doubt a design of this sort, executed by such a genius, will be a lasting monument of the nation's honour, and that writer's merit. Lord Roscommon's intended retreat into Italy, already mentioned, on account of the troubles in James the IId's reign, was prevented by the gout, of which he was so impatient, that he admitted a repellent application from a French empyric, by which his distemper was driven up into his bowels, and put an end to his life, in 1684. Mr. Fenton has told us, that the moment in which he expired, he cried out with a voice, that expressed the most intense fervour of devotion, My God! my father, and my friend! Do not forsake me, at my end. Two lines of his own version of the hymn, Dies iræ, Dies illa. The same Mr. Fenton, in his notes upon Waller, has given Roscommon a character too general to be critically just. 'In his writings, says he, we view the image of a mind, which was naturally serious and solid, richly furnished, and adorned with all the ornaments of art and science; and those ornaments unaffectedly disposed in the most regular and elegant order. His imagination might have probably been fruitful and sprightly, if his judgment had been less severe; but that severity (delivered in a masculine, clear, succinct stile) contributed to make him so eminent in the didactical manner, that no man with justice can affirm he was ever equalled by any of our nation, without confessing at the same time, that he is inferior to none. In some other kinds of writing his genius seems to have wanted fire to attain the point of perfection: but who can attain it?' From this account of the riches of his mind, who would not imagine that they had been displayed in large volumes, and numerous performances? Who would not, after the perusal of this character, be surprized to find, that all the proofs of this genius, and knowledge and judgment, are not sufficient to form a small volume? But thus it is, that characters are generally written: We know somewhat, and we imagine the rest. The observation that his imagination would have probably been more fruitful and sprightly, if his judgment had been less severe; might, if we were inclined to cavil, be answer'd by a contrary supposition, that his judgment would have been less severe, if his imagination had been more fruitful. It is ridiculous to oppose judgment and imagination to each other; for it does not appear, that men have necessarily less of the one, as they have more of the other. We must allow, in favour of lord Roscommon, what Fenton has not mentioned so distinctly as he ought, and what is yet very much to his honour, That he is perhaps the only correct writer in verse before Addison; and that if there are not so many beauties in his composition, as in those of some of his contemporaries, there are at least fewer faults. Nor is this his highest praise; for Mr. Pope has celebrated him as the only moral writer in Charles the IId's reign. Unhappy Dryden--in all Charles's days, Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays. Mr. Dryden speaking of Roscommon's essay on translated verse, has the following observation: 'It was that, says he, that made me uneasy, till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the speculation into practice. For many a fair precept in poetry, is like a seeming demonstration in mathematics: very specious in the diagram, but failing in mechanic operation. I think I have generally observed his instructions. I am sure my reason is sufficiently convinced both of their truth and usefulness; which in other words is to confess no less a vanity, than to pretend that I have at least in some places made examples to his rules.' This declaration of Dryden will be found no more than one of those cursory civilities, which one author pays to another; and that kind of compliment for which Dryden was remarkable. For when the sum of lord Roscommon's precepts is collected, it will not be easy to discover how they can qualify their reader for a better performance of translation, than might might have been attained by his own reflexions. They are however here laid down: 'Tis true composing is the nobler part, But good translation is no easy art: For tho' materials have long since been found, Yet both your fancy and your hands are bound; And by improving what was writ before, Invention labours less, but judgment more. Each poet with a different talent writes, One praises, one instructs, another bites. Horace did ne'er aspire to epic bays Nor lofty Maro stoop to lyric lays. Examine how your humour is inclin'd, And watch the ruling passion of your mind. Then seek a poet, who your way does bend. And chuse an author, as you chuse a friend. United by this sympathetic bond, You grow familiar, intimate, and fond; Your thoughts, your words, your stiles, your souls agree, No longer his interpreter, but he. Take then a subject, proper to expound * * * * * But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice, For men of sense, despise a trivial choice: And such applause, it must expect to meet As would some painter busy in the street; To copy bulls, and bears, and every sign That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. Take pains the genuine meaning to explore, There sweat, there strain, tug the laborious oar: Search every comment, that your care can find. Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind. Yet, be not blindly guided by the throng, The multitude is always in the wrong. When things appear unnatural, or hard, Consult your author, with himself compar'd. Who knows what blessings Phæbus may bestow, And future ages to your labours owe? Such secrets are not easily found out, But once discovered leave no room for doubt. Truth stamps conviction in your ravish'd breast, And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. They who too faithfully on names insist; Rather create, than dissipate the mist: And grow unjust by being over nice, (For superstition, virtue turns to vice) Let Crassus ghost, and Labienus tell How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell, Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame, That few know Pacorus, or Monæses name. And 'tis much safer to leave out than add * * * * * Abstruse and mystic thoughts, you must express, } With painful care, but seeming easiness; } For truth shines brightest, thro' the plainest dress, } Your author always will the best advise, Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise. Nothing could have induced us to have laboured thro' so great a number of cold unspirited lines, but in order to shew, that the rules which my lord has laid down are meerly common place, and must unavoidably occur to the mind of the most ordinary reader. They contain no more than this; that the author should be suitable to the translator's genius; that he should be such as may deserve a translation; that he who intends to translate him, should endeavour to understand him; that perspicuity should be studied, and unusual or uncouth names, sparingly inserted; and that the stile of the original should be copied in its elevation and depression. These are the common-place rules delivered without elegance, or energy, which have been so much celebrated, but how deservedly, let our unprepossess'd readers judge. Roscommon was not without his merit; he was always chaste, and sometimes harmonious; but the grand requisites of a poet, elevation, fire, and invention, were not given him, and for want of these, however pure his thoughts, he is a languid unentertaining writer. Besides this essay on translated verse, he is the author of a translation of Horace's Art of poetry; with some other little poems, and translations published in a volume of the minor poets. Amongst the MSS. of Mr. Coxeter, we found lord Roscommon's translation of Horace's Art of Poetry, with some sketches of alterations he intended to make; but they are not great improvements; and this translation, of all his lordship's pieces, is the most unpoetical. Footnote: 1. Fenton. END of the SECOND VOLUME. 
10622	----	Proofreaders THE LIVES OF THE POETS OF GREAT BRITAIN and IRELAND. Compiled from ample Materials scattered in a Variety of Books, and especially from the MS. Notes of the late ingenious Mr. COXETER and others, collected for this Design, By Mr. CIBBER, and other Hands. VOL. III. MDCCLIII. VOLUME III. Contains the LIVES OF Denham Killegrew Howard Behn, Aphra Etherege Mountford Shadwell Killegrew, William, Howard Flecknoe Dryden Sedley Crowne Sackville, E. Dorset Farquhar Ravenscroft Philips, John Walsh Betterton Banks Chudley, Lady Creech Maynwaring Monk, the Hon. Mrs. Browne Tom. Pomfret King Sprat, Bishop Montague, E. Hallifax Wycherley Tate Garth Rowe Sheffield, D. Buck. Cotton Additon Winshelsea, Anne Gildon D'Urfey Settle THE LIVES OF THE POETS. * * * * * Sir JOHN DENHAM. An eminent poet of the 17th century, was the only son of Sir John Denham, knight, of Little Horsley in Essex, and sometime baron of the Exchequer in Ireland, and one of the lords justices of that kingdom. He was born in Dublin, in the year 1615[1]; but was brought over from thence very young, on his father's being made one of the barons of the Exchequer in England 1617. He received his education, in grammar learning, in London; and in Michaelmas term 1631 he was entered a gentleman commoner in Trinity College, Oxford, being then 16 years of age; where, as Wood expresses it, 'being looked upon as a slow dreaming young man, and more addicted to gaming than study, they could never imagine he could ever enrich the world with the issue of his brain, as he afterwards did.' He remained three years at the university, and having been examined at the public schools, for the degree of bachelor of arts, he entered himself in Lincoln's-Inn, where he was generally thought to apply himself pretty closely to the study of the common law. But notwithstanding his application to study, and all the efforts he was capable of making, such was his propensity to gaining, that he was often stript of all his money; and his father severely chiding him, and threatening to abandon him if he did not reform, he wrote a little essay against that vice, and presented it to his father, to convince him of his resolution against it[2]. But no sooner did his father die, than being unrestrained by paternal authority, he reassumed the practice, and soon squandered away several thousand pounds. In the latter end of the year 1641 he published a tragedy called the Sophy, which was greatly admired, and gave Mr. Waller occasion to say of our author, 'That he broke out like the Irish rebellion, threescore thousand strong, when no body was aware, nor in the Ieast expected it.' Soon after this he was pricked for high sheriff for the county of Surry, and made governor of Farnham-Castle for the King; but not being well skilled in military affairs, he soon quitted that post and retired to his Majesty at Oxford, where he published an excellent poem called Cooper's-hill, often reprinted before and since the restoration, with considerable alterations; it has been universally admired by all good judges, and was translated into Latin verse, by Mr. Moses Pengry of Oxford. Mr. Dryden speaking of this piece, in his dedication of his Rival Ladies, says, that it is a poem, which, for the Majesty of the stile, will ever be the exact standard of good writing, and the noble author of an essay on human life, bestows upon it the most lavish encomium[3]. But of all the evidences in its favour, none is of greater authority, or more beautiful, than the following of Mr. Pope, in his Windsor Forest. Ye sacred nine, that all my soul possess, Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless; Bear me, O bear me, to sequester'd scenes, The bow'ry mazes, and surrounding greens; To Thames's bank which fragrant breezes fill, Or where the muses sport on Cooper's-hill. (On Cooper's hill eternal wreaths shall grow, While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.) I seem thro' consecrated walks to rove, I hear soft music die along the grove, Led by the found, I roam from shade to shade, By god-like poets venerable made: Here his last lays majestic Denham sung, There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue. In the year 1647 he was entrusted by the Queen with a message to the King, then in the hands of the army, and employed in other affairs, relating to, his Majesty. In his dedication of his poems to Charles II. he observes, that after the delivery of the person of his royal father into the hands of the army, he undertook for the Queen-mother, to get access to his Majesty, which he did by means of Hugh Peters; and upon this occasion, the King discoursed with him without reserve upon the state of his affairs. At his departure from Hampton-court, says he, 'The King commanded me to stay privately in London, to send to him and receive from him all his letters, from and to all his correspondents, at home and abroad, and I was furnished with nine several cyphers in order to it. Which I trust I performed with great safety to the persons with whom we corresponded; but about nine months after being discovered by their knowledge of Mr. Cowley's hand, I happily escaped both for myself and those who held correspondence with me.' In April 1648 he conveyed away James duke of York, then under the tuition of Algernon earl of Northumberland, from St. James's, and carried him into France, to the prince of Wales and Queenmother. This circumstance is related by Wood, but Clarendon, who is a higher authority, says, that the duke went off with colonel Bamfield only, who contrived the means of his escape. Not long after, he was sent embassador to the King of Poland, in conjunction with lord Crofts, to whom he addresses a poem written on their journey; from whence he brought ten thousand pounds for his Majesty, by the decimation of his Scottish subjects there. About the year 1652, he returned into England, and was well received by the earl of Pembroke at Wilton, and continued with that nobleman about a year; for his own fortune by the expence he was at during the civil war, and his unconquerable itch of gaming was quite exhausted. From that year to the restoration, there are no accounts of our author; but as soon as his Majesty returned, he entered upon the office of surveyor of his Majesty's buildings, in the room of Inigo Jones, deceased; and at the coronation of King Charles II. was created a knight of the Bath. Upon some discontent arising from his second marriage he lost his senses, but soon recovering from that disorder, he continued in great esteem at court for his poetical writings. In the dedication of his poems to King Charles II. he tells us that he had been discouraged by King Charles I. from writing verses. 'One morning (says he) when I was waiting upon the King at Causham, smiling upon me, he said he could tell me some news of myself, which was that he had seen some verses of mine the evening before (being those to Sir Robert Fanshaw) and asking me when I made them, I told him two or three years since; he was pleased to say, that having never seen them before, he was afraid I had written them since my return into England; and though he liked them well he would advise me to write no more: alledging, that when men are young, and having little else to do, they might vent the over-flowings of their fancy that way, but when they were thought fit for more serious employments, if they still persisted in that course, it would look as if they minded not the way to any better; whereupon I stood corrected as long as I had the honour to wait upon him.' This is a strong instance of his duty to the King; but no great compliment to his Majesty's taste: nor was the public much obliged to the Monarch for this admonition to our author. But King Charles II being of an humour more sprightly than his father, was a professed encourager of poetry, and in his time a race of wits sprung up, unequalled by those of any other reign. This monarch was particularly delighted with the poetry of our author, especially when he had the happiness to wait upon him, in Holland and Flanders; and he was pleased sometimes to give him arguments to write upon, and divert the evil hours of their banishment, which now and then, Sir John tells us, he acquitted himself not much short of his Majesty's expectation. In the year 1688 Sir John Denham died, at his office in Whitehall, and was interred in Westminster-Abbey, near the tombs of Chaucer, Spenser, and Cowley. Our author's works are, 1. Cooper's-hill, of which we have already taken some notice. 2. The Destruction of Troy, an Essay on the second book of Virgil's Æneis, written 1636. 3. On the Earl of Strafford's Trial and Death. 4. On my Lord Crofts's Journey into Poland. 5. On Mr. Thomas Killegrew's return from Venice; and Mr. William Murrey's from Scotland. 6. To Sir John Mennis, being invited from Calais to Bologne to eat a pig. 7. Natura Naturata. 8. Sarpedon's Speech to Glaucus, in the twelfth book of Homer. 9. Out of an Epigram of Martial. 10. Friendship and Single Life, against Love and Marriage. 11. On Mr. Abraham Cowley's Death and Burial. 12. A Speech against Peace at the Close Committee. 13. To the Five Members of the honourable House of Commons: The humble Petition of the Poets. 14. A Western Wonder. 15. A Second Western Wonder. 16. News from Colchester; or, a proper new Ballad, of certain carnal Passages betwixt a Quaker and a Colt, at Horsley in Essex. 17. A Song. 18. On Mr. John Fletcher's Works. 19. To Sir Richard Fanshaw, on his translation of Pastor Fido. 20. A Dialogue between Sir John Pooley, and Mr. Thomas Killegrew. 21. An occasional Imitation of a modern Author, upon a Game at Chess. 22. The Passion of Dido for Æneas. 23. Of Prudence, of Justice. 24. The Progress of Learning. 25. Cato Major of old Age, a Poem: It is taken from the Latin of Tully, though much alter'd from the original, not only by the change of the stile, but by addition and subtraction. Our author tells us, that intending to translate this piece into prose (where translation ought to be strict) finding the matter very proper for verse, he took the liberty to leave out what was only necessary, to that age and place, and to take or add what was proper to this preset age and occasion, by laying the scene clearer and in fewer words, according to the stile and ear of the times. 26. The Sophy, a Tragedy; the above pieces have been several times printed together, in one volume in 12mo. under the Title of Poems and Translations; with the Sophy, a Tragedy, written by Sir John Denham. Besides these, Wood mentions a Panegyric on his excellency general Monk 1659, in one sheet quarto. Though Denham's name is not to it, it is generally ascribed to him. A Prologue to his majesty, at the first play represented at the Cock-pit in White-hall, being part of that noble entertainment, which their majesties received, November 19, 1660, from his grace the duke of Albemarle. A new Version of the Psalms of David. The True Presbyterian, without Disguise; or, a Character of a Presbyterian's Ways and Actions, London 1680, in half a sheet in folio. In the year 1666 there were printed by stealth, in octavo, certain Poems, intitled Directions to a Painter, in four copies or parts, each dedicated to King Charles the IId. They were very satyrically written against several persons engaged in the Dutch war, in 1661. At the end of them was a piece entitled Clarendon's Housewarming; and after that his Epitaph, both containing bitter reflexions against that earl. Sir John Denham's name is to these pieces, but they were generally thought to be written by Andrew Marvel, Esq; a Merry Droll in Charles the IId's Parliaments, but so very honest, that when a minister once called at his lodgings, to tamper with him about his vote, he found him in mean apartments up two pair of stairs, and though he was obliged to send out that very morning to borrow a guinea, yet he was not to be corrupted by the minister, but denied him his vote. The printer of these poems being discovered, he was sentenced to stand in the pillory for the same. We have met with no authors who have given any account of the moral character of Sir John Denham, and as none have mentioned his virtues, so we find no vice imputed to him but that of gaming; to which it appears he was immoderately addicted. If we may judge from his works, he was a good-natur'd man, an easy companion, and in the day of danger and tumult, of unshaken loyalty to the suffering interest of his sovereign. His character as a poet is well known, he has the fairest testimonies in his favour, the voice of the world, and the sanction of the critics; Dryden and Pope praise him, and when these are mentioned, other authorities are superfluous. We shall select as a specimen of Sir John Denham's Poetry, his Elegy on his much loved and admired friend Mr. Abraham Cowley. Old mother Wit and nature gave Shakespear, and Fletcher all they have; In Spencer and in Johnson art, Of slower nature, got the start. But both in him so equal are, None knows which bears the happiest share. To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own: He melted not the ancient gold, Nor, with Ben Johnson, did make bold. To plunder all the Roman stores Of poets and of orators. Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, He did not steal, but emulate; And he would like to them appear, Their garb, but not their cloaths did wear. He not from Rome alone but Greece, Like Johnson, brought the golden fleece. And a stiff gale, (as Flaccus sings) The Theban swan extends his wings, When thro' th' æthereal clouds he flies, To the same pitch our swan doth rise: Old Pindar's flights by him new-reach'd, When on that gale, his wings are stretch'd. [Footnote 1: Ath. Oxon. vol. ii.] [Footnote 2: Wood.] [Footnote 3: In the preface to 2d edition, 1736, 4to.] * * * * * THOMAS KILLEGREW, A Gentleman, who was page of honour to king Charles I. and groom of the bed-chamber to king Charles II. with whom he endured twenty-years exile. During his abode beyond sea, he took a view of France, Italy and Spain, and was honoured by his majesty, with the employment of resident at the state of Venice, whither he was sent in August 1651. During his exile abroad, he applied his leisure hours to the study of poetry, and the composition of Several plays, of which Sir John Denham. in a jocular way takes notice, in his copy of verses on our author's return from his embassy from Venice. I. Our resident Tom, From Venice is come, And hath left the statesman behind him. Talks at the same pitch, Is as wise, is as rich, And just where you left him, you find him. II. But who says he was not, A man of much plot, May repent that false accusation; Having plotted, and penn'd Six plays to attend, The farce of his negotiation. Killegrew was a man of very great humour, and frequently diverted king Charles II, by his lively spirit of mirth and drollery. He was frequently at court, and had often access to king Charles when admission was denied to the first peers in the realm. Amongst many other merry stories, the following is related of Killegrew. Charles II, who hated business as much as he loved pleasure, would often disappoint the council in vouchsafing his royal presence when they were met, by which their business was necessarily delay'd and many of the council much offended by the disrespect thrown on them: It happened one day while the council were met, and had sat some time in expectation of his majesty, that the duke of Lauderdale, who was a furious ungovernable man, quitted the room in a passion, and accidentally met with Killegrew, to whom he expressed himself irreverently of the king: Killegrew bid his grace be calm, for he would lay a wager of a hundred pounds, that he would make his majesty come to council in less than half an hour. Lauderdale being a little heated, and under the influence of surprize, took him at his word;--Killegrew went to the king, and without ceremony told him what had happened, and added, "I know that your majesty hates Lauderdale, tho' the necessity of your affairs obliges you to behave civilly to him; now if you would get rid of a man you hate, come to the council, for Lauderdale is a man so boundlessly avaricious, that rather than pay the hundred pounds lost in this wager, he will hang himself, and never plague you more." The king was pleased with the archness of this observation, and answered, 'then Killegrew I'll positively go,' which he did.--It is likewise related, that upon the king's suffering his mistresses to gain so great an ascendant over him as to sacrifice for them the interest of the state, and neglect the most important affairs, while, like another Sardanapalus, he wasted his hours in the apartments of those enchantresses: Killegrew went one day into his apartment dress'd like a pilgrim, bent upon a long journey. The king being surprized at this extraordinary frolic, asked him the meaning of it, and to what distant country he was going, to which Killegrew bluntly answered, the country I seek, may it please your majesty, is hell; and what to do there? replies the king? to bring up Oliver Cromwel from thence, returned the wag, to take care of the English affairs, for his successor takes none.--We cannot particularly ascertain the truth of these relations, but we may venture to assert that these are not improbable, when it is considered how much delighted king Charles the IId. was with a joke, however severe, and that there was not at court a more likely person to pass them than Killegrew, who from his long exile with the king, and being about his person, had contracted a kind of familiarity, which the lustre that was thrown round the prince upon his restoration was not sufficient to check. Tho' Sir John Denham mentions but six, our author wrote nine Plays in his travels, and two at London, amongst which his Don Thomaso, in two parts, and his Parson's Wedding, will always be valued by good judges, and are the best of his performances. The following is a list of his plays. 1. Bellamira's Dream, or Love of Shadows, a Tragi-Comedy; the first part printed in folio 1663, written in Venice, and dedicated to the lady Mary Villiers, duchess of Richmond and Lennox. 2. Bellamira's Dream, the second part, written in Venice; printed in folio, London 1663, and dedicated to the lady Anne Villiers, countess of Essex. 3. Cicilia and Clorinda, or Love in Arms, a Tragi-comedy; the first part printed in folio, London, 1663, written in Turin. 4. Cicilia and Clorinda, the second part, written at Florence 1651, and dedicated to the lady Dorothy Sidney, countess of Sunderland. 5. Claracilla, a Tragi-comedy, printed in folio, London 1663; written at Rome, and dedicated to his sister in-law lady Shannon; on this play and another of the author's called the Prisoners, Mr. Cartwright has written an ingenious copy of verses. 6. The Parson's Wedding, a Comedy, printed in folio, London 1663; written at Basil in Switzerland. This play was revived at the old Theatre, at little Lincoln's Inn-Fields, and acted all by women; a new prologue and epilogue, being spoken by Mrs. Marshal in Man's cloaths, which Mr. Langbain says is printed in the Covent-Garden Drollery. This was a miscellaneous production of those times, which bore some resemblance to our Magazines; but which in all probability is now out of print. 7. The Pilgrim, a Tragedy, printed in folio, London 1663; written in Paris in the year 1651, and dedicated to the countess of Carnarvon. 8. The Princess, or Love at first Sight, a Tragi-Comedy, printed in folio, London 1663; written at Naples, and dedicated to his niece, the lady Anne Wentworth, wife to lord Lovelace. 9. The Prisoners, a Tragi-Comedy, printed in folio; London 1663; written at London and dedicated to the lady Crompton. 10. Don Thomaso, or the Wanderer, a Comedy in two parts, printed in folio, London 1663; and dedicated to the fair and kind friends of prince Palatine Polexander. In the first part of this play, the author has borrowed several ornaments from Fletcher's play called the Captain. He has used great freedom with Ben Johnson, for not only the characters of Lopus, but even the very words are repeated from Johnson's Fox, where Volpone personates Scoto of Mantua. I don't believe that our author designed to conceal his assistance, since he was so just as to acknowledge a song against jealousy, which he borrowed from Mr. Thomas Carew, cup-bearer to king Charles the Ist, and sung in a masque at Whitehall, anno 1633. This Chorus, says he, 'I presume to make use of here, because in the first design it was written at my request, upon a dispute held between Mrs. Cicilia Crofer and myself, when he was present; she being then maid of honour. This I have set down, lest any man should imagine me so foolish as to steal such a poem, from so famous an author.' If he was therefore so scrupulous in committing depredations upon Carew, he would be much more of Ben Johnson, whose fame was so superior to Carew's. All these plays were printed together in one volume in folio, London 1664. * * * * * EDWARD HOWARD, _Esq_; Was descended from the noble family of the earl of Berkshire, and was more illustrious by his birth than his genius; he addicted himself to the study of dramatic poetry, and produced four plays, but gained no reputation by any of them. 1. The Man of New-Market, a Comedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal; and printed in quarto, London 1678. 2. Six Days Adventure, or the New Utopia, a Comedy, acted at his royal highness the duke of York's Theatre, printed in quarto 1671. This play miscarried in the action, as he himself acknowledges in his preface; and the earl of Rochester, with his usual virulence, writ an invective against it; but, Mrs. Behn, Mr. Ravenscroft, and some other poets, taking compassion on him, sent the author recommendatory verses, which are printed before that play, and in return he writ a Pindarique to Mrs. Behn, which she printed in a Collection of Poems 1685. 3. The Usurper, a Tragedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal, and printed 1668, in which the character of Damocles, is said to have been drawn for Oliver Cromwel, and that the play is a parallel of those times. 4. Women's Conquest, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre 1677. Besides these plays, Mr. Howard has published an Epic Poem in octavo, called the British Princes, which the earl of Rochester likewise handled pretty severely. There is likewise ascribed to him another Book of Poems and Essays, with a Paraphrase on Cicero's Laelius, or Tract of Friendship, printed in 8vo. The Earl of Dorset, who was called by cotemporary writers, the best good man, with the worst natured Muse, has dedicated a few lines to the damnation of this extraordinary epic production of Mr. Howard's. The Spectator observes, that this epic piece is full of incongruity, or in other words, abounds with nonsense. He quotes the two following lines, A coat of mail Prince Vortiger had on, Which from a naked pict his grandsire won. Who does not see the absurdity of winning a coat from a naked man? The earl of Dorset thus addresses him; To Mr. EDWARD HOWARD, on his incomparable, incomprehensible POEM called the BRITISH PRINCES. Come on, ye critics, find one fault who dare, For, read it backward like a witch's prayer, 'Twill do as well; throw not away your jests On solid nonsense that abides all tests. Wit, like tierce-claret, when't begins to pall, Neglected lies, and's of no use at all, But, in its full perfection of decay, Turns vinegar, and comes again in play. Thou hast a brain, such as it is indeed; On what else mould thy worm of fancy feed? Yet in a Filbert I have often known Maggots survive when all the kernel's gone. This simile shall stand, in thy defence, 'Gainst such dull rogues as now and then write sense. Thy style's the same, whatever be thy theme, As some digestion turns all meat to phlegm. He lyes, dear Ned, who says, thy brain it barren, Where deep conceits, like vermin breed in carrion. Thy stumbling founder'd jade can trot as high As any other Pegasus can fly. So the dull Eel moves nimbler in the mud, Than all the swift-finn'd racers of the flood. As skilful divers to the bottom fall, Sooner than those that cannot swim at all, So in the way of writing, without thinking, Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking. Thou writ'st below ev'n thy own nat'ral parts, And with acquir'd dulness, and new arts Of studied nonsense, tak'st kind readers hearts. Therefore dear Ned, at my advice forbear, Such loud complaints 'gainst critics to prefer, Since thou art turn'd an arrant libeller: Thou sett'st thy name to what thyself do'st write; Did ever libel yet so sharply bite? * * * * * Mrs. APHRA BEHN, A celebrated poetess of the last age, was a gentlewoman by birth, being descended, as her life-writer says, from a good family in the city of Canterbury. She was born in Charles Ist's reign[1], but in what year is not known. Her father's name was Johnson, whose relation to the lord Willoughby engaged him for the advantageous post of lieutenant general of Surinam, and six and thirty islands, to undertake a voyage, with his whole family, to the West-Indies, at which time our poetess was very young. Mr. Johnson died at sea, in his passage thither; but his family arrived at Surinam, a place so delightfully situated, and abounding with such a vast profusion of beauties, that, according to Mrs. Behn's description, nature seems to have joined with art to render it perfectly elegant: her habitation in that country, called St. John's Hill, she has challenged all the gardens in Italy, nay, all the globe of the world, to shew so delightful a recess. It was there our poetess became acquainted with the story and person of the American Prince Oroonoko, whose adventures she has so feelingly and elegantly described in the celebrated Novel of that name, upon which Mr. Southern has built his Tragedy of Oroonoko, part of which is so entertaining and moving, that it is almost too much for nature. Mrs. Behn tells us, that she herself had often seen and conversed with that great man, and been a witness to many of his mighty actions, and that at one time, he, and Imoinda his wife, were scarce an hour in a day from her lodgings; that they eat with her, and that she obliged them in all things she was capable of, entertaining them with the lives of the Romans and great men, which charmed him with her company; while she engaged his wife with teaching her all the pretty works she was mistress of, relating stories of Nuns, and endeavouring to bring her to the knowledge of the true God. This intimacy between Oroonoko and Mrs. Behn occasioned some reflexions on her conduct, from which the authoress of her life, already quoted, justified her in the following manner; 'Here, says she, I can add nothing to what she has given the world already, but a vindication of her from some unjust aspersions I find are insinuated about this town, in relation to that prince. I knew her intimately well, and I believe she would not have concealed any love affair from me, being one of her own sex, whose friendship and secrecy she had experienced, which makes me assure the world that there was no intrigue between that Prince and Astræa. She had a general value for his uncommon virtues, and when he related the story of his woes, she might with the Desdemona of Shakespear, cry out, That it was pitiful, wondrous pitiful, which never can be construed into an amour; besides, his heart was too violently set on the everlasting charms of his Imoinda, to be shook with those more faint (in his eye) of a white beauty; and Astrea's relations there present kept too watchful an eye over her, to permit the frailty of her youth, if that had been powerful enough.' After this lady's return to London, she was married to Mr. Behn, a Merchant there, but of Dutch extraction. This marriage strengthening her interest, and, perhaps, restoring her character, gave her an opportunity of appearing with advantage at court. She gave King Charles II. so accurate and agreeable an account of the colony of Surinam, that he conceived a great opinion of her abilities, and thought her a proper person to be entrusted with the management of some important affairs, during the Dutch war; which occasioned her going into Flanders, and residing at Antwerp. Here, by her political intrigues, she discovered the design formed by the Dutch, of sailing up the river Thames, and burning the English ships in their harbours, which she communicated to the court of England; but her intelligence, though well grounded, as appeared by the event, being only laughed at and slighted, she laid aside all other thoughts of state affairs, and amused herself during her stay at Antwerp with the gallantries in that city. But as we have mentioned that she discovered the design of the Dutch to burn our ships, it would be injustice to the lady, as well as to the reader, not to give some detail of her manner of doing it. She made this discovery by the intervention of a Dutchman, whom her life-writer calls by the name of Vander Albert. As an ambassador, or negociator of her sex could not take the usual means of intelligence; of mixing with the multitude, and bustling in the cabals of statesmen, she fell upon another way, perhaps more efficacious, of working by her eyes. This Vander Albert had been in love with her before her marriage with Mr. Behn, and no sooner heard of her arrival at Antwerp, than he paid her a visit; and after a repetition of his former vows, and ardent professions for her service, pressed her to receive from him some undeniable proofs of the vehemence and sincerity of his passion, for which he would ask no reward, 'till he had by long and faithful services convinced her that he deserved it. This proposal was so suitable to her present aim in the service of her country, that she accepted it, and employed Albert in such a manner, as made her very serviceable to the King. The latter end of the year 1666, he sent her word, by a special messenger, that he would be with her at a day appointed, at which time, he revealed to her, that Cornelius de Wit, who, with the rest of that family, had an implacable hatred to the English nation and the house of Orange, had, with de Ruyter, proposed to the States the expedition abovementioned. This proposal, concurring with the advice which the Dutch spies in England had given them, of the total neglect of all naval preparations, was well received, and was resolved to be put in execution, as a thing neither dangerous nor difficult. Albert having communicated a secret of this importance, and with such marks of truth, that she had no room to doubt of it: as soon as the interview was at an end, she dispatched an account of what she had discovered, to England[2]. But we cannot conclude Mrs. Behn's gallantries at Antwerp, without being a little more particular, as we find her attacked by other lovers, and thought she found means to preserve her innocence, yet the account that she herself gives of her affairs there, is both humorous and entertaining. In a letter to a friend she proceeds thus, 'My other lover is about twice Albert's age, nay and bulk too, tho' Albert "be not the most Barbary shape you have seen, you must know him by the name of Van Bruin, and he was introduced to me by Albert his kinsman, and was obliged by him to furnish me in his absence, with what money and other things I should please to command, or have occasion for. This old fellow had not visited me often, before I began to be sensible of the influence of my eyes upon this old piece of touchwood; but he had not the confidence to tell me he loved me, and modesty you know is no common fault of his countrymen. He often insinuated that he knew a man of wealth and substance, though striken indeed in years, and on that account not so agreeable as a younger man, was passionately in love with me, and desired to know whether my heart was so far engaged, that his friend should not entertain, any hopes. I replied that I was surprized to hear a friend of Albert's making an interest in me for another, and that if love were a passion, I was any way sensible of, it could never be for an old man, and much to that purpose. But all this would not do, in a day or two I received this eloquent epistle from him." Here Mrs. Behn inserts a translation of Van Bruin's letter, which was wrote in French, and in a most ridiculous stile, telling her, he had often strove to reveal to her the tempests of his heart, and with his own mouth scale the walls of her affections; but terrified with the strength of her fortifications, he concluded to make more regular approaches, to attack her at a farther distance, and try first what a bombardment of letters would do; whether these carcasses of love thrown into the sconces of her eyes, would break into the midst of her breast, beat down the out-guard of her aversion, and blow up the magazine of her cruelty, that she might be brought to a capitulation, and yield upon, reasonable terms. He then considers her as a goodly ship under sail for the Indies; her hair is the pennants, her fore-head the prow, her eyes the guns, her nose the rudder. He wishes he could once see her keel above water, and desires to be her pilot, to steer thro' the Cape of Good-Hope, to the Indies of love. Our ingenious poetess sent him a suitable answer to this truly ridiculous and Dutchman like epistle. She rallies him for setting out in so unprofitable a voyage as love, and humorously reckons up the expences of the voyage; as ribbons, and hoods for her pennants, diamond rings, lockets, and pearl-necklaces for her guns of offence and defence, silks, holland, lawn, cambric, &c. for her rigging. Mrs. Behn tells us she diverted herself with Van Bruin in Albert's absence, till he began to assume and grow troublesome to her by his addresses, so that to rid himself of him, she was forced to disclose the whole affair to Albert, who was so enraged that he threatened the death of his rival, but he was pacified by his mistress, and content to upbraid the other for his treachery, and forbid him the house, but this says Mrs. Behn, 'produced a very ridiculous scene, for 'my Nestorian lover would not give ground to Albert, but was as high as he, challenged him to sniker-snee for me, and a thousand things as comical; in short nothing but my positive command could satisfy him, and on that he promised no more to trouble me. Sure as he thought himself of me, he was thunder-struck, when he heard me not only forbid him the house, but ridicule all his addresses to his rival Albert; with a countenance full of despair, he went away not only from my lodgings, but the next day from Antwerp, unable to stay in a place where he had met so dreadful a defeat.' The authoress of her life has given us a farther account of her affairs with Vander Albert, in which she contrived to preserve her honour, without injuring her gratitude. There was a woman at Antwerp, who had often given Astræa warning of Albert's fickleness and inconstancy, assuring her he never loved after enjoyment, and sometimes changed even before he had that pretence; of which she herself was an instance; Albert having married her, and deserted her on the wedding-night. Our poetess took the opportunity of her acquaintance with this lady to put an honest trick upon her lover, and at the same time do justice to an injured woman. Accordingly she made an appointment with Albert, and contrived that the lady whose name was Catalina, should meet him in her stead. The plot succeeded and Catalina infinitely pleased with the adventure, appointed the next night, and the following, till at last he discovered the cheat, and resolved to gratify both his love and resentment, by enjoying Astæa even against her will. To this purpose he bribed an elderly gentlewoman, whom Mrs. Behn kept out of charity, to put him to bed drest in her night-cloaths in her place, when Astræa was passing the evening in a merchant's house in the town. The merchant's son and his two daughters waited on Astræa home; and to conclude the evening's mirth with a frolick, the young gentleman proposed going to bed to the old woman, and that they should all come in with candles and surprize them together. As it was agreed so they did, but no sooner was the young spark put to bed, but he found himself accosted with ardour, and a man's voice, saying, 'have I now caught thee, thou malicious charmer! now I'll not let thee go till thou hast done me justice for all the wrongs thou hast offered my dealing love.' The rest of the company were extremely surprized to find Albert in Astraea's bed instead of the old woman, and Albert no less surprized to find the young spark instead of Astræa. In the conclusion, the old woman was discarded, and Albert's fury at his disappointment appeased by a promise from Mrs. Behn, of marrying him at his arrival in England; but Albert returning to Holland to make preparations for his voyage to England, died of a Fever at Amsterdam[3]. From this adventure it plainly appears, that the observation of a Dutchman's not being capable to love is false; for both Albert, and the Nestorian wooer, seem to have been warm enough in their addresses. After passing some time in this manner at Antwerp, she embarked at Dunkirk for England; and in her passage, was near being lost, for the ship being driven on the coast, foundered within sight of land, but by the assistance of boats from the shore, they were all saved; and Mrs. Behn arriving in London, dedicated the rest of her life to pleasure and poetry. Besides publishing three volumes of miscellany poems, she wrote seventeen plays, and some histories and novels. She translated Fontenelle's History of Oracles, and plurality of worlds, to which last she annexed an Essay on Translation, and translated Prose. The Paraphrase of Oenone's, Epistle to Paris, in the English Translation of Ovid's Epistles is Mrs. Behn's; as are the celebrated Love Letters between a Nobleman and his Sister. Her wit gained her the esteem of Mr. Dryden, Mr. Southern, &c. and at the same time the love and addresses of several gentlemen, in particular one, with whom she corresponded under the name of Lycida, who it seems did not return her passion with equal warmth, and with the earnestness and rapture, she imagined her beauty had a right to command. Mrs. Behn died after a long indisposition, April 16, 1689, and was buried in the cloister of Westminster Abbey. We shall beg leave to exhibit her character, as we find it drawn by some of her cotemporaries, and add a remark of our own. 'Mr. Langbain 'thinks her Memory will be long fresh among all lovers of dramatic poetry, as having been sufficiently eminent, not only for her theatrical performances; but several other pieces both in prose and verse, which gained her an esteem among the wits almost equal to that of the incomparable Orinda, Mrs. Katherine Phillips.' There are several encomiums on Mrs. Behn prefixed to her lover's watch; among the rest, Mr. Charles Cotton, author of Virgil Travesty, throws in his mite in her praise; though the lines are but poorly writ. But of all her admirers, Mr. Charles Gildon, who was intimately acquainted with our poetess, speaks of her with the highest encomiums. In his epistle dedicatory to her histories and novels, he thus expresses himself. 'Poetry, the supreme pleasure of the mind, is begot, and born in pleasure, but oppressed and killed with pain. This reflexion ought to raise our admiration of Mrs. Behn, whose genius was of that force, to maintain its gaiety in the midst of disappointments, which a woman of her sense and merit ought never to have met with. But she had a great strength of mind, and command of thought, being able to write in the midst of company, and yet have the share of the conversation: which I saw her do in writing Oroonoko, and other parts of her works, in every part of which you'll find an easy stile and a peculiar happiness of thinking. The passions, that of love especially, she was mistress of, and gave us such nice and tender touches of them, that without her name we might discover the author.' To this character of Mrs. Behn may be very properly added, that given of her by the authoress of her life and memoirs, in these words. 'She was of a generous humane disposition, something passionate, very serviceable to her friends in all that was in her power, and could sooner forgive an injury than do one. She had wit, humour, good-nature and judgment. She was mistress of all the pleasing arts of conversation: She was a woman of sense, and consequently a lover of pleasure. For my part I knew her intimately, and never saw ought unbecoming the just modesty of our sex; though more gay and free, than the folly of the precise will allow.' The authors of the Biographia Brittanica say, that her poetry is none of the best; and that her comedies, tho' not without humour, are full of the most indecent scenes and expressions. As to the first, with submission to the authority of these writers, the charge is ill-founded, which will appear from the specimen upon which Dryden himself makes her a compliment; as to the latter, I'm afraid it cannot be so well defended; but let those who are ready to blame her, consider, that her's was the sad alternative to write or starve; the taste of the times was corrupt; and it is a true observation, that they who live to please, must please to live. Mrs. Behn perhaps, as much as any one, condemned loose scenes, and too warm descriptions; but something must be allowed to human frailty. She herself was of an amorous complexion, she felt the passions intimately which she describes, and this circumstance added to necessity, might be the occasion of her plays being of that cast. The stage how loosely does Astrea tread, Who fairly puts, all characters to bed. Are lines of Mr. Pope: And another modern speaking of, the vicissitudes to which the stage is subjected, has the following, Perhaps if skill could distant times explore, New Behn's, new Durfey's, yet remain in store, Perhaps, for who can guess th' effects of chance, Here Hunt[4] may box, and Mahomet[5] may dance. This author cannot be well acquainted with Mrs. Behn's works, who makes a comparison between them and the productions of Durfey. There are marks of a fine understanding in the most unfinished piece of Mrs. Behn, and the very worst of this lady's compositions are preferable to Durfey's bell. It is unpleasing to have the merit of any of the Fair Sex lessened. Mrs. Behn suffered enough at the hands of supercilious prudes, who had the barbarity to construe her sprightliness into lewdness; and because she had wit and beauty, she must likewise be charged with prostitution and irreligion. Her dramatic works are, 1, 2. The Rover: Or, the banished Cavalier. In two parts, both comedies; acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1677 and 1681. Those plays are taken in a great measure from Killegrew's Don Thomaso, or the wanderer. 3. The Dutch Lover, a Comedy, acted at the Duke's theatre, and printed in 4to, 1673. The plot of this play is founded upon a Spanish Comedy entitled, Don Fenise, written by Don Francisco de las Coveras. 4. Abdelazer; or the Moor's Revenge, a Tragedy, acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1671. It is taken from an old play of Marlow's, intitled, Lust's Dominion; or the Lascivious Queen, a Tragedy. 5. The Young King; or the Mistake, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. in 1683. The design of this play is taken from the story of Alcamenes and Menalippa, in Calprenede's Cleopatra. 6. The Round-Heads; or the Good Old Cause, a Comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1682. It is dedicated to Henry Fitzroy--duke of Grafton. 7. The City Heiress; or Sir Timothy Treatwell, a Comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. in 1682, dedicated to Henry Earl of Arundel, and Lord Mowbray. Most of the characters in this play are borrowed, according to Langbaine, from Massinger's Guardian, and Middleton's Mad World my Masters. 8. The Town Fop, or Sir Timothy Tawdry, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1677. This play is founded on a comedy written by one George Wilkins, entitled, the Miseries of inforced Marriage. 9. The False Count, or a New Way to play an old Game, a Comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1682 Isabella's being deceived by the Chimney Sweeper is borrowed from Mollier's precieuse Ridicules. 10. The Lucky Chances; or an Alderman's Bargain, a Comedy, acted by the King's company, and printed in 4to. in 1687. It is dedicated to Hyde Earl of Rochester. This play was greatly condemned by the critics; some incidents in it are borrowed from Shirley's Lady of Pleasure. 11. The forced Marriage; or the jealous Bridegroom, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to, 1671. 12. Sir Patient Fancy; a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1678. The plot of this play, and some of the characters, particularly Sir Patient, is borrowed from Moliere's Malades Imaginaires. 13. The Widow Ranter; or the History of Bacon in Virginia, a Tragi-Comedy, acted by the King's company, and printed 1690. It is uncertain where she had the history of Bacon; but the catastrophe seems founded on the story of Cassius, who died by the hand of his freed man. This play was published after Mrs. Behn's death by one G.I., her friend. 14. The Feigned Courtezan; or a Night's Intrigue, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1679. It is dedicated to the famous Ellen Gwyn, King Charles IId's mistress, and is esteemed one of Mrs. Behn's best plays. 15. Emperor of the Moon, a Farce, acted at the Queen's theatre, and printed 4to. 1687. It is dedicated to the Marquis of Worcester. The Plot is taken from an Italian piece translated into French, under the title of Harlequin Empereur, Dans le Monde de la Lune, and acted at Paris above eighty nights without intermission. 16. The Amorous Prince; or the Curious Husband, a Comedy, acted at the duke of York's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1671. The plot is borrowed from the novel of the Curious Impertinent in Don Quixote. 17. The younger Brother; or the Amorous Jilt; a Comedy, published after her death by Mr. Gildon. It was taken from a true story of colonel Henry Martin, and a certain lady. Mrs. Behn's plays, all but the last, were published together in two volumes 8vo. But the edition of 1724 is in four volumes 12mo. including the Younger Brother. The following is an account of her novels, and histories, They are extant in two volumes 12mo. Lond. 1735, 8th edition, published by Mr. Charles Gildon, and dedicated to Simon Scroop, Esq; to which is prefixed the history of the Life and Memoirs of our authoress, written by one of the fair sex. 1. The History of Oroonoko, or the Royal Slave: This was founded on a true story, the incidents of which happened during her residence at Surinam. It gave birth to Mr. Southern's celebrated play of that name; who in his dedication of it, speaking of his obligation to Mrs. Behn for the subject, says, 'She had a great command of the stage, and I have often wondered that she would bury her favorite hero in a novel, when she might have revived him in the scene. She thought either, that no actor could represent him, or she could not bear him represented; and I believe the last, when I remember what I have heard from a friend of her's, that she always told a story more feelingly than she writ.' 2. The Fair Jilt; or the Amours of Prince Tarquin and Miranda. This is likewise said to be derived from a true story, to a great part of which she tells she was an eye witness; and what she did not see, she learned from some of the actors concerned in it, the Franciscans of Antwerp, where the scene is laid. 3. The Nun, or the perjured Beauty, a true novel. 4. The History of Agnes de Castro. 5. The Lover's Watch; or the Art of making love. It is taken from M. Bonnecourte's le Montre, or the Watch. It is not properly a novel. A lady, under the name of Iris, being absent from her lover Damon, is supposed to send him a Watch, on the dial plate of which the whole business of a lover, during the twenty-four hours, is marked out, and pointed to by the dart of a Cupid in the middle.-- "Thus eight o'clock is marked agreeable to reverie; nine o'Clock, design to please no body; ten o'clock, reading of letters, &c." To which is added, as from Damon to Iris, a description of the case of the watch. 6. The Lady's Looking-Glass, to dress themselves by. Damon is supposed to send Iris a looking-glass, which represents to her all her charms, viz. her shape, complexion, hair, &c. This likewise, which is not properly a novel, is taken from the French. 7. The Lucky Mistake, a new novel. 8. The Court of the King of Bantam. 9. The Adventures of the Black Lady. The reader will distinguish the originals from translations, by consulting the 2d and 3d tomes of Recueil des pieces gallantet, en prose et en verse. Paris 1684. We have observed, that in the English translation of Ovid's Epistles, the paraphrase of Oenone's Epistle to Paris is her's. In the preface to that work Mr. Dryden pays her this handsome compliment. "I was desired to say, that the author, who is of the fair sex, understood not Latin; but if she does not, I'm afraid she has given us occasion to be ashamed who do." Part of this epistle transcribed will afford a specimen of her verification. Say lovely youth, why wouldst thou, thus betray, My easy faith, and lead my heart away. I might some humble shepherd's choice have been, Had I not heard that tongue, those eyes not seen; And in some homely cot, in low repose, Liv'd undisturb'd, with broken vows and oaths; All day by shaded springs my flocks have kept, And in some honest arms, at night have slept. Then, un-upbraided with my wrongs thou'dit been, Safe in the joys of the fair Grecian queen. What stars do rule the great? no sooner you Became a prince, but you were perjured too. Are crowns and falsehoods then consistent things? And must they all be faithless who are Kings? The gods be prais'd that I was humble born, Ev'n tho' it renders me my Paris' scorn. And I had rather this way wretched prove, Than be a queen, dishonest in my love. [Footnote 1: Memoirs prefixed to her Novels, by a lady.] [Footnote 2: Memoires ubi supra.] [Footnote 3: Memoirs ubi supra.] [Footnote 4: A noted boxer.] [Footnote 5: A Turk, famous for his performances on a wire, after the manner of rope-dancers.] * * * * * Sir GEORGE ETHEREGE, A Celebrated wit in the reign of Charles and James II. He is said to have been descended of an ancient family of Oxfordshire, and born about the year 1636; it is thought he had some part of his education at the university of Cambridge, but in his younger years he travelled into France, and consequently made no long stay at the university. Upon his return, he, for some time, studied the Municipal Law at one of the Inns of Court, in which, it seems, he made but little progress, and like other men of sprightly genius, abandoned it for pleasure, and the gayer accomplishments. In the year 1664 the town was obliged with his first performance for the stage, entitled the Comical Revenge, or Love in a Tub, the writing whereof brought him acquainted, as he himself informed us, with the earl of Dorset, to whom it is by the author dedicated. The fame of this play, together with his easy, unreserved conversation, and happy address, rendered him a favourite with the leading wits, such as the duke of Buckingham, Sir Charles Sedley, the earl of Rochester, Sir Car Scroop. Being animated by this encouragement, in 1668, he brought another comedy upon the stage, entitled She Would if She Could; which gained him no less applause, and it was expected, that by the continuance of his studies, he would polish and enliven the theatrical taste, and be no less constant in such entertainments, than the most assiduous of his cotemporaries, but he was too much addicted to pleasure, and being impelled by no necessity, he neglected the stage, and never writ, till he was forced to it, by the importunity of his friends. In 1676, his last comedy called the Man of Mode, or Sir Fopling Flutter, came on the stage, with the most extravagant success; he was then a servant to the beautiful duchess of York, of whom Dryden has this very singular expression, 'that he does not think, that at the general resurrection, she can be made to look more charming than now.' Sir George dedicates this play to his Royal Mistress, with the most courtly turns of compliment. In this play he is said to have drawn, or to use the modern cant, taken off, some of the cotemporary coxcombs; and Mr. Dryden, in an Epilogue to it, has endeavoured to remove the suspicion of personal satire, and says, that the character of Flutter is meant to ridicule none in particular, but the whole fraternity of finished fops, the idolaters of new fashions. His words are, True fops help nature's work, and go to school, To file and finish God Almighty's fool: Yet none Sir Fopling, him, or him, can call, He's Knight o'th' Shire, and represents you all. But this industry, to avoid the imputation of personal satire, but served to heighten it; and the town soon found out originals to his characters. Sir Fopling was said to be drawn for one Hewit, a beau of those times, who, it seems, was such a creature as the poet ridiculed, but who, perhaps, like many other coxcombs, would never have been remembered, but for this circumstance, which transmits his memory to posterity. The character of Dorimant was supposed to represent the earl of Rochester, who was inconstant, faithless, and undetermined in his amours; and it is likewise said, in the character of Medley, that the poet has drawn out some sketch of himself, and from the authority of Mr. Bowman, who played Sir Fopling, or some other part in this comedy, it is said, that the very Shoemaker in Act I. was also meant for a real person, who, by his improvident courses before, having been unable to make any profit by his trade, grew afterwards, upon the public exhibition of him, so industrious and notable, that he drew a crowd of the best customers to him, and became a very thriving tradesman. Whether the poet meant to display these characters, we cannot now determine, but it is certain, the town's ascribing them to some particular persons, was paying him a very high compliment; and if it proved no more, it at least demonstrated, a close imitation of nature, a beauty which constitutes the greatest perfection of a comic poet. Our author, it seems, was addicted to some gay extravagances, such as gaming, and an unlicensed indulgence in women and wine, which brought some satirical reflexions, upon him. Gildon in his Lives of the Dramatic Poets, says, that upon marrying a fortune, he was knighted; the circumstances of it are these: He had, by his gaming and extravagance, so embarrassed his affairs, that he courted a rich widow in order to retrieve them; but she being an ambitious woman, would not condescend to marry him, unless he could make her a lady, which he was obliged to do by the purchase of a knighthood; and this appears in a Consolatary Epistle to captain Julian, from the duke of Buckingham, in, which this match is reflected on. We have no account of any issue he had by this lady, but from the information of Mr. Bowman we can say, that he cohabited, for some time, with the celebrated Mrs. Barry the actress, and had one daughter by her; that he settled 5 or 6000 l. on her, but that she died young. From the same intelligence, it also appears, that Sir George was, in his person, a fair[1], slender, genteel man, but spoiled his countenance with drinking, and other habits of intemperance. In his deportment he was very affable and courteous, of a generous disposition, which, with his free, lively, and natural vein of writing, acquired him the general character of gentle George, and easy Etherege, in respect of which qualities, we often find him compared to Sir Charles Sedley. His courtly and easy behaviour so recommended him to the Duchess of York, that when on the accession of King James II. she became Queen, she sent him ambassador abroad, Gildon says, to Hamburgh; but it is pretty evident, that he was in that reign a minister at Ratisbon, at least, from the year 1686, to the time his majesty left this kingdom, if not later, but it appears that he was there, by his own letters wrote from thence to the earl of Middleton. After this last comedy, we meet with no more he ever wrote for the stage; however, there are preserved some letters of his in prose, published among a collection of Familiar Letters, by John earl of Rochester; two of which, sent to the duke of Buckingham, have particular merit, both for the archness of the turns, and the acuteness of the observations. He gives his lordship a humorous description of some of the Germans, their excessive drunkenness; their plodding stupidity and ostensive indelicacy; he complains that he has no companion in that part of the world, no Sir Charles Sedleys, nor Buckinghams, and what is still worse, even deprived of the happiness of a mistress, for, the women there, he says, are so coy, and so narrowly watched by their relations, that there is no possibility of accomplishing an intrigue. He mentions, however, one Monsieur Hoffman, who married a French lady, with whom he was very great, and after the calamitous accident of Mr. Hoffman's being drowned, he pleasantly describes the grief of the widow, and the methods he took of removing her sorrow, by an attempt in which he succeeded. These two letters discover the true character of Etherege, as well as of the noble person to whom they were sent, and mark them as great libertines, in speculation as in practice. As for the other compositions of our author, they consist chiefly of little airy sonnets, smart lampoons, and smooth panegyrics. All that we have met with more than is here mentioned, of his writing in prose, is a short piece, entitled An Account of the Rejoicing at the Diet of Ratisbon, performed by Sir George Etherege, Knight, residing there from his Majesty of Great Britain, upon Occasion of the Birth of the Prince of Wales; in a Letter from himself, printed in the Savoy 1688. When our author died, the writers of his life have been very deficient; Gildon says, that after the Revolution, he followed his master into France, and died there, or very soon after his arrival in England from thence. But there was a report (say the authors of the Biograph. Brit. which they received from an ingenious gentleman) 'that Sir George came to an untimely death, by an unlucky accident at Ratisbon, for, after having treated some company with a liberal entertainment at his house there, when he had taken his glass too freely, and, being through his great complaisance too forward, in waiting on his guests at their departure, flushed as he was, he tumbled down stairs, and broke his neck, and so fell a martyr to jollity and civility.' One of the earliest of our author's lesser poems, is that addressed to her Grace the Marchioness of Newcastle, after reading her poems, and as it is esteemed a very elegant panegyric, we shall give the conclusion of it as a specimen. While we, your praise, endeavouring to rehearse, Pay that great duty in our humble verse; Such as may justly move your anger, now, Like Heaven forgive them, and accept them too. But what we cannot, your brave hero pays, He builds those monuments we strive to raise; Such as to after ages shall make known, While he records your deathless fame his own: So when an artist some rare beauty draws, Both in our wonder there, and our applause. His skill, from time secures the glorious dame, And makes himself immortal in her fame. Besides his Songs, little panegyrical Poems and Sonnets, he wrote two Satires against Nell Gwyn, one of the King's mistresses, though there is no account how a quarrel happened between them; the one is called Madam Nelly's Complaint, beginning, If Sylla's ghost made bloody Cat'line start. The other is called the Lady of Pleasure, with; its Argument at the Head of it, whereof the first line is, The life of Nelly truly shewn. Sir George spent a life of ease, pleasure, and affluence, at least never was long, nor much, exposed to want. He seems to have possessed a sprightly genius, to have had an excellent turn for comedy, and very happy in a courtly dialogue. We have no proof of his being a scholar, and was rather born, than made a poet. He has not escaped the censure of the critics; for his works are so extremely loose and licentious, as to render them dangerous to young, unguarded minds: and on this account our witty author is, indeed, justly liable to the severest censure of the virtuous, and sober part of mankind. [Footnote 1: Biogr. Brit. p. 1844.] * * * * * THE LIFE OF WILLIAM MOUNTFORD. This gentleman, who was very much distinguished as a player, was born in the year 1659, but of what family we have no account, farther than that they were of Staffordshire; the extraordinary circumstances of Mr. Mountford's death, have drawn more attention upon him, than he might otherwise have had; and though he was not very considerable as a poet, yet he was of great eminence as an actor. Mr. Cibber, in his Apology for his own Life, has mentioned him with the greatest respect, and drawn his character with strong touches of admiration. After having delineated the theatrical excellences of Kynaston, Sandford, &c. he thus speaks of Mountford. 'Of person he was tall, well made, fair, and of an agreeable aspect, his voice clear, full, and melodious; in tragedy he was the most affecting lover within my memory; his addresses had a resistless recommendation from the very tone of his voice, which gave his words such softness, that as Dryden says, --'Like flakes of feather'd snow, 'They melted as they fell. All this he particularly verified in that scene of Alexander, where the hero throws himself at the feet of Statira for pardon of his past infidelities. There we saw the great, the tender, the penitent, the despairing, the transported, and the amiable, in the highest perfection. In comedy he gave the truest life to what we call the fine gentleman; his spirit shone the brighter for being polished by decency. In scenes of gaiety he never broke into the regard that was due to the presence of equal, or superior characters, tho' inferior actors played them; he filled the stage, not by elbowing and crossing it before others, or disconcerting their action, but by surpassing them in true and masterly touches of nature; he never laughed at his own jest, unless the point of his raillery upon another required it; he had a particular talent in giving life to bons mots and repartees; the wit of the poet seemed always to come from him extempore, and sharpened into more wit from his brilliant manner of delivering it; he had himself a good share of it, or what is equal to it, so lively a pleasantness of humour, that when either of these fell into his hands upon the stage, he wantoned with them to the highest delight of his auditors. The agreeable was so natural to him, that even in that dissolute character of the Rover, he seemed to wash off the guilt from vice, and gave it charms and merit; for though it may be a reproach to the poet to draw such characters, not only unpunished, but rewarded, the actor may still be allowed his due praise in his excellent performance; and this was a distinction which, when this comedy was acted at Whitehall, King William's Queen Mary was pleased to make in favour of Mountford, notwithstanding her disapprobation of the play; which was heightened by the consideration of its having been written by a lady, viz. Mrs. Behn, from whom more modesty might have been expected. 'He had, besides all this, a variety in his genius, which few capital actors have shewn, or perhaps have thought it any addition of their merit to arrive at; he could entirely change himself, could at once throw off the man of sense, for the brisk, vain, rude, lively coxcomb, the false, flashy pretender to wit, and the dupe of his own sufficiency; of this he gave a delightful instance, in the character of Sparkish, in Wycherley's Country Wife: in that of Sir Courtly Nice, by Crown, his excellence was still greater; there his whole man, voice, mien, and gesture, was no longer Mountford, but another person; there, the insipid, soft civility, the elegant and formal mien, the drawling delicacy of voice, the stately flatness of his address, and the empty eminence of his attitudes, were so nicely observed, that had he not been an entire matter of nature, had he not kept his judgment, as it were a centinel upon himself, not to admit the least likeness of what he used to be, to enter into any part of his performance, he could not possibly have so compleatly finished it.' Mr. Cibber further observes, that if, some years after the death of Mountford, he himself had any success in those parts, he acknowledges the advantages he had received from the just idea, and strong impressions from Mountford's acting them.' 'Had he been remembered (says he) when I first attempted them, my defects would have been more easily discovered, and consequently my favourable reception in them must have been very much, and justly abated. If it could be remembered, how much he had the advantage of me in voice and person, I could not here be suspected of an affected modesty, or overvaluing his excellence; for he sung a clear, counter-tenor, and had a melodious, warbling throat, which could not but set off the last scene of Sir Courtly with uncommon happiness, which I, alas! could only struggle through, with the faint excuses, and real confidence of a fine singer, under the imperfection of a feigned, and screaming treble, which, at least, could only shew you. what I would have done, had nature been more favourable to me.' This is the amiable representation which Mr. Cibber makes of his old favourite, and whose judgment in theatrical excellences has been ever indisputed. But this finished performer did not live to reap the advantages which would have arisen from the great figure he made upon the stage. He fell in the 33d year of his age, by the hand of an assassin, who cowardly murdered him, and slid from justice. As we imagine it will not be unpleasing to the reader to be made acquainted with the most material circumstances relating to that affair, we mail here insert them, as they appear on the trial of lord Mohun, who was arraigned for that murder, and acquitted by his peers. Lord Mohun, it is well known, was a man of loose morals, a rancorous spirit, and, in short, reflected no honour on his titles. It is a true observation, that the temper and disposition of a man may be more accurately known by the company he keeps, than by any other means of reading the human heart: Lord Mohun had contracted a great intimacy with one captain Hill, a man of scandalous morals, and despicable life, and was so fond of this fellow, whom, it seems, nature had wonderfully formed to be a cut throat, that he entered into his schemes, and became a party in promoting his most criminal pleasures. This murderer had long entertained a passion for Mrs. Bracegirdle, so well known, as an excellent actress, and who died not many years ago, that it would be superfluous to give a particular account of her; his passion was rejected with disdain by Mrs. Bracegirdle, who did not think such a heart as his worth possessing. The contempt with which she used captain Hill fired his resentment; he valued himself for being a gentleman, and an officer in the army, and thought he had a right, at the first onset, to triumph over the heart of an actress; but in this he found himself miserably mistaken: Hill, who could not bear the contempt shewn him by Mrs. Bracegirdle, conceived that her aversion must proceed from having previously engaged her heart to some more favoured lover; and though Mr. Mountford was a married man, he became jealous of him, probably, from no other reason, than the respect with which he observed Mr. Mountford treat her, and their frequently playing together in the same scene. Confirmed in this suspicion, he resolved to be revenged on Mountford, and as he could not possess Mrs. Bracegirdle by gentle means, he determined to have recourse to violence, and hired some ruffians to assist him in carrying her off. His chief accomplice in this scheme was lord Mohun, to whom he communicated his intention, and who concurred with him in it. They appointed an evening for that purpose, hired a number of soldiers, and a coach, and went to the playhouse in order to find Mrs. Bracegirdle, but she having no part in the play of that night, did not come to the house. They then got intelligence that she was gone with her mother to sup at one Mrs. Page's in Drury-Lane; thither they went, and fixed their post, in expectation of Mrs. Bracegirdle's coming out, when they intended to have executed their scheme against her. She at last came out, accompanied with her mother and Mr. Page: the two adventurers made a sign to their hired bravo's, who laid their hands on Mrs. Bracegirdle: but her mother, who threw her arms round her waist, preventing them from thrusting her immediately into the coach, and Mr. Page gaining time to call assistance, their attempt was frustrated, and Mrs. Bracegirdle, her mother, and Mr. Page, were safely conveyed to her own house in Howard-street in the Strand. Lord Mohnn and Hill, enraged at this disappointment, resolved, since they were unsuccessful in one part of their design, they would yet attempt another; and that night vowed revenge against Mr. Mountford. They went to the street where Mr. Mountford lived, and there lay in wait for him: Old Mrs. Bracegirdle and another gentlewoman who had heard them vow revenge against Mr. Mountford, sent to his house, to desire his wife to let him know his danger, and to warn him not to come home that night, but unluckily no messenger Mrs. Mountford sent was able to find him: Captain Hill and lord Mohun paraded in the streets with their swords drawn; and when the watch made enquiry into the cause of this, lord Mohun answered, that he was a peer of the realm, and dared them to touch him at their peril; the night-officers being intimidated at this threat, left them unmolested, and went their rounds. Towards midnight Mr. Mountford going home to his own house was saluted in a very friendly manner, by lord Mohun; and as his lordship seemed to carry no marks of resentment in his behaviour, he used the freedom to ask him, how he came there at that time of night? to which his lordship replied, by asking if he had not heard the affair of the woman? Mountford asked what woman? to which he answered Mrs. Bracegirdle; I hope, says he, my lord, you do not encourage Mr. Hill in his attempt upon Mrs. Bracegirdle; which however is no concern of mine; when he uttered these words, Hill, behind his back, gave him some desperate blows on his head, and before Mr. Mountford had time to draw, and stand on his defence, he basely run him thro' the body, and made his escape; the alarm of murder being given, the constable seized lord Mohun, who upon hearing that Hill had escaped expressed great satisfaction, and said he did not care if he were hanged for him: When the evidences were examined at Hicks's-Hall, one Mr. Bencroft, who attended Mr. Mountford, swore that Mr. Mountford declared to him as a dying man, that while he was talking to lord Mohun, Hill struck him, with his left hand, and with his right hand run him thro' the body, before he had time to draw his sword. Thus fell the unfortunate Mountford by the hand of an assassin, without having given him any provocation; save that which his own jealousy had raised, and which could not reasonably be imputed to Mountford as a crime. Lord Mohun, as we have already observed, was tried, and acquitted by his peers; as it did not appear, that he immediately assisted Hill, in perpetrating the murder, or that they had concerted it before; for tho' they were heard to vow revenge against Mountford, the word murther was never mentioned. It seems abundantly clear, that lord Mohun, however, if not active, was yet accessary to the murther; and had his crime been high treason, half the evidence which appeared against him, might have been sufficient to cost him his head. This nobleman himself was killed at last in a duel with the duke of Hamilton.[1] Mr. Mountford, besides his extraordinary talents as an actor, is author of the following dramatic pieces. 1. The Injured Lovers, or the Ambitious Father, a Tragedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal 1688, dedicated to James earl of Arran, son to the duke of Hamilton. 2. The Successful Strangers, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal 1690; dedicated to lord Wharton. The plot is taken from the Rival Brothers, in Scarron's Novels. 3. Greenwich-Park, a Comedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal 1691; dedicated to Algernon earl of Essex. Besides these, he turned the Life and Death of Dr. Faustus into a Farce, with the Humours of Harlequin and Scaramouch, acted at the queen's theatre in Dorset-Garden, and revived at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1697. Mr. Mountford has written many Prologues and Epilogues, scattered in Dryden's Miscellanies; and likewise several Songs. He seems to have had a sprightly genius, and possessed a pleasing gaiety of humour.--He was killed in the year 1692; and was buried in St. Clement Danes. [Footnote 1: The foundation of the quarrel between lord Mohun and the duke (however it might be improved by party suggestions) was a law suit between these noblemen, on account of part of the earl of Macclesfield's estate, which Mr. Savage would have been heir to, had not his mother, to facilitate her designed divorce from that earl (with the pleasing view of having her large fortune restored to her, and the no less pleasing prospect of being freed from an uncomfortable husband) declared unhappy Savage to be illegitimate, and natural son of the then earl Rivers. Of this farther notice will be taken in Savage's Life.] * * * * * THOMAS SHADWELL. This celebrated poet laureat was descended of a very antient family in Staffordshire; the eldest branch of which has enjoyed an estate there of five-hundred pounds per ann. He was born about the year 1640, at Stanton-Hall in Norfolk, a seat of his father's, and educated at Caius College in Cambridge[1], where his father had been likewise bred; and then placed in the middle Temple, to study the law; where having spent some time, he travelled abroad. Upon his return home he became acquainted with the most celebrated persons of wit, and distinguished quality, in that age; which was so much addicted to poetry and polite literature, that it was not easy for him, who had no doubt a native relish for the same accomplishments, to abstain from these the fashionable studies and amusements of those times. He applied himself chiefly to the dramatic kind of writing, in which he had considerable success. At the revolution, Mr. Dryden, who had so warmly espoused the opposite interest, was dispossessed of his place of Poet Laureat, and Mr. Shadwell succeeded him in it, which employment he possessed till his death. Mr. Shadwell has been illustrious, for nothing so much as the quarrel which subsisted between him and Dryden, who held him in the greatest contempt. We cannot discover what was the cause of Mr. Dryden's aversion to Shadwell, or how this quarrel began, unless it was occasioned by the vacant Laurel being bellowed on Mr. Shadwell: But it is certain, the former prosecuted his resentment severely, and, in his Mac Flecknoe, has transmitted his antagonist to posterity in no advantageous light. It is the nature of satire to be biting, but it is not always its nature to be true: We cannot help thinking that Mr. Dryden has treated Shadwell a little too unmercifully, and has violated truth to make the satire more pungent. He says, in the piece abovementioned, Others to some saint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Which is not strictly true. There are high authorities in favour of many of his Comedies, and the best wits of the age gave their testimony for them: They have in them fine strokes of humour, the characters are often original, strongly mark'd, and well sustained; add to this, that he had the greatest expedition in writing imaginable, and sometimes produced a play in less than a month. Shadwell, as it appears from Rochester's Session of the Poets, was a great favourite with Otway, and as they lived, in intimacy together, it might perhaps be the occasion of Dryden's expressing so much contempt for Otway; which his cooler judgment could never have directed him to do. Mr. Shadwell died the 19th of December 1692, in the fifty-second year of his age, as we are informed by the inscription upon his monument in Westminster Abbey; tho' there may be some mistake in that date; for it is said in the title page of his funeral sermon preached by Dr. Nicholas Brady, that he was interred at Chelsea, on the 24th of November, that year. This sermon was published 1693, in quarto, and in it Dr. Brady tells us, 'That our author was 'a man of great honesty and integrity, an inviolable fidelity and strictness in his word, an unalterable friendship wherever he professed it, and however the world maybe mistaken in him, he had a much deeper sense of religion than many who pretended more to it. His natural and acquired abilities, continues the Dr. made him very amiable to all who knew and conversed with him, a very few being equal in the becoming qualities, which adorn, and fit off a complete gentleman; his very enemies, if he have now any left, will give him this character, at least if they knew him so thoroughly as I did.--His death seized him suddenly, but he could not be unprepared, since to my certain knowledge he never took a dose of opium, but he solemnly recommended himself to God by prayer.' When some persons urged to the then lord chamberlain, that there were authors who had better pretensions to the Laurel; his lordship replied, 'He did not pretend to say how great a poet Shadwell might be, but was sure he was an honest man.' Besides his dramatic works, he wrote several other pieces of poetry; the chief of which are his congratulatory poem on the Prince of Orange's coming to England; another on queen Mary; his translation of the 10th Satire of Juvenal, &c. Shadwell in his Comedies imitated Ben Johnson, and proposed him as his model of excellence, with what degree of success we shall not take upon us to determine, but proceed to give an account of his plays. 1. The Sullen Lovers, or the Impertinent, a Comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, dedicated to William duke of Newcastle: the dedication is dated September 1st, 1668. 2. The Humorist, a Comedy; acted by his royal highest servants, dedicated to Margaret duchess of Newcastle. 3. The Royal Shepherdess, a Tragi-Comedy; acted by the duke of York's servants, printed at London 1669, in quarto. This play was originally written by Mr. Fountain of Devonshire, but altered throughout by Mr. Shadwell. 4. The Virtuoso, a Comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, printed at London 1676, in quarto, dedicated to the duke of Newcastle. Mr. Langbaine observes, that no body will deny this play its due applause; at least I know, says he, that the university of Oxford, who may be allowed competent judges of comedy, especially such characters as Sir Nicholas Gimcrack, and Sir Formal Trifle, applauded it. And as no man ever undertook to discover the frailties of such pretenders to this kind of knowledge before Mr. Shadwell, so none since Johnson's time, ever drew so many different characters of humour, and with such success. 5. Pysche, a Tragedy; acted at the duke's theatre, printed in London 1675 in 4to, and dedicated to the duke of Monmouth. In the preface he tell us, that this play was written in five weeks. 6. The Libertine, a Tragedy; acted by his royal highness's servants, printed in London 1676, in quarto, and dedicated to the duke of Newcastle. In the preface Mr. Shadwell observes, that the story from which he took the hint of this play, is famous all over Spain, Italy, and France. It was first used in a Spanish play, the Spaniards having a tradition of such a vicious Spaniard, as is represented in this play; from them the Italian comedians took it; the French borrowed it from them, and four several plays have been made upon the story. 7. Epsom Wells, a comedy; acted at the duke's theatre; printed at London 1676, in 4to, and dedicated to the duke of Newcastle. Mr. Langbaine says, that this is so diverting and so true a comedy, that even foreigners, who are not in general kind to the wit of our nation, have extremely commended it. 8. The History of Timon of Athens the Manhater; acted at the duke's theatre, printed at London 1678, in 4to. In the dedication to George duke of Buckingham he observes, that this play was originally Shakespear's, who never made, says he, more masterly strokes than in this; yet I can truly say, I have made it into a play. 9. The Miser, a Comedy; acted at the theatre royal, dedicated to the earl of Dorset. In the preface our author observes, he took the foundation of it from Moliere's L'Avare. 10. A true Widow, a Comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, printed in 1679, in 4to, dedicated to Sir Charles Sidley. The prologue was written by Mr. Dryden; for at this time they lived in friendship. 11. The Lancashire Witches, and Teague O Divelly, the Irish priest, a comedy; acted at the duke's theatre, printed at London 1682. Our author has a long preface to this play, in which he vindicates his piece from the charge of reflecting upon the church, and the sacred order. He apologizes for the magical part, and observes, that he had no hopes of equaling Shakespear in his fancy, who created his Witches for the most part out of his imagination; in which faculty no man ever excelled led him, and therefore, says he, I resolve to take mine from authority. 12. The Woman Captain, a Comedy; acted by his royal highness's servants. 13. The Squire of Alsatia, a Comedy; acted by his Majesty's servants, printed at London 1688, in 4to. and dedicated to the earl of Dorset and Middlesex. 14. Bury-Fair, a Comedy; acted by his Majesty's servants, printed at London 1689 in 4to. and dedicated to the earl of Dorset. In the dedication he observes, 'That this play was written during eight months painful sickness, wherein all the several days in which he was able to write any part of a scene amounted not to one month, except some few, which were employed in indispensible business.' 15. Amorous Bigot, with the second part of Teague O Divelly, a Comedy, acted by their Majesties servants, printed 1690 in 4to. dedicated to Charles earl of Shrewsbury. 16. The Scowerers, a Comedy, acted by their Majesties servants, and printed in 4to. 1690. 17. The Volunteers, or the Stock-Jobbers, a Comedy, acted by their Majesties servants, dedicated to the Queen by Mrs. Anne Shadwell, our author's widow. In the epilogue the character of Mr. Shadwell, who was then dead, was given in the following lines. Shadwell, the great support o'th'comic stage, Born to expose the follies of the age, To whip prevailing vices, and unite, Mirth with instruction, profit with delight; For large ideas, and a flowing pen, First of our times, and second but to Ben; Whose mighty genius, and discerning mind, Trac'd all the various humours of mankind; Dressing them up, with such successful care That ev'ry fop found his own picture there. And blush'd for shame, at the surprising skill, Which made his lov'd resemblance look so ill. Shadwell who all his lines from nature drew, Copy'd her out, and kept her still in view; Who never sunk in prose, nor soar'd in verse, So high as bombast, or so low as farce; Who ne'er was brib'd by title or estate To fawn or flatter with the rich or great; To let a gilded vice or folly pass, But always lash'd the villain and the ass. [Footnote 1: General Dictionary. See the article Shadwell.] * * * * * Sir WILLIAM KILLEGREW. The eldest son of Sir Robert Killegrew, Knt. chamberlain to the Queen, was born at the Manor of Hanworth, near Hampton-Court, in the month of May, 1605. He became a gentleman commoner in St. John's College in Midsummer term 1622; where continuing about three years he travelled beyond seas, and after his return, was made governor of Pendennis castle, and of Falmouth haven in Cornwall, with command of the militia in the west part of that county. After this he was called to attend King Charles I. as one of his gentlemen ushers of his privy chamber; in which employment he continued till the breaking out of the great rebellion; and had the command given him of one of the two great troops of horse that guarded the King's person, during the whole course of the war between his Majesty and his Parliament. Our author was in attendance upon the King when the court resided at Oxford, and was created doctor of the civil laws 1642;[1] and upon the ruin of the King's affairs, he suffered for his attachment to him, and compounded with the republicans for his estate. Upon the restoration of King Charles II. he was the first of his father's servants that he took any notice of, and made him gentleman-usher of his privy chamber: the same place he enjoyed under the deceased King. Upon Charles IId's marriage with Donna Catherina of Portugal, he was created his Majesty's first vice chamberlain, in which honourable station he continued twenty-two years. His dramatic works are, 1. Orinasdes, or Love and friendship, a tragi-comedy. 2. Pandora, or the Converts, a Comedy. 3. Siege of Urbin, a Tragi-Comedy. 4. Selindra, a Tragi-Comedy. All these plays were printed together in folio, Oxon 1666. There is another play ascribed to our author, called the Imperial Tragedy, printed in 1699; the chief part was taken out of a Latin play, and much altered by him for his own diversion; tho' upon the importunity of his friends, he was prevailed upon to publish it, but without his name. The plot is founded upon the history of Zeno, the 12th emperor of Constantinople after Constantine. Sir William Killegrew's plays have been applauded by men very eminent in poetry, particularly Mr. Waller, who addresses a copy of verses to him upon his altering Pandora from a tragedy into a comedy, because not approved on the stage. Sir William has also a little poem extant, which was set to music by Mr. Henry Lawes, a man in the highest reputation of any of his profession in his time. Mr. Wood says, that after our author had retired from court in his declining age, he wrote The Artless Midnight Thoughts of a Gentleman at Court; who for many years built on sand, which every blast of cross fortune has defaced; but now he has laid new foundations, on the rock of his salvation, &c. London 1684. It is dedicated to King Charles II. and besides 233 thoughts in it, there are some small pieces of poetry. Midnight and Daily thoughts in verse and prose, Lond. 1694, with commendatory verses before it, by H. Briket. He died 1693, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. [Footnote 1: Wood, Athen. Oxon. vol. 2.] * * * * * Sir ROBERT HOWARD. This gentleman was a younger son of Thomas earl of Berkshire, by Elizabeth his wife, one of the daughters and coheirs of William lord Burghley, and received his education at Magdalen-college, Oxford, under the tuition of Dr. E. Drope. During the civil wars, he suffered with the rest of his family, who maintained their loyalty to the unfortunate King Charles I. Upon the restoration, our author was made a knight, and was chosen one of the burgesses for Stockbridge in Hampshire, to serve in the Parliament which began at Westminster 8th of May 1661; he was quickly preferred to the place of auditor of the Exchequer, then worth some thousand pounds per annum, and was reckoned one of King Charles's creatures, whom he advanced, on account of his faithful services in cajoling the Parliament for Money. In the year 1679 he was chosen burgess for Castle-rising in Norfolk, to serve in that Parliament which began at Westminster on the 17th of October 1680. When the revolution was effected, and King William ascended the throne, he was elected burgess again for Castle-rising, to fit in the Parliament which began the 22d of January 1688, was made one of the privy council, about the 16th of February took the usual oaths, and commenced from that moment a violent persecutor of the Non-jurors, and disclaimed all manner of conversation and intercourse with any of that character. He is said to have been a man extremely positive, and a pretender to a more general understanding than he really possessed. His obstinacy and pride procured him many enemies, amongst whom the duke of Buckingham was the first; who intended to have exposed Sir Robert under the name of Bilboa in the Rehearsal; but the plague which then prevailed occasioned the theatres to be shut up, and the people of fashion to quit the town. In this interval he altered his resolution, and levelled his ridicule at a much greater name, under that of Bayes. Thomas Shadwell the poet, tho' a man of the same principles with Sir Robert, concerning the revolution and state matters, was yet so angry with the knight for his supercilious domineering manner of behaving, that he points him out under the name of Sir Positive At All, one of his characters in the comedy called the Sullen Lovers, or the Impertinents; and amongst the same persons is the lady Vain, a Courtezan, which the wits then understood to be the mistress of Sir Robert Howard, whom he afterwards thought proper to marry. In February 1692, being then in the decline of life, he married one Mrs Dives, maid of honour to the Queen. The merit of this author seems to have been of a low rate, for very little is preserved concerning him, and none of his works are now read; nor is he ever mentioned, but when that circumstance of the duke of Buckingham's intending to ridicule him, is talked of. Had Sir Robert been a man of any parts, he had sufficient advantages from his birth and fortune to have made a figure, but the highest notice which he can claim in the republic of letters, is, that he was brother-in-law to Dryden. His works are, Poems, containing a panegyric on the King, and songs and sonnets, Lond. 1660, and a panegyric on general Monk. His plays are six in number, viz. 1. The Blind Lady, a Comedy. 2. The Committee, or the Faithful Irishman, a Comedy, printed folio, London 1665. This comedy is often acted, and the success of it chiefly depends upon the part of Teague being well performed. 3. The Great Favourite, or the Duke of Lerma, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the theatre-royal 1668. This play was criticised by Mr. Dryden. 4. The Indian Queen, a Tragedy. 5. Surprizal, a Tragi-comedy, acted at the theatre royal 1665. 6. The Vestal Virgin; or the Roman Ladies, a Tragedy, 1665. In his prologue to this play, Sir Robert has the following couplet, meant as an answer to Dryden's animadversions on the Duke of Lerma. This doth a wretched dearth of wit betray, When things of kind on one another prey. He has written likewise, The History of the Reigns of Edward and Richard II. with Reflections and Characters on their chief ministers and favourites. As also a comparison between these princes Edward and Richard II. with Edward I. and Edward III. London printed 1690. A Letter to Mr. Samuel Johnson, occasioned by a scurrilous pamphlet, entitled, Animadversions on Mr. Johnson's Answer to Jovian, in three Letters to a country friend, Lond. 1692. At the end of this letter is reprinted the preface before the history of the reigns of Edward and Richard II. before mentioned. The History of Religion, Lond. 1694. The 4th book of Virgil translated into English, which contains the loves of Dido and Æneas, 1660. Likewise P. Papinius Statius, his Achilles, in five books; to each of which he has subjoined Annotations. * * * * * RICHARD FLECKNOE This poet lived in the reign of King Charles II. and is more remarkable for having given name to a satire of Mr. Dryden's, than for all his own works. He is said to have been originally a jesuit, and to have had connexions in consequence thereof, with such persons of distinction in London as were of the Roman Catholic persuasion, Langbaine says, his acquaintance with the nobility was more than with the mules, and he had a greater propensity to rhiming, than genius to poetry. Tho' he wrote several plays, yet he never could obtain the favour to have more than one of them acted. His dramatic works are: 1. Damoiselles a-la-mode, a Comedy, printed 8vo, Lond. 1667, and addressed to the duke and duchess of Newcastle. This comedy was designed by the author to have been acted by his Majesty's servants, which they thought proper however to refuse, we know not for what reason,--The poet indeed has assigned one, whether true or false is immaterial; but it may serve to shew his humour. For the acting this comedy (says he) those who have the government of the stage have their humours, and would be intreated; and I have mine, and won't entreat them; and were all dramatic writers of my mind, they should wear their old plays thread-bare, er'e they should have any new, till they better understood their own interest, and how to distinguish between good and bad.' This anger of Mr. Flecknoe's at the players for refusing the piece, bears some resemblance to that of Bayes, when the players went to dinner without his leave. 'How! are the players gone to dinner? If they are I will make them know what it is to injure a person who does them the honour to write for them, and all that; a company of proud, conceited, humorous, cross-grain'd persons, and all that; I'll make them the most contemptible, despicable, inconsiderable persons, and all that; &c. &c. &c. 2. Ermina, or the chaste lady; printed in octavo, London 1665. 3. Love's Dominion; a dramatic piece, which the author says, is full of excellent morality; and is written as a pattern of the reformed stage, printed in octavo, London 1654, and dedicated to the lady Elizabeth Claypole. In this epistle the author insinuates the use of plays, and begs her mediation to gain license to act them. 4. Love's Kingdom, a Tragi-Comedy; not as it was acted at the theatre in Lincoln's-Inn; but as it was written and since corrected, printed in octavo, London 1664, and dedicated to his excellency William lord marquis of Newcastle. This is no more than the former play a little alter'd, with a new title; and after the king's return, it seems the poet obtained leave to have it acted, but it had the misfortune to be damned by the audience, which Mr. Flecknoe stiles the people, and calls them judges without judgment, for want of its being rightly represented to them; he owns it wants much of the ornaments of the stage, but that, he says, by a lively imagination may be easily supplied. 'To the same purpose he speaks of his Damoiselles à la Mode: That together with the persons represented, he had set down the comedians he had designed should represent them; that the reader might have half the pleasure of seeing it acted, and a lively imagination might have the pleasure of it all entire. 5. The Marriage of Oceanus and Britannia, a Masque. Our author's other works consist of Epigrams and Enigmas. There is a book of his writing, called the Diarium, or the Journal; divided into twelve jornadas, in burlesque verse. Dryden, in two lines in his Mac Flecknoe, gives the character of our author's works. In prose and verse was own'd without dispute, Thro' all the realms of nonsense absolute. We cannot be certain in what year Mr. Flecknoe died: Dryden's satire had perhaps rendered him so contemptible, that none gave themselves the trouble to record any particulars of his life, or to take any notice of his death. * * * * * JOHN DRYDEN, Esq; This illustrious Poet was son of Erasmus Dryden, of Tickermish in Northamptonshire, and born at Aldwincle, near Oundle 1631[1], he had his education in grammar learning, at Westminster-school, under the famous Dr. Busby, and was from thence elected in 1650, a scholar of Trinity-College in Cambridge. We have no account of any extraordinary indications of genius given by this great poet, while in his earlier days; and he is one instance how little regard is to be paid to the figure a boy makes at school: Mr. Dryden was turned of thirty before he introduced any play upon the stage, and his first, called the Wild Gallants, met with a very indifferent reception; so that if he had not been impelled by the force of genius and propension, he had never again attempted the stage: a circumstance which the lovers of dramatic poetry must ever have regretted, as they would in this case have been deprived of one of the greatest ornaments that ever adorned the profession. The year before he left the university, he wrote a poem on the death of lord Hastings, a performance, say some of his critics, very unworthy of himself, and of the astonishing genius he afterwards discovered. That Mr. Dryden had at this time no fixed principles, either in religion or politics, is abundantly evident, from his heroic stanzas on Oliver Cromwel, written after his funeral 1658; and immediately upon the restoration he published Astræa Redux, a poem on the happy restoration of Charles the IId; and the same year, his Panegyric to the king on his coronation: In the former of these pieces, a remarkable distich has expos'd our poet to the ridicule of the wits. An horrid stillness first invades the ear, And in that silence we the tempest hear. Which it must be owned is downright nonsense, and a contradiction in terms: Amongst others captain Radcliff has ridiculed this blunder in the following lines of his News from Hell. Laureat who was both learn'd and florid, Was damn'd long since for silence horrid: Nor had there been such clutter made, But that his silence did invade. Invade, and so it might, that's clear; But what did it invade? An ear! In 1662 he addressed a poem to the lord chancellor Hyde, presented on new-year's-day; and the same year published a satire on the Dutch. His next piece, was his Annus Mirabilis, or the Year of Wonders, 1668, an historical poem, which celebrated the duke of York's victory over the Dutch. In the same year Mr. Dryden succeeded Sir William Davenant as Poet Laureat, and was also made historiographer to his majesty; and that year published his Essay on Dramatic Poetry, addressed to Charles earl of Dorset and Middlesex. Mr. Dryden tells his patron, that the writing this Essay, served as an amusement to him in the country, when he was driven from town by the violence of the plague, which then raged in London; and he diverted himself with thinking on the theatres, as lovers do by ruminating on their absent mistresses: He there justifies the method of writing plays in verse, but confesses that he has quitted the practice, because he found it troublesome and slow[2]. In the preface we are informed that the drift of this discourse was to vindicate the honour of the English writers from the censure of those who unjustly prefer the French to them. Langbaine has injuriously treated Mr. Dryden, on account of his dramatic performances, and charges him as a licentious plagiary. The truth is, our author as a dramatist is less eminent than in any other sphere of poetry; but, with all his faults, he is even in that respect the most eminent of his time. The critics have remarked, that as to tragedy, he seldom touches the passions, but deals rather in pompous language, poetical flights, and descriptions; and too frequently makes his characters speak better than they have occasion, or ought to do, when their sphere in the drama is considered: And it is peculiar to Dryden (says Mr. Addison) to make his personages, as wise, witty, elegant and polite as himself. That he could not so intimately affect the tender passions, is certain, for we find no play of his, in which we are much disposed to weep; and we are so often inchanted with beautiful descriptions, and noble flights of fancy, that we forget the business of the play, and are only attentive to the poet, while the characters sleep. Mr. Gildon observes in his laws of poetry, that when it was recommended to Mr. Dryden to turn his thoughts to a translation of Euripides, rather than of Homer, he confessed that he had no relish for that poet, who was a great master of tragic simplicity. Mr. Gildon, further observes, as a confirmation that Dryden's taste for tragedy was not of the genuine sort, that he constantly expressed great contempt for Otway, who is universally allowed to have succeeded very happily in affecting the tender passions: Yet Mr. Dryden, in his preface to the translation of M. Du Fresnoy, speaks more favourably of Otway; and after mentioning these instances, Gildon ascribes this taste in Dryden, to his having read many French Romances.--The truth is, if a poet would affect the heart, he must not exceed nature too much, nor colour too high; distressful circumstances, short speeches, and pathetic observations never fail to move infinitely beyond the highest rant, or long declamations in tragedy: The simplicity of the drama was Otway's peculiar excellence; a living poet observes, that from Otway to our own times, From bard to bard, the frigid caution crept, And declamation roar'd while passion slept. Mr. Dryden seems to be sensible, that he was not born to write comedy; for, says he, 'I want that gaiety of humour which is required in it; my conversation is slow and dull, my humour saturnine and reserved. In short, I am none of those who endeavour to break jests in company, and make repartees; so that those who decry my comedies, do me no injury, except it be in point of profit: Reputation in them is the last thing to which I shall pretend[3].' This ingenuous confession of inability, one would imagine were sufficient to silence the clamour of the critics against Mr. Dryden in that particular; but, however true it may be, that Dryden did not succeed to any degree in comedy, I shall endeavour to support my assertion, that in tragedy, with all his faults, he is still the most excellent of his time. The end of tragedy is to instruct the mind, as well as move the passions; and where there are no shining sentiments, the mind may be affected, but not improved; and however prevalent the passion of grief may be over the heart of man, it is certain that he may feel distress in the acutest manner, and not be much the wiser for it. The tragedies of Otway, Lee and Southern, are irresistibly moving, but they convey not such grand sentiments, and their language is far from being so poetical as Dryden's; now, if one dramatic poet writes to move, and another to enchant and instruct, as instruction is of greater consequence than being agitated, it follows naturally, that the latter is the most excellent writer, and possesses the greatest genius. But perhaps our poet would have wrote better in both kinds of the drama, had not the necessity of his circumstances obliged him to comply with the popular taste. He himself, in his dedication to the Spanish Fryar, insinuates as much. 'I remember, says he, some verses of my own Maximin and Almanzor, which cry vengeance upon me for their extravagance. All that I can say for those passages, which are I hope not many, is, that I knew they were bad when I wrote them. But I repent of them amongst my sins, and if any of their fellows intrude by chance, into my present writings, I draw a veil over all these Dalilahs of the theatre, and am resolved, I will settle myself no reputation upon the applause of fools. 'Tis not that I am mortified to all ambition, but I scorn as much to take it from half witted judges, as I should to raise an estate by cheating of bubbles. Neither do I discommend the lofty stile in tragedy, which is naturally pompous and magnificent; but nothing is truely sublime that is not just and proper.' He says in another place, 'that his Spanish Fryar was given to the people, and that he never wrote any thing in the dramatic way, to please himself, but his All for Love.' In 1671 Mr. Dryden was publicly ridiculed on the stage, in the duke of Buckingham's comedy, culled the Rehearsal, under the character of Bays: This character, we are informed, in the Key to the Rehearsal, was originally intended for Sir Robert Howard, under the name of Bilboa; but the representation being put a stop to, by the breaking out of the plague, in 1665, it was laid by for several years, and not exhibited on the stage till 1671, in which interval, Mr. Dryden being advanced to the Laurel, the noble author changed the name of his poet, from Bilboa to Bays, and made great alterations in his play, in order to ridicule several dramatic performances, that appeared since the first writing it. Those of Mr. Dryden, which fell under his grace's lash, were the Wild Gallant, Tyrannic Love, the Conquest of Granada, Marriage A la-Mode, and Love in a Nunnery: Whatever was extravagant, or too warmly expressed, or any way unnatural, the author has ridiculed by parody. Mr. Dryden affected to despise the satire levelled at him in the Rehearsal, as appears from his dedication of the translation of Juvenal and Persius where speaking of the many lampoons, and libels that had, been written against him, he says, 'I answered not to the Rehearsal, because I knew the author sat to himself when he drew the picture, and was the very Bays of his own farce; because also I knew my betters were more concerned than I was in that satire; and lastly, because Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnson, the main pillars of it, were two such languishing gentlemen in their conversation, that I could liken them to nothing but their own relations, those noble characters of men of wit and pleasure about town.' In 1679 came out an Essay on Satire, said to be written jointly by Mr. Dryden and the earl of Mulgrave; this piece, which was handed about in manuscript, containing Reflexions on the Duchess of Portsmouth, and the Earl of Rochester; who suspecting, as Wood says, Mr. Dryden to be the author, hired three ruffians to cudgel him in Wills's coffee-house at eight o'clock at night. This short anecdote, I think, cannot be told without indignation. It proved Rochester was a malicious coward, and, like other cowards, cruel and insolent; his foul was incapable of any thing that approached towards generosity, and when his resentment was heated, he pursued revenge, and retained the most lasting hatred; he had always entertained a prejudice against Dryden, from no other motive than envy, Dryden's plays met with success, and this was enough to fire the resentment of Rochester, who was naturally envious. In order to hurt the character, and shake the interest of this noble poet, he recommended Crown, an obscure man, to write a Masque for the court, which was Dryden's province, as poet-laureat, to perform. Crown in this succeeded, but soon after, when his play called the Conquest of Jerusalem met with such extravagant applause, Rochester, jealous of his new favourite, not only abandoned him, but commenced from that moment his enemy. The other person against whom this satire was levelled, was not superior in virtue to the former, and all the nation over, two better subjects for satire could not have been found, than lord Rochester, and the duchess of Portsmouth. As for Rochester, he had not genius enough to enter the lists with Dryden, so he fell upon another method of revenge; and meanly hired bravoes to assault him. In 1680 came out a translation of Ovid's Epistles in English verse, by several hands, two of which were translated by Mr. Dryden, who also wrote the preface. In the year following our author published Absalom and Achitophel. It was first printed without his name, and is a severe satire against the contrivers and abettors of the opposition against King Charles II. In the same year that Absalom and Achitophel was published, the Medal, a Satire, was likewise given to the public. This piece is aimed against sedition, and was occasioned by the striking of a medal, on account of the indictment against the earl of Shaftsbury for high treason being found ignoramus by the grand jury, at the Old Bailey, November 1681: For which the Whig party made great rejoicings by ringing of bells, bonfires, &c. in all parts of London. The poem is introduced with a very satirical epistle to the Whigs, in which the author says, 'I have one favour to desire you at parting, that when you think of answering this poem, you would employ the same pens against it, who have combated with so much success against Absalom and Achitophel, for then you may assure yourselves of a clear victory without the least reply. Rail at me abundantly, and not break a custom to do it with wit. By this method you will gain a considerable point, which is wholly to wave the answer of my arguments. If God has not blessed you with the talent of rhiming, make use of my poor stock and welcome; let your verses run upon my feet, and for the utmost refuge of notorious blockheads, reduced to the last extremity of sense, turn my own lines against me, and in utter despair of my own satire, make me satirize myself.' The whole poem is a severe invective against the earl of Shaftsbury; who was uncle to that earl who wrote the Characteristics. Mr. Elkanah Settle wrote an answer to this poem, entitled the Medal Reversed. However contemptible Settle was as a poet, yet such was the prevalence of parties at that time, that, for some years, he was Dryden's rival on the stage. In 1682 came out his Religio Laici, or a Layman's Faith; this piece is intended as a defence of revealed religion, and the excellency and authority of the scriptures, as the only rule of faith and manners, against Deists, Papists, and Presbyterians. He acquaints us in the preface, that it was written for an ingenious young gentleman, his friend; upon his translation of Father Simons's Critical History of the Old Testament, and that the stile of it was epistolary. In 1684 he published a translation of M. Maimbourg's. History of the League, in which he was employed by the command of King Charles II. on account of the plain parallel between the troubles of France, and those of Great Britain. Upon the death of Charles II. he wrote his Threnodia Augustalis, a Poem, sacred to the happy memory of that Prince. Soon after the accession of James II. our author turned Roman Catholic, and by this extraordinary step drew upon himself abundance of ridicule from wits of the opposite faction; and in 1689 he wrote a Defence of the Papers, written by the late King of blessed memory, found in his strong box. Mr. Dryden, in the abovementioned piece, takes occasion to vindicate the authority of the Catholic Church, in decreeing matters of faith, upon this principle, that the church is more visible than the scriptures, because the scriptures are seen by the church, and to abuse the reformation in England, which he affirms was erected on the foundation of lust, sacrilege, and usurpation. Dr. Stillingfleet hereupon answered Mr. Dryden, and treated him with some severity. Another author affirms, that Mr. Dryden's tract is very light, in some places ridiculous; and observes, that his talent lay towards controversy no more in prose, than, by the Hind and Panther, it appeared to do in verse. This poem of the Hind and Panther is a direct defence of the Romish Church, in a dialogue between a Hind, which represents the Church of Rome, and a Panther, which supports the character of the Church of England. The first part of this poem consists most in general characters and narration, which, says he, 'I have endeavoured to raise, and give it the majestic turn of heroic poetry. The second being matter of dispute, and chiefly concerning church authority, I was obliged to make as plain and perspicuous as possibly I could, yet not wholly neglecting the numbers, though I had not frequent occasion for the magnificence of verse. The third, which has more of the nature of domestic conversation, is, or ought to be, more free and familiar than the two former. There are in it two episodes or fables, which are interwoven with the main design, so that they are properly parts of it, though they are also distinct stories of themselves. In both of these I have made use of the common places of satire, whether true or false, which are urged by the members of the one church against the other.' Mr. Dryden speaks of his own conversion in the following terms; But, gracious God, how well dost thou provide, For erring judgments, an unerring guide. Thy throne is darkness, in th' abyss of light, A blaze of glory that forbids the sight. O teach me to believe thee, thus concealed, And search no further than thyself revealed; But her alone for my director take, Whom thou hast promis'd never to forsake! My thoughtless youth was wing'd with vain desires; My manhood, long misled by wand'ring fires, Follow'd false lights; and when their glimpse was gone, My pride struck out new sparkles of her own. Such was I, such by nature still I am, Be thine the glory, and be mine the shame, Good life be now my talk, my doubts are done.[4] This poem was attacked by Mr. Charles Montague, afterwards Earl of Hallifax, and Mr. Matthew Prior, who joined in writing the Hind and Panther, transversed to the Country Mouse, and City Mouse, Lond. 1678, 4to. In the preface to which, the author observes, 'that Mr. Dryden's poem naturally falls into ridicule, and that in this burlesque, nothing is represented monstrous and unnatural, that is not equally so in the original.' They afterwards remark, that they have this comfort under the severity of Mr. Dryden's satire, to see his abilities equally lessened with his opinion of them, and that he could not be a fit champion against the Panther till he had laid aside his judgment. Mr. Dryden is supposed to have been engaged in translating M. Varillas's History of Heresies, but to have dropped that design. This we learn from a passage in Burnet's reflexions on the ninth book of the first volume of M. Varillas's History, being a reply to his answer. I shall here give the picture the Dr. has drawn of this noble poet, which is, like a great many of the doctor's other characters, rather exhibited to please himself than according to the true resemblance. The doctor says, 'I have been informed from England, that a gentleman who is famous both for poetry, and several other things, has spent three months in translating Mr. Varillas's history; but as soon as my reflexions appeared, he discontinued his labours, finding the credit of his author being gone. Now if he thinks it is recovered by his answer, he will, perhaps, go on with his translation; but this may be, for ought I know, as good an entertainment for him, as the conversation he has set on foot between the Hinds and Panthers, and all the rest of the animals; for whom M. Varillas may serve well enough as an author; and this history and that poem are such extraordinary things of their kind, that it will be but suitable to see the author of the worst poem become the translator of the worst history, that the age has produced. If his grace and his wit improve so proportionably, we shall hardly find, that he has gained much by the change he has made, from having no religion, to chuse one of the worst. It is true he had somewhat to sink from in matter of wit, but as for his morals, it is scarce possible for him to grow a worse man than he was. He has lately wreaked his malice on me for spoiling his three months labour; but in it he has done me all the honour a man can receive from him, which is to be railed at by him. If I had ill-nature enough to prompt me to wish a very bad wish for him, it should be that he would go and finish his translation. By that it will appear whether the English nation, which is the most competent judge of this matter, has upon seeing this debate, pronounced in M. Varillas's favour or me. It is true, Mr. Dryden will suffer a little by it; but at least it will serve to keep him in from other extravagancies; and if he gains little honour by this work, yet he cannot lose so much by it, as he has done by his last employment.' When the revolution was compleated, Mr. Dryden having turned Papist, became disqualified for holding his place, and was accordingly dispossessed of it; and it was conferred on a man to whom he had a confirmed aversion; in consequence whereof he wrote a satire against him, called Mac Flecknoe, which is one of the severest and best; written satires in our language. Mr. Richard Flecknoe, the new laureat, with whose name it is inscribed, was a very indifferent poet of those times; or rather as Mr. Dryden expresses it, and as we have already quoted in Flecknoe's life. In prose and verse was own'd without dispute, Thro' all the realms of nonsense absolute. This poem furnished the hint to Mr. Pope to write his Dunciad; and it must be owned the latter has been more happy in the execution of his design, as having more leisure for the performance; but in Dryden's Mac Flecknoe there are some lines so extremely pungent, that I am not quite certain if Pope has any where exceeded them. In the year wherein he was deprived of the laurel, he published the life of St. Francis Xavier, translated from the French of father Dominic Bouchours. In 1693 came out a translation of Juvenal and Persius; in which the first, third, sixth, tenth, and fifteenth satires of Juvenal, and Persius entire, were done by Mr. Dryden, who prefixed a long and ingenious discourse, by way of dedication, to the earl of Dorset. In this address our author takes occasion a while to drop his reflexions on Juvenal; and to lay before his lordship a plan for an epic poem: he observes, that his genius never much inclined him to the stage; and that he wrote for it rather from necessity than inclination. He complains, that his circumstances are such as not to suffer him to pursue the bent of his own genius, and then lays down a plan upon which an epic poem might be written: to which, says he, I am more inclined. Whether the plan proposed is faulty or no, we are not at present to consider; one thing is certain, a man of Mr. Dryden's genius would have covered by the rapidity of the action, the art of the design, and the beauty of the poetry, whatever might have been defective in the plan, and produced a work which have been the boast of the nation. We cannot help regretting on this occasion, that Dryden's fortune was not easy enough to enable him, with convenience and leisure, to pursue a work that might have proved an honour to himself, and reflected a portion thereof on all, who should have appeared his encouragers on this occasion. In 1695 Mr. Dryden published a translation in prose of Du Fresnoy's Art of Painting, with a preface containing a parallel between painting and poetry. Mr. Pope has addressed a copy of verses to Mr. Jervas in praise of Dryden's translation. In 1697 his translation of Virgil's works came out. This translation has passed thro' many editions, and of all the attempts which have been made to render Virgil into English. The critics, I think, have allowed that Dryden[5] best succeeded: notwithstanding as he himself says, when he began it, he was past the grand climacteric! so little influence it seems, age had over him, that he retained his judgment and fire in full force to the last. Mr. Pope in his preface to Homer says, if Dryden had lived to finish what he began of Homer, he, (Mr. Pope) would not have attempted it after him, 'No more, says he, than I would his Virgil, his version of whom (notwithstanding some human errors) is the most noble and spirited translation I know in any language.' Dr. Trap charges Mr. Dryden with grossly mistaking his author's sense in many places; with adding or retrenching as his turn is best served with either; and with being least a translator where he shines most as a poet; whereas it is a just rule laid down by lord Roscommon, that a translator in regard to his author should "Fall as he falls, and as he rises rise" Mr. Dryden, he tells us, frequently acts the very reverse of this precept, of which he produces some instances; and remarks in general, that the first six books of the Æneis, which are the best and most perfect in the original, are the least so in the translation. Dr. Trap's remarks may possibly be true; but in this he is an instance how easy it is to discover faults in other men's works, and how difficult to avoid them in our own. Dr. Trap's translation is close, and conveys the author's meaning literally, so consequently may be fitter for a school-boy, but men of riper judgment, and superior taste, will hardly approve it; if Dryden's is the most spirited of any translation, Trap's is the dullest that ever was written; which proves that none but a good poet is fit to translate the works of a good poet. Besides the original pieces and translations hitherto mentioned, Mr. Dryden wrote many others, published in six volumes of Miscellanies, and in other collections. They consist of translations from the Greek and Latin poets, Epistles to several persons, prologues, and epilogues to several plays, elegies, epitaphs, and songs. His last work was his Fables, ancient and modern, translated into verse from Homer, Ovid, Boccace, and Chaucer. To this work, which is perhaps, one of his most imperfect, is prefixed by way of preface, a critical account of the authors, from whom the fables are translated. Among the original pieces, the Ode to St. Cecilia's day is justly esteemed one of the most elevated in any language. It is impossible for a poet to read this without being filled with that sort of enthusiasm which is peculiar to the inspired tribe, and which Dryden largely felt when he composed it. The turn of the verse is noble, the transitions surprizing, the language and sentiments just, natural, and heightened. We cannot be too lavish in praise of this Ode: had Dryden never wrote any thing besides, his name had been immortal. Mr. Pope has the following beautiful lines in its praise.[6] Hear how Timotheus varied lays surprize, And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While, at each change, the son of Lybian Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love: Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow; Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow; Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor flood subdued by sound: The power of music all our hearts allow; And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. As to our author's performances in prose, besides his Dedications and Prefaces, and controversial Writings, they consist of the Lives of Plutarch and Lucian, prefixed to the Translation of those Authors, by several Hands; the Life of Polybius; before the Translation of that Historian by Sir Henry Sheers, and the Preface to the Dialogue concerning Women, by William Walsh, Esquire. Before we give an account of the dramatic works of Dryden, it will be proper here to insert a story concerning him, from the life of Congreve by Charles Wilson esquire, which that gentleman received from the lady whom Mr. Dryden celebrates by the name of Corinna, of whom it appears he was very fond; and who had the relation from lady Chudleigh. Dryden with all his undemanding was weak enough to be fond of Judicial Astrology, and used to calculate the nativity of his children. When his lady was in labour with his son Charles, he being told it was decent to withdraw, laid his watch on the table, begging one of the ladies then present, in a most solemn manner, to take exact notice of the very minute the child was born, which she did, and acquainted him with it. About a week after, when his lady was pretty well recovered, Mr. Dryden took occasion to tell her that he had been calculating the child's nativity, and observed, with grief, that he was born in an evil hour, for Jupiter, Venus, and the sun, were all under the earth, and the lord of his ascendant afflicted with a hateful square of Mars and Saturn. If he lives to arrive at his 8th year (says he) 'he will go near to die a violent death on his very birth-day, but if he should escape, as I see but small hopes, he will in the 23d year be under the very same evil direction, and if he should escape that also, the 33d or 34th year is, I fear'--here he was interrupted by the immoderate grief of his lady, who could no longer hear calamity prophecy'd to befall her son. The time at last came, and August was the inauspicious month in which young Dryden was to enter into the eighth year of his age. The court being in progress, and Mr. Dryden at leisure, he was invited to the country seat of the earl of Berkshire, his brother-in-law, to keep the long vacation with him in Charlton in Wilts; his lady was invited to her uncle Mordaunt's, to pass the remainder of the summer. When they came to divide the children, lady Elizabeth would have him take John, and suffer her to take Charles; but Mr. Dryden was too absolute, and they parted in anger; he took Charles with him, and she was obliged to be content with John. When the fatal day came, the anxiety of the lady's spirits occasioned such an effervescence of blood, as threw her into, so violent a fever, that her life was despaired of, till a letter came from Mr. Dryden, reproving her for her womanish credulity, and assuring her, that her child was well, which recovered her spirits, and in six weeks after she received an ecclaircissement-of the whole affair. Mr. Dryden, either thro' fear of being reckoned superstitious, or thinking it a science beneath his study, was extremely cautious of letting any one know that he was a dealer in Astrology; therefore could not excuse his absence, on his son's anniversary, from a general hunting match lord Berkshire had made, to which all the adjacent gentlemen, were invited. When he went out, he took care to set the boy a double exercise in the Latin tongue, which he taught his children himself, with a strict charge not to stir out of the room till his return; well knowing the task he had set him would take up longer time. Charles was performing his duty, in obedience to his father, but as ill fate would have it, the stag made towards the house; and the noise alarming the servants, they hasted out to, see the sport. One of them took young Dryden by the hand, and led him out to see it also, when just as they came to the gate, the stag being at bay with the dogs, made a bold push and leaped over the court wall, which was very low, and very old; and the dogs following, threw down a part of the wall ten yards in length, under which Charles Dryden lay buried. He was immediately dug out, and after six weeks languishing in a dangerous way he recovered; so far Dryden's prediction was fulfilled: In the twenty-third year of his age, Charles fell from the top of an old tower belonging to the Vatican at Rome, occasioned by a swimming in his head, with which he was seized, the heat of the day being excessive. He again recovered, but was ever after in a languishing sickly state. In the thirty-third year of his age, being returned to England, he was unhappily drowned at Windsor. He had with another gentleman swam twice over the Thames; but returning a third time, it was supposed he was taken with the cramp, because he called out for help, tho' too late. Thus the father's calculation proved but too prophetical. Mr. Dryden died the first of May 1701, and was interred in Westminster Abby. On the 19th of April he had been very bad with the gout, and erisipelas in one leg; but he was then somewhat recovered, and designed to go abroad; on the Friday following he eat a partridge for his supper, and going to take a turn in the little garden behind his house in Gerard-street, he was seized with a violent pain under the ball of the great toe of his right foot; that, unable to stand, he cried out for help, and was carried in by his servants, when upon sending for surgeons, they found a small black spot in the place affected; he submitted to their present applications, and when gone called his son Charles to him, using these words. 'I know this black spot is a mortification: I know also, that it will seize my head, and that they will attempt to cut off my leg; but I command you my son, by your filial duty, that you do not suffer me to be dismembered:' As he foretold, the event proved, and his son was too dutiful to disobey his father's commands. On the Wednesday morning following, he breathed his last, under the most excruciating pains, in the 69th year of his age; and left behind him the lady Elizabeth, his wife, and three sons. Lady Elizabeth survived him eight years, four of which she was a lunatic; being deprived of her senses by a nervous fever in 1704. John, another of his sons, died of a fever at Rome; and Charles as has been observed, was drowned in the Thames; there is no account when, or at what place Harry his third son died. Charles Dryden, who was some time usher to pope Clement II. was a young gentleman of a very promising genius; and in the affair of his father's funeral, which I am about to relate, shewed himself a man of spirit and resolution.[7] The day after Mr. Dryden's death, the dean of Westminster sent word to Mr. Dryden's widow, that he would make a present of the ground, and all other Abbey-fees for the funeral: The lord Halifax likewise sent to the lady Elizabeth, and to Mr. Charles Dryden, offering to defray the expences of our poet's funeral, and afterwards to bestow 500 l. on a monument in the Abbey: which generous offer was accepted. Accordingly, on Sunday following, the company being assembled, the corpse was put into a velvet hearse, attended by eighteen mourning coaches. When they were just ready to move, lord Jefferys, son of lord chancellor Jeffreys, a name dedicated to infamy, with some of his rakish companions riding by, asked whose funeral it was; and being told it was Mr. Dryden's, he protested he should not be buried in that private manner, that he would himself, with the lady Elizabeth's leave, have the honour of the interment, and would bestow a thousand pounds on a monument in the Abbey for him. This put a stop to their procession; and the lord Jefferys, with several of the gentlemen, who had alighted from their coaches, went up stairs to the lady, who was sick in bed. His lordship repeated the purport of what he had said below; but the lady Elizabeth refusing her consent, he fell on his knees, vowing never to rise till his request was granted. The lady under a sudden surprise fainted away, and lord Jeffery's pretending to have obtained her consent, ordered the body to be carried to Mr. Russel's an undertaker in Cheapside, and to be left there till further orders. In the mean time the Abbey was lighted up, the ground opened, the choir attending, and the bishop waiting some hours to no purpose for the corpse. The next day Mr. Charles Dryden waited on my lord Halifax, and the bishop; and endeavoured to excuse his mother, by relating the truth. Three days after the undertaker having received no orders, waited on the lord Jefferys; who pretended it was a drunken frolic, that he remembered nothing of the matter, and he might do what he pleased with the body. Upon this, the undertaker waited on the lady Elizabeth, who desired a day's respite, which was granted. Mr. Charles Dryden immediately wrote to the lord Jefferys, who returned for answer, that he knew nothing of the matter, and would be troubled no more about it. Mr. Dryden hereupon applied again to the lord Halifax, and the bishop of Rochester, who absolutely refused to do any thing in the affair. In this distress, Dr. Garth, who had been Mr. Dryden's intimate friend, sent for the corpse to the college of physicians, and proposed a subscription; which succeeding, about three weeks after Mr. Dryden's decease, Dr. Garth pronounced a fine latin oration over the body, which was conveyed from the college, attended by a numerous train of coaches to Westminster-Abbey, but in very great disorder. At last the corpse arrived at the Abbey, which was all unlighted. No organ played, no anthem sung; only two of the singing boys preceded the corpse, who sung an ode of Horace, with each a small candle in their hand. When the funeral was over, Mr. Charles Dryden sent a challenge to lord Jefferys, who refusing to answer it, he sent several others, and went often himself; but could neither get a letter delivered, nor admittance to speak to him; which so incensed him, that finding his lordship refused to answer him like a gentleman, he resolved to watch an opportunity, and brave him to fight, though with all the rules of honour; which his lordship hearing, quitted the town, and Mr. Charles never had an opportunity to meet him, though he sought it to his death, with the utmost application. Mr. Dryden had no monument erected to him for several years; to which Mr. Pope alludes in his epitaph intended for Mr. Rowe, in this line. Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies. In a note upon which we are informed, that the tomb of Mr. Dryden was erected upon this hint, by Sheffield duke of Buckingham, to which was originally intended this epitaph. This Sheffield raised.--The sacred dust below, Was Dryden once; the rest who does not know. Which was since changed into the plain inscription now upon it, viz. J. DRYDEN, Natus Aug. 9. 1631. Mortus Maii 1. 1701. Johannes Sheffield, Dux Buckinghamienfis secit. The character of Mr. Dryden has been drawn by various hands; some have done it in a favourable, others in an opposite manner. The bishop of Sarum in the history of his own times, says, that the stage was defiled beyond all example. 'Dryden, the great master of dramatic poetry, being a monster of immodesty and impurities of all sorts.'[8] The late lord Lansdown took upon himself to vindicate Mr. Dryden's character from this severe imputation; which was again answered, and apologies for it, by Mr. Burnet, the bishop's son. But not to dwell on these controversies about his character, let us hear what Mr. Congreve says in the dedication of Dryden's works to the duke of Newcastle: Congreve knew him intimately, and as he could have no motive to deceive the world in that particular; and being a man of untainted morals, none can suspect his authority; and by his account we shall see, that Dryden was indeed as amiable in private life, as a Man, as he was illustrious in the eye of the public, as a Poet. Mr. Dryden (says Congreve) 'had personal qualities, to challenge love and esteem from all who were truly acquainted with him. He was of a nature exceeding humane and compassionate, easily forgiving injuries, and capable of a prompt and sincere reconciliation with those who had offended him.--His friendship, where he professed it, went much beyond his professions.--As his reading had been very extensive, so was he very happy in a memory, tenacious of every thing he had read. He was not more possessed of knowledge, than he was communicative of it; but then, his communication of it was by no means pedantic, or imposed upon the conversation, but just such, and went so far, as by the natural turns of the discourse in which he was engaged, it was necessarily prompted, or required. He was extremely ready and gentle in the correction of the errors of any writer, who thought fit to consult him, and full as ready and patient to admit of the reprehension of others in respect of his own oversight or mistakes. He was of a very easy, I may say, of very pleasing access; but something slow, and as it were dissident in his advances to others. He had something in his nature that abhorred intrusion in any society whatsoever; and indeed, it is to be regretted, that he was rather blameable on the other extreme. He was of all men I ever knew, the most modest, and the most easy to be discountenanced in his approaches, either to his superiors or his equals.--As to his writings--may venture to say in general terms, that no man hath written in our language so much, and so various matter; and in so various manners so well. Another thing I may say, was very peculiar to him, which is, that his parts did not decline with his years, but that he was an improving writer to the last, even to near 70 years of age, improving even in fire and imagination as well as in judgment, witness his Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, and his fables, his latest performances. He was equally excellent in verse and prose: His prose had all the clearness imaginable, without deviating to the language or diction of poetry, and I have heard him frequently own with pleasure, that if he had any talent for writing prose; it was owing to his frequently having read the writings of the great archbishop Tillotson. In his poems, his diction is, wherever his subject requires it, so sublime and so truly poetical, that it's essence, like that of pure gold cannot be destroyed. Take his verses, and divest them of their rhimes, disjoint them of their numbers, transpose their expressions, make what arrangement or disposition you please in his words; yet shall there eternally be poetry, and something which will be found incapable of being reduced to absolute prose; what he has done in any one species, or distinct kind of writing, would have been sufficient to have acquired him a very great name. If he had written nothing but his Prefaces, or nothing but his Songs, or his Prologues, each of them would have entitled him to the preference and distinction of excelling in its kind.' Besides Mr. Dryden's numerous other performances, we find him the author of twenty-seven dramatic pieces, of which the following is an account. 1. The Wild Gallant, a Comedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in 4to, Lond. 1699. 2. The Indian Emperor; or the Conquest of Mexico by the Spaniards, acted with great applause, and written in verse. 3. An Evening's Love; or the Mock Astrologer, a Comedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in 4to. 1671. It is for the most part taken from Corneille's Feint Astrologue, Moliere's Depit Amoreux, and Precieux Ridicules. 4. Marriage A-la-mode, a Comedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in 4to. 1673, dedicated to the earl of Rochester. 5. Araboyna, a Tragedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in 4to 1673. It is dedicated to the lord Clifford of Chudleigh. The plot of this play is chiefly founded in history, giving an account of the cruelty of the Dutch towards our countrymen at Amboyna, A.D. 1618. 6. The Mistaken Husband, a Comedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in 4to. 1675. Mr. Langbaine tells us, Mr. Dryden was not the author of this play, tho' it was adopted by him as an orphan, which might well deserve the charity of a scene he bestowed on it. It is in the nature of low comedy, or farce, and written on the model of Plautus's Menæchmi. 7. Aurenge-zebe; or the Great Mogul, a Tragedy, dedicated to the earl of Mulgrave, acted 1676. The story is related at large in Taverner's voyages to the Indies, vol. i. part 2. This play is written in heroic verse. 8. The Tempest; or the inchanted Island, a Comedy, acted at the duke of York's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1676. This is only an alteration of Shakespear's Tempest, by Sir William Davenant and Dryden. The new characters in it were chiefly the invention and writing of Sir William, as acknowledged by Mr. Dryden in his preface. 9. Feigned Innocence; or Sir Martin Mar-all, a Comedy, acted at the duke of York's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1678. The foundation of this is originally French, the greatest part of the plot and some of the language being taken from Moliere's Eteurdi. 10. The Assignation; or Love in a Nunnery, a Comedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in 4to. 1678, addressed to Sir Charles Sedley. This play, Mr. Langbain tells us, was damned on the stage, or as the author expresses it in the epistle dedicatory, succeeded ill in the representation; but whether the fault was in the play itself, or in the lameness of the action, or in the numbers of its enemies, who came resolved to damn it for the title, he will not pretend any more than the author to determine. 11. The State of Innocence; or the Fall of Man, an Opera, written in heroic verse, and printed in 4to. 1678. It is dedicated to her royal highness the duchess of York, on whom the author passes the following extravagant compliment. 'Your person is so admirable, that it can scarce receive any addition when it shall be glorified; and your soul which shines thro' it, finds it of a substance so near her own, that she will be pleased to pass an age within it, and to be confined to such a palace.' To this piece is prefixed an apology for heroic poetry, and poetic licence. The subject is taken from Milton's Paradise Lost, of which it must be acknowledged, it is a poor imitation. 12. The Conquest of Granada by the Spaniards, in two parts, two Tragi-Comedies, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed 1678. These two plays are dedicated to the duke of York, and were received on the stage with great applause. The story is to be found in Mariana's history of Spain, B. 25. chap. 18. These plays are written in rhime. To the first is prefixed an essay on heroic plays, and to the second an essay on the dramatic poetry of the last age. 13. All for Love, or the World well Lost, a Tragedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in quarto, 1678. It is dedicated to the earl of Danby. This is the only play of Mr. Dryden's which he says ever pleased himself; and he tells us, that he prefers the scene between Anthony and Ventidius in the first act, to any thing he had written in this kind. It is full of fine sentiments, and the most poetical and beautiful descriptions of any of his plays: the description of Cleopatra in her barge, exceeds any thing in poetry, except Shakespear's, and his own St. Cecilia. 14. Tyrannic Love; or the Royal Martyr, a Tragedy, acted at the theatre-royal 1679. It is written in rhime, and dedicated to the duke of Monmouth. 15. Troilus and Cressida; or Truth found too late; a Tragedy, acted at the duke's theatre, and printed in 4to. 1679. It is dedicated to the earl of Sunderland, and has a preface prefixed concerning grounds of criticism in tragedy. This play was originally Shakespear's, and revised, and altered by Mr. Dryden, who added several new scenes.--The plot taken from Chaucer's Troilus and Cressida, which that poet translated from the original story written in Latin verse, by Lollius, a Lombard. 17. Secret Love; or the Maiden Queen, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in 4to, 1697. The serious part of the plot is founded on the history of Cleobuline, Queen of Corinth. 18. The Rival Ladies, a Tragi-Comedy, acted at the theatre-royal 1679. It is dedicated to the earl of Orrery. The dedication is in the nature of a preface, in defence of English verse or rhime. 19. The Kind Keeper; or Mr. Limberham, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, printed in 4to. 1680. It is dedicated to John lord Vaughan. Mr. Langbain says, it so much exposed the keepers about town, that all the old letchers were up in arms against it, and damned it the third night. 20. The Spanish Fryar; or the Double Discovery, a Tragi Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, and printed 1681. It is dedicated to John lord Haughton. This is one of Mr. Dryden's best plays, and still keeps possession of the stage. It is said, that he was afterwards so much concerned for having ridiculed the character of the Fryar, that it impaired his health: what effect bigotry, or the influence of priests, might have on him, on this occasion, we leave others to determine. 21. Duke of Guise, a Tragedy, acted 1688. It was written by Dryden and Lee, and dedicated to Hyde earl of Rochester. This play gave great offence to the Whigs, and engaged several writers for and against it. 22. Albion and Albanius, an Opera, performed at the Queen's theatre in Dorset-Gardens, and printed in folio 1685. The subject of it is wholly allegorical, and intended to expose my lord Shaftfbury and his party. 23. Don Sebastian King of Portugal, a Tragedy, acted 1690, dedicated to the earl of Leicester. 24. King Arthur; or the British worthy, a Tragedy, acted 1691, dedicated to the marquis of Hallifax. 25. Amphytrion; or the two Socias, a Comedy, acted 1691, dedicated to Sir Leveson Gower, taken from Plautus and Moliere. 26. Cleomenes, the Spartan Hero, a Tragedy, acted at the theatre-royal, and printed in 4to. 1692, dedicated to the earl of Rochester. There is prefixed to it the Life of Cleomenes, translated from Plutarch by Mr. Creech. This play was first prohibited by the lord Chamberlain, but upon examination being found innocent of any design to satirize the government, it was suffered to be represented, and had great success. In the preface, the author tells us, that a foolish objection had been raised against him by the sparks, for Cleomenes not accepting the favours of Cassandra. 'They (says he) would not have refused a fair lady; I grant they would not, but let them grant me, that they are no heroes.' 27. Love Triumphant; or Nature will prevail, a Tragi-comedy, acted 1694. It is dedicated to the earl of Shaftsbury, and is the last Mr. Dryden wrote, or intended for the theatre. It met with but indifferent success, tho' in many parts the genius of that great man breaks out, especially in the discovery of Alphonfo's successful love, and in the catastrophe, which is extremely effecting. In Obitum JOHAN. DRYDENI, poetarum Anglorum facilé principis. Pindarus Anglorum magnus, cujusque senilem Ornavit nuper frontem Parnissia laurus, Sive cothurnatum molitur musa laborem, Sive levem ludit foccum, seu grande Maronis Immortalis epos tentat, seu carmine pingit Mordaci mores homitium, nunc occidit, eheu! Occidit, atque tulit secum Permessidos undas; Et fontem exhausit totum Drydenius Heros. Heu! miserande senex! jam frigida tempora circùm Marcessit laurus, musæ, mæstissima turba! Circumstant, largoque humeclant imbre cadaver; Sheffeildum video, in lacrymis multoque dolore Formosum, ætatis Flaccum, vatisque patronum; Te Montacute, te, cujus musa triumphos Carmine Boynæos cucinit, magnumque Wilhelmum Æternavit, et olim Boynam, ignobile flumen; Teque, O! et legum et musarum gloria! et alter Mæcenas; cui lingua olim facunda labantem Defendit mitræ causam; nee teruit aula Prava jubens--vos, O jam tanguni funera vatis! Jamque dies aderat, magnâ stipante catervâ, Quo Phoebea cohors facras comitatur ad urnam Reliquias, et supremum pia solvit honorem; Jamque graves planctus, jamque illaetabile murmur Audio Melpomenis latè, dum noster Apollo Flebilis ante omnes, Sacvillus, tristia ducit Agmina Pieridum, Cytharamqueaccommodatodæ; Ipse ego, dum totidem comitentur funera musæ, Ipse sequor mæstus; bustum venerabile fletu Carminibufque struam multis, animumque poetæ His faltem donis cumulabo, et fungar inani Munere.---- At te musa mori vetat, O post sata, vel ipsa Marmora, cum annorum fuerint rubigine scabra; Major eris vivo; tibi scripta perennius ære Aut faxo, condent monumentum illustre per orbem, Secula cuncta legant, et te mirentur in illis. JOHAN. PHILIPS, 1700. Ætat. 24. Interioris templi alumnus. The above were thrown in Dryden's grave. We are assured they were never in print before. [Footnote 1: Athen. Oxon.] [Footnote 2: He might have added, 'twas unnatural.] [Footnote 3: Defence, or the Essay on Dramatic Poetry.] [Footnote 4: Original Poems.] [Footnote 5: This was written before Mr. Dodsley's edition of Virgil in English appeared.] [Footnote 6: Essay on Criticism.] [Footnote 7: Life of Congreve.] [Footnote 8: In Millar's edition of the bishop's work, we have the following note upon this passage. 'This (says the editor) must be understood of his performances for the stage; for as to his personal character, there was nothing remarkably vicious in it: but his plays are, some of them, the fullest of obscenity of any now extant.'] * * * * * Sir CHARLES SEDLEY, Bart. This gentleman, who obtained a great name in the world of gallantry, was son of Sir John Sedley, of Aylesford in Kent. When our author was about the age of 17, he became a fellow of Wadham college 1656, but he took no degree. When he quitted the university, he retired into his own country, and neither went to travel nor to the inns of court. As soon as the restoration was effected, Sir Charles came to London, in order to join in the general jubilee, and then commenced wit, courtier, poet, and gallant. He was so much applauded in all conversations that he began to be the oracle of the poets; and it was by his judgment every performance was approved or condemned; which made the King jest with him, and tell him, that nature had given him a patent to be Apollo's viceroy. Lord Rochester bears testimony to this, when he puts him foremost among the judges of poetry. I loath the rabble, tis enough for me, If Sedley, Shadwell, Shepherd, Wycherly, Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham, And some few more, whom I omit to name, Approve my sense, I count their censure same. It happened by Sir Charles, in respect of the king, as is said of the famous cardinal Richlieu, viz. That they who recommended him to the Royal savour, thereby supplanted themselves, and afterwards envied him; but with this difference between the Cardinal and Sir Charles, that the latter was never ungrateful. When he had a taste of the court, as the King never would part with him, so he never would part from the King; and yet two things proved particularly detrimental to him in it, first his estate, so far from being improved was diminished; and secondly his morals were debauched. The King delighted in his conversation, and he was the dearer to his Majesty on this account, that he never asked a favour; whereas some other courtiers by their bold importunity exhausted that prince's treasures, who could not deny a man who craved, tho' he hated his forwardness; nor could remember the silent indigence of his friend, tho' he applauded the modesty of it. He was deeply immersed in the public distractions of the times, and is said to have committed many debaucheries, of which the following instance has been recorded. In the month of June 1663 our author, Charles lord Buckhurst, and Sir Thomas Ogle, were convened at a public house in Bow-street, Covent-Garden, and being enflamed with strong liquors, they went up to the balcony belonging to that house, and there shewed very indecent postures, and gave great offence to the passengers in the street by very unmannerly discharges upon them; which done, Sedley stripped himself naked, and preached to the people in a gross and scandalous manner; whereupon a riot being raised, the mob became very clamorous, and would have forced the door next to the street; but being opposed, the preacher and his company were driven off the balcony, and the windows of a room into which they retired were broken by the mob. The frolic being soon spread abroad, and as persons of fashion were concerned in it, it was so much the more aggravated. The company were summoned to appear before a court of justice in Westminster-Hall, where being indicted for a riot before Sir Robert Hyde, lord chief justice of the Common Pleas, they were all fined, and Sir Charles being sentenced to pay 500 l. he used some very impertinent expressions to the judge; who thereupon asked him if he had ever read a book called the Compleat Gentleman; to which Sir Charles made answer, that he had read more books than his lordship. The day for payment being appointed, Sir Charles desired Mr. Henry Killegrew, and another gentleman to apply to his Majesty to have the fine remitted, which they undertook to do; but in place of supplicating for it, they represented Sir Charles's frolic rather in an aggravating light, and not a farthing was abated. After this affair, Sir Charles's mind took a more serious turn, and he began to apply himself to the study of politics, by which he might be of some service to his country. He was chosen, says Wood, a recruiter of that long parliament, which began at Westminster the 8th of May 1661, to serve for New Romney in Kent, and sat in three succeeding Parliments since the dissolution of that. Sir Charles, considered as an author, has great delicacy in his turns, and Eachard observes in his dedication of Plautus's three comedies to Sir Charles, that the easiness of his stile, the politeness of his expressions in his Bellamira, and even those parts of it which are purely translation, are very delightful, and engaging to the reader. Lord Rochester, in his imitation of the 10th satire of the first book of Horace, has the following verses in his commendation. Sedley has that prevailing gentle art, That can with a resistless charm impart. The loosest wishes to the chastest heart: Raise such a conflict, kindle such a fire, Betwixt declining virtue and desire; That the poor vanquish'd maid dissolves away In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day. Before we give an account of our author's works, it will not be amiss to observe, that he was extremely active in effecting the revolution, which was thought the more extraordinary, as he had received favours from King James II. That Prince, it seems, had fallen in love with a daughter of Sir Charles's, who was not very handsome; for James was remarkable for dedicating his affections to women who were not great beauties; in consequence of his intrigue with her, and in order to give her greater lustre in life, he created Miss Sedley countess of Dorchester. This honour, so far from pleasing, greatly shocked Sir Charles. However libertine himself had been, yet he could not bear the thoughts of his daughter's dishonour; and with regard to this her exaltation, he only considered it as rendering her more conspicuously infamous. He therefore conceived a hatred to James, and readily joined to dispossess him of his throne and dominions. Being asked one day, why he appeared so warm against the King, who had created his daughter a Countess? It is from a principle of gratitude I am so warm, returns Sir Charles; for since his Majesty has made my daughter a Countess, it is fit I should do all I can to make his daughter a Queen. Our author's works are, 1. The Mulberry Garden, a Comedy, acted by his Majesty's servants at the theatre-royal 1668, dedicated to the duchess of Richmond and Lennox. 2. Anthony and Cleopatra, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York's theatre 1667. This play was acted with great applause. The Story from Plutarch's Life of Anthony. 3. Bellamira; or the Mistress, a Comedy, acted by his Majesty's servants, 1687. It is taken from Terence's Eunuch. While this play was acting, the roof of the play-house fell down, but very few were hurt, except the author: whose merry friend Sir Fleetwood Shepherd told him, that there was so much fire in the play, that it blew up the poet, house and all: Sir Charles answered, No, the play was so heavy it brought down the house, and buried the poet in his own rubbish. 4. Beauty the Conqueror; or the Death of Mark Anthony, a Tragedy. Besides these plays, Mr. Coxeter says, he is author of the two following, which were never printed till with his works in 2 vols. 8vo. 1719, dedicated by Briscoe the bookseller to the duke of Chandois. The Grumbler, a Comedy of three acts, scene Paris. The Tyrant King of Crete, a Tragedy. Sedley's poems, however amorously tender and delicate, yet have not much strength; nor do they afford great marks of genius. The softness of his verses is denominated by the Duke of Buckingham, Sedley's Witchcraft. It was an art too successful in those days to propagate the immoralities of the times, but it must be owned that in point of chastity he excels Dorset, and Rochester; who as they conceived lewdly, wrote in plain English, and did not give themselves any trouble to wrap up their ribbaldry in a dress tollerably decent. But if Sedley was the more chaste, I know not if he was the less pernicious writer: for that pill which is gilded will be swallowed more readily, and with less reluctance, than if tendered in its own disgustful colours. Sedley insinuates gently into the heart, without giving any alarm, but is no less fraught with poison, than are those whose deformity bespeaks their mischief. It would be tedious to enumerate here all the poems of Sir Charles Sedley; let it suffice to say, that they are printed in two small volumes along with his plays, and consist of translations of Virgil's Pastorals, original Pastorals, Prologues, Songs, Epilogues, and little occasional pieces. We shall present the reader with an original pastoral of Sir Charles's, as a specimen of his works. He lived to the beginning of Queen Anne's reign, and died at an age near 90; his wit and humour continuing to the last. A Pastoral Dialogue between THIRSIS and STREPHON. THIRSIS. Strephon, O Strephon, once the jolliest lad, That with shrill pipe did ever mountain glad; Whilome the foremost at our rural plays, The pride and envy of our holidays: Why dost thou sit now musing all alone, Teaching the turtles, yet a sadder moan? Swell'd with thy tears, why does the neighbouring brook Bear to the ocean, what she never took? Thy flocks are fair and fruitful, and no swain, Than thee, more welcome to the hill or plain. STREPHON. I could invite the wolf, my cruel guest, And play unmov'd, while he on all should feast: I cou'd endure that very swain out-run, Out-threw, out-wrestled, and each nymph shou'd shun The hapless Strephon.---- THIRSIS. Tell me then thy grief, And give it, in complaints, some short relief. STREPHON. Had killing mildews nipt my rising corn, My lambs been all found dead, as soon as born; Or raging plagues run swift through every hive, And left not one industrious bee alive; Had early winds, with an hoarse winter's found Scattered my rip'ning fruit upon the ground: Unmov'd, untoucht, I cou'd the loss sustain, And a few days expir'd, no more complain. THIRSIS. E'er the sun drank of the cold morning dew, I've known thee early the tuskt boar pursue: Then in the evening drive the bear away, And rescue from his jaws the trembling prey. But now thy flocks creep feebly through the fields, No purple grapes, thy half-drest vineyards yields: No primrose nor no violets grace thy beds, But thorns and thistles lift their prickly heads. What means this change? STREPHON Enquire no more; When none can heal, 'tis pain to search the sore; Bright Galatea, in whose matchless face Sat rural innocence, with heavenly grace; In whose no less inimitable mind, With equal light, even distant virtues shin'd; Chaste without pride, and charming without art, Honour the tyrant of her tender heart: Fair goddess of these fields, who for our sports, Though she might well become, neglected courts: Belov'd of all, and loving me alone, Is from my sight, I fear, for ever gone. THIRSIS. Thy case indeed is pitiful, but yet Thou on thy loss too great a price dost set. Women like days are, Strephon, some be far More bright and glorious than others are: Yet none so gay, so temperate, so clear, But that the like adorn the rowling year, Pleasures imparted to a friend, increase, Perhaps divided sorrow may grow less. STREPHON. Others as fair, to others eyes may seem, But she has all my love and my esteem: Her bright idea wanders in my thought, At once my poison, and my antidote. THIRSIS. Our hearts are paper, beauty is the pen, Which writes our loves, and blots 'em out agen. Phillis is whiter than the rising swan, Her slender waist confin'd within a span: Charming as nature's face in the new spring, When early birds on the green branches sing. When rising herbs and buds begin to hide, Their naked mother, with their short-liv'd pride, Chloe is ripe, and as the autumn fair, When on the elm the purple grapes appear, When trees, hedge-rows, and every bending bush, With rip'ning fruit, or tasteful berries blush, Lydia is in the summer of her days, What wood can shade us from her piercing rays? Her even teeth, whiter than new yean'd lambs, When they with tender cries pursue their dams. Her eyes as charming as the evening sun, To the scorch'd labourer when his work is done, Whom the glad pipe, to rural sports invites, And pays his toil with innocent delights. On some of these fond swain fix thy desire, And burn not with imaginary fire. STREPHON. The flag shall sooner with the eagle soar, Seas leave their fishes naked on the shore; The wolf shall sooner by the lamkin die, And from the kid the hungry lion fly, Than I abandon Galatea's love, Or her dear image from my thoughts remove. THIRSIS. Damon this evening carries home his bride, In all the harmless pomp of rural pride: Where, for two spotted lambkins, newly yean'd, With nimble feet and voice, the nymphs contend: And for a coat, thy Galatea spun, The Shepherds wrestle, throw the bar, and run. STREPHON. At that dear name I feel my heart rebound, Like the old steed, at the fierce trumpet's sound; I grow impatient of the least delay, No bastard swain shall bear the prize away. THIRSIS. Let us make haste, already they are met; The echoing hills their joyful shouts repeat. * * * * * JOHN CROWNE Was the son of an independent minister, in that part of North America, which is called Nova Scotia. The vivacity of his genius made him soon grow impatient of the gloomy education he received in that country; which he therefore quitted in order to seek his fortune in England; but it was his fate, upon his first arrival here, to engage in an employment more formal, if possible, than his American education. Mr. Dennis, in his Letters, vol. i. p. 48, has given us the best account of this poet, and upon his authority the above, and the succeeding circumstances are related. His necessity, when he first arrived in England, was extremely urgent, and he was obliged to become a gentleman usher to an old independent lady; but he soon grew as weary of that precise office, as he had done before of the discipline of Nova Scotia. One would imagine that an education, such as this, would be but an indifferent preparative for a man to become a polite author, but such is the irresistable force of genius, that neither this, nor his poverty, which was very deplorable, could suppress his ambition: aspiring to reputation, and distinction, rather than to fortune and power. His writings soon made him known to the court and town, yet it was neither to the savour of the court, nor to that of the earl of Rochester, that he was indebted to the nomination the king made of him, for the writing the Masque of Calypso, but to the malice of that noble lord, who designed by that preference to mortify Mr. Dryden. Upon the breaking out of the two parties, after the pretended discovery of the Popish plot, the favour he was in at court, and the gaiety of his temper, which inclined him to join with the fashion, engaged him to embrace the Tory party. About that time he wrote the City Politicks, in order to satirize and expose the Whigs: a comedy not without wit and spirit, and which has obtained the approbation of those of contrary principles, which is the highest evidence of merit; but after it was ready for the stage, he met with great embarrassments in getting it acted. Bennet lord Arlington (who was then lord chamberlain, was secretly in the cause of the Whigs, who were at that time potent in Parliament, in order to support himself against the power of lord treasurer Danby, who was his declared enemy) used all his authority to suppress it. One while it was prohibited on account of its being dangerous; another while it was laid aside upon pretence of its being flat and insipid; till Mr. Crowne, at last, was forced to have recourse to the King himself, and engage him to lay his absolute commands on the lord chamberlain to have it no longer delayed. This command he was pleased to give in his own person, for Charles II. loved comedy above all other amusements, except one which was both more expensive, and less innocent, and besides, had a very high opinion of Mr. Crowne's abilities. While he was thus in favour with the King and court, Mr. Dennis declares, he has more than once heard him say, that though he had a sincere affection for the King, he had yet a mortal hatred to the court. The promise of a sum of money made him sometimes appear there, to sollicit the payment of it, but as soon as he received the sum, he vanished, and for a long time never approached it. It was at the latter end of King Charles's reign, that Mr. Crowne, tired with the fatigue of writing, shocked with the uncertainty of theatrical success, and desirous to shelter himself from the resentment of those numerous enemies he had made, by his City Politics, immediately addressed the King himself, and desired his Majesty to establish him in some office, that might be a security to him for life: the King answered, he should be provided for; but added, that he would first see another comedy. Mr. Crowne endeavouring to excuse himself, by telling the King he plotted slowly and awkwardly, his Majesty replied, that he would help him to a plot, and so put in his hand the Spanish Comedy called Non Poder Esser. Mr. Crowne was obliged immediately to go to work upon it, but after he had written three acts of it, found, to his surprize, that the Spanish play had some time before been translated, and acted and damned, under the title of Tarugo's Wiles, or the Coffee-House: yet, supported by the King's command, he went briskly on, and finished it. Mr. Crowne, who had once before obliged the commonwealth of taste, with a very agreeable comedy in his City Politics, yet, in Sir Courtly Nice went far beyond it, and very much surpassed himself; for though there is something in the part of Crack, which borders upon farce, the Spanish author alone must answer for that: for Mr. Crowne could not omit the part of Crack, that is, of Tarugo, and the Spanish farce depending upon it, without a downright affront to the King, who had given him the play for his ground-work. All that is of English growth in Sir Courtly Nice is admirable; for though it has neither the fine designing of Ben Johnson, nor the masculine satire of Wycherley, nor the grace, delicacy, and courtly air of Etherege, yet is the dialogue lively and spirited, attractively diversified, and adapted to the several characters. Four of these characters are entirely new, yet general and important, drawn truly, and graphically and artfully opposed to each other, Surly to Sir Courtly, and Hot-head to Testimony: those extremes of behaviour, the one of which is the grievance, and the other the plague of society and conversation; excessive ceremony on the one side, and on the other rudeness, and brutality are finely exposed in Surly and Sir Courtly: those divisions and animosities in the two great parties of England, which have so long disturbed the public quiet, and undermined the general interest, are happily represented and ridiculed in Testimony and Hot-head. Mr. Dennis, speaking of this comedy, says, 'that though he has more than twenty times read it, yet it still grows upon him, and he delivers it as his opinion, that the greatest comic poet, who ever lived in any age, might have been proud to have been the author of it.' The play was now just ready to appear to the world. Every one that had seen it rehearsed, was highly pleased with it. All who had heard of it conceived great expectations, and Mr. Crowne was delighted with the flattering hope of being made happy for the remaining part of his life, by the performance of the King's promise: But upon the very last day of the rehearsal, he met Underhill coming from the playhouse, as he himself was going towards it, upon which the poet reprimanding the player for neglecting so considerable a part as he had in the comedy, and on a day of so much consequence, as the very last of the rehearsal. Oh Lord, says Underhill, we are all undone! how! says Crowne, is the Playhouse on fire? the whole nation, replies the player, will quickly be so, for the King is dead; at the hearing of which dismal words, the author was thrown almost into distraction; for he who the moment before was ravished with the thought of the pleasure he was about to give the King, and the favours which he was afterwards to receive from him, this moment found, to his unspeakable sorrow, that his Royal patron was gone for ever, and with him all his hopes. The King indeed revived from this apoplectic fit, but three days after died, and Mr. Crowne by his death was replunged into the deepest melancholly. Thus far Mr. Dennis has traced the life of Crowne; in the same letter he promises a further account of him upon another occasion, which, it seems, never occurred, for we have not been able to find that he has any where else mentioned our author. The King's death having put a period to Mr. Crowne's expectations of court-favour (for the reign of his successor was too much hurried with party designs, to admit of any leisure to reward poetical merit, though the Prince himself, with all his errors about him, was a man of taste, and had a very quick discernment of the power of genius) he, no doubt, had recourse to writing plays again for bread, and supporting himself the best way he could by his wits, the most unpleasing, and precarious manner of life, to which any man can be exposed. We cannot be absolutely certain when Mr. Crowne died; Mr. Coxeter in his notes says, he was alive in the year 1703, and as he must then have been much advanced in years, in all probability he did not long survive it. He is the author of 17 Plays. 1. Juliana, or the Princess of Poland, a Tragi-Comedy; acted at the duke of York's theatre 1671, dedicated to the earl of Orrery. 2. Andromache, a Tragedy; acted at the duke's theatre in Covent Garden, 1675. This play was only a translation of M. Racine, by a young gentleman, chiefly in prose, and published by Mr. Crown. It was brought upon the stage, but without success. 3. Calisto, or the Chaste Nymph, a masque, 1675; written by command of the queen, and oftentimes performed at court by persons of quality. It is founded on a story in Ovid's Metamorphoses, lib. 2. 4. The Country Wit, a Comedy; acted at the duke's theatre 1675. This play contains a good deal of low humour; and was approved by king Charles the IId. 5. The Destruction of Jerusalem, by Titus Vespasian, in two parts, acted 1677; addressed to the duchess of Portsmouth. These Tragedies met with extravagant applause, which excited the envy of lord Rochester so much, that on this account he commenced an enemy to the bard he before had so much befriended. 6. The Ambitious Statesman, or the Royal Favourite, a Tragedy; acted at the theatre-royal 1679. This play had but indifferent success, though esteemed by the author one of the best he ever wrote. 7. Charles the VIIIth King of France, or the Invasion of Naples by the French; this play is written in heroic verse. 8. Henry the VIth, the first part, with the murther of Humphrey duke of Gloucester; acted 1681, dedicated to Sir Charles Sedley. This play was at first acted with applause; but at length, the Romish faction opposed it, and by their interest at court got it suppressed. Part of this play was borrowed from Shakespear's Henry the VIth. 9. Henry the VIth, the second part; or the Miseries of Civil War; a Tragedy, acted 1680. 10. Thyestes, a Tragedy; acted at the theatre-royal 1681. The plot from Seneca's Thyestes. 11. City Politics, a Comedy, 1683; of this already we have given some account. 12. Sir Courtly Nice, or It Cannot be; dedicated to the duke of Ormond, of which we have given an account in the author's life. 13. Darius King of Persia, a Tragedy; acted in 1688. For the plot, see Quint. Curt. lib. 3, 4, and 5. 14. The English Fryar, or the Town Sparks, a Comedy; printed in quarto 1690, dedicated to William earl of Devonshire. This play had not the success of the other pieces of the same author. 15. Regulus, a Tragedy; acted at the theatre-royal 1694. The design of this play is noble; the example of Regulus being the most celebrated for honour, and constancy of any of the Romans. There is a play of this name, written by Mr. Havard, a comedian now belonging to the theatre-royal in Drury-lane. 16. The Married Beaux, or the Curious Impertinent, a Comedy; acted at the theatre-royal, 1694, dedicated to the marquis of Normanby. To this play the author has prefixed a preface in vindication of himself, from the aspersions cast on him by some persons, as to his morals. The story is taken from Don Quixot. 17. Caligula, Emperor of Rome, a Tragedy; acted at the theatre-royal, 1698. Our author's other works are, Pandion and Amphigenia, or the coy Lady of Thessalia; adorned with sculptures, printed in octavo, 1665. Dæneids, or the noble Labours of the great Dean of Notre-Dame in Paris, for the erecting in his choir, a Throne for his Glory; and the eclipsing the pride of an imperious usurping Chanter, an heroic poem, in four Canto's; printed in quarto 1692. It is a burlesque Poem, and is chiefly taken from Boileau's Lutrin. We shall shew Mr. Crown's versification, by quoting a speech which he puts into the mouth of an Angel, in the Destruction of Jerusalem. The Angel is represented as descending over the altar prophesying the fall of that august city. Stay, stay, your flight, fond men, Heaven does despise All your vain incense, prayers, and sacrifice. Now is arriv'd Jerusalem's fatal hour, When she and sacrifice must be no more: Long against Heav'n had'st thou, rebellious town, Thy public trumpets of defiance blown; Didst open wars against thy Lord maintain, And all his messengers of peace have slain: And now the hour of his revenge is come, Thy weeks are finish'd, and thy slumb'ring doom, Which long has laid in the divine decree, Is now arous'd from his dull lethargy; His army's rais'd, and his commission seal'd, His order's given, and cannot be repeal'd: And now thy people, temple, altars all Must in one total dissolution fall. Heav'n will in sad procession walk the round, And level all thy buildings with the ground. And from the soil enrich'd with human blood, Shall grass spring up, where palaces have stood, Where beasts shall seed; and a revenge obtain For all the thousands at thy altars slain. And this once blessed house, where Angels came To bathe their airy wings in holy flame, Like a swift vision or a flash of light, All wrapt in fire shall vanish in thy sight; And thrown aside amongst the common store, Sink down in time's abyss, and rise no more. * * * * * CHARLES SACKVILLE, Earl of DORSET, Eldest son of Richard earl of Dorset, born the 24th of January 1637, was one of the most accomplished gentlemen of the age in which he lived, which was esteemed one of the most courtly ever known in our nation; when, as Pope expresses it, The soldiers ap'd the gallantries of France, And ev'ry flow'ry courtier writ romance. Immediately after the restoration, he was chosen member of parliament for East-Grimstead, and distinguished himself while he was in the House of Commons. The sprightliness of his wit, and a most exceeding good-nature, recommended him very early to the favour of Charles the IId, and those of the greatest distinction in the court; but his mind being more turned to books, and polite conversation, than public business, he totally declined the latter, tho' as bishop Burnet[1] says, the king courted him as a favorite. Prior in his dedication of his poems, observes, that when the honour and safety of his country demanded his assistance, he readily entered into the most active parts of life; and underwent the dangers with a constancy of mind, which shewed he had not only read the rules of philosophy, but understood the practice of them. He went a volunteer under his royal highness the duke of York in the first Dutch war, 1665, when the Dutch admiral Opdam was blown up, and about thirty capital ships taken and destroyed; and his composing a song before the engagement, carried with it in the opinion of many people to sedate a presence of mind, and such unusual gallantry, that it has been much celebrated. This Song, upon so memorable an occasion, is comprised in the following stanzas. I. To all you ladies, now at land, We men at sea indite, But first would have you understand, How hard it is to write; The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you, With a fa, la, la, la, la. II. For tho' the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain; Yet if rough Neptune rouze the wind, To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea, With a la fa, &c. III. Then if we write not, by each post, Think not, we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears, we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall waft them twice a day. With a fa, &c. IV. The king with wonder, and surprize, Will swear the seas grow bold; Because the tides will higher rise, Then e'er they did of old: But let him knew it is our tears, Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-Stairs. With a fa, &c. V. Should foggy Opdam chance to know; Our sad and dismal story; The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find, From men who've left their hearts behind. With a fa, &c. VI. Let wind, and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find; 'Tis then no matter, how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. With a fa, &c. VII. To pass our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main; Or else at serious Ombre play; But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone, when we left you. With a fa, &c. VIII. But now our fears tempestuous grow, And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit carelessly at play; Perhaps permit some happier man, To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. With a fa, &c. IX. When any mournful tune, you hear, That dies in every note; And if it sigh'd with each man's care, For being so remote; Think then, how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd. With a fa, &c. X. In justice, you cannot refuse, To think of our distress; When we for hopes of honour lose, Our certain happiness; All those designs are but to prove, Ourselves more worthy of your love. With a fa, &c. XI. And, now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears; In hopes this declaration moves, Some pity for our tears: Let's hear of no inconstancy, We have too much of that at sea. With a fa, &c. To maintain an evenness of temper in the time of danger, is certainly the highest mark of heroism; but some of the graver cast have been apt to say, this sedate composure somewhat differs from that levity of disposition, or frolic humour, that inclines a man to write a song. But, let us consider my lord's fervour of youth, his gaiety of mind, supported by strong spirits, flowing from an honest heart, and, I believe, we shall rather be disposed to admire, than censure him on this occasion. Remember too, he was only a volunteer. The conduct of the battle depended not on him. He had only to shew his intrepidity and diligence, in executing the orders of his commander, when called on; as he had no plans of operation to take up his thoughts why not write a song? there was neither indecency, nor immorality in it: I doubt not, but with that chearfulness of mind he composed himself to rest, with as right feelings, and as proper an address to his maker, as any one of a more melancholly disposition, or gloomy aspect. Most commanders, in the day of battle, assume at least a brilliancy of countenance, that may encourage their soldiers; and they are admired for it: to smile at terror has, before this, been allowed the mark of a hero. The dying Socrates discoursed his friends with great composure; he was a philosopher of a grave cast: Sir Thomas Moore (old enough to be my lord's father) jok'd, even on the scaffold; a strong instance of his heroism, and no contradiction to the rectitude of his mind. The verses the Emperor Adrian wrought on his death-bed (call them a song if you will) have been admired, and approved, by several great men; Mr. Pope has not only given his opinion in their favour, but elegantly translated them, nay, thought them worthy an imitation, perhaps exceeding the original. If this behaviour of my lord's is liable to different constructions, let good nature, and good manners, incline us to bestow the most favourable thereon. After his fatigues at sea, during the remainder of the reign of Charles the IId, he continued to live in honourable leisure. He was of the bed-chamber to the king, and possessed not only his master's favour, but in a great degree his familiarity, never leaving the court but when he was sent to that of France, upon some short commission, and embassies of compliment; as if the king designed to rival the French in the article of politeness, who had long claimed a superiority in that accomplishment, by shewing them that one of the most finished gentlemen in Europe was his subject; and that he understood his worth so well, as not to suffer him to be long out of his presence. Among other commissions he was sent in the year 1669, to compliment the French king on his arrival at Dunkirk, in return of the compliment of that monarch, by the duchess of Orleans, then in England. Being possessed of the estate of his uncle the earl of Middlesex, who died in the year 1674, he was created earl of that county, and baron of Cranfield, by letters patent, dated the fourth of April, 1675. 27 C. II; and in August 1677 succeeded his father as earl of Dorset; as also, in the post of lord lieutenant of the county of Sussex, having been joined in the commission with him in 1670[2]. Also the 20th of February 1684 he was made custos rotulorum for that county. Having buried his first lady, Elizabeth, daughter of Harvey Bagot, of Whitehall in the county of Warwick, Esq; widow of Charles Berkley, earl of Falmouth, without any issue by her, he married, in the year 1684, the lady Mary, daughter of James Compton, earl of Northampton, famed for her beauty, and admirable endowments of mind, who was one of the ladies of the bed-chamber to Queen Mary, and left his lordship again a widower, August 6, 1691, leaving issue by him one son, his grace Lionel now duke of Dorset, and a daughter, the lady Mary, married in the year 1702 to Henry Somerset duke of Beaufort, and dying in child-bed, left no issue. The earl of Dorset appeared in court at the trial of the seven bishops, accompanied with other noblemen, which had a good effect on the jury, and brought the judges to a better temper than they had usually shewn. He also engaged with those who were in the prince of Orange's interest; and carried on his part of that enterprize in London, under the eye of the court, with the same courage and resolution as his friend the duke of Devonshire did in open arms, at Nottingham. When prince George of Denmark deserted King James, and joined the prince of Orange, the princess Anne was in violent apprehensions of the King's displeasure, and being desirous of withdrawing herself, lord Dorset was thought the properest guide for her necessary flight[3]. She was secretly brought to him by his lady's uncle, the bishop of London: who furnished the princess with every thing necessary for her flight to the Prince of Orange, and attended her northward, as far as Northampton, where he quickly brought a body of horse to serve for her guard, and went from thence to Nottingham, to confer with the duke of Devonshire. After the misguided monarch had withdrawn himself, lord Dorset continued at London, and was one of those peers who sat every day in the Council-chamber, and took upon them the government of the realm, in this extremity, till some other power should be introduced. In the debates in Parliament immediately after this confusion, his lordship voted for the vacancy of the throne, and that the prince and princess of Orange should be declared King and Queen of England, &c. When their Majesties had accepted the crown of these realms, his lordship was the next day sworn of the privy-council, and declared lord chamberlain of the household, 'A place, says Prior, which he eminently adorned by the grace of his person, the fineness of his breeding, and the knowledge and practice of what was decent and magnificent.' It appears by the history of England, that he had the honour to stand godfather, with King William to a son of the prince and princess of Denmark, born at Hampton-court, the 24th of July 1689, and christened the 27th by the name of William, whom his Majesty declared duke of Gloucester. When the King had been earnestly entreated by the States of Holland, and the confederate princes in Germany, to meet at a general congress to be held at the Hague, in order to concert matters for the better support of the confederacy, and thereupon took shipping the 16th of January 1692, his lordship was among the peers, who to honour their King and Country, waited on their sovereign in that cold season. When they were two or three leagues off Goree, his Majesty having by bad weather been four days at sea, was so impatient to go on shore, that taking boat, and a thick fog rising soon after, they were surrounded so closely with ice, as not to be able either to make the shore, or get back to the ship; so that lying twenty-two hours, enduring the most bitter cold, and almost despairing of life, they could hardly stand or speak at their landing; and his lordship was so lame, that for some time he did not recover; yet on his return to England, he neither complained of the accident nor the expence. On the 2d of February 1691, at a chapter of the most noble order of the garter, held at Kensington, his lordship was elected one of the knights companions of this order, with his highness John-George, the fourth elector of Saxony, and was installed at Windsor on the February following. He was constituted four times one of the regents of the kingdom in his Majesty's absence. About the year 1698, his health sensibly declining, he left public business to those who more delighted in it, and appeared only sometimes at council, to shew his respect to the commission which he bore, for he had already tasted all the comfort which court favour could bestow; he had been high in office, respected by his sovereign and the idol of the people; but now when the evening of life approached, he began to look upon such enjoyments with less veneration, and thought proper to dedicate some of his last hours to quiet and meditation. Being advised to go to Bath for the recovery of his health, he there ended his life on the 29th of January 1705-6, and was buried at Witham on the 17th of February following. Lord Dorset was a great patron of men of letters and merit. Dr. Sprat, bishop of Rochester, celebrated for his polite writings, appealed to him when under a cloud, for the part he acted in the reign of King James II. and by his lordship's interest preserved himself. To him Mr. Dryden dedicated his translation of Juvenal, in which he is very lavish in his lordship's praise, and expresses his gratitude for the bounty he had experienced from him. Mr. Prior (among others who owed their life and fortune to my lord Dorset) makes this public acknowledgment, 'That he scarce knew what life was, sooner than he found himself obliged to his favour; or had reason to feel any sorrow so sensibly as that of his death.' Mr. Prior then proceeds to enumerate the valuable qualities of his patron; in which the warmth of his gratitude appears in the most elegant panegyric. I cannot imagine that Mr. Prior, with respect to his lordship's morals, has in the least violated truth; for he has shewn the picture in various lights, and has hinted at his patron's errors, as well as his graces and virtues. Among his errors was that of indulging passion, which carried him into transports, of which he was often ashamed; and during these little excesses (says he) 'I have known his servants get into his way, that they might make a merit of it immediately after; for he who had the good fortune to be chid, was sure of being rewarded for it.' His lordship's poetical works have been published among the minor poets 1749, and consist chiefly of a poem to Mr. Edward Howard, on his incomprehensible poem called the British Princes, in which his lordship is very satyrical upon that author. Verses to Sir Thomas St. Serfe, on his printing his play called Tarugo's Wiles, acted 1668. An Epilogue to Moliere's Tartuff. An epilogue on the revival of Ben Johnson's play called Every Man in his Humour. A Song writ at Sea, in the time of the Dutch war 1665, the night before an engagement. Verses addressed to the Countess of Dorchester. A Satirical piece, entitled, A Faithful Catalogue of our most eminent Ninnies; written in the year 1683. Several Songs. From the specimens lord Dorset has given us of his poetical talents, we are inclined to wish, that affairs of higher consequence had permitted him to have dedicated more of his time to the Muses. Though some critics may alledge, that what he has given the public is rather pretty than great; and that a few pieces of a light nature do not sufficiently entitle him to the character of a first rate poet; yet, when we consider, that notwithstanding they were merely the amusement of his leisure hours, and mostly the productions of his youth, they contain marks of a genius, and as such, he is celebrated by Dryden, Prior, Congreve, Pope, &c. We shall conclude his life with the encomium Pope bestows on him, in the following beautiful lines. Dorset, the grace of courts, the muses pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, dy'd: The scourge of pride, the sanctify'd or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state. Yet soft his nature, tho severe his lay, His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. Blest satyrist, who touch'd the mean so true, As shew'd vice had his hate and pity too. Blest courtier! who could King and Country please, Yet sacred keep his friendship, and his ease. Blest peer! his great forefathers ev'ry grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets thine. And patriots still, or poets deck the line [Footnote 1: History of his own times; p. 264.] [Footnote 2: Collin's Peerage, p. 575. vol. I.] [Footnote 3: Burnet's Hist. of his own times.] * * * * * Mr. GEORGE FARQUHAR Was descended of a Family of no mean rank in the North of Ireland; we have been informed that his father was dean of Armagh, but we have not met with a proper confirmation of this circumstance; but it is on all hands agreed, that he was the son of a clergyman, and born at London-Derry in that kingdom, in the year 1678, as appears from Sir James Ware's account of him. There he received the rudiments of education, and discovered a genius early devoted to the Muses; Before he was ten years of age he gave specimens of his poetry, in which, force of thinking, and elegance of turn and expression are manifest; and if the author, who has wrote Memoirs of his life, may be credited, the following stanza's were written by him at that age, The pliant soul of erring youth, Is like soft wax, or moisten'd clay; Apt to receive all heavenly truth Or yield to tyrant ill the sway. Slight folly in your early years, At manhood may to virtue rise; But he who in his youth appears A fool, in age will ne'er be wise. His parents, it is said, had a numerous family, so could bestow no fortune upon him, further than a genteel education. When he was qualified for the university, he was, in 1694, sent to Trinity College in Dublin: here, by the progress he made in his studies, he acquired a considerable reputation[1], but it does not appear, that he there took his degree of bachelor of arts; for his disposition being volatile and giddy, he soon grew weary of a dull collegiate life; and his own opinion of it, in that sense, he afterwards freely enough displayed in several parts of his comedies, and other writings. Besides, the expence of it, without any immediate prospect of returns, might be inconsistent with his circumstances. The polite entertainments of the town more forcibly attracted his attention, especially the diversions of the Theatre, for which, he discovered a violent propension. When Mr. Ashbury, who then was manager of Dublin Theatre, had recruited his company with the celebrated Mr. Wilks (who had for some seasons engaged with Mr. Christopher Rich at Drury-Lane, from whom his encouragement was not equal to his merit) Farquhar having acquaintance with him, Mr. Wilks, was soon introduced upon the stage by his means, where he did not long continue, nor make any considerable figure. His person was sufficiently advantageous, he had a ready memory, proper gesture, and just elocution, but then he was unhappy in his voice, which had not power enough to rouse the galleries, or to rant with any success; besides, he was defective in point of assurance, nor could ever enough overcome his natural timidity. His more excellent talents however might, perhaps, have continued the player at Dublin, and lost the poet at London; but for an accident, which was likely to turn a feigned tragedy into a real one: The story is this. Mr. Farquhar was extremely beloved in Ireland; having the advantage of a good person, though his voice was weak; he never met with the least repulse from the audience in any of his performances: He therefore resolved to continue on the stage till something better should offer, but his resolution was soon broke by an accident. Being to play the part of Guyomar in Dryden's Indian Emperor, who kills Vasquez, one of the Spanish generals; and forgetting to exchange his sword for a foil, in the engagement he wounded his brother tragedian, who acted Vasquez, very dangerously; and though it proved not mortal, yet it so shocked the natural tenderness of Mr. Farquhar's temper, that it put a period to his acting ever after. Soon after this, Mr. Wilks received from Mr. Rich a proposal of four pounds a week, if he would return to London (such was the extent of the salaries of the best players in that time, which, in our days, is not equal to that of a second rate performer) which he thought proper to accept of; and Mr. Farquhar, who now had no inducement to remain at Dublin, accompanied Mr. Wilks to London, in the year 1696. Mr. Wilks, who was well acquainted with the humour and abilities of our author, ceased not his solicitation 'till he prevailed upon him to write a play, assuring him, that he was considered by all who knew him in a much brighter light than he had as yet shewn himself, and that he was fitter to exhibit entertaining compositions for the stage, than to echo those of other poets upon it. But he received still higher encouragement by the patronage of the earl of Orrery, who was a discerner of merit, and saw, that as yet, Mr. Farquhar's went unrewarded. His lordship conferred a lieutenant's commission upon him in his own regiment then in Ireland, which he held several years[2] and, as an officer, he behaved himself without reproach, and gave several instances both of courage and conduct: Whether he received his commission before or after he obliged the town with his first comedy, we cannot be certain. In the year 1698, his first Comedy called Love and a Bottle appeared on the stage, and for its sprightly dialogue, and busy scenes was well received by the audience, though Wilks had no part in it. In 1699 the celebrated Mrs. Anne Oldfield was, partly upon his judgment, and recommendation, admitted on the Theatre. Now we have mentioned Mrs. Oldfield, we shall present the reader with the following anecdote concerning that celebrated actress, which discovers the true manner of her coming on the stage; the account we have from a person who belonged to Mr. Rich, in a letter he wrote to the editor of Mrs. Oldfield's Life, in which it is printed in these words; SIR, In your Memoirs of Mrs. Oldfield, it may not be amiss to insert the following facts, on the truth of which you may depend. Her father, captain Oldfield, not only run out all the military, but the paternal bounds of his fortune, having a pretty estate in houses in Pall-mall. It was wholly owing to captain Farquhar, that Mrs. Oldfield became an actress, from the following incident; dining one day at her aunt's, who kept the Mitre Tavern in St. James's Market, he heard miss Nanny reading a play behind the bar, with so proper an emphasis, and so agreeable turns suitable to each character, that he swore the girl was cut out for the stage, for which she had before always expressed an inclination, being very desirous to try her fortune that way. Her mother, the next time she saw captain Vanburgh, who had a great respect for the family, told him what was captain Farquhar's opinion; upon which he desired to know whether in the plays she read, her fancy was most pleased with tragedy or comedy; miss being called in, said comedy, she having at that time gone through all Beaumont and Fletcher's comedies, and the play she was reading when captain Farquhar dined there, was the Scornful Lady. Captain Vanburgh, shortly after, recommended her to Mr. Christopher Rich, who took her into the house at the allowance of fifteen shillings a week. However, her agreeable figure, and sweetness of voice, soon gave her the preference, in the opinion of the whole town, to all our young actresses, and his grace the late duke of Bedford, being pleased to speak, to Mr. Rich in her favour, he instantly raised her allowance to twenty shillings a week; her fame and salary at last rose to her just merit, Your humble servant, Nov. 25, 1730[3]. CHARLES TAYLOUR.' In the beginning of the year 1700, Farquhar brought his Constant Couple, or Trip to the Jubilee, upon the stage, it being then the jubilee year at Rome; but our author drew so gay, and airy a figure in Sir Harry Wildair, so suited to Mr. Wilks's talents, and so animated by his gesture, and vivacity of spirit, that it is not determined whether the poet or the player received most reputation by it. Towards the latter end of this year we meet with Mr. Farquhar in Holland, probably upon his military duty, from whence he has given a description in two of his letters dated that year from Brill, and from Leyden, no less true than humorous, as well of those places as the people; and in a third, dated from the Hague he very facetiously relates how merry he was there, at a treat made by the earl of Westmoreland, while, not only himself, but king William, and other of his subjects were detained there by a violent storm, which he has no less humorously described, and has, among his poems, written also an ingenious copy of verses to his mistress on the same subject. Whether this mistress was the same person he calls his charming Penelope, in several of his love letters addressed to her, we know not, but we have been informed by an old officer in the army, who well knew Mr. Farquhar, that by that name we are to understand Mrs. Oldfield, and that the person meant by Mrs. V---- in one of them, said to be her bedfellow, was Mrs. Verbruggen the actress, the same who was some years before Mrs. Mountfort, whom Mrs. Oldfield succeeded, (when Mrs. V---- died some years after in child-bed) with singular commendation, in her principal parts; and from so bright a flame it was no wonder that Farquhar was more than ordinarily heated. The author of Mrs. Oldfield's life says, that she has often heard her mention some agreeable hours she spent with captain Farquhar: As she was a lady of true delicacy, nor meanly prostituted herself to every adorer, it would be highly ungenerous to suppose, that their hours ever passed in criminal freedoms. And 'tis well known, whatever were her failings, she wronged no man's wife; nor had an husband to injure. Mr. Farquhar, encouraged by the success of his last piece, made a continuation of it in 1701, and brought on his Sir Harry Wildair; in which Mrs. Oldfield received as much reputation, and was as greatly admired in her part, as Wilks was in his. In the next year he published his Miscellanies, or Collection of Poems, Letters, and Essays, already mentioned, and which contain a variety of humorous, and pleasant sallies of fancy: There is amongst them a copy of verses addressed to his dear Penelope, upon her wearing her Masque the evening before, which was a female fashion in those days, as well at public walks, as among the spectators at the Playhouse. These verses naturally display his temper and talents, and will afford a very clear idea of them; and therefore we shall here insert them. 'The arguments you made use of last night for keeping on your masque, I endeavoured to defeat with reason, but that proving ineffectual, I'll try the force of rhyme, and send you the heads of our chat, in a poetical dialogue between You and I.' You. Thus images are veil'd which you adore; Your ignorance does raise your zeal the more. I. All image worship for false zeal is held; False idols ought indeed to be conceal'd. You. Thus oracles of old were still receiv'd; The more ambiguous, still the more believ'd. I. But oracles of old were seldom true, The devil was in them, sure he's not in you. You. Thus mask'd in mysteries does the godhead stand: The more obscure, the greater his command. I. The Godhead's hidden power would soon be past, Did we not hope to see his face at last. You. You are my slave already sir, you know, To Shew more charms, would but increase your woe, I scorn an insult to a conquer'd foe. I. I am your slave, 'tis true, but still you see, All slaves by nature struggle to be free; But if you would secure the stubborn prize, Add to your wit, the setters of your eyes; Then pleas'd with thraldom, would I kiss my chain And ne'er think more of liberty again.[4] It is said, some of the letters of which we have been speaking, were published from the copies returned him at his request, by Mrs. Oldfield, and that she delighted to read them many years after they were printed, as she also did the judicious essay at the end of them, which is called a Discourse upon Comedy, in Reference to the English Stage; but what gives a yet more natural and lively representation of our author still, is one among those letters, which he calls the Picture, containing a description and character of himself, which we should not now omit transcribing, if his works were not in every body's hands. In 1703 came out another Comedy, entitled the Inconstant, or the Way to Win Him, which had sufficient merit to have procured equal success to the rest; but for the inundation of Italian, French, and other farcical interruptions, which, through the interest of some, and the depraved taste of others, broke in upon the stage like a torrent, and swept down before thorn all taste for competitions of a more intrinsic excellence. These foreign monsters obtained partisans amongst our own countrymen, in opposition to English humour, genuine wit, and the sublime efforts of genius, and substituted in their room the airy entertainments of dancing and singing, which conveyed no instruction, awakened no generous passion, nor filled the breast with any thing great or manly. Such was the prevalence of these airy nothings, that our author's comedy was neglected for them, and the tragedy of Phædra slid Hippolitus, which for poetry is equal to any in our tongue, (and though Mr. Addison wrote the prologue, and Prior the epilogue) was suffered to languish, while multitudes flocked to hear the warblings of foreign eunuchs, whose highest excellence, as Young expresses it, was, 'Nonsense well tun'd with sweet stupidity.' Very early in the year 1704, a farce: called the Stage Coach, in the composition whereof he was jointly concerned with another, made its first appearance in print, and it has always given satisfaction. Mr. Farquhar had now been about a twelve-month married, and it was at first reported, to a great fortune; which indeed he expected, but was miserably disappointed. The lady had fallen in love with him, and so violent was her passion, that she resolved to have him at any rate; and as she knew Farquhar was too much dissipated in life to fall in love, or to think of matrimony unless advantage was annexed to it, she fell upon the stratagem of giving herself out for a great fortune, and then took an opportunity of letting our poet know that she was in love with him. Vanity and interest both uniting to persuade Farquhar to marry, he did not long delay it, and, to his immortal honour let it be spoken, though he found himself deceived, his circumstances embarrassed, and his family growing upon him, he never once upbraided her for the cheat, but behaved to her with, all the delicacy, and tenderness of an indulgent husband. His next comedy named the Twin-Rivals, was played in 1705. Our poet was possessed of his commission in the army when the Spanish expedition was made under the conduct of the earl of Peterborough, tho' it seems he did not keep it long after, and tho' he was not embarked in that service, or present at the defeat of the French forces, and the conquest of Barcelona; yet from some military friends in that engagement, he received such distinct relations of it in their epistolary correspondency, that he wrote a poem upon the subject, in which he has made the earl his hero. Two or three years after it was written, the impression of it was dedicated by the author's widow to the same nobleman, in which are some fulsome strains of panegyric, which perhaps her necessity excited her to use, from a view of enhancing her interest by flattery, which if excusable at all, is certainly so in a woman left destitute with a family, as she was. In 1706 a comedy called the Recruiting Officer was acted at the theatre-royal. He dedicates to all friends round the Wrekin, a noted hill near Shrewsbury, where he had been to recruit for his company; and where, from his observations on country-life, the manner that serjeants inveigle clowns to enlist, and the behaviour of the officers towards the milk-maids and country-wenches, whom they seldom fail of debauching, he collected matter sufficient to build a comedy upon, and in which he was successful: Even now that comedy fails not to bring full houses, especially when the parts of Captain Plume, Captain Brazen, Sylvia, and Serjeant Kite are properly disposed of. His last play was the Beaux--Stratagem, of which he did not live to enjoy the full success. Of this pleasing author's untimely end, we can give but a melancholy account. He was oppressed with some debts which obliged him to make application to a certain noble courtier, who had given him formerly many professions of friendship. He could not bear the thought that his wife and family would want, and in this perplexity was ready to embrace any expedient for their relief. His pretended patron persuaded him to convert his commission into the money he wanted, and pledged his honour, that in a very short time he would provide him another. This circumstance appeared favourable, and the easy bard accordingly sold his commission; but when he renewed his application to the nobleman, and represented his needy situation, the latter had forgot his promise, or rather, perhaps, had never resolved to fulfil it. This distracting disappointment so preyed upon the mind of Mr. Farquhar, who saw nothing but beggary and want before him, that by a sure, tho' not sudden declension of nature, it carried him off this worldly theatre, while his last play was acting in the height of success at that of Drury-lane; and tho' the audience bestowed the loudest applauses upon the performance, yet they could scarce forbear mingling tears with their mirth for the approaching loss of its author, which happened in the latter end of April 1707, before he was thirty years of age. Thus having attended our entertaining dramatist o'er the contracted stage of his short life, thro' the various characters he performed in it, of the player, the lover, and the husband, the soldier, the critic, and the poet, to his final catastrophe, it is here time to close the scene. However, we shall take the liberty to subjoin a short character of his works, and some farther observations on his genius. It would be injurious to the memory of Wilks not to take notice here, of his generous behaviour towards the two daughters of his deceased friend. He proposed to his brother managers, (who readily came into it) to give each of them a benefit, to apprentice them to mantua-makers; which is an instance amongst many others that might be produced, of the great worth of that excellent comedian. The general character which has been given of Mr. Farquhar's comedies is, 'That the success of the most of them far exceeded the author's expectations; that he was particularly happy in the choice of his subjects, which he took care to adorn with a variety of characters and incidents; his style is pure and unaffected, his wit natural and flowing, and his plots generally well contrived. He lashed the vices of the age, tho' with a merciful hand; for his muse was good-natured, not abounding over-much with gall, tho' he has been blamed for it by the critics: It has been objected to him, that he was too hasty in his productions; but by such only who are admirers of stiff and elaborate performances, since with a person of a sprightly fancy, those things are often best, that are struck off in a heat[5]. It is thought that in all his heroes, he generally sketched out his own character, of a young, gay, rakish spark, blessed with parts and abilities. His works are loose, tho' not so grossly libertine, as some other wits of his time, and leave not so pernicious impressions on the imagination as other figures of the like kind more strongly stampt by indelicate and heavier hands.' He seems to have been a man of a genius rather sprightly than great, rather flow'ry than solid; his comedies are diverting, because his characters are natural, and such as we frequently meet with; but he has used no art in drawing them, nor does there appear any force of thinking in his performances, or any deep penetration into nature; but rather a superficial view, pleasant enough to the eye, though capable of leaving no great impression on the mind. He drew his observations chiefly from those he conversed with, and has seldom given any additional heightening, or indelible marks to his characters; which was the peculiar excellence of Shakespear, Johnson, and Congreve. Had he lived to have gained a more general knowledge of life, or had his circumstances not been straitened, and so prevented his mingling with persons of rank, we might have seen his plays embellished with more finished characters, and with a more polished dialogue. He had certainly a lively imagination, but then it was capable of no great compass; he had wit, but it was of no peculiar a sort, as not to gain ground upon consideration; and it is certainly true, that his comedies in general owe their success full as much to the player, as to any thing intrinsically excellent in themselves. If he was not a man of the highest genius, he seems to have had excellent moral qualities, of which his behaviour to his wife and tenderness to his children are proofs, and deserved a better fate than to die oppressed with want, and under the calamitous apprehensions of leaving his family destitute: While Farquhar will ever be remembered with pleasure by people of taste, the name of the courtier who thus inhumanly ruined him, will be for ever dedicated to infamy. [Footnote 1: Memoirs of Wilks by Obrian, 8vo. 1732.] [Footnote 2: Memoirs of Mr. Farquhar, before his Works.] [Footnote 3: For the moral character of Mrs. Oldfield, see the Life of Savage.] [Footnote 4: Farquhar's Letters.] [Footnote 5: Memoirs, ubi. supra.] * * * * * EDWARD RAVENSCROFT. This gentleman is author of eleven plays, which gives him a kind of right to be named in this collection. Some have been of opinion, he was a poet of a low rate, others that he was only a wit collector; be this as it may, he acquired, some distinction by the vigorous opposition he made to Dryden: And having chosen so powerful an antagonist, he has acquired more honour by it, than by all his other works put together; he accuses Dryden of plagiary, and treats him severely. Mr. Dryden, indeed, had first attacked his Mamamouchi; which provoked Ravenscroft to retort so harshly upon him; but in the opinion of Mr. Langbain, the charge of plagiarism as properly belonged to Ravenfcroft himself as to Dryden; tho' there was this essential difference between the plagiary of one and that of the other; that Dryden turned whatever he borrowed into gold, and Ravenscroft made use of other people's materials, without placing them in a new light, or giving them any graces, they had not before. Ravenscroft thus proceeds against Mr. Dryden: 'That I may maintain the character of impartial, to which I pretend, I must pull off his disguise, and discover the politic plagiary that lurks under it. I know he has endeavoured to shew himself matter of the art of swift writing, and would persuade the world that what he writes is extempore wit, currente calamo. But I doubt not to shew that tho' he would be thought to imitate the silk worm that spins its webb from its own bowels, yet I shall make him appear like the leech that lives upon the blood of men, drawn from the gums, and when he is rubbed with salt, spues it up again. To prove this, I shall only give an account of his plays, and by that little of my own knowledge, that I shall discover, it will be manifest, that this rickety poet, (tho' of so many years) cannot go without others assistance; for take this prophecy from your humble servant, or Mr. Ravenscroft's Mamamouchi, which you please, 'When once our poet's translating vein is past, From him, you can't expect new plays in haste. Thus far Mr. Ravenscroft has censured Dryden; and Langbain, in order to prove him guilty of the same poetical depredation, has been industrious to trace the plots of his plays, and the similarity of his characters with those of other dramatic poets; but as we should reckon it tedious to follow him in this manner, we shall only in general take notice of those novels from which he has drawn his plots. We cannot ascertain the year in which this man died; he had been bred a templer, which he forsook as a dry unentertaining study, and much beneath the genius of a poet. His dramatic works are, 1. The Careless Lovers, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, 4to. 1673. The scene Covent-Garden, part of this play is borrowed from Moliere's Monsieur de Pourceaugnac. 2. Mamamouchi; or the Citizen turned Gentleman, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, 4to. 1675, dedicated to his Highness prince Rupert. Part of this play is taken from Moliere's le Bourgeois Gentilliome. Scene London. 3. Scaramouch a Philosopher, Harlequin a schoolboy, Bravo Merchant and Magician; a Comedy, after the Italian manner, acted at the theatre-royal 1677. The poet in his preface to this play boasts his having brought a new sort of Comedy on our stage; but his critics will not allow any one scene of it to be the genuine offspring of his own brain, and denominate him rather the midwife than the parent of this piece; part of it is taken from le Burgeois Gentilhome, & la Marriage Forcè. 4. The Wrangling Lovers; or the Invisible Mistress, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, 4to. 1677. This play is founded upon Corneille's Les Engagements du Hazard, and a Spanish Romance, called, Deceptio visus; or seeing and believing are two things. 5. King Edgar, and Alfreda, a Tragedy, acted at the theatre-royal 1677. The story is taken from the Annals of Love, a novel, and Malmesbury, Grafton, Stow, Speed, and other English chronicles. 6. The English Lawyer, a Comedy; acted at the theatre-royal 1678; this is only a translation of the celebrated latin comedy of Ignoramus, written by Mr. Ruggle of Clare-hall, Cambridge. Scene Bourdeaux. 7. The London Cuckolds, a Comedy; acted at the duke of York's theatre. This play is collected from the novels of various authors, and is esteemed one of the most diverting, though perhaps the most offensive play of the author's; it was first acted 1682. This play has hitherto kept possession of the flags, a circumstance owing to the annual celebration of the lord mayor's inauguration: Though it seems to be growing into a just disesteem. It was deprived of its annual appearance at Drury-Lane Theatre, in the year 1752, by Mr. Garrick; whose good sense would not suffer him to continue so unwarrantable and ridiculous an insult, upon so respectable a body of men as the magistrates of the city of London. The citizens are exposed to the highest ridicule in it; and the scenes are loose and indecent. The reason why the comic poets have so often declared themselves open enemies to the citizens, was plainly this: The city magistrates had always opposed the court, on which the poets had their dependance, and therefore took this method of revenge. 8. Dame Dobson, or the Cunning Woman, a Comedy; acted and damn'd at the duke's theatre, printed in quarto, 1684. This is a translation of a French comedy. 9. The Canterbury Guests, or a Bargain Broken, a Comedy; acted at the theatre-royal, in 1695. 10. The Anatomist, or the Sham Doctor, a Comedy; acted at the theatre-royal in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1697. 11. The Italian Husband, a Tragedy; acted at the theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1698. To this play, besides the prologue, is prefixed a dialogue, which the author calls the prelude, managed by the poet, a critic, and one Mr. Peregrine the poet's friend. The author here seems to be under the same mistake with other modern writers, who are fond of barbarous and bloody stories. The Epilogue is written by Jo. Haynes. * * * * * JOHN PHILIPS, A poet of very considerable eminence, was son of Dr. Stephen Philips, arch-deacon of Salop, and born at Brampton in Oxfordshire, December 30, 1676. After he had received a grammatical education at home, he was sent to Winchester school, where he made himself master of the Latin and Greek languages, and was soon distinguished for an happy imitation of the excellences which he discovered in the best classical authors. With this foundation he was removed to Christ's Church in Oxford, where he performed all his university exercises with applause, and besides other valuable authors in the poetical way, he became particularly acquainted with, and studied the works of Milton. The ingenious Mr. George Sewel, in his life and character of our author, observes, 'that there was not an allusion in Paradise Lost, drawn from the thoughts and expressions of Homer or Virgil, which Mr. Philips could not immediately refer to, and by that he perceived what a peculiar life and grace their sentiments added to English poetry; how much their images raised its spirit, and what weight and beauty their words, when translated, gave to its language: nor was he less curious in observing the force and elegance of his mother tongue; but by the example of his darling Milton, searched backwards into the works of our old English poets, to furnish him with proper sounding, and significant expressions, and prove the due extent, and compass of the language. For this purpose he carefully read over Chaucer and Spencer, and afterwards, in his writings, did not scruple to revive any words or phrases which he thought deserved it, with that modesty, and liberty which Horace allows of, either in the coining of new, or the restoring of ancient expressions.' Our author, however, was not so much enamoured of poetry, as to neglect other parts of literature, but was very well acquainted with the whole compass of natural philosophy. He seems in his studies, as well as his writings, to have made Virgil his pattern, and often to have broken out with him in the following rapturous wish, in the Second Book of the Georgies which, for the sake of the English reader, we shall give in Mr. Dryden's translation. 'Give me the ways of wand'ring stars to know, The depths of heav'n above, or earth below; Teach me the various labours of the moon, And whence proceed the eclipses of the sun. Why slowing tides prevail upon the main, And in what dark recess they shrink again. What shakes the solid earth, what cause delays The summer-nights, and the short winter days.' Mr. Philips was a passionate admirer of nature, and it is not improbable but he drew his own character in that description which he gives of a philosophical and retired life, at the latter end of the first Book of his Cyder. --He to his labour hies, Gladsome intent on somewhat that may ease Unearthly mortals and with curious search Examine all the properties of herbs, Fossils, and minerals, that th' embowell'd earth Displays, if by his industry he can Benefit human race. Though the reader will easily discover the unpoetical flatness of the above lines, yet they shew a great thirst after natural knowledge, and we have reason to believe, that much might have been attained, and many new discoveries made, by so diligent an enquirer, and so faithful a recorder of physical operations. However, though death prevented the hopes of the world in that respect, yet the passages of that kind, which we find in his Poem on Cyder, may convince us of the niceness of his observations in natural causes. Besides this, he was particularly skilled in antiquities, especially those of his own country; and part of this study too, he has with much art and beauty intermixed with his poetry. While Mr. Philips continued at the university, he was honoured with the acquaintance of the best and politest men in it, and had a particular intimacy with Mr. Edmund Smith, author of Phædra and Hippolitus. The first poem which got him reputation, was his Splendid Shilling, which the author of the Tatler has stiled the best burlesque poem in the English Language; nor was it only, says Mr. Sewel, 'the finest of that kind in our tongue, but handled in a manner quite different from what had been made use of by any author of our own, or other nation, the sentiments, and stile being in this both new; whereas in those, the jest lies more in allusions to the thoughts and fables of the ancients, than in the pomp of expression. The same humour is continued thro' the whole, and not unnaturally diversified, as most poems of that nature had been before. Out of that variety of circumstances, which his fruitful invention must suggest to him, on such a subject, he has not chosen any but what are diverting to every reader, and some, that none but his inimitable dress could have made diverting to any: when we read it, we are betrayed into a pleasure which we could not expect, tho' at the same time the sublimity of the stile, and the gravity of the phrase, seem to chastise that laughter which they provoke.' Mr. Edmund Smith in his beautiful verses on our Author's Death, speaks thus concerning this poem; 'In her best light the comic muse appears, When she with borrowed pride the buskin wears.' This account given by Mr. Sewel of the Splendid Shilling, is perhaps heightened by personal friendship, and that admiration which we naturally pay to the productions of one we love. The stile seems to be unnatural for a poem which is intended to raise laughter; for that laboured gravity has rather a contrary influence; disposing the mind to be serious: and the disappointment is not small, when a man finds he has been betrayed into solemn thinking, in reading the description of a trifle; if the gravity of the phrase chastises the laughter, the purpose of the poem is defeated, and it is a rule in writing to suit the language to the subject. Philips's Splendid Shilling may have pleased, because, its manner was new, and we often find people of the best sense throw away their admiration on monsters, which are seldom to be seen, and neglect more regular beauty, and juster proportion. It is with reserve we offer this criticism against the authority of Dr. Sewel, and the Tatler; but we have resolved to be impartial, and the reader who is convinced of the propriety and beauty of the Splendid Shilling, has, no doubt, as good a right to reject our criticism, as we had to make it. Our author's coming to London, we are informed, was owing to the persuasion of some great persons, who engaged him to write on the Battle of Blenheim; his poem upon which introduced him to the earl of Oxford, and Henry St. John, esq; afterwards lord viscount Bolingbroke, and other noble patrons. His swelling stile, it must be owned, was better suited to a subject of this gravity and importance, than to that of a light and ludicrous nature: the exordium of this piece is poetical, and has an allusion to that of Spencer's Fairy Queen: From low and abject themes the grov'ling muse Now mounts aërial to sing of arms Triumphant, and emblaze the martial acts Of Britain's hero. The next poem of our author was his Cyder, the plan of which he laid at Oxford, and afterwards compleated it in London. He was determined to make choice of this subject, from the violent passion he had for the productions of nature, and to do honour to his native country. The poem was founded upon the model of Virgil's Georgics, and approaches pretty near it, which, in the opinion of critics in general, and Mr. Dryden in particular, even excels the Divine Æneid: He imitates Virgil rather like a pursuer, than a follower, not servilely tracing, but emulating his beauties; his conduct and management are superior to all other copiers of that original; and even the admired Rapin (says Dr. Sewel) is much below him, both in design and success, 'for the Frenchman either fills his garden with the idle fables of antiquity, or new transformations of his own; and, in contradiction of the rules of criticism, has injudiciously blended the serious, and sublime stile of Virgil, with the elegant turns of Ovid in his Metamorphosis; nor has the great genius of Cowley succeeded better in his Books of Plants, who, besides the same faults with the former, is continually varying his numbers from one sort of verse to another, and alluding to remote hints of medicinal writers, which, though allowed to be useful, are yet so numerous, that they flatten the dignity of verse, and sink it from a poem, to a treatise of physic,' Dr. Sewel has informed us, that Mr. Philips intended to have written a poem on the Resurrection, and the Day of Judgment, and we may reasonably presume, that in such a work, he would have exceeded his other performances. This awful subject is proper to be treated in a solemn stile, and dignified with the noblest images; and we need not doubt from his just notions of religion, and the genuine spirit of poetry, which were conspicuous in him, he would have carried his readers through these tremendous scenes, with an exalted reverence, which, however, might not participate of enthusiasm. The meanest soul, and the lowest imagination cannot contemplate these alarming events described in Holy Writ, without the deepest impressions: what then might we not expect from the heart of a good man, and the regulated flights and raptures of a christian poet? Our author's friend Mr. Smith, who had probably seen the first rudiments of his design, speaks thus of it, in a poem upon his death. O! had relenting Heaven prolong'd his days, The tow'ring bard had sung in nobler lays: How the last trumpet wakes the lazy dead; How saints aloft the cross triumphant spread; How opening Heav'ns their happier regions, shew, And yawning gulphs with flaming vengeance glow, And saints rejoice above, and sinners howl below. Well might he sing the day he could not fear, And paint the glories he was sure to wear. All that we have left more of this poet, is a Latin Ode to Henry St. John, esq; which is esteemed a master-piece; the stile being pure and elegant, the subject of a mixt nature, resembling the Jublime spirit, and gay facetious humour of Horace. He was beloved, says Dr. Sewel, 'by all who knew him; somewhat reserved and silent amongst strangers, but free, familiar, and easy with his friends; he was averse to disputes, and thought no time so ill spent, and no wit so ill used, as that which was employed in such debates; his whole life was distinguished by a natural goodness, and well-grounded and unaffected piety, an universal charity, and a steady adherence to his principles; no one observed the natural and civil duties of life with a stricter regard, whether a son, a friend, or a member of society, and he had the happiness to fill every one of these parts, without even the suspicion either of undutifulness, insincerity, or disrespect. Thus he continued to the last, not owing his virtues to the happiness of his constitution, but the frame of his mind, insomuch, that during a long sickness, which is apt to ruffle the smoothest temper; he never betrayed any discontent or uneasiness, the integrity of his life still preserving the chearfulness of his spirits; and if his friends had measured their hopes of his life, only by his unconcern in his sickness, they could not but conclude, that either his date would be much longer, or that he was at all times prepared for death.' He had long been troubled with a lingering consumption, attended with an asthma; and the summer before he died, by the advice of his physicians, he removed to Batly, where he got only some present ease, but went from thence with but small hopes of recovery; and upon the return of the distemper, he died at Hereford the 15th of February, 1708. He was interred in the Cathedral church of that city, with an inscription upon his grave-stone, and had a monument erected to his memory in Westminster-abbey by Sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards lord chancellor; the epitaph of which was written by Dr. Friend. * * * * * WILLIAM WALSH, Esq; This poet was the son of Joseph Walsh, of Aberley in Worcestershire. He became a gentleman-commoner of Wadham-College Oxford, in Easter-Term, 1678, when he was only fifteen years of age; he left it without a degree, retired to his native county, and some time after went to London. He wrote a Dialogue concerning Women, being a Defence of the Fair-Sex, addressed to Eugenia, and printed in the year 1691. This is the most considerable of our author's productions, and it will be somewhat necessary to take further notice of it, which we cannot more effectually do, than by transcribing the words of Dryden in its commendation.--That great critic thus characterises it. 'The perusal of this dialogue, in defence of the Fair-Sex, written by a gentleman of my acquaintance, much surprised me: For it was not easy for me to imagine, that one so young could have treated so nice a subject with so much judgment. It is true, I was not ignorant that he was naturally ingenious, and that he had improved himself by travelling; and from thence I might reasonably have expected, that air of gallantry which is so visibly diffused through the body of the work, and is, indeed, the soul that animates all things of this nature; but so much variety of reading, both in ancient and modern authors, such digestion of that reading, so much justness of thought, that it leaves no room for affectation or pedantry; I may venture to say, are not over common amongst practised writers, and very rarely to be found amongst beginners. It puts me in mind of what was said of Mr. Waller, the father of our English numbers, upon the sight of his first verses, by the wits of the last age; that he came out into the world forty-thousand strong, before they had heard of him. Here in imitation of my friend's apostrophes, I hope the reader need not be told, that Mr. Waller is only mentioned for honour's sake, that I am desirous of laying hold on his memory on all occasions, and thereby acknowledging to the world, that unless he had written, none of us all could write. My friend, had not it seems confidence enough to send this piece out into the world, without my opinion of it, that it might pass securely, at least among the fair readers, for whose service it was principally designed. I am not so presuming, as to think my opinion can either be his touch-stone, or his passport; but, I thought I might send him back to Ariosto, who has made it the business of almost thirty stanza's, in the beginning of the thirty-seventh book of his Orlando Furioso; not only to praise that beautiful part of the creation, but also to make a sharp satire on their enemies; to give mankind their own, and to tell them plainly, that from their envy it proceeds, that the virtue and great actions of women are purposely concealed, and the failings of some few amongst them exposed, with all the aggravating circumstances of malice. For my own part, who have always been their servant, and have never drawn my pen against them, I had rather see some of them praised extraordinarily, than any of them suffer by detraction, and that at this age, and at this time particularly, wherein I find more heroines, than heroes; let me therefore give them joy of their new champion: If any will think me more partial to him, than I really am, they can only say, I have returned his bribe; and he word I wish him is, that he may receive justice from the men, and favour only from the ladies.' This is the opinion of Mr. Dryden in favour of this piece, which is sufficient to establish its reputation. Mr. Wood, the antiquarian, observes, that this Eugenia was the mistress of Walsh; but for this he produces no proof, neither is it in the lead material whether the circumstance is true or no. Mr. Walslh is likewise author of several occasional poems, printed 1749, amongst the works of the Minor Poets, and which he first published in the year 1692, with some letters amorous, and gallant, to which is prefixed the following address to the public. Go, little book, and to the world impart The faithful image of an amorous heart; Those who love's dear deluding pains have known, May in my fatal sorrows read their own: Those who have lived from all its torments free, May find the things they never, felt by me. Perhaps advis'd avoid the gilded bait, And warn'd by my example shun my fate. Whilst with calm joy, safe landed on the coast I view the waves, on which I once was tost. Love is a medley of endearments, jars, Suspicions, quarrels, reconcilements, wars; Then peace again. O would it not be best, To chase the fatal poison from our breast? But since, so few can live from passion free, Happy the man, and only happy he, Who with such lucky stars begins his love, That his cool judgment does his choice approve. Ill grounded passions quickly wear away; What's built upon esteem can ne'er decay. Mr. Walsh was of an amorous complexion, and in one of his letters mentions three of his amours, in pretty singular terms. 'I valued (says he) one mistress, after I left loving her; I loved another after I left valuing her; I love and value the third, after having lost all hopes of her; and according to the course of my passions, I should love the next after having obtained her. However, from this time forward, upon what follies soever you fall, be pleased, for my sake, to spare those of love; being very well satisfied there is not one folly of that kind (excepting marriage) which I have not already committed. I have been, without raillery, in love with the beauty of a woman whom I have never seen; with the wit of one whom I never heard speak, nor seen any thing she has written, and with the heroic virtues of a woman, without knowing any one action of her, that could make me think; she had any; Cupid will have it so, and what can weak mortals do against so potent a god?' Such were the sentiments of our author when he was about 30 years of age. Queen Anne constituted Mr. Walsh her master of the horse. On what account this place, in particular, was allotted him, we know not; but, with regard to his literary abilities, Mr. Dryden in his postscript to his translation of Virgil, has asserted, that Mr. Walsh was the best critic then living; and Mr. Pope, speaking of our author, thus concludes his Essay on Criticism, viz. To him, the wit of Greece, and Rome was known, And ev'ry author's merit, but his own. Such late was Walsh: the muses judge and friend, Who justly knew to blame, or to commend; To failings mild, but zealous for desert, The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. In the year 1714 the public were obliged with a small posthumous piece of Mr. Walsh's, entitled Æsculapius, or the Hospital of Fools, in imitation of Lucian. There is printed amongst. Mr. Walsh's other performances, in a volume of the Minor Poets, an Essay on Pastoral Poetry, with a Short Defence of Virgil, against some of the reflexions of M. Fontenellé. That critic had censured Virgil for writing his pastorals in a too courtly stile, which, he says, is not proper for the Doric Muse; but Mr. Walsh has very judiciously shewn, that the Shepherds in Virgil's time, were held in greater estimation, and were persons of a much superior figure to what they are now. We are too apt to figure the ancient countrymen like our own, leading a painful life in poverty, and contempt, without wit, or courage, or education; but men had quite different notions of these things for the first four thousand years of the world. Health and strength were then more in esteem, than the refinements of pleasure, and it was accounted, more honourable to till the ground, and keep a flock of sheep, than to dissolve in wantonness, and effeminating sloth. Mr. Walsh's other pieces consist chiefly of Elegies, Epitaphs, Odes, and Songs; they are elegant, tho' not great, and he seems to have had a well cultivated, tho' not a very extensive, understanding. Dryden and Pope have given their sanction in his favour, to whom he was personally known, a circumstance greatly to his advantage, for had there been no personal friendship, we have reason to believe, their encomiums would have been less lavish; at least his works do not carry so high an idea of him, as they have done. Mr. Walsh died about the year 1710. * * * * * THOMAS BETTERTON. (Written by R.S.[1]) Almost every circumstance relating to the life of this celebrated actor, is exposed to dispute, and his manner of first coming on the stage, as well as the action of his younger years have been controverted. He was son of Mr. Betterton, undercook to king Charles the Ist, and was born in Tothill-street Westminster, some time in the year 1635. Having received the rudiments of a genteel education, and discovering a great propensity to books, it was once proposed he should have been educated to some learned profession; but the violence and confusion of the times putting this out of the power of his family, he was at his own request bound apprentice to a bookseller, one Mr. Holden, a man of some eminence, and then happy in the friendship of Sir William Davenant. In the year 1656 it is probable Mr. Betterton made his first appearance on the stage, under the direction of Sir William, at the Opera-house in Charter-house-yard. It is said, that going frequently to the stage about his mailer's business, gave Betterton the first notion of it, who shewed such indications of a theatrical genius, that Sir William readily accepted him as a performer. Immediately after the restoration two distinct companies were formed by royal authority; the first in virtue of a patent granted to Henry Killegrew, Esq; called the king's company, the other in virtue of a patent granted to Sir William Davenant, which was stiled the duke's company.[2] The former acted at the theatre royal in Drury-lane, the other at that in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. In order that the theatres might be decorated to the utmost advantage, and want none of the embellishments used abroad, Mr. Betterton, by command of Charles II. went to Paris, to take a view of the French stage, that he might the better judge what would contribute to the improvement of our own. Upon his return, Mr. Betterton introduced moving scenes into our theatre, which before had the stage only hung with tapestry. The scenes no doubt help the representation, by giving the spectator a view of the place, and increase the distress, by making the deception more powerful, and afflicting the mind with greater sensibility. The theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields being very inconvenient, another was built for them in Dorset-Garden, called the duke's theatre, to which they removed and followed their profession with great success, during all that reign of pleasure. The stage at this time was so much the care of the state, that when any disputes arose, they were generally decided by his majesty himself or the duke of York, and frequently canvassed in the circle. Mr. Cibber assigns very good reasons, why at this time, theatrical amusements were so much in vogue; the first is, that after a long eclipse of gallantry during the rage of the civil war, people returned to it with double ardour; the next is, that women were then introduced on the stage, their parts formerly being supplied by boys, or effeminate young men, of which the famous Kynaston possessed the capital parts. When any art is carried to perfection, it seldom happens, that at that particular period, the profits arising from it are high; and at this time the advantages of playing were very inconsiderable: Mr. Hart the greatest performer at the king's theatre, had but three pounds a week, and Mr. Betterton, then but young, very probably had not so much, and besides, benefits then were things unheard of. In 1670 Mr. Betterton married a gentlewoman on the same stage, one Mrs. Saunderson, who excelled as an actress, every thing but her own conduct in life. In her, he was compleatly happy, and by their joint endeavours even in those days, they were able not only to acquire a genteel subsistence, but also to save what might support them in an advanced age[3]. After Sir William Davenant's death, the patent came into the hands of his son, Dr. Charles Davenant, so well known to the world by his political, writings; but, whether his genius was less fit than his father's for such an administration, or the king's Company were really superior to his in acting, we cannot determine; but they gained upon the town, and Dr. Davenant was obliged to have recourse to the dramatic opera, rich scenes, and fine music, to support the stage on which Betterton played. The Dr. himself wrote the Opera of Circe, which came first on the stage in 1675, and was received with, such applause, as gave hopes of succeeding in this new way. The same year a Pastoral, called Calista, or the Chaste Nymph, written by Mr. Crowne, at the desire of queen Katherine, was represented at court; and the ladies, Mary and Anne, daughters to the duke of York, played parts in it. On this occasion Mr. Betterton instructed the actors, and Mrs. Betterton gave lessons to the princesses; in grateful remembrance of which queen Anne settled a pension of 100 l. per annum upon her. During this time an emulation subsisted between the two companies, and a theatrical war was proclaimed aloud, in which the town reaped the advantage, by seeing the parts performed with the greater life. The duke's company however maintained it's superiority, by means of the new-invented artillery, of music, machines, and scenery, and other underhand dealings, and bribing of actors in the opposite faction from performing their duty. By these measures, a coalition was effected, and the two companies joined together, and being united formed one of the perfectest that ever filled a stage, in 1682. It was in this united company that the merit of Betterton shone with unrivalled lustre, and having survived the great actors on whose model he had formed himself he was at liberty to discover his genius in its full extent, by replacing many of them with advantage in these very characters, in which, during their life-times, they had been thought inimitable; and all who have a taste for scenical entertainments cannot but thank the present laureat, for preserving for them so lively a portrait of Betterton, and painting him in so true a light, that without the imputation of blind adulation, he may be justly stiled the British Roscius. This account is too important and picturesque to be here omitted; and it would be an injury to Betterton not to shew him in that commanding light, in which the best judge of that species of excellence has placed him. "Betterton was an actor, as Shakespear was an author, both without competitors! form'd for the mutual assistance, and illustration of each others genius! how Shakespear wrote, all men who have a taste for nature may read, and know--but with what higher rapture would he still be read, could they conceive how Betterton play'd him! then might they know, the one was born alone to speak what the other only knew to write! Pity it is, that the momentary beauties flowing from an harmonious elocution cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record! that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them; or at belt can but faintly glimmer through the memory, or imperfect attestation of a few surviving spectators. Could how Betterton spoke, be as easily known as what he spoke; then might you see the muse of Shakespear in her triumph, with all their beauties in their belt array, rising into real life, and charming her beholders. But alas! since all this is so far out of the reach of description, how shall I shew you Betterton? Should I therefore tell you, that all the Othellos, Hamlets, Hotspurs, Mackbeths, and Brutus's, whom you may have seen since his time have fallen far short of him: This still would give you no idea of his particular excellence. Let us see then what a particular comparison may do! whether that may yet draw him nearer to you? You have seen a Hamlet perhaps, who, on the first appearance of his father's spirit, has thrown himself into all the straining vociferation requisite to express rage and fury, and the house has thundered with applause; tho' the misguided actor was all the while (as Shakespear terms it) tearing a passion into rags--am the more bold to offer you this particular instance, because the late Mr. Addison, while I sate by him, to see this scene acted, made the same observation, asking me with some surprize, if I thought Hamlet should be in so violent a passion with the Ghost, which though it might have astonished, it had not provok'd him? for you may observe that in this beautiful speech, the passion never rises beyond an almost breathless astonishment, or an impatience, limited by filial reverence, to enquire into the suspected wrongs that may have rais'd him from his peaceful tomb! and a desire to know what a spirit so seemingly distress, might wish or enjoin a sorrowful son to execute towards his future quiet in the grave? this was the light into which Betterton threw this scene; which he open'd with a pause of mute amazement! then rising slowly, to a solemn, trembling voice, he made the Ghost equally terrible to the spectator, as to himself! and in the descriptive part of the natural emotions which the ghastly vision gave him, the boldness of his expostulation was still governed by decency, manly, but not braving; his voice never rising into that seeming outrage, or wild defiance of what he naturally rever'd. But alas! to preserve this medium, between mouthing, and meaning too little, to keep the attention more pleasingly awake, by a tempered spirit, than by meer vehemence of voice, is of all the master-strokes of an actor the most difficult to reach. In this none yet have equall'd Betterton. But I am unwilling to shew his superiority only by recounting the errors of those, who now cannot answer to them; let their farther failings therefore be forgotten! or rather shall I in some measure excuse them? for I am not yet sure, that they might not be as much owing to the false judgment of the spectator, as the actor. While the million are so apt to be transported, when the drum of their ear is so roundly rattled; while they take the life of elocution to lie in the strength of the lungs, it is no wonder the actor, whose end is applause, should be so often tempted, at this easy rate, to excite it. Shall I go a little farther? and allow that this extreme is more pardonable than its opposite error. I mean that dangerous affectation of the monotone, or solemn sameness of pronunciation, which to my ear is insupportable; for of all faults that so frequently pass upon the vulgar, that of flatness will have the fewest admirers. That this is an error of ancient standing seems evident by what Hamlet says, in his instructions to the players, viz. Be not too tame, neither, &c. The Actor, doubtless, is as strongly ty'd down to the rule of Horace, as the writer. Si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum ipsi tibi---- He that feels not himself the passion he would raise, will talk to a sleeping audience: But this never was the fault of Betterton; and it has often amaz'd me, to see those who soon came after him, throw out in some parts of a character, a just and graceful spirit, which Betterton himself could not but have applauded. And yet in the equally shining passages of the same character, have heavily dragg'd the sentiment along, like a dead weight; with a long ton'd voice, and absent eye, as if they had fairly forgot what they were about: If you have never made this observation, I am contented you should not know where to apply it. A farther excellence in Betterton, was that he could vary his spirit to the different characters he acted. Those wild impatient starts, that fierce and flaming fire, which he threw into Hotspur, never came from the unruffled temper of his Brutus (for I have more than once seen a Brutus as warm as Hotspur) when the Betterton Brutus was provoked, in his dispute with Cassius, his spirit flew only to his eye; his steady look alone supply'd that terror, which he disdain'd, an intemperance in his voice should rise to. Thus, with a settled dignity of contempt, like an unheeding rock, he repell'd upon himself the foam of Cassius. Perhaps the very words of Shakespear will better let you into my meaning: Must I give way, and room, to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman flares? And a little after, There is no terror, Cassius, in your looks! &c. Not but, in some part of this scene, where he reproaches Cassius, his temper is not under this suppression, but opens into that warmth which becomes a man of virtue; yet this is that hasty spark of anger, which Brutus himself endeavours to excuse. But with whatever strength of nature we see the poet shew, at once, the philosopher and the heroe, yet the image of the actor's excellence will be still imperfect to you, unless language cou'd put colours in our words to paint the voice with. Et si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum, is enjoining an impossibility. The most that a Vandyke can arrive at, is to make his portraits of great persons seem to think; a Shakespear goes farther yet, and tells you what his pictures thought; a Betterton steps beyond 'em both, and calls them from the grave, to breathe, and be themselves again, in feature, speech, and motion. When the skilful actor shews you all these powers united, he gratifies at once your eye, your ear, and your understanding. To conceive the pleasure rising from such harmony, you must have been present at it! 'tis not to be told you! Thus was Betterton happy in his fortune, in the notice of his sovereign, in his fame and character, and in a general respect of all ranks of life; thus happy might he have continued, had he not been persuaded to attempt becoming rich, and unluckily engaged in a scheme that swept away all his capital, and left him in real distress. This accident fell out in 1692; and is of too particular a kind to pass unnoticed. Mr. Betterton had a great many friends amongst the wealthy traders in the city, and so amiable was his private life, that all who knew him were concerned, and interested in his success: Amongst these, there was a gentleman, whose name the author of his life thinks proper to conceal, who entered into the strictest amity with this actor. This gentleman in the year 1692 was concerned in an adventure to the East-Indies, upon the footing then allowed by the company's charter, which vessels so employed were stiled interlopers. The project of success was great, the gain unusually high; and this induced Mr. Betterton, to whom his friend offered any share in the business he pleased, to think of so large a sum as eight-thousand pounds; but it was not for himself, as he had no such sum in his power: and whoever considers the situation of the stage at that time will need no other argument to convince him of it. Yet he had another friend whom, he was willing to oblige, which was the famous Dr. Radcliffe; so Mr. Betterton advanced somewhat more than two-thousand pounds, which was his all, and the Dr. made it up eight-thousand. The vessel sailed to the East-Indies, and made as prosperous a voyage as those concerned in her could wish, and the war with France being then, very warm, the captain very prudently came home north about, and arrived safe in Ireland; but in his passage from thence he was taken by the French. His cargo was upwards of 120,000 l. which ruined Mr. Betterton, and broke the fortune and heart of his friend in the city: As for doctor Radcliffe, he expressed great concern for Mr. Betterton, but none for himself; the Dr. merrily consoled himself with observing, 'that it was only trotting up 200 pair of stairs more, and things are as they were.' This accident, however fatal to Mr. Betterton's fortune, yet proved not so to his peace, for he bore it without murmur, and even without mention; so far from entertaining resentment against his friend in the city, who doubtless meant him well, he continued his intimacy till his death, and after his decease took his only daughter under his protection, and watched over her education till she thought proper to dispose of herself in marriage to Mr. Bowman the player, whose behaviour was such, as to gain the esteem of all that knew him; he has not been many years dead, and reflected credit on the reports of the excellency of the old stage. Such the virtue, such the honour of Mr. Betterton! who in his private character was as amiable as any he borrowed from the poets, and therefore was always deservedly considered as the head of the theatre, though vetted there with very little power. The managers, as the companies were now united, exercised the mod despotic stage-tyranny; and obliged our author to remonstrate to them the hardships they inflicted on their actors, and represent that bad policy of the few, forgetting their obligations to the many. This language in the ears of the theatrical ministry, sounded like treason; and therefore, instead of considering how to remedy the mischiefs complained of, they bent their thoughts to get rid of their monitor: as if the not hearing of faults was equivalent to mending them. It was with this view they began to give away some of Betterton's first parts to young actors,[4] supposing this would abate his influence. This policy ruined them, and assisted him: The public resented their having plays ill acted when they knew they might have better. The best players attached themselves wholly to Betterton, and desired him to turn his thoughts on some method of procuring himself and them justice. Thus theatrical despotism produced its own definition, and the very steps taken to render Betterton desperate, pointed out the way for his deliverance. Mr. Betterton, who had a general acquaintance with people of fashion, represented his case to them, and at last by the interposition of the earl of Dorset, a patent was granted him for building a new play-house in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, which he effected by a subscription. The patentees, in order to make head against them, got over to their party Mr. Williams, and Mrs. Mountford, both eminent players; they had also recruits from the country, but with all the art of which they were capable, they continued still unequal to Mr. Betterton's company. The new theatre was opened in 1695, with very great advantages: Mr. Congreve accepted of a share with this company, as Mr. Dryden had formerly with the king's; and the first play they acted was Congreve's Comedy of Love for Love. The king honoured it with his presence, there was a large and splendid audience, Mr. Betterton spoke a Prologue, and Mrs. Bracegirdle an Epilogue suited to the occasion, and it appeared by the reception they met with, that the town knew how to reward the merit of those the patentees used so ill. But with all these vast advantages, Betterton's company were not able to maintain this flow of prosperity, beyond two or three seasons: Mr. Congreve was a slow writer, Vanbrugh, and Mr. Cibber, who wrote for the other house, were more expeditious; and if they did not finish, they at least writ pleasing Comedies. The frequency of new pieces, however, gave such a turn in their favour, that Betterton's company with all their merit, had been undone, had not the Mourning Bride, and the Way of the World, come like reprieves, and saved them from the last gasp[5]. In a few years however, it appearing plainly, that without a new support from their friends, it was impossible for them to maintain their superiority, or independance; the patrons of Mr. Betterton set about a new subscription, for building a theatre in the Hay-market, under the direction of Sir John Vanbrugh, which was finished in 1706[6]; and was to be conducted upon a new plan; music and scenery to be intermixed with the drama, which with the novelty of a new house, was likely to retrieve Mr. Betterton's affairs. This favour was kindly received by Mr. Betterton; but he was now grown old, his health and strength much impaired by constant application, and his fortune still worse than his health; he chose therefore (as a mutinous spirit, occasioned by disappointments, grew up amongst the actors) to decline the offer, and so put the whole design under the conduct of Sir John Vanbrugh, and Mr. Congreve, the latter of whom soon abandoned it entirely; and Mr. Betterton's strength failing, many of the old players dying, and other accidents intervening, a reunion of the companies became absolutely necessary, and soon after took place. Hitherto, Betterton is considered as at the head of his company, and the affairs of the stage are naturally connected with his, as the transactions of a nation are interwoven with the life of a prince. After our author reached seventy, his infirmities grew upon him greatly, his fits of the gout were more lasting, and more severe: His circumstances also, which had not been mended since he took upon him the conduct of the theatre, grew more necessitous, and all this joined to his wife's ill state of health, made his condition melancholy, at a time when the highest affluence could not have made them chearful. Yet under all these pressures, he kept up his spirit, and though less active, was as serene as ever. The public in those days, had a grateful remembrance of the pleasure Betterton had given them, and would not suffer so distinguished, and so deserving a man, after fifty-years service, to withdraw, till he had received from them some marks of their favour. In the spring of 1709 a benefit was granted to Mr. Betterton, and the play of Love for Love was acted for that purpose. Two of the best actresses that ever graced the stage appeared on it upon that occasion, tho' they had long quitted it, to render the benefit more advantageous: The part of Valentine was performed by Mr. Betterton, Angelica by Mrs. Bracegirdle, and Mrs. Barry performed that of Frail. The epilogue was written by Mr. Rowe. Mrs. Bracegirdle, Mrs. Barry, and Mr. Betterton, appeared on the stage together, and the ladies taking hold of him, represented his infirmities of age, and pleaded his ancient merit, in a very natural and moving manner: This epilogue is exquisite in its kind. The profits arising from that benefit, we are told, amounted to 500 l. He had also a promise that the favour should be annually continued. These extraordinary acts of public gratitude had a proper effect upon Mr. Betterton; who instead of indulging himself on their bounty, exerted the spirit given by this generosity, in their service, and appeared and acted as often as his health would permit[7]. On the 20th of September following, in particular, he performed the part of Hamlet, with such vivacity, as well as justice, that it gave ample satisfaction to the best judges. This activity in the winter kept off the gout longer than usual, but the fit returning in the spring, was the more unlucky, as it happened at the time of his benefit, when the success of his play was sure to depend in a great measure upon his own performance. The play he made choice of was the Maid's Tragedy, in which he acted the part of Melantius; and notice was accordingly given by his good friend the Tatler; but the fit intervened; and that he might not disappoint the town, Mr. Betterton was forced to submit to outward applications, to reduce the swelling of his feet: Which had such an effect, that he was able to appear on the stage, though he was obliged to use a slipper. He acted that day, says the Laureat, with unusual spirit, and briskness, by which he obtained universal applause; but this could not prevent his paying a very dear price for these marks of approbation, since the gouty humour, repelled by fomentations, soon seized upon the nobler parts; which being perhaps weakened by his extraordinary fatigue on that occasion, he was not able to make a long resistance: But on the 28th of April, 1710, he paid the debt to nature; and by his death occasioned the most undissembled mourning amongst people of rank and fashion. His behaviour as a man, and his abilities as a player, raised his character, and procured him the esteem of all worthy and good men; and such honours were paid his memory, as only his memory could deserve. On the second of May, his corpse was with much ceremony interred in Westminster Abbey, and the excellent author of the Tatler, has given such an account of the solemnity of it, as will outlast the Abbey itself. And it is no small mortification to us, that it is inconsistent with our proposed bounds, to transcribe the whole: It is writ with a noble spirit; there is in it an air of solemnity and grandeur; the thoughts rise naturally from one another; they fill the mind with an awful dread, and consecrate Mr. Betterton to immortality, with the warmth of friendship, heightened by admiration. As to the character of this great man in his profession, the reader need but reflect on Mr. Colley Cibber's account here inserted, who was well qualified to judge, and who, in his History of the Stage, has drawn the most striking pictures that ever were exhibited; even the famous lord Clarendon, whose great excellence is characterising, is not more happy in that particular, than the Laureat; no one can read his portraits of the players, without imagining he sees the very actors before his eyes, their air, their attitudes, their gesticulations. Mr. Betterton was a man of great study and application; and, with respect to the subjects that employed his attention, he was as much a master of them as any man. He was an excellent critic, more especially on Shakespear, and Fletcher. Mr. Rowe, who was a good judge, and also studied the same authors with deep attention, gives this testimony in his favour, and celebrates, in the warmest manner, Betterton's critical abilities. His knowledge of Shakespear's merit, gave him so strong, and so perfect an esteem for him, that he made a pilgrimage into Staffordshire to visit his tomb, and to collect whatever particulars tradition might have preserved in relation to his history; and these he freely communicated to the same friend, who candidly acknowledges, that the Memoirs of Shakespear's Life he published, were the produce of that journey, and freely bestowed upon him by the collector. Mr. Booth, who knew him only in his decline, frequently made mention of him, and said, he never saw him either off, or on the stage, without learning something from him; he frequently observed, that Mr. Betterton was no actor, but he put on his part with his clothes, and was the very man he undertook to be, 'till the play was over, and nothing more. So exact was he in following nature, that the look of surprize he assumed in the character of Hamlet so astonished Booth (when he first personated the Ghost) as to disable him for some moments from going on. He was so communicative, that in the most capital parts, he would enter into the grounds of his action, and explain, the principles of his art. He was an admirable master of the action of the stage, considered as independent of sentiment; and knew perfectly the connection, and business of the scenes, so as to attract, preserve, and satisfy the attention of art audience: An art extremely necessary to an actor, and very difficult to be attained. What demonstrated his thorough skill in dramatic entertainments, was, his own performance, which was sufficient to establish a high reputation, independent of his other merit. As he had the happiness to pass through life without reproach, a felicity few attain, so he was equally happy in the choice of a wife, with whom he spent his days in domestic quiet, though they were of very different tempers; he was naturally gay and chearful, she of a melancholy reserved disposition. She was so strongly affected by his death, which was, in some measure, sudden, that she ran distracted, tho' she appeared rather a prudent and constant, than a fond and passionate wife: She was a great ornament to the stage, and her death, which happened soon after, was a public loss. The Laureat, in his Apology, thus characterises her: 'She was, says he, though far advanced in years, so great a mistress of nature, that even Mrs. Barry, who acted Lady Macbeth after her, could not in that part, with all her superior strength, and melody of voice, throw out those quick and careless strokes of terror, from the disorder of a guilty mind, which the other gave us, with a facility in her manner that rendered them at once tremendous and delightful. Time could not impair her skill, though it brought her person to decay: she was to the last the admiration of all true judges of nature, and lovers of Shakespear, in whose plays she chiefly excelled, and without a rival. When she quitted the stage, several good actresses were the better for her instruction. She was a woman of an unblemished and sober life, and had the honour to teach Queen Anne, when Princess, the part of Semandra in Mithridates, which she acted at court in King Charles's time. After the death of Mr. Betterton, that Princess, when Queen, ordered her a pension for life, but she lived not to receive more than the first half year of it.' Thus we have seen, that it is not at all impossible for persons of real worth, to transfer a reputation acquired on the stage, to the characters they possess in real life, and it often happens, as in the words of the poet, That scenic virtue forms the rising age, And truth displays her radiance from the stage. The following are Mr. Betterton's dramatic works; 1. The Woman made a Justice; a Comedy. 2. The Unjust Judge, or Appius and Virginia; a Tragedy, written originally by Mr. John Webster, an old poet, who lived in the reign of James I. It was altered only by Mr. Betterton, who was so cautious, and reserved upon this head, that it was by accident the fact was known, at least with certainty. 3. The Amorous Widow, or the Wanton Wife, a Play, written on the plan of Moliere's George Dandin. The Amorous Widow has an under-plot interwoven, to accommodate the piece to the prevailing English taste. Is was acted with great applause, but Mr. Betterton, during his life, could never be induced to publish it; so that it came into the world as a posthumous performance. The chief merit of this, and his other pieces, lies in the exact disposition of the scenes; their just length, great propriety, and natural connexions; and of how great consequence this is to the fate of either tragedy or comedy, may be learned from all Banks's plays, which, though they have nothing else to recommend them, yet never fail to move an audience, much more than some justly esteemed superior. Who ever saw Banks's earl of Essex represented without tears; how few bestow them upon the Cato of Addison. Besides these pieces, Betterton wrote several occasional Poems, translations of Chaucer's Fables, and other little exercises. In a word, to sum up all that we have been saying, with regard to the character of this extraordinary person, as he was the most perfect model of dramatic action, so was he the most unblemished pattern of private and social qualities: Happy is it for that player who imitates him in the one, and still more happy that man who copies him in the other.[8] [Footnote 1: Mr. Theophilus Cibber being about to publish, in a work entirely undertaken by himself the Lives and Characters of all our Eminent Actors and Actresses, from Shakespear to the present time; leaves to the other Gentlemen concerned in this collection, the accounts of some players who could not be omitted herein, as Poets.] [Footnote 2: Cibber's apology.] [Footnote 3: Biograph. Brittan. from the information of Southern.] [Footnote 4: Cibber's Life.] [Footnote 5: Cibber's Life.] [Footnote 6: Memoirs of Vanbrugh's Life.] [Footnote 7: History of the stage.] [Footnote 8: We acknowledge a mistake, which we committed in the life of Mavloe, concerning Betterton. It was there observed that he formed himself upon Alleyn, the famous founder of Dulwich-Hospital, and copied his theatrical excellencies: which, upon a review of Betterton's life, we find could not possibly happen as Alleyn was dead several years before Betterton was born: The observation should have been made of Hart.] * * * * * JOHN BANKS. This gentleman was bred a lawyer, and was a member of the society at New Inn. His genius led him to make several attempts in dramatic poetry, in which he had various success; but even when he met with the greatest encouragement, he was very sensible of his error, in quitting the profitable practice of the law, to pursue the entertainments of the stage, but he was fired with a thirst of fame which reconciled to his mind the many uneasy sensations, to which the precarious success of his plays, and the indigence of his profession naturally exposed him: Mr. Banks no doubt has gained one part of his design by commencing poet, namely, that of being remembered after death, which Pope somewhere calls the poor estate of wits: For this gentleman has here a place amongst the poets, while nine tenths of the lawyers of his time, now sleep with their fathers secure in oblivion, and of whom we can only say, they lived, and died. Mr. Banks's genius was wholly turned for tragedy; his language is certainly unpoetical, and his numbers unharmonious; but he seems not to have been ignorant of the dramatic art: For in all his plays he has very forcibly rouzed the passions, kept the scene busy, and never suffered his characters to languish. In the year 1684 Mr. Banks offered a tragedy to the stage called the Island Queens, or the Death of Mary Queen of Scots, which, it seems, was rejected, whether from its want of merit, or motives of a political kind, we cannot now determine, but Mr. Banks thought proper then to publish it. In the year 1706, he obtained the favour of Queen Anne to command it to be acted at the Theatre-Royal, which was done with success, for it is really a very moving tragedy. It has been often revived, and performed at the Theatres, with no inconsiderable applause. His dramatic works are, 1. The Rival Kings, or the Loves of Oroondates and Statira, a Tragedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal 1677. This play is dedicated to the Lady Catherine Herbert, and is chiefly formed on the Romance of Cassandra. 2. The Destruction of Troy, a Tragedy, acted 1679. This play met with but indifferent success. 3. Virtue Betrayed, or Anna Bullen, a Tragedy, acted 1682. This play has been often acted with applause. 4. The Earl of Essex, or the Unhappy Favourite, acted 1682, with the most general applause. Mr. Dryden wrote the Prologue, and Epilogue. It will be naturally expected, that, having mentioned the earl of Essex by Banks, we should say something of a Tragedy which has appeared this year on the Theatre at Covent-Garden, of the same name. We cannot but acknowledge, that Mr. Jones has improved the story, and heightened the incident in the last act, which renders the whole more moving; after the scene of parting between Essex, and Southampton, which is very affecting, Rutland's distress upon the melancholy occasion of parting from her husband, is melting to the last degree. It is in this scene Mr. Barry excells all his cotemporaries in tragedy; he there shews his power over our passions, and bids the heart bleed, in every accent of anguish. After Essex is carried out to execution, Mr. Jones introduces the queen at the tower, which has a very happy effect, and her manner of behaving on that occasion, makes her appear more amiable than ever she did in any play on the same subject. Mr. Jones in his language (in this piece) does not affect being very poetical;--nor is his verification always mellifluent, as in his other writings;--but it is well adapted for speaking: The design is well conducted, the story rises regularly, the business is not suspended, and the characters are well sustained. 5. The Island Queens, a Tragedy, of which we have already given some account; the name of it was afterwards changed to the Albion Queens. 6. The Innocent Usurper, or the Death of Lady Jane Gray, a Tragedy, printed 1694. It was prohibited the stage, on account of some groundless insinuations, that it reflected upon the government. This play, in Banks's own opinion, is inferior to none of his former. Mr. Rowe has written likewise a Tragedy on this subject, which is a stock play at both houses; it is as much superior to that of our author, as the genius of the former was greater than that of the latter. 7. Cyrus the Great, a Tragedy. This play was at first rejected, but it afterwards got upon the stage, and was acted with great success; the plot is taken from Scudery's Romance of the Grand Cyrus. We cannot ascertain the year in which Banks died. He seems to have been a man of parts; his characteristic fault as a writer, was aiming at the sublime, which seldom failed to degenerate into the bombast; fire he had, but no judgment to manage it; he was negligent of his poetry, neither has he sufficiently marked, and distinguished his characters; he was generally happy in the choice of his fables, and he has found a way of drawing tears, which many a superior poet has tried in vain. * * * * * LADY CHUDLEIGH Was born in the year 1656, and was daughter of Richard Lee of Winslade, in the county of Devon, esq; She had an education in which literature seemed but little regarded, being taught no other language than her native tongue; but her love of books, incessant industry in the reading of them, and her great capacity to improve by them, enabled her to make a very considerable figure in literature. She was married to Sir George Chudleigh of Ashton in the county of Devon, Bart, by whom she had issue Eliza Maria, who died in the bloom of life, (much lamented by her mother, who poured out her griefs on that occasion, in a Poem entitled a Dialogue between Lucinda and Marissa) and George, who succeeded to the title and estate, Thomas, and others. She was a lady of great virtue, as well as understanding, and she made the latter of these subservient to the promotion of the former, which was much improved by study; but though she was enamoured of the charms of poetry, yet she dedicated some part of her time to the severer study of philosophy, as appears from her excellent essays, which discover an uncommon degree of piety, and knowledge, and a noble contempt of those vanities which the unthinking part of her sex so much regard, and so eagerly pursue. The works which this lady produced, are, The Ladies Defence, or the Bride-Woman's Counsellor answered, a Poem; in a Dialogue between Sir John Brute, Sir William Loveall, Melissa, and a Parson. This piece has been several times printed; the writing it was occasioned by an angry sermon preached against the fair sex, of which her ladyship gives the following account; 'Mr. Lintot, says she, some time since, intending to reprint my poems, desired me to permit him to add to them a Dialogue I had written in the year 1700, on a Sermon preached by Mr. Sprint, a Nonconformist, at Sherbourne in Dorsetshire; I refusing, for several reasons, to grant his request, he, without my knowledge, bought the copy of the Bookseller who formerly printed it, and, without my consent, or once acquainting me with his resolution, added to it the second edition of my poems; and that which makes the injury the greater, is, his having omitted the Epistle Dedicatory, and the Preface, by which means he has left the reader wholly in the dark, and exposed me to censure. When it was first printed I had reason to complain, but not so much as now: Then the Dedication was left entire as I had written it, but the Preface so mangled, altered, and considerably shortened, that I hardly knew it to be my own; but being then published without a name, I was the less concerned, but since, notwithstanding the great care I took to conceal it, it is known to be mine; I think myself obliged, in my own defence, to take some notice of it[1].' The omission of this Preface, which contained an answer to part of the sermon, and gave her reasons for writing the poem, had occasioned some people to make ill-natured reflexions on it: this put her ladyship on justifying herself, and assuring her readers, that there are no reflexions in it levelled at any particular persons, besides the author of the Sermon; him (says she) I only blame for being too angry, for his not telling us our duty in a softer more engaging way: address, and good manners render reproofs a kindness; but where they are wanting, admonitions are always taken ill: as truths of this sort ought never to be concealed from us, so they ought never to be told us with an indecent warmth; a respectful tenderness would be more becoming a messenger of peace, the disciple of an humble, patient, meek, commiserating Saviour.' Besides this lady's poems, of which we shall give some account when we quote a specimen; she wrote Essays upon several subjects, in prose and verse, printed in 8vo. 1710. These Essays are upon Knowledge, Pride, Humility, Life, Death, Fear, Grief, Riches, Self-love, Justice, Anger, Calumny, Friendship, Love, Avarice, Solitude, and are much admired for the delicacy of the stile, there being not the least appearance of false wit, or affected expression, the too common blemishes of this sort of writing: they are not so much the excursions of a lively imagination, which can often expatiate on the passions, and actions of men, with small experience of either, as the deliberate result of observations on the world, improved with reading, regulated with judgment, softened by good manners, and heightened with sublime thoughts, and elevated piety. This treatise is dedicated to her Royal Highness the Princess Sophia, Electress, and Duchess Dowager of Brunswick, on which occasion that Princess, then in her 80th year, honoured her with the following epistle, written by the Electress in French, but which we shall here present to the reader in English. Hanover June 25, 1710. LADY CHUDLEIGH, You have done me a very great pleasure in letting me know by your agreeable book, that there is such a one as you in England, and who has so well improved herself, that she can, in a fine manner, communicate her sentiments to all the world. As for me I do not pretend to deserve the commendations you give me, but by the esteem which I have of your merit, and of your good sense, I will be always entirely Your affectionate friend to serve you, SOPHIA ELECTRICE. At the end of the second volume of the duke of Wharton's poems, are five letters from lady Chudleigh, to the revd. Mr. Norris of Bemmerton, and Mrs. Eliz. Thomas, the celebrated Corinna of Dryden. She wrote several other things, which, though not printed, are carefully preserved in the family, viz. two Tragedies, two Operas, a Masque, some of Lucian's Dialogues, translated into Verse, Satirical Reflexions on Saqualio, in imitation of one of Lucian's Dialogues, with several small Poems on various Occasions. She had long laboured under the pains of a rheumatism, which had confined her to her chamber a considerable time before her death, which happened at Ashton in Devonshire, December 15, 1710, in the 55th year of her age, and lies buried there without either monument or inscription. The poetical Works of this Lady consist chiefly in the Song of the Three Children Paraphrased, some Pindaric Odes, Familiar Epistles, and Songs. We shall select as a specimen, a Dialogue between Lucinda and Marissa, occasioned by the death of her Ladyship's Daughter, in the early bloom of her youth. It is of a very melancholy cast, and expressive of the grief me must have felt upon that tender occasion. Her ladyship has informed us in her preface to her poems, that she generally chose subjects suited to her present temper of mind. 'These pieces (says she) were the employments of my leisure hours, the innocent amusements of a solitary life; in them the reader will find a picture of my mind, my sentiments all laid open to their view; they will sometimes see me chearful, pleased, sedate, and quiet; at other times, grieving, complaining, and struggling with my passions, blaming myself, endeavouring to pay homage to my reason, and resolving for the future with a decent calmness, an unshaken constancy, and a resigning temper, to support all the troubles, all the uneasiness of life, and then, by unexpected emergencies, unforeseen disappointments, sudden, and surprising turns of fortune, discomposed, and shock'd, 'till I have rallied my scattered fears, got new strength, and by making unwearied resistance, gained the better of my afflictions, and restored my mind to its former tranquility. Would we (continues her ladyship) contract our desires, and learn to think that only necessary, which nature has made so; we should be no longer fond of riches, honours, applauses, and several other things, which are the unhappy occasions of much mischief to the world; and doubtless, were we so happy as to have a true notion of the dignity of our nature, of those great things for which we were designed, and of the duration and felicity of that state to which we are hastening, we should scorn to stoop to mean actions, and blush at the thoughts of doing any thing below our character.' In this manner does our authoress discover her sentiments of piety. We now shall subjoin the specimen; DIALOGUE. MARISSA. O my Lucinda! O my dearest friend! Must my afflictions never, never end! Has Heav'n for me, no pity left in store, Must I! O must I ne'er be happy more! Philanda's loss had almost broke my heart, From her alas! I did but lately part: And must there still be new occasions found To try my patience, and my soul to wound? Must my lov'd daughter too be snatch'd away, Must she so soon the call of fate obey? In her first dawn, replete with youthful charms, She's fled, she's fled, from my deserted arms. Long did she struggle, long the war maintain, But all th' efforts of life, alas! were vain. Could art have saved her, she had still been mine, Both art and care together did combine: But what is proof against the will divine? Methinks I still her dying conflict view, And the sad sight does all my grief renew; Rack'd by convulsive pains, she meekly lies, And gazes on me with imploring eyes; With eyes which beg relief, but all in vain, I see but cannot, cannot ease her pain. She must the burden unassisted bear, I cannot with her in her tortures share: Would they were mine, and me flood easy by; For what one loves, sure 'twere not hard to die. See how me labours, how me pants for breath, She's lovely still, she's sweet, she's sweet in death! Pale as she is, me beauteous does remain, Her closing eyes their lustre still retain: Like setting suns with undiminish'd light, They hide themselves within the verge of night. She's gone, she's gone, she sigh'd her soul away! And can I, can I any longer stay? My life alas has ever tiresome been, And I few happy easy days have seen; But now it does a greater burden grow, I'll throw it off, and no more sorrow know, But with her to calm peaceful regions go. Stay, thou dear innocence, retard thy flight, O stop thy journey to the realms of light; Stay 'till I come: to thee I'll swiftly move, Attracted by the strongest passion, love. LUCINDA. No more, no more let me such language hear, I can't, I can't the piercing accents bear: Each word you utter stabs me to the heart, I could from life, not from Marissa part: And were your tenderness as great as mine, While I were left, you would net thus repine. My friends are riches, health, and all to me; And while they're mine I cannot wretched be. MARISSA. If I on you could happiness bestow, I still the toils of life would undergo, Would still contentedly my lot sustain, And never more of my hard fate complain: But since my life to you will useless prove, O let me hasten to the joys above: Farewel, farewel, take, take my last adieu, May Heaven be more propitious still to you, May you live happy when I'm in my grave, And no misfortunes, no afflictions have: If to sad objects you'll some pity lend And give a sigh to an unhappy friend, Think of Marissa, and her wretched state, How's she's been us'd by her malicious fate; Recount those storms which she has long sustain'd, And then rejoice that she the part has gain'd; The welcome haven of eternal rest, Where she shall be for ever, ever bless'd; And in her mother's, and her daughter's arms Shall meet with new, with unexperienc'd charms, O how I long those dear delights to taste; Farewel, farewel, my soul is much in haste. Come death; and give the kind releasing blow, I'm tir'd of life, and overcharg'd with woe: In thy cool silent, unmolested shade O let me be by their dear relics laid; And there with them from all my troubles free, Enjoy the blessing of a long tranquillity. LUCINDA. O thou dear sufferer, on my breast recline Thy drooping head, and mix thy tears with mine: Here rest awhile, and make a truce with grief: Consider; sorrow brings you no relief. In the great play of life, we must not chuse, Nor yet the meanest character refuse. Like soldiers we our general must obey, Must stand our ground, and not to fear give way, But go undaunted on'till we have won the day. Honour is ever the reward of pain, A lazy virtue no applause will gain. All such as to uncommon heights would rise, And on the wings of fame ascend the skies, Must learn the gifts of fortune to despise; They to themselves their bliss must still confine, Must be unmoved, and never once repine: But few to this perfection can attain, Our passions often will th' ascendant gain, And reason but alternately does reign; Disguised by pride we sometimes seem to bear A haughty port, and scorn to shed a tear; While grief within still acts a tragic part, And plays the tyrant in the bleeding heart. Your sorrow is of the severest kind, And can't be wholly to your soul confin'd, Losses like yours may be allowed to move A gen'rous mind, that knows what 'tis to love. These afflictions;-- Will teach you patience, and the careful skill To rule your passions, and command your will; To bear afflictions with a steady mind, Still to be easy, pleas'd, and still resign'd, And look as if you did no inward sorrow find. MARISSA. I know Lucinda this I ought to do, But oh! 'tis hard my frailties to subdue; My headstrong passions will resistance make, And all my firmed resolutions make. I for my daughter's death did long prepare, And hop'd I should the stroke with temper bear, But when it came grief quickly did prevail, And I soon found my boasted courage fail: Yet still I strove, but 'twas alas! in vain, My sorrow did at length th' ascendant gain: But I'm resolv'd I will no longer yield; By reason led, I'll once more take the field, And there from my insulting passions try, To gain a full, a glorious victory: Which 'till I've done, I never will give o'er But still fight on, and think of peace no more; With an unwearied courage still contend, 'Till death, or conquest, doth my labour end. [Footnote 1: Preface to her Essays.] * * * * * THOMAS CREECH. This gentleman was born near Sherborne in Dorsetshire, and bred up at the free school in that town, under Mr. Carganven, a man of eminent character, to whom in gratitude he inscribes one of the Idylliums of Theocritus, translated by him. His parents circumstances not being sufficient to bestow a liberal education upon him, colonel Strangeways, who was himself a man of taste and literature, took notice of the early capacity of Creech, and being willing to indulge his violent propensity to learning, placed him at Wadham College in Oxford, in the 16th year of his age, anno 1675, being then put under the tuition of two of the fellows. In the year 1683 he was admitted matter of arts, and soon elected fellow of All-soul's College; at which time he gave distinguished proofs of his classical learning, and philosophy, before those who were appointed his examiners. The first work which brought our author into reputation, was his translation of Lucretius, which succeeded so well, that Mr. Creech had a party formed for him, who ventured to prefer him to Mr. Dryden, in point of genius. Mr. Dryden himself highly commended his Lucretius, and in his preface to the second volume of Poetical Miscellanies thus characterises it. 'I now call to mind what I owe to the ingenious, and learned translator of Lucretius. I have not here designed to rob him of any part of that commendation, which he has so justly acquired by the whole author, whose fragments only fall to my portion. The ways of our translation are very different; he follows him more closely than I have done, which became an interpreter to the whole poem. I take more liberty, because it best suited with my design, which was to make him as pleasing as I could. He had been too voluminous, had he used my method, in so long a work; and I had certainly taken his, had I made it my business to translate the whole. The preference then is justly his; and I join with Mr. Evelyn in the confession of it, with this additional advantage to him, that his reputation is already established in this poet; mine is to make its fortune in the world. If I have been any where obscure in following our common author; or if Lucretius himself is to be condemned, I refer myself to his excellent annotations, which I have often read, and always with some pleasure.' Many poets of the first class, of those times, addressed Mr. Creech in commendatory verses, which are prefixed to the translation of Lucretius: but this sudden blaze of reputation was soon obscured, by his failing in an arduous task, which the success of his Lucretius prompted him to attempt. This was a translation of the works of Horace, an author more diversified, and consequently more difficult than Lucretius. Some have insinuated, that Mr. Dryden, jealous of his rising fame, and willing to take advantage of his vanity, in order to sink his reputation, strenuously urged him to this undertaking, in which he was morally certain Creech could not succeed. Horace is so, various, so exquisite, and perfectly delightful, that he who culls flowers in a garden so replenished with nature's productions, must be well acquainted with her form, and able to delineate her beauties. In this attempt Creech failed, and a shade was thrown over his reputation, which continued to obscure it to the end of his life. It is from this circumstance alleged, that Mr. Creech contracted a melancholy, and moroseness of temper, which occasioned the disinclination of many towards him, and threw him into habits of recluseness, and discontent. To this some writers likewise impute the rash attempt on his own life, which he perpetrated at Oxford, in 1701. This act of suicide could not be occasioned by want, for Mr. Jacob tells us, that just before that accident, he had been presented by the college to the living of Welling in Hertfordshire. Mr. Barnard in his Nouvelles de la Republiques de Lettres, assigns another cause besides the diminution of his fame, which might occasion this disastrous fate. Mr. Creech, though a melancholy man, was yet subject to the passion of love. It happened that he fixed his affections on a lady who had either previously engaged hers, or who could not bestow them upon him; this disappointment, which was a wound to his pride, so affected his mind, that, unable any longer to support a load of misery, he hanged himself in his own chamber. Which ever of these causes induced him, the event was melancholy, and not a little heightened by his being a clergyman, in whose heart religion should have taken deeper root, and maintained a more salutary influence, than to suffer him thus to stain his laurels with his own blood. Mr. Creech's works, besides his Lucretius already mentioned, are chiefly these, The Second Elegy of Ovid's First Book of Elegies. The 6th, 7th, 8th, and 12th Elegies of Ovid's Second Book of Elegies. The 2d and 3d Eclogue of Virgil. The Story of Lucretia, from Ovid de Fastis. B. ii. The Odes, Satires, and Epistles of Horace already mentioned, dedicated to John Dryden, esq; who is said to have held it in great contempt, which gave such a shock to Mr. Creech's pride. The author in his preface to this translation has informed us, that he had not an ear capable of distinguishing one note in music, which, were there no other, was a sufficient objection against his attempting the most musical poet in any language. The same year he published his Translation of the Idylliums of Theocritus, with Rapin's Discourse on Pastorals, as also the Life of Phelopidas, from the Latin of Cornelius Nepos. In Dryden's Translation of Juvenal and Persius, Mr. Creech did the 13th Satire of Juvenal, and subjoined Notes. He also translated into English, the verses before Mr. Quintenay's Compleat Gardiner. The Life of Solon, from the Greek of Plutarch. Laconic Apophthegms, or Remarkable Sayings of the Spartans, printed in the first Volume of Plutarch's Morals. A Discourse concerning Socrates's Dæmon. The two First Books of the Symposiacs. These are the works of Mr. Creech: A man of such parts and learning, according to the accounts of all who have written of him, that, had he not by the last act of his life effaced the merit of his labours, he would have been an ornament as well to the clerical profession, as his country in general. He well understood the ancients, had an unusual penetration in discovering their beauties, and it appears by his own translation of Lucretius, how elegantly he could cloath them in an English attire. His judgment was solid; he was perfectly acquainted with the rules of criticism, and he had from nature an extraordinary genius. However, he certainly over-rated his importance, or at lead his friends deceived him, when they set him up as a rival to Dryden! but if he was inferior to that great man in judgment, and genius, there were few of the same age to whom he needed yield the palm. Had he been content to be reckoned only the second, instead of the first genius of the times, he might have lived happy, and died regreted and reverenced, but like Cæsar of old, who would rather be the lord of a little village, than the second man in Rome, his own ambition overwhelmed him. We shall present the reader with a few lines from the second Book of Lucretius, as a specimen of our author's versification, by which it will be found how much he fell short of Dryden in point of harmony, though he seems to have been equal to any other poet, who preceded Dryden, in that particular. 'Tis pleasant, when the seas are rough, to stand, And view another's danger, safe at land: Not 'cause he's troubled, but 'tis sweet to see Those cares and fears, from which our selves are free. 'Tis also pleasant to behold from far How troops engage, secure ourselves from war. But above all, 'tis pleasantest to get The top of high philosophy, and sit On the calm, peaceful, flourishing head of it: Whence we may view, deep, wondrous deep below, How poor mistaken mortals wand'ring go, Seeking the path to happiness: some aim At learning, wit, nobility, or fame: Others with cares and dangers vex each hour To reach the top of wealth, and sov'reign pow'r: Blind wretched man! in what dark paths of strife We walk this little journey of our life! While frugal nature seeks for only ease; A body free from pains, free from disease; A mind from cares and jealousies at peace. And little too is needful to maintain The body sound in health, and free from pain: Not delicates, but such as may supply Contented nature's thrifty luxury: She asks no more. What tho' no boys of gold Adorn the walls, and sprightly tapers hold, Whose beauteous rays, scatt'ring the gawdy light, Might grace the feast, and revels of the night: What tho' no gold adorns; no music's sound With double sweetness from the roofs rebound; Yet underneath a loving myrtle's shade, Hard by a purling stream supinely laid, When spring with fragrant flow'rs the earth has spread, And sweetest roses grow around our head; Envy'd by wealth and pow'r, with small expence We may enjoy the sweet delights of sense. Who ever heard a fever tamer grown In cloaths embroider'd o'er, and beds of down. Than in coarse rags? Since then such toys as these Contribute nothing to the body's ease, As honour, wealth, and nobleness of blood, 'Tis plain they likewise do the mind no good: If when thy fierce embattell'd troops at land Mock-fights maintain; or when thy navies Hand In graceful ranks, or sweep the yielding seas, If then before such martial fights as these, Disperse not all black jealousies and cares, Vain dread of death, and superstitious fears Not leave thy mind; but if all this be vain, If the same cares, and dread, and fears remain, If Traytor-like they seize thee on the throne, And dance within the circle of a crown; If noise of arms, nor darts can make them fly, Nor the gay sparklings of the purple dye. If they on emperors will rudely seize, What makes us value all such things as these, But folly, and dark ignorance of happiness? For we, as boys at night, by day do fear Shadows as vain, and senseless as those are. Wherefore that darkness, which o'erspreads our fouls, Day can't disperse; but those eternal rules, Which from firm premises true reason draws, And a deep insight into nature's laws. * * * * * ARTHUR MAYNWARING, Esq; A Gentleman distinguished both for poetry and politics, as well as the gay accomplishments of life. He was born at Ightfield, in the year 1668, and educated at the grammar-school at Shrewsbury, where he remained four or five years; and at about seventeen years of age, was removed to Christ's Church in Oxford, under the tuition of Mr. George Smalridge, afterwards bishop of Bristol. After he removed from Oxford, he went into Cheshire, where he lived several years with his uncle, Mr. Francis Cholmondley, a gentleman of great integrity and honour; but by a political prejudice, very averse to the government of William the IIId, to whom he refused to take the oaths, and instilled anti-revolution principles into his nephew,[1] who embraced them warmly; and on his first entry into life, reduced to practice what he held in speculation. He wrote several pieces in favour of James the IId's party: amongst which was a Panegyric on that King. He wrote another intitled the King of Hearts, to ridicule lord Delamere's entry into London, at his first coming to town after the revolution. This poem was said to be Dryden's, who was charged with it by Mr. Tonson; but he disowned it, and told him it was written by an ingenious young gentleman, named Maynwaring, then about twenty two years of age. When our author was introduced to the acquaintance of the duke of Somerset, and the earls of Dorset, and Burlington, he began to entertain (says Oldmixon) very different notions of politics: Whether from the force of the arguments made use of by those noblemen; or, from a desire of preferment, which he plainly saw lay now upon the revolution interest, cannot be determined; but he espoused the Whig ministry, as zealously as he had formerly struggled for the exiled monarch. Our author studied the law till he was five or six and twenty years old, about which time his father died, and left him an estate of near eight-hundred pounds a year, but so incumbred, that the interest money amounted to almost as much as the revenue. Upon the conclusion of the peace of Ryswick, he went to Paris, where he became acquainted with Monsieur Boileau, who invited him to his country house, entertained him very elegantly, and spoke much to him of the English poetry, but all by way of enquiry; for he affected to be as ignorant of the English Muse, as if our nation had been as barbarous as the Laplanders. A gentleman, a friend of Mr. Maynwaring, visiting him some time after, upon the death of Mr. Dryden 'Boileau, said that he was wonderfully pleased to see by the public papers, that the English nation had paid so extraordinary honours to one of their poets, burying him at the public charge;' and then asked the gentleman who that poet was, with as much indifference as if he had never heard Dryden's name; which he could no more be unacquainted with, than our country was with his; for he often frequented lord Montague's house, when he was embassador in France, and being also an intimate friend of Monsieur De la Fontaine, who had spent some time in England, it was therefore impossible he could be ignorant of the fame of Dryden; but it is peculiar to that nation to hold all others in contempt. The French would as fain monopolize wit, as the wealth and power of Europe; but thanks to the arms and genius of Britain, they have attempted both the one and the other without success. Boileau's pretending not to know Dryden, to use the words of Milton, 'argued himself unknown.' But perhaps a reason may be assigned, why the wits of France affected a contempt for Mr. Dryden, which is this. That poet, in many of his Prefaces and Dedications, has unanswerably shewn, that the French writers are really deficient in point of genius;' that the correctness for which they are remarkable, and that even pace which they maintain in all their dramatic compositions, is a proof that they are not capable of sublime conceptions; that they never rise to any degree of elevation, and are in truth uninspired by the muses:--Judgment they may have to plan and conduct their designs; but few French poets have ever found the way of writing to the heart. Have they attained the sublime height of Shakespear, the tenderness of Otway, or the pomp of Rowe? and yet these are names which a French versifier will pretend, with an air of contempt, never to have heard of. The truth is, our poets have lately done the French too much honour, by translating their pieces, and bringing them on the stage; as if our own stock was exhausted and the British genius had failed: But it is some satisfaction that these attempts seem now to be discouraged; we have seen a late play of theirs (we call it a play, for it was neither a tragedy nor a comedy) translated by a languid poet of our own, received with the coolness it deserved. But to return to Mr. Maynwaring. Upon his arrival in England, from France, he was made one of the commissioners of the customs, in which post he distinguished himself by his skill and fidelity. Of the latter of these qualities we have an instance, in his treatment of a man, who sollicited to be a tide-waiter: Somebody had told him that his best way to succeed would be to make a present. The advice had been perhaps good enough if he had not mistaken his man. For understanding that Mr. Maynwaring had the best interest at the board of any of the commissioners, with the lords of the treasury; he sent him a letter, with a purse of fifty-guineas, desiring his favour towards obtaining the place he sollicited: Afterwards he delivered a petition to the board, which was read, and several of the commissioners having spoke to it, Mr. Maynwaring took out the purse of fifty guineas, and the letter, telling them that as long as he could prevent it, that man should never have this, or any other place in the revenue[2]. Mr. Maynwaring was admitted a member of the Kit-Kat Club, and was considered as one of the chief ornaments of it, by his pleasantry and wit. In the beginning of queen Anne's reign, lord treasurer Godolphin, engaged Mr. Donne, to quit the office of auditor of the imprests, his lordship paying him several thousand pounds for his doing it, and he never let Mr. Maynwaring know what he was doing for him, till he made him a present of a patent for that office, worth about two-thousand pounds a year in time of business. In the Parliament which met in 1705, our author was chosen a burgess for Preston in Lancashire[3]. He had a considerable share in the Medley, and was author of several other pieces, of which we shall presently give some account. He died at St. Albans, November the 13th, 1712, having some time before made his will; in which he left Mrs. Oldfield, the celebrated actress his executrix, by whom he had a son, named Arthur Maynwaring. He divided his estate pretty equally between that child, Mrs. Oldfield, and his sister; Mr. Oldmixon tells us, that Mr. Maynwaring loved this actress, for nine or ten years before his death, with the strongest passion: It was in some measure owing to his instructions that she became so finished a player; for he understood the action of the stage as well as any man, and took great pleasure to see her excell in it. He wrote several Prologues and Epilogues for her, and would always hear her rehearse them in private, before she spoke them on the stage. His friends of both sexes quarrelled with him for his attachment to her, and so much resented it, that Mrs. Oldfield frequently remonstrated to him, that it was for his honour and interest to break off the intrigue: which frankness and friendship of hers, did, as he often confessed, but engage him the more firmly; and all his friends at last gave over importuning him to leave her, as she gained more and more upon him. In honour of our author, Mr. Oldmixon observes, that he had an abhorrence of those that swore, or talked profanely in conversation. He looked upon it as a poor pretence to wit, and never excused it in himself or others.--I have already observed, that our author had a share in the Medley, a paper then set up in favour of the Hanoverian succession, in which he combats the Examiner, who wrote on the opposite, or, at least, the High-Church Interest. He also wrote the following pieces. 1. Remarks on a late Romance, intitled the Memorial of the Church of England, or the History of the Ten Champions. 2. A Translation of the second Ode, of the first book of Horace. 3. A Translation of the fifth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 4. A Character of the new Ministers, 1710. 5. Several Songs, Poems, Prologues and Epilogues. 6. There was a Manuscript given him to peruse, which contained Memoirs of the duke of Marlborough's famous march to Blenheim: It was written by a chaplain of the duke's, with great exactness as to the incidents, but was defective in form. Mr. Maynwaring was desired to alter and improve it, which he found too difficult a task; but being greatly pleased with the particular account of all that pass'd in that surprizing march, he resolved that it should not be lost, and to give it a new and more perfect form himself, by reducing a kind of diary into a regular history. These papers fell into the hands of Sir Richard Steel. 7. A Translation of part of Tully's Offices. 8. Four Letters to a Friend in North-Britain, written upon the publishing Dr. Sacheveral's Trial. 9. The History of Hannibal, and Hanno, from the best authors: In this piece he is supposed to intend by Hannibal, the duke of Marlborough; by Hanno, the lord treasurer Oxford, by Valerius Flaccus, count Tallard, and by Asdrubal, Dr. Robinson, bishop of Bristol. 10. The Speech of Alcibiades to the Athenians, printed in the Whig-Examiner, Numb. 3. 11. The French King's Promise to the Pretender. 12. A Short Account, and Defence of the Barrier Treaty. 13. Remarks upon the present Negotiation of Peace, begun between Great-Britain and France. 14. The Bewdley Cafe. 15. He had a considerable hand in a Letter to a High-Churchman. 16. He revived and published a treatise called Bouchain, in a Dialogue between the Medley and the Examiner, about the management of the war in 1711. 17. He wrote a Letter to the Free-holders, a little before the election of the new Parliament. 18. He had a great hand in a pamphlet, entitled the British Academy, wherein he rallied Dr. Swift's Letter to the lord treasurer Oxford, about altering the English language. 19. The Letter from Doway, was written by him, or some friend of his, with his assistance. These are chiefly the works of Maynwaring, who was a gentleman of genius, and appears to have been a good-natur'd honest man. His moral life has only been blamed for his intrigue with Mrs. Oldfield; but I am persuaded when the accomplishments of that lady are remembered, (so bright) is employed in the composition of one book, a bookseller may publish twenty; so that in the very nature of things, a bookseller without oppression, a crime which by unsuccessful writers is generally imputed to them, may grow rich, while the most industrious and able author can arrive at no more than a decent competence: and even to that, many a great genius has never attained. No sooner had Mr. Head a little recovered himself, than we find him cheated again by the syren alurements of pleasure and poetry, in the latter of which, however, it does not appear he made any proficiency. He failed a second time, in the world, and having recourse to his pen, wrote the first part of the English Rogue, which being too libertine, could not be licensed till he had expunged some of the most luscious descriptions out of it. Mr. Winstanley, p. 208, has informed us, that at the coming out of this first part, he was with him at the Three Cup tavern in Holborn drinking a glass of Rhenish, and made these verses upon him, What Gusman, Buscan, Francion, Rablais writ, I once applauded for most excellent wit; But reading thee, and thy rich fancy's store, I now condemn, what I admir'd before. Henceforth translations pack away, be gone, No Rogue so well writ, as the English one. We cannot help observing, that Winstanley has a little ridiculously shewn his vanity, by informing the world, that he could afford to drink a glass of Rhenish; and has added nothing to his reputation by the verses, which have neither poetry nor wit in them. [Footnote 1: Oldmixon's Life of Maynwaring.] [Footnote 2: Life, p. xviii. xix.] [Footnote 3: Ibid. p. xxii.] * * * * * The HON. Mrs. MONK. This Lady was the daughter of the Right Hon. the Lord Molesworth, a nobleman of Ireland, and wife of George Monk, Esq; By the force of her natural genius, she learnt the Latin, Italian, and Spanish tongues, and by a constant reading of the best authors in those languages, became so great a proficient, especially in poetry, that she wrote many pieces that were deemed worthy of publication, and soon after her death, were printed and published with the following title, Marinda. Poems, and Translations upon several occasions, printed in London, 1716. The book is addressed to her Royal Highness Carolina Princess of Wales, in a long dedication, dated March 26, 1716, written by her father, who thus affectionately speaks of the poems and their author. 'Most of them (says he) are the product of the leisure hours of a young gentlewoman lately deceased; who in a remote country retirement, without omitting the daily care due to a large family, not only perfectly acquired the several languages here made use of; but the good morals and principles contained in those books, so as to put them in practice, as well during her life and languishing sickness, as the hour of her death; in short she died not only like a Christian, but a Roman lady, and so became at once the object of the grief, and comfort of her relations. As much as I am obliged to be sparing in commending what belongs to me, I cannot forbear thinking some of these circumstances uncommon enough to be taken notice of: I loved her more, because she deserved it, than because she was mine, and I cannot do greater honour to her memory, than by consecrating her labours, or rather diversion to your Royal Highness, as we found most of them in her escrutore, after her death, written with her own hand, little expecting, and as little desiring the public should have any opportunity, either of applauding or condemning them.' Mr. Jacob tells us, that these Poems and Translations, shew the true spirit, and numbers of poetry, a delicacy of turn, and justness of thought and expression. They consist of Ecclogues; the Masque of the Virtues against Love, from Guarini; some translations from the French and Italians; Familiar Epistles, Odes and Madrigals. Her poetry has great warmth, and tenderness of sentiment. The following Epitaph on a lady of pleasure, was written by her, O'er this marble drop a tear, Here lies fair Rosalinde, All mankind was pleas'd with her, And she with all mankind. And likewise this Epigram upon another lady of the same character. Chloe, her gossips entertains, With stories of her child-bed pains, And fiercely against Hymen rails: But Hymen's not so much to blame; She knows, unless her memory fails, E'er she was wed, 'twas much the same. The following verses, which breathe a true spirit of tenderness, were written by her, on her death-bed at Bath, when her husband was in London, Thou, who dost all my worldly thoughts employ, Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy: Thou tenderest husband, and thou best of friends, To thee, this first, this last adieu I send. At length the conqueror death asserts his right, And will forever veil me from thy sight. He wooes me to him, with a chearful grace; And not one terror clouds his meagre face. He promises a lasting rest from pain; And shews that all life's fleeting joys are vain. Th' eternal scenes of Heaven he sets in view, And tells me, that no other joys are true. But love, fond love, would yet resist his power; Would fain a-while defer the parting hour: He brings the mourning image to my eyes, And would obstruct my journey to the skies. But say thou dearest, thou unwearied friend; Say should'st thou grieve to see my sorrows end? Thou know'st a painful pilgrimage I have past, And should'st thou grieve, that rest is come at last; Rather rejoice to see me shake off life, And die as I have liv'd, thy faithful wife. * * * * * Mr. THOMAS BROWN. This humorous poet was the son of a considerable Farmer of Shiffnall, in Shropshire, and educated at Newport-school in that county, under the reverend and learned Dr. Edwards, a gentleman who had the honour to qualify many persons of distinction for the university. Under the tuition of this master, he attained a knowledge of the Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and Spanish languages, and his exercises were generally so well performed, that the Dr. was filled with admiration of his parts. From Newport school he removed to Christ's-Church College in Oxford, and distinguished himself there for his easy attainments in literature; but some little irregularities of his life would not suffer him to continue long at the university. It is probable he became sick of that discipline, which they who spend their life in the recluseness of a college, are in some measure obliged to submit to. The father of Mr. Brown, who intended to have him educated to some profession, was not made acquainted with his design of quitting the university, and having remitted him a sum of money, to be appropriated for the promotion of his studies, his son thought proper to defeat his kind intentions. With this money, our author plann'd a scheme of going to London, which he soon after executed, not very advantageously.--'My first business, says he, was to apply myself to those few friends I had there, who conjecturing I had left the university, exclusive of my father's knowledge, gave but slender encouragement to a young beginner. However, no whit daunted (my first resolution still standing by me) I launched forth into the world, committing myself to the mercy of fortune, and the uncertain temper of the town. I soon acquired a new set of acquaintance; and began to have a relish of what I had only tasted before by hearsay; and indeed, every thing served to convince me, I had changed for the better, except that my slender subsistance began to waste extremely; and ruminating upon the difficulty of obtaining a supply, I was then laid under the necessity of thinking what course to steer. I knew how justly I had incurred the displeasure of an indulgent father, and how far I had put myself from retrieving his favour. Amidst this serious contemplation! I resolved to go through stitch with my enterprize, let what will come on't: However, that I might use discretion, to palliate an unforeseen event, I determined 'twere better to trust to the flexibility of a father's temper, than to lay too great a stress upon the humanity of fortune, who would let a man of morals starve if he depended on her favours. Therefore, without more ado (having taken my sorrowful leave of my last guinea, and reduced Carolus Secundus, from a whole number, to decimal fractions) I dispatched a letter into the country, full of excuse, and penitence, baited with all the submissive eloquence imaginable. In the mean time, I was no less sedulous to find out some employment, that might suit with my genius, and with my dependencies at home, render my life easy.' Whether his father was touched by the epistle which our author in consequence of this resolution wrote to him, we cannot ascertain, as there is no mention made of it. Soon after this, we find him school master of Kingston upon Thames, and happy for him, had he continued in that more certain employment, and not have so soon exchanged it for beggary and reputation. Mr. Brown, impatient of a recluse life, quitted the school, and came again to London; and as he found his old companions more delighted with his wit, than ready to relieve his necessities, he had recourse to scribbling for bread, which he performed with various success. Dr. Drake, who has written a defence of our author's character, prefixed to his works, informs us, that the first piece which brought him into reputation, was an account of the conversion of Mr. Bays, in a Dialogue, which met with a reception suitable to the wit, spirit, and learning of it. But though this raised his fame, yet it added very little to his profit: For, though it made his company exceedingly coveted, and might have recommended him to the great, as well as to the ingenious, yet he was of a temper not to chuse his acquaintance by interest, and slighted such an opportunity of recommending himself to the powerful and opulent, as, if wisely improved, might have procured him dignities and preferments. The stile of this dialogue, was like that of his ordinary conversation, lively and facetious. It discovered no small erudition, but managed with a great deal of humour, in a burlesque way; which make both the reasoning and the extensive reading, which are abundantly shewn in it, extremely surprizing and agreeable. The same manner and humour runs through all his writings, whether Dialogues, Letters, or Poems. The only considerable objection, which the critics have made to his works is, that they want delicacy. But in answer to this, it may be affirmed, that there is as much refinement in his works, as the nature of humorous satire, which is the chief beauty of his compositions, will admit; for, as satire requires strong ideas, the language will sometimes be less polished. But the delicacy so much demanded, by softening the colours weakens the drawing. Mr. Brown has been charged with inequality in his writings: which is inseparable from humanity. Our author's letters, though written carelesly to private friends, bear the true stamp and image of a genius. The variety of his learning may be seen in the Lacedaemonian Mercury, where abundance of critical questions of great nicety, are answered with much solidity and judgment, as well as wit, and humour. But that design exposing him too much to the scruples of the grave and reserved, as well as to the censure, and curiosity of the impertinent, he soon discontinued it. Besides, as this was a periodical work, he who was totally without steadiness, was very ill qualified for such an undertaking. When the press called upon him for immediate supply, he was often found debauching himself at a tavern, and by excessive drinking unable to perform his engagements with the public, by which no doubt the work considerably suffered. But there is yet another reason why Mr. Brown has been charged with inequality in his writings, viz. that most of the anonymous pieces which happened to please the town, were fathered upon him. This, though in reality an injury to him, is yet a proof of the universality of his reputation, when whatever pleased from an unknown hand was ascribed to him; but by these means he was reputed the writer of many things unworthy of him. In poetry he was not the author of any long piece, for he was quite unambitious of reputation of that kind. They are generally Odes, Satires, and Epigrams, and are certainly not the best part of his works. His Translations in Prose are many, and of various kinds. His stile is strong and masculine; and if he was not so nice in the choice of his authors, as might be expected from a man of his taste, he must be excused; for he performed his translations as a talk, prescribed him by the Booksellers, from whom he derived his chief support. It was the misfortune of our author to appear on the stage of the world, when fears, and jealousies had soured the tempers of men, and politics, and polemics, had almost driven mirth and good nature out of the nation: so that the careless gay humour, and negligent chearful wit, which in former days of tranquility, would have recommended him to the conversation of princes, was, in a gloomy period, lost upon a people incapable of relishing genuine humour. An anonymous author who has given the world some account of Mr. Brown, observes, 'that it was not his immorality that hindered him from climbing to the top of poetry, and preferment; but that he had a particular way of sinning to himself. To speak in plain English (says he) Tom Brown had less the spirit of a gentleman than the rest of the Wits, and more of a Scholar. Tom thought himself as happy with a retailer of damnation in an obscure hole, as another to have gone to the devil with all the splendour of a fine equipage. 'Twas not the brightness of Caelia's eyes, nor her gaudy trappings that attracted his heart. Cupid might keep his darts to himself; Tom always carried his fire about him. If he had but a mouth, two eyes, and a nose, he never enquired after the regularity of her dress, or features. He always brought a good stomach with him, and used but little ceremony in the preface. As of his mistresses, so he was very negligent in the choice of his companions, who were sometimes mean and despicable, a circumstance which never fails to ruin a man's reputation. He was of a lazy temper, and the Booksellers who gave him credit enough as to his capacity, had no confidence to put in his diligence. The same gentleman informs us, that though Tom Brown was a good-natured man, yet he had one pernicious quality, which eternally procured him enemies, and that was, rather to lose his friend, than his joke. One of his lampoons had almost cost him a procession at the cart's tail; nor did he either spare friend or foe, if the megrim of abuse once seized him. He had a particular genius for scandal, and dealt it out liberally when he could find occasion. He is famed for being the author of a Libel, fixed one Sunday morning on the doors of Westminster-abbey, and many others, against the clergy and quality. As for religion, Brown never professed any, and used to say, that he understood the world better than to have the imputation of righteousness laid to his charge: and the world, to be even with him, really thought him an Atheist. But though Brown never made any professions of religion, yet it proceeded more from affectation than conviction. When he came upon his death-bed, he expressed remorse for his past life, and discovered at that period, sentiments which he had never before suffered to enter his mind. This penitential behaviour, in the opinion of some, was the occasion why all his brethren neglected him, and did not bestow on his memory one elegiac song, nor any of the rites of verse. We find no encomiums upon him, but what appeared in a Grubstreet Journal, which, however, are much superior to what was usually to be found there. ----A mournful muse from Albion swains produce, Sad as the song a gloomy genius chuse, In artful numbers let his wit be shewn, And as he sings of Doron's speak his own; Such be the bard, for only such is fit, To trace pale Doron thro' the fields of wit. Towards the latter end of our author's life, we are informed by Mr. Jacob, that he was in favour with the earl of Dorset, who invited him to dinner on a Christmas-day, with Mr. Dryden, and some other gentlemen, celebrated for ingenuity, (according to his lordship's usual custom) when Mr. Brown, to his agreeable surprize, found a Bank Note of 50 l. under his plate, and Mr. Dryden at the same time was presented with another of 100 l. Acts of munificence of this kind were very common with that generous spirited nobleman. Mr. Brown died in the year 1704, and was interred in the Cloyster of Westminster-abbey, near the remains of Mrs. Behn, with whom he was intimate in his life-time. His whole works consisting of Dialogues, Essays, Declamations, Satires, Letters from the Dead to the Living, Translations, Amusements, &c. were printed in 4 vol. 12mo, 1707. In order that the reader may conceive a true idea of the spirit and humour, as well as of the character of Tom Brown, we shall here insert an Imaginary Epistle, written from the Shades to his Friends among the Living; with a copy of Verses representing the Employment of his poetical Brethren in that fancied Region. TOM. BROWN to his Friends among the Living. GENTLEMEN, I bear it with no little concern to find myself so soon forgot among ye; I have paid as constant attendance to post-hours, in expectation to hear from ye, as a hungry Irish Man (at twelve) to a three-penny ordinary, or a decayed beau for nice eating to a roasting-cock's. No amorous-keeping fool, banished from his Chloris in town, to his country solitude, has waited with greater impatience for a kind epistle from her, than I for one from you. I have searched all private packets, and examined every straggling ghost that came from your parts, without being able to get the least intelligence of your affairs. This is the third since my arrival in these gloomy regions, and I can give myself no reason why I have received none in answer, unless the packet-boat has been taken by the French, or that so little time has quite excluded me from your memories. In my first I gave you an account of my journey hither, and my reception among the ingenious in these gloomy regions. I arrived on the Banks of Acheron, and found Charon scooping his wherry, who seeing me approach him, bid me sit down a little, for he had been hard worked lately, and could not go with a single passenger: I was willing enough to embrace the proposal, being much fatigued and weary. Having finished what he was about, he cast his rueful aspect up to the clouds, and demonstrating from thence (as I suppose) it was near dinner-time, he took from out a locker or cupboard in the stern of his pinnace, some provender pinned up in a clean linnen clout, and a jack of liquor, and fell too without the least shew of ceremony, unless indeed it were to offer me the civility of partaking with him. He muttered something to himself, which might be grace as far as I know; but if it were, 'twas as short as that at an Auction-dinner, nor did he devour what was before him with less application than I have seen some there. For my part, I could not but contemplate on his shaggy locks, his wither'd sun-burnt countenance, together with the mightiness and sanctity of his beard; but above all, his brawny chopt knuckles employed my attention: In short, having satisfied the cormorant in his guts, he had time to ask me what country-man I was? to which I submissively answered, an English-man: O, says he, those English-men are merry rogues, and love mischief; I have sometimes a diverting story from thence: What news have you brought with you? truly I told his highness I came away a little dissatisfied, and had not made any remarks on the world for some time before my death; and for news I had not leisure to bring any thing of moment. But ere we had talked much more, we saw two other passengers approach us, who, by their often turning to one another, and their laying down arguments with their hands, seemed to be in warm debate together; which was as we conjectured; for when they drew nearer to us, they proved to be a termagant High-Flyer, and a puritanical Scripturian, a fiery Scotchman: Occasional Conformity was their subject; for I heard the Scot tell him 'twas all popery, downright popery, and that the inquisition in Spain was christianity to it, by retarding the sons of grace from partaking of the gifts of the Lord; he said it was the building of Babel, and they were confounded in the works of their hands by the confusion of tongues; such crys, says he, went forth before the desolation of the great city. Thou the son of grace, says the other, thou art a son of Satan, and hast preached up iniquity; ye are the evil tares, and the land can never prosper 'till ye are rooted out from among the good corn. Thou art an inventer of lies, said the disciple of John Calvin, and the truth is not in thee; ye are bloody minded wretches, and your fury is the only sign of your religion, as the steeple is to the church; your organs are the prophane tinkling of the cimbals of Satan, that tickle the ears with vanity. Thus the dispute lasted till they came to us, and getting into the boat, they jostled for preeminence, which might have proved a sharp conflict, had not the old fellow took up a stretcher and parted them. After which we parted peaceably over to the other side: being-landed, the Scot and I took our way together, and left the furious churchman to vent his spleen by himself. We had not travelled long before we came to a populous village, where, from the various multitude, our eyes encountered at a distance, we might easily conjecture that something more than ordinary had gathered them together in that manner; it resembled (as near as I can describe it) that famous place called Sherrick-fair, or a Staffordshire-Wake. While we were applying our admiration that way, we arrived at a small hut erected for that purpose, where Nero the tyrant, like a blind fiddler, was surrounded by a confused tribe of all sorts and sexes, like another Orpheus among the beasts. The various remarks I made (some dancing, some prancing; some clapping, some knapping; some drinking, some winking; some kissing, some pissing; some reeling, some stealing) urged my curiosity to enquire for what it was possible those noble sports might be ordained, and was soon satisfied it was the Anniversary Feast of their Great Lady Proserpine's birth-day. But these things that I took to be diverting, so elevated the spleen of my Puritan companion, that he began loudly to exclaim against those prophane exercises: he said, they were impure, and lifted up the mind to lewdness; that those that followed them, were the sons of Belial, and wore the mark of the beast in their foreheads. I endeavoured to pacify the sanctified brother, by putting him in mind where we were, and that his rashness might draw us into danger, being in a strange place; but all was in vain, I but stirred up his fury more; for, turning his rebukes upon me, he told me, I was myself one of the wicked, and did rejoice in my heart at the deeds of darkness: no, says he, I will not be pacified, I will roar aloud to drown their incantations; yea, I will set out a throat even as the beast that belloweth! so that perceiving the mob gather about him, I thought it prudence to steal off, and leave him to the fury of those, whose displeasure he was about to incur. I had not gone far, but I 'spied two brawney champions at a rubbers of cuffs, which by the dexterity of their head's, hands, and heels, I judged could be no other than Englishmen: nor were my sentiments groundless, for presently I heard the mob cry out, O! rare Jo! O! rare Jo! and attentively Surveying the combatants, I found it to be the merry Jo Haynes, fallen out with Plowden the famous Lawyer, about a game at Nine-holes; and that shout had proclaimed Joe victorious. I was something scrupulous of renewing my acquaintance, not knowing how the conqueror, in the midst of his success, might use me for making bold with his character in my letters from the read; though I felt a secret desire to discover myself, yet prudence withstood my inclination, 'till a more convenient season might so that I brushed off to a place where I saw a concourse of the better sort of people; there I found Millington the famous Auctioneer, among a crowd of Lawyers, Physicians, Scholars, Poets, Critics, Booksellers, &c. exercising his old faculty; for which, gentlemen, he is as particularly famed in these parts, as Herostratus for firing the famous Temple, or Barthol Swarts, for the invention of Gunpowder. He is head journey-man to Ptolemy, who keeps a Bookseller's shop here, and rivals even Jacob Tonson in reputation among the great wits. But most of all I was obliged to admire my friend Millington, who, by his powerful knack of eloquence, to the wonder of the whole company, sold Cave's Lives of the Fathers to Solomon the Magnificent, and the Scotch Directory to the Priests of the Sun; nay, he sold-Archbishop Laud's Life to Hugh Peters, Hob's Leviathan to Pope Boniface, and pop'd Bunyan's Works upon Bellarmine for a piece of unrevealed Divinity; After the sale was over, I took an opportunity of making myself known to him, who caressed me with all the freedom imaginable, asking me, how long I had been in these parts? and what news from the other world? and a thousand particular questions about his old friends; to all which I responded as well as I could: and having given me a caution to avoid some people, by whom I was threatened, for exposing them in my letters, we went to take a bottle together. Now I presume, gentlemen, you will conclude it high time for me to take my leave; nor shall I tire your patience much longer, only permit me to give ye the trouble of some particular services to those honest gentlemen whose generosity gave me the reputation of a funeral above what I e'er expected, especially to Dr. S----t for bestowing the ground I never frequented, to Dr. Garth and the rest for the charge of a hearse and mourning coaches, which I could not have desired, and to Dr. D----ke for designing me a monument I know the world will reflect I never deserved; but for that, let my works testify for me. And though ye are satisfied my genius was never over-fruitful in the product of verse, yet knowing these favours require something a little uncommon to make a suitable return, I shall take my leave in metre, and, if contrary to my opinion, it meets with a kind acceptance from the town, honest Sam. may clap it in the next edition of the State Poems, with Buckingham's name to it. When a scurvy disease had lain hold of my carcase, And death to my chamber was mounting the stair-case. I call'd to remembrance the sins I'd committed, Repented, and thought I'd for Heaven been fitted; But alas! there is still an old proverb to cross us, I found there no room for the sons of Parnassus; And therefore contented like others to fare, To the shades of Elizium I strait did repair; Where Dryden and other great wits o' the town, To reward all their labours, are damn'd to write on. Here Johnson may boast of his judgment and plot, And Otway of all the applause that he got; Loose Eth'ridge presume on his stile and his wit, And Shadwell of all the dull plays he e'r writ; Nat. Lee here may boast of his bombast and rapture, And Buckingham rail to the end of the chapter; Lewd Rochester lampoon the King and the court, And Sidley and others may cry him up for't; Soft Waller and Suckling, chaste Cowley and others, With Beaumont and Fletcher, poetical brothers, May here scribble on with pretence to the bays, E'en Shakespear himself may produce all his plays, And not get for whole pages one mouth full of praise. To avoid this disaster, while Congreve reforms, His muse and his morals fly to Bracegirdle's arms; Let Vanbrugh no more plotless plays e'er impose, Stuft with satire and smut to ruin the house; Let Rowe, if he means to maintain his applause, Write no more such lewd plays as his Penitent was. O Satire! from errors instruct the wild bard, Bestow thy advice to reclaim each lewd bard; Bid the Laureat sincerely reflect on the matter; Bid Dennis drink less, but bid him write better; Bid Durfey cease scribbling, that libelling song-ster; Bid Gildon and C----n be Deists no longer; Bid B----t and C----r, those wits of the age, Ne'er expose a dull coxcomb, but just on the stage; Bid Farquhar (tho' bit) to his consort be just, And Motteux in his office be true to his trust; Bid Duffet and Cowper no longer be mad, But Parsons and Lawyers mind each their own trade. To Grubster and others, bold satire advance; Bid Ayliffe talk little, and P----s talk sense; Bid K----n leave stealing as well as the rest; When this can be done, they may hope to be blest. * * * * * The Revd. Mr. JOHN POMFRET. This Gentleman's works are held in very great esteem by the common readers of poetry; it is thought as unfashionable amongst people of inferior life, not to be possessed of the poems of Pomfret, as amongst persons of taste not to have the works of Pope in their libraries. The subjects upon which Pomfret wrote were popular, his versification is far from being unmusical, and as there is little force of thinking in his writings, they are level to the capacities of those who admire them. Our author was son of the rev. Mr. Pomfret, rector of Luton in Bedfordshire, and he himself was preferred to the living of Malden in the same county. He was liberally educated at an eminent grammar school in the country, from whence he was sent to the university of Cambridge, but to what college is not certain. There he wrote most of his poetical pieces, took the degree of master of arts, and very early accomplished himself in most kinds of polite literature. A gentleman who writes under the name of Philalethes, and who was an intimate friend of Pomfret's, has cleared his reputation from the charge of fanaticism, which some of his malicious enemies brought against him. It was shortly after his leaving the university, that he was preferred to the living of Malden abovementioned, and was, says that gentleman, so far from being tinctured with fanaticism, that I have often heard him express his abhorrence of the destructive tenets maintained by that people, both against our religious and civil rights. This imputation it seems was cast on him by there having been one of his sur-name, though not any way related to him, a dissenting teacher, and who published some rhimes upon spiritual subjects, as he called them, and which sufficiently proved him an enthusiast. About the year 1703 Mr. Pomfret came up to London, for institution and induction, into a very considerable living, but was retarded for some time by a disgust taken by dr. Henry Compton, then bishop of London, at these four lines, in the close of his poem entitled The Choice. And as I near approach'd the verge of life, Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) Should take upon him all my worldly care, While I did for a better state prepare. The parenthesis in these verses was so maliciously represented to the bishop, that his lordship was given to understand, it could bear no other construction than that Mr. Pomfret preferred a mistress before a wife; though the words may as well admit of another meaning, and import no more, than the preference of a single life to marriage; unless the gentlemen in orders will assert, that an unmarried Clergyman cannot live without a mistress. But the bishop was soon convinced that this aspersion against him, was no more than an effort of malice, as Mr. Pomfret at that time was really married. The opposition which his enemies made to him, had, in some measure, its effect; for by the obstructions he met with, he was obliged to stay longer in London than he intended, and as the Small-pox then raged in the metropolis, he sickened them, and died in London in the 36th year of his age. The above-mentioned friend of Mr. Pomfret, has likewise shewn the ungenerous treatment he met with in regard to his poetical compositions, in a book entitled Poems by the Earl of Roscommon, and Mr. Duke, printed 1717, in the preface to which, the publisher has peremptorily inserted the following paragraph. 'In this collection says he, of my lord Roscommon's poems, care has been taken to insert all I possibly could procure, that are truly genuine, there having been several things published under his name, which were written by others, the authors of which I could set down if it were material. Now, says the gentleman, this arrogant editor would have been more just, both to the public, and to the earl of Roscommon's memory, in telling us what things had been published under his lordship's name by others, than by concealing the authors of any such gross impositions. Instead of which, he is so much a stranger to impartiality, that he has been guilty of the very crime he exclaims against; for he has not only attributed the prospect of death to the earl of Roscommon, which was wrote by Mr. Pomfret, after the decease of that lord; but likewise another piece entitled the Prayer of Jeremy Paraphrased, prophetically representing the passionate grief of the Jewish people, for the loss of their town, and sanctuary, written by Mr. Southcot, a gentleman who published it in the year 1717, so that it is to be hoped, in a future edition of the earl of Roscommon's, and Mr. Duke's poems, the same care will be taken to do these gentlemen justice, as to prevent any other person from hereafter injuring the memory of his lordship.' Mr. Pomfret published his poems in the year 1690, to which he has prefixed a very modest and sensible preface, 'I am not so fond of fame, says he, as to desire it from the injudicious many; nor as so mortified a temper as not to wish it from the discerning few. 'Tis not the multitude of applauders, but the good fame of the applauders, which establishes a valuable reputation.' His poetical compositions consist chiefly of 1. The Choice, which we shall insert as a specimen. 2. Cruelty and Lust, an Epistolary Essay, founded upon the famous Story which happened in the reign of King James II. Kirk, who was that Prince's general against the duke of Monmouth. was sollicited by a beautiful lady in behalf of her husband, who then lay under sentence of death. The inhuman general consented to grant his fair petitioner her request; but at no less a price than that of her innocence. The lady doated on her husband, and maintained a hard struggle between virtue, and affection, the latter of which at last prevailed, and she yielded to his guilty embraces. The next morning Kirk, with unparalleled brutality, desired the lady to look out at the window of his bedchamber, when she was struck with the horrid sight of her husband upon a scaffold, ready to receive the blow of the executioner; and before she could reach the place where he was, in order to take a last embrace, her husband was no more. How far the lady may be justified in this conduct, is not our business to discuss: if it is called by the name of guilt, none ever had more pressing motives; and if such a crime could admit of an excuse, it must be upon such an occasion. 3. Several Epistles to his Friends under affliction. 4. Upon the Divine Attributes. 5. A Prospect of Death. 5. Upon the General Conflagration, and the ensuing Judgment. There were two pieces of our author's, published after his death by his friend Philalethes; the first of these entitled Reason, was wrote by him in the year 1700, when the debates concerning the doctrine of the Trinity were carried on with so much heat by the Clergy one against another, that the royal authority was interposed in order to put an end to a controversy, which could never be settled, and which was pernicious in its consequences. This is a severe satire, upon one of the parties engaged in that dispute, but his not inserting it amongst his other poems when he collected them into a volume, was, on account of his having received very particular favours, from some of the persons therein mentioned. The other is entitled Dies Novissima, or the Last Epiphany, a Pindaric Ode on Christ's second Appearance to judge the World. In this piece the poet expresses much heart-felt piety: It is animated, if not with a poetical, at least with so devout a warmth, that as the Guardian has observed of Divine Poetry, 'We shall find a kind of refuge in our pleasure, and our diversion will become our safety.' This is all the account we are favoured with of the life and writings of Mr. Pomfret: A man not destitute either of erudition or genius, of unexceptionable morals, though exposed to the malice of antagonists. As he was a prudent man, and educated to a profession, he was not subject to the usual necessities of the poets, but his sphere being somewhat obscure, and his life unactive, there are few incidents recorded concerning him. If he had not fortune sufficient to render him conspicuous, he had enough to keep his life innocent, which he seems to have spent in ease and tranquillity, a situation much more to be envied than the highest blaze of fame, attended with racking cares, and innumerable sollicitudes. The CHOICE. If Heav'n the grateful liberty would give, That I might chuse my method how to live. And all those hours propitious fate should lend, In blissful ease and satisfaction spend, Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, Built uniform; not little, nor too great: Better if on a rising ground it flood On this side fields, on that a neighb'ring wood. It should within no other things contain, But what were useful, necessary, plain: Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'r endure The needless pomp of gawdy furniture. A little garden, grateful to the eye, And a cool rivulet run murm'ring by: On whose delicious banks a slately row Of shady Lymes or Sycamores should grow. At th' end of which a silent study plac'd, Should be with all the noblest authors grac'd. Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines Immortal wit and solid learning shines. Sharp Juvenal, and am'rous Ovid too, Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew: He that with judgment reads his charming lines, In which strong art with stronger nature joins, Must grant his fancy, does the best excel; His thoughts so tender, and express'd so well. With all those moderns, men of steady sense, Esteem'd for learning, and for eloquence. In some of these, as fancy should advise. I'd always take my morning exercise: For sure no minutes bring us more content, Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent. I'd have a clear, and competent estate, That I might live genteely, but not great: As much as I could moderately spend, A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend. Nor should the sons of poverty repine Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine; And all that objects of true pity were Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare: For that, our Maker has too largely giv'n, Should be return'd, in gratitude to Heav'n, A frugal plenty mould my table spread; With healthy, not luxurious, dimes fed: Enough to satisfy, and something more To feed the stranger, and the neighb'ring poor: Strong meat indulges vice, and pamp'ring food Creates diseases, and inflames the blood. But what's sufficient to make nature strong, And the bright lamp of life continue long, I'd freely take, and, as I did possess, The bounteous author of my plenty bless. I'd have a little vault, but always stor'd With the best wines each vintage could afford. Wine whets the wit, improves its native force, And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse: By making all our spirits debonair, Throws off the lees, the sediment of care, But as the greatest blessing Heav'n lends, May be debauch'd and serve ignoble ends: So, but too oft, the Grape's refreshing juice Does many mischievous effects produce. My house should no such rude disorders know, As from high drinking consequently flow: Nor would I use what was so kindly giv'n To the dishonour of indulgent Heav'n. If any neighbour came, he should be free, Us'd with respect, and not uneasy be, In my retreat, or to himself or me. What freedom, prudence, and right reason give, All men may with impunity receive: But the least swerving from their rule's too much; For what's forbidden us, 'tis death to touch. That life might be more comfortable yet, And all my joys resin'd, sincere, and great; I'd chuse two friends, whose company would be A great advance to my felicity. Well born, of humour suited to my own; Discreet, and men, as well as books, have known. Brave, gen'rous, witty, and exactly free From loose behaviour, or formality. Airy, and prudent, merry, but not light; Quick in discerning, and in judging right. Secret they should be, faithful to their trust; In reas'ning cool, strong, temperate, and just. Obliging, open, without huffing, brave, Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave. Close in dispute, but not tenacious; try'd By solid reason, and let that decide. Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate; Nor busy medlers with intrigues of state. Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spight: Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight. Loyal, and pious, friends to Cæsar, true As dying martyrs, to their Maker too. In their society I could not miss A permanent, sincere, substantial bliss. Would bounteous Heav'n once more indulge; I'd chuse (For who would so much satisfaction, lose, As witty nymphs in conversation, give) Near some obliging, modest fair to live; For there's that sweetness in a female mind, Which in a man's we cannot hope to find: That by a secret, but a pow'rful art, Winds up the springs of life, and does impart Fresh vital heat, to the transported heart. I'd have her reason all her passions sway; Easy in company, in private gay: Coy to a fop, to the deserving free, Still constant to herself, and just to me. A soul she should have, for great actions fit; Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit: Courage to look bold danger in the face, No fear, but only to be proud, or base: Quick to advise, by an emergence prest, To give good counsel, or to take the best. I'd have th' expression of her thoughts be such She might not seem reserv'd, nor talk too much. That shew a want of judgment and of sense: More than enough is but impertinence. Her conduct regular, her mirth resin'd, Civil to strangers to her neighbours kind, Averte to vanity, revenge, and pride, In all the methods of deceit untry'd. So faithful to her friend, and good to all, No censure might upon her actions fall: Then would e'en envy be compell'd to say, She goes the least of woman kind astray. To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire, Her conversation would new joys inspire; Give life an edge so keen, no surly care Would venture to assault my soul, or dare Near my retreat to hide one secret snare. But so divine, so noble a repast I'd seldom, and with moderation taste, For highest cordials all their virtue lose By a too frequent, and too bold an use: And what would cheer the spirit in distress; Ruins our health, when taken to excess. I'd be concern'd in no litigious jar, Belov'd by all, not vainly popular. Whate'er assistance I had pow'r to bring T' oblige my country, or to serve my King, Whene'er they call'd, I'd readily afford My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword. Law suits I'd shun, with as much studious care, As I would dens where hungry lions are: And rather put up injuries, than be A plague to him, who'd be a plague to me. I value quiet at a price too great, To give for my revenge so dear a rate: For what do we by all our bustle gain, But counterfeit delight, for real pain; If Heav'n a date of many years would give, Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live. And as I near approach'd the verge of life, Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) Should take upon him all my worldly care, While I did for a better state prepare. Then I'd not be with any trouble vex'd; Nor have the evening of my days perplex'd. But by a silent, and a peaceful death, Without a sigh, resign my aged breath: And when committed to the dust, I'd have Few tears, but friendly, dropt into my grave. Then would my exit so propitious be, All men would wish to live and die, like me. * * * * * The LIFE of Dr. WILLIAM KING. This ingenious gentleman, was son of Ezekiel King, of London. He received the rudiments of his education in Westminster-school, under Dr. Busby, and was removed from thence to Christ's-Church in Oxford, in Michaelmas term, 1681, when at the age of eighteen. He studied the civil law, and practiced it at Doctor's Commons, with very great reputation; but the natural gaiety of his temper, and the love of company, betrayed him into those pleasures, which were incompatible with his profession. Our author, by the reputation of his abilities obtained a patron in the earl of Pembroke, who upon his being appointed lord Lieutenant of Ireland, press'd him to go over to that kingdom. Upon Dr. King's arrival in Ireland, his excellency appointed him judge advocate, sole commissioner of the prizes, and record keeper. There, he was well received, and countenanced by persons of the most distinguished rank, and could he have changed his disposition with the climate, had then an opportunity of making his fortune; but so far was he from improving this occasion to the purposes of his interest, that he returned back to England, with no other treasure, than a few merry Poems, and humorous Essays. He was naturally of a courteous behaviour, and very obliging: His conversation was chearful, and his wit pleasant and entertaining. But at length he chiefly subsisted on his fellowship in Christ-Church College: Before this time, he had published his most ingenious Poem, called the Art of Cookery, in imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry, with some Letters to Dr. Lister and others; occasioned principally by the title of a book, published by the Dr. being the works of Apicius Coelius, concerning the soups and sauces of the ancients, with an extract of the greatest curiosities contained in that book. Amongst his Letters, is one upon the Denti Scalps, or Tooth-picks of the Antients: Another contains an imitation of Horace: Epist. 5. Book I. being his invitation of Torquatus to supper. And a third, contains remarks on lord Grimston's play, called the Lawyer's Fortune; or Love in a Hollow-Tree. At his leisure hours he wrote likewise, The Art of Love, an imitation of Ovid, De Arte Amandi. To which he prefixed an account of Ovid. In the latter part of his life, about the year 1711, he published an Historical Account of the Heathen Gods, and Heroes, for the use of Westminster, and other schools; for the better and more easy understanding of the Classics. Besides these performances, we likewise find three numbers of a project, entitled, the Transactioner, or, Useful Transactions: Containing a great number of small pieces, which it would be tedious here to enumerate.[1] We have already observed, that our author while in Ireland, neglected the best opportunity of encreasing his fortune; and the circumstance which occasioned it we find to be this: He had contracted an intimacy which soon grew into friendship, with judge Upton, a man of the same temper with himself, who delighted in retirement and poetical amusement. He had a country villa called Mountown, near Dublin, where he and Dr. King used to retire, and spend most of their time without any regard to their public offices; and by these means neglecting to pay court to the lord lieutenant, they fell under his displeasure. These two poetical companions, indulged no other thoughts but those of living and dying in their rural retreat. Upon this occasion, Dr. King wrote a Pastoral Poem, called Mully of Mountown: Mully was the name of a Red-Cow which gave him milk, whom he made the chief subject of his Poem; which at that time the critics would have imposed upon the word as a political allegory, tho' this was a manner of writing, with which the Dr. was totally unacquainted. When Dr. King, after his return from Ireland, had retired to live upon his fellowship at Oxford, he was sollicited by the earl of Anglesey to come to town, and undertake a cause of his, then before the House of Lords, (in relation to some cruelties he was accused of using to his lady) back'd by the violent prosecution of his mother-in-law, the countess of Dorchester. Upon this occasion the Doctor shook off the indolence of his nature, and so strenuously engaged in the cause of his patron, that he gained the reputation of an able lawyer as well as a poet. He naturally hated business, especially that of an advocate; but when appointed as a delegate, made a very discerning and able judge, yet never could bear the fatigue of wrangling. His chief pleasure consisted in trifles, and he was never happier, than when hid from the world. Few people pleased him in conversation, and it was a proof of his liking them, if his behaviour was tolerably agreeable. He was a great dissembler of his natural temper, which was fallen, morose, and peevish, where he durst shew it; but he was of a timorous disposition and the least slight or neglect offered to him, would throw him into a melancholy despondency. He was apt to say a great many ill-natur'd things, but was never known to do one: He was made up of tenderness, pity, and compassion; and of so feminine a disposition, that tears would fall from his eyes upon the smallest occasion. As his education had been strict, so he was always of a religious disposition, and would not enter upon the business of the day, till he had performed his devotion, and read several portions of scripture out of the Psalms, the Prophets, and the New-Testament. It appears from his loose papers, which he calls Adversaria, that he had been such an arduous student, that before he was eight-years in the university, he had read over and made reflections on twenty-two thousand books and manuscripts; a few of which, we shall give as specimen, in order to let the reader into the humour and taste of our author. 'Diogenes Lærtius, Book I.----Thales, being asked how a man might most easily brook misfortunes? answered, if he saw his enemies in a worse condition. It is not agreed, concerning the wisemen; or whether indeed they were seven.' 'There is a very good letter of Pisistratus to Solon, and of the same stile and character with those of Phalaris.' 'Solon ordained, that the guardians of orphans should not cohabit with their mothers: And that no person should be a guardian to those, whose estate descended to them at the orphan's decease. That no seal-graver should keep the seal of a ring that was sold: That, if any man put out the eye of him who had but one, he should lose both, his own: That, where a man never planted, it should be death to take away: That, it should be death for a magistrate to be taken in drink. Solon's letters at the end of his life, in Lærtius, give us a truer Idea of the man, than all he has written before, and are indeed very fine: Solon's to Cræsus are very genteel; and Pitaccus's on the other side, are rude and philosophical; However, both shew Cræsus to have been a very good man. These epistles give a further reason to believe, that the others were written by Phalaris. There is a letter from Cleobulus to Solon, to invite him to Lindus.' 'Bion used to say, it was more easy to determine differences, between enemies than friends; for that of two friends, one would become an enemy; but of two enemies, one would become a friend.' 'Anacharsis has an epistle to Cræsus, to thank him for his invitation; and Periander one to all the wise men, to invite them to Corinth to him, after their return from Lydia. Epimenides has an epistle to Solon, to invite him to Crete, under the tyranny of Pisistratus.' 'Epimenides often pretended that he rose from death to life.' The above notes are sufficient to shew that he read the ancients with attention, and knew how to select the most curious passages, and most deserving the reader's observation. About the year 1711 the Dr. published a piece called the British Palladium, or a welcome of lord, Bolingbroke from France. Soon after this, Dr. Swift, Dr. Friend, Mr. Prior, with some others of lord Bolingbroke's adherents, paid a visit to Dr. King, and brought along with them, the key of the Gazetteer's office, together with another key for the use of the paper office. The day following this friendly visit, the Dr. entered upon his new post; and two or three days after waited on his benefactor lord Bolingbroke, then secretary of state. The author of the Doctor's life, published by Curl, has related an instance of inhumanity in alderman Barber, towards Dr. King. This magistrate was then printer of the Gazette, and was so cruel as to oblige the Dr. to sit up till three or four o'clock in the morning, upon those days the Gazette was published, to correct the errors of the press; which was not the business of the author, but a corrector, who is kept for that purpose in every printing-office of any consequence. This slavery the Dr. was not able to bear, and therefore quitted the office. The alderman's severity was the more unwarrantable, as the Dr. had been very kind in obliging him, by writing Examiners, and some other papers, gratis, which were of advantage to him as a printer. Those writings at that juncture made him known to the ministry, who afterwards employed him in a state paper called the Gazettee. About Midsummer 1712 the Dr. quitted his employ, and retired to a gentleman's house on Lambeth side the water; where he had diverted himself a summer or two before: Here he enjoyed his lov'd tranquility, with a friend, a bottle, and his books; he frequently visited lord Clarendon, at Somerset-house, as long as he was able. It was the autumn season, and the Dr. began insensibly to droop: He shut himself up entirely from his nearest friends, and would not so much as see lord Clarendon; who hearing of his weak condition, ordered his sister to go to Lambeth, and fetch him from thence to a lodging he had provided for him, in the Strand, over against Somerset-house where next day about noon he expired, with all the patience, and resignation of a philosopher, and the true devotion of a christian; but would not be persuaded to go to rest the night before, till he made such a will, as he thought would be agreeable to lord Clarendon's inclinations; who after his death took care of his funeral. He was decently interred in the cloisters of Westminster-Abbey, next to his master Dr. Knipe, to whom a little before, he dedicated his Heathen Gods.----The gentleman already mentioned, who has transmitted some account of our author to posterity, delineates his character in the following manner. 'He was a civilian, exquisitely well read; a skillful judge, and among the learned, an universal scholar, a critic, and an adept; in all sciences and languages expert; and our English. Ovid, among the poets: In conversation, he was grave and entertaining, without levity or spleen: As an author, his character may be also summ'd up in the following lines.' Read here, in softest sounds the sweetest satire, A pen dipt deep in gall, a heart good-nature; An English Ovid, from his birth he seems, Inspired alike with strong poetic dreams; The Roman, rants of heroes, gods, and Jove, The Briton, purely paints the art of love. As a specimen of our author's versification, we shall select a Poem of his called, the Art of making Puddings; published in his Miscellanies. I sing of food, by British nurse design'd, To make the stripling brave, and maiden kind. Delay not muse in numbers to rehearse The pleasures of our life, and sinews of our verse. Let pudding's dish, most wholsome, be thy theme, And dip thy swelling plumes in fragrant cream. Sing then that dim so fitting to improve A tender modesty, and trembling love; Swimming in butter of a golden hue, Garnish'd with drops of Rose's spicy dew. Sometimes the frugal matron seems in haste, Nor cares to beat her pudding into paste: Yet milk in proper skillet she will place, And gently spice it with a blade of mace; Then set some careful damsel to look to't; And still to stir away the bishop's-foot; For if burnt milk shou'd to the bottom stick, Like over-heated-zeal, 'twould make folks sick. Into the Milk her flow'r she gently throws, As valets now wou'd powder tender beaus: The liquid forms in hasty mass unite, Both equally delicious as they're white. In mining dish the hasty mass is thrown, And seems to want no graces but its own. Yet still the housewife brings in fresh supplies, To gratify the taste, and please the eyes. She on the surface lumps of butter lays, Which, melting with the heat, its beams displays; From whence it causes wonder to behold A silver soil bedeck'd with streams of gold! [Footnote 1: The design of this work, was to ridicule Sir Hans Sloan's writings, in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal-Society; of which Dr. Sloan was secretary. This work, of Dr. King's, which is now become very scarce, is one of the severest and merriest Satires that ever was written in Prose.] * * * * * THOMAS SPRAT (Bishop of ROCHESTER) Was descended from a very worthy, though obscure family, being the son of a private country minister; but his great merit raised him to that eminent station in the church, wherein he long presided, and was deservedly accounted one of the most considerable prelates of his time. The Oxford antiquary informs us, that on the 16th of January 1654, he was entered in Wadham-College, where he pursued his studies with the closest application, and distinguished himself by his prudent and courteous behaviour. On the 3d of July 1669, Mr. Sprat took his master of arts degree, and the same day, commenced doctor in divinity. He had not long been in holy orders, till he was introduced at court, and by a happy power in conversation, so attracted the regard of Charles the IId. that he was considered as a man standing fair for preferment. In 1683, broke out the Rye-house Plot, a relation of the particulars of which, Charles the IId. commanded Dr. Sprat to draw up. This the Dr. in a letter to lord Dorset, informs us, he did with great unwillingness, and would have been impelled by no other consideration, than that of a royal command. The reason he executed these orders with so much reluctance, was, because many of the most popular men in the nation were either concerned themselves, or had some relations engaged, so that an account of a plot thus supported, must expose he writer to partial or popular resentments. He requested the king, that he might be permitted to spare some names, and to represent the behaviour of others in as candid a light as possible, in which request his majesty indulged him; but notwithstanding all the candour he observed, and the most dispassionate representation of facts, yet his composing this relation, was brought against him as a crime, for which an opposite party endeavoured, and had almost effected his ruin. This work, tho' finished in the year 1683 was not published till 1685, when it came into the world, under the immediate direction of king James the IId. It was no doubt in consequence of this court service, that he was made dean of Westminster, Anno 1683; and bishop of Rochester the year following. Another step he took in the short reign of king James, likewise exposed him to the resentment of that power which took place at the revolution, which was his sitting in the ecclesiastical commission. By this he drew upon himself almost an universal censure, which he acknowledges to be just; as appears by a letter he wrote upon that occasion to the earl of Dorset, in the year 1689; which thus begins. 'My Lord, I think I should be wanting to myself at this time, in my own necessary vindication, should I forbear any longer to give my friends a true account of my behaviour in the late ecclesiastical commission. Though I profess what I now say, I only intend as a reasonable mitigation of the offence I have given, not entirely to justify my sitting in that court; for which I acknowledge I have deservedly incurred the censure of many good men; and I wish I may ever be able to make a sufficient amends to my country for it.' His crime in this particular was somewhat alleviated, by his renouncing the commission, when he perceived the illegal practices they were going to put in execution. His offences were strenuously urged against him, and had not the earl of Dorset warmly espoused his interest, he had probably been stript of his ecclesiastical preferments. His lordship charged the ill-conduct of both these affairs upon king James and his ministry; and thereby brought the bishop's opponents to a perfect reconciliation with him. Notwithstanding this accommodation, such was the inquietude of the times, that his lordship had not long enjoyed this tranquility, before there was hatched a most villainous contrivance; not only to take away his life, but, the lives of archbishop Sancroft, lord Marlborough, and several other persons of honour and distinction; by forging an instrument under their hands, setting forth, that they had an intent to restore king James, and to seize upon the person of the princess of Orange, dead or alive; to surprize the tower, to raise a mighty army; and to bring the city of London into subjection. This black conspiracy to murther so many innocent persons, was by the providence of God soon detested; and his lordship drew up, and published an account of it, under this title, A Relation of the Wicked Contrivance of Stephen Blackhead, and Robert Young, against the Lives of several Persons, by forging an Association under their Hands. In two parts. The first being a Relation of what passed at the three Examinations of his Lordship, by a Committee of Lords of the Privy-Council. The second, being an Account of the two Authors of the Forgery; printed in quarto, in the year 1692. His lordship was honourably acquitted; and he ever after looked upon this escape, as one of the most remarkable blessings of his life. 'In such 'critical times (says he) how little evidence would have sufficed to ruin any man, that had been accused with the least probability of truth? I do therefore, most solemnly oblige myself, and all mine, to keep the grateful remembrance of my deliverance, perpetual and sacred.' Hitherto, we have considered Dr. Sprat in his episcopal, and public character; in which if he fell into some errors, he has a right to our candour, as they seem rather to have proceeded from misinformation, and excess of good-nature, than any malevolent, or selfish principle: We shall now take a view of him as an author. His first appearance in that sphere, was in the year 1659, when in concert with Mr. Waller, and Mr. Dryden, he printed a Pindarique Ode, to the Memory of the most renowned Prince, Oliver, Lord Protector, &c. printed in quarto, which he dedicated to the reverend Mr. Wilkin's, then warden of Wadham-College; by whose approbation and request, it was made public, as the author designed it only for a private amusement. This was an unfavourable circumstance for our author, as it more particularly shews the fickleness of his disposition in state-matters, and gave him less credit with those parties he afterwards espoused. His next production in poetry, was an Ode on the Plague of Athens; which happened in the second year of the Pelopponesian war, first described by Thucydides, afterwards by Lucretius: This Mr. Sprat dedicated to his worthy and learned friend, Dr. Walter Pope. The performance stood the test of the severest critics; and in the opinion of the best judges, the manner of his great original was judiciously imitated. Soon after this, he proceeded to give the public a specimen of his abilities in another kind, and succeeded with the greatest applause; which was his Observations on Monsieur de Serbiere's Voyage into England, written to Dr. Wren, professor of astronomy in Oxford; printed in octavo, in the year 1665. Mr. Sprat in the beginning of his letter acquaints the Dr. with the motives of his engaging with Monsieur Serbiere, 'Having now (says he) under my hands, the history of the Royal-Society, it will be in vain for me to try to represent its design to be advantageous to the glory of England, if my countrymen shall know, that one who calls himself a member of that society, has escaped unanswered in the public disgraces, which he has cast on our whole nation.'--In this performance Mr. Sprat has given an undeniable proof, that the strength and solidity of an English pen, is infinitely superior to the gallant air of a French author, who is sprightly without propriety, and positive without truth. About two years after, 1667, our author published his incomparable History of the Royal Society of London, for the improvement of natural knowledge; a work which has acquired him very great reputation, and has ranked him with the most elegant and polite writers of that age. Soon after this, Mr. Sprat lost his amiable and much esteemed friend Mr. Abraham Cowley, who by his will recommended to the care of his reverend friend, the revising of all his works that were printed, and the collecting of those papers which he had designed for the press. This truth Mr. Sprat faithfully discharged, and to the new edition of Mr. Cowley's Works, he prefixed an account of his life and writings, addressed to Mr. Martin Clifford. Happy is it for a good man, when he has such a friend to close his eyes: This is a desire peculiar to all, and the portion of few to enjoy. For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd; Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor cast one longing lingring look behind. On some warm breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb, the voice of nature cries, Awake! and faithful to her wonted fires[1]. This life of Cowley, by Dr. Sprat has been esteemed one of the most elegant compositions in our language; there are several extracts from it in our account of the life of that amiable Poet. These are the most material performances of Dr. Sprat: a man, who was early introduced into an elevated station in life, which he held not without enemies to his dying moments. Villiers duke of Buckingham was his first patron, who notwithstanding his fickleness, and inconsistent levity, never forsook him; a circumstance which has induced many to believe, that that nobleman owed much to the refinement of our author; and that his Rehearsal had never been so excellent, nor so pungent a satire, had it not first passed under Dr. Sprat's perusal. This learned prelate died of an apoplexy, May the 20th, 1713, at his episcopal feat in Bromly in Kent, in the 79th year of his age; and was interred in the Abbey-Church of Westminster. As he lived esteemed by all his acquaintance, as well as the clergy of his diocese, so he died regretted by them, and indeed by all men of taste; for it is the opinion of many, that he raised the English tongue to that purity and beauty, which former writers were wholly strangers to, and which those who have succeeded him, can but imitate[2]. The benevolence of our author is very conspicuous in his last will, in favour of his widow and son; in which he commands them to extend that beneficence to his poor relations, which they always found from him; and not to suffer any of those to want, whose necessitous merit, had shared in all the external advantages he possessed. As he may be proposed (considered meerly as a writer) for an example worthy of imitation; so in the character of a dignified clergyman, he has likewise a claim to be copied in those retired and private virtues, in those acts of beneficence and humility, and that unaffected and primitive piety, for which he was justly distinguished. [Footnote 1: Elegy in a Country Church-Yard, by Mr. Grey.] [Footnote 2: Mr. Cooper, in his ingenious work entitled the Life of Socrates, speaks in a very different strain of the bishop's History of the Royal Society, which he calls a 'Fustian History!' and adds, that 'it was esteemed an excellent competition by the metaphor-hunting mob of silly writings in Charles II's reign.'] * * * * * CHARLES MONTAGUE (Earl of HALLIFAX) Was born the 16th of April 1661, and received the rudiments of his education at Westminster-school: From thence he was removed to Trinity-College in Cambridge, where by the brightness of his parts he was early distinguished; and coming to town soon after the death of king Charles the IId. he contracted an intimacy with the earl of Dorset, Sir Charles Sedley, and other wits of the age. After the accession of king William and queen Mary, having attached himself to the revolution interest, he was sworn one of the council: He served in parliament for the cities of Durham, and Westminster, at different times, and distinguished himself by his speeches in the House of Commons, on several important affairs. He was constituted one of the lords commissioners of the treasury, on the 21st of March 1691, and soon after sworn of the privy-council. In 1694 he was made chancellor and under treasurer of the exchequer.[1] In the year 1695, when the nation was distress'd, by the ill-state of the current coin of this kingdom, he projected the new coining of the silver money; and by his great prudence, and indefatigable industry brought it to bear. He likewise proposed the issuing exchequer bills, to supply the great scarcity of money, which has since been made use of to the great benefit of the nation. On the 16th of February, 1697.8, the House of Commons, came to a resolution, 'That it is the opinion of this house, that the honourable Charles Montague, Esq; chancellor of the exchequer, for his good services to this government, does deserve his majesty's favour.' His next concern, was the trade to the East-Indies; the settlement of which had been long depending, and was looked on as so nice, and difficult, that it had been referred to the king and council, and from them to the parliament; who on May the 26th, 1698, ordered a bill for settling the trade to that place: Mr. Montague transacted this whole affair; and by his industry and skill, in touching the affections of the people, raised two-millions, by only doubling the duties on paper, parchment, and salt; which to have done by any other means, was at that time matter of the utmost difficulty. These proofs of affection and zeal to his majesty's person and government, induced the king to declare him first: lord commissioner of the treasury; and on the 16th of July, 1698, appointed him one of the persons to whose fidelity, and honour, he reposed the trust of lords justices of England, for the administration of government during his absence. In the year 1700 his lordship resigned the place of first lord commissioner of the treasury, having obtained a grant of the office of auditor of the receipts of the exchequer, vacant by the death of Sir Robert Howard; and on the 4th of December, the same year, was advanced to the dignity of baron Hallifax, in the county of York. On the accession of queen Anne, he was concerned in vindicating the memory of king William, and on all occasions shewed a disinterested zeal in the service of his country. He first projected the equivalent, which was given to the Scots, in order to promote the Union between the nations; and without which it had never been effected. And as his lordship first moved for appointing commissioners to treat of an Union between the two kingdoms; so he had not only a great share in that treaty, as one of the commissioners, but causing it to be ratified in parliament, and answered, with all the force of which he was master, the various objections made against it. And further, to strengthen the interest of the Whigs, which he thought was essentially connected with the protestant religion, his lordship proposed the bill for the naturalization of the illustrious house of Hanover, and for the better security of the succession of the crown in the protestant line; which being pass'd into an act, her majesty made choice of him to carry the news to our late sovereign; and to invest his son with the ensigns of the most noble order of the Garter. On his arrival at Hanover, he was received with extraordinary marks of distinction, and honour. During his residence there, the prince-royal of Prussia was married to his present majesty's sister; and soon aster that prince set out with his lordship for the confederate army. Hallifax then went to the Hague, where he laid the foundation of a stricter alliance between Great-Britain, and the United Provinces: On his return to England he was graciously received by the-queen, and continued in her favour till the change of the ministry, in the year 1710. On her majesty's death, our author was one of the regency nominated by king George the Ist. till his arrival; who was no sooner possessed of the crown, but he shewed him distinguishing marks of his favour, having so strenuously promoted his succession to the British throne. He had his majesty's leave to resign his poll of auditor of the exchequer, to his nephew the honourable George Montague; and after being made first lord commissioner of the Treasury, and sworn of the privy-council, he was advanced to the dignity of earl of Hallifax, and viscount Sunbury, by letters patent, bearing date the 26th of October, 1714; and before the end of that year, was installed one of the knights companions of the most noble order of the garter, and made lord lieutenant of the county of Surry. Lord Hallifax died in the 54th year of his age, on the 19th of May 1715, and on the 26th of the same month, was interred in general Monk's vault in Westminster-Abbey: leaving no issue, his titles devolved on his nephew, George late earl of Hallifax.--Considered as a poet, his lordship makes a less considerable figure than the earl of Dorset; there is a languor in his verses, which seems to indicate that he was not born with a poetical genius. That he was a lover of the muses, there is not the lead doubt, as we find him patronizing the poets so warmly; but there is some difference between a propensity to poetry, and a power of excelling in it. His lordship has writ but few things, and those not of the utmost consequence. Among others are the following, printed in Tonsen's Minor Poets. 1. Verses On the death of Charles the IId. 2. An Ode on the Marriage of the Princess Anne, and Prince George of Denmark. 3. The Man of Honour, occasioned by a Postscript to Penn's Letter. 4. An Epistle to Charles earl of Dorset; occasioned by King William's Victory in Ireland. 5. Verses written for the toasting Glasses of the Kit-Cat-Club, 1703; which consisted of persons of the first fashion, who were in the interest of the house of Hanover. These Verses are by far the compleatest of lord Hallifax's, and, indeed, genteel compliments to the radiant beauties, who were the chief toasts amongst the Whigs. I shall here present the reader with them. DUCHESS of BEAUFORT. Offspring of a tuneful fire, Blest with more than mortal sire: Likeness of a mother's face, Blest with more than mortal grace: You with double charms surprize, With his wit, and with her eyes. LADY MARY CHURCHILL. Fairest, latest of the beauteous race, Blest with your parents wit, and her first blooming face; Born with our liberties in William's reign, Your eyes alone that liberty restrain. DUCHESS of RICHMOND. Of two fair Richmonds diff'rent ages boast, Their's was the first, and our's the brighter toast; Th' adorers offspring prove who's most divine, They sacrific'd in water, we in wine. LADY SUNDERLAND. All nature's charms in Sunderland appear, Bright as her eyes, and as her reason clear; Yet still their force, to men not safely known, Seems undiscover'd to herself alone. MADAMOISELLE SPANHEIME. Admir'd in Germany, ador'd in France, Your charms to brighter glory, here advance; The stubborn Britons own your beauty's claim, And with their native toasts enroll your name. [Footnote 1: Collins's Peerage. See Article Hallifax.] * * * * * WILLIAM WYCHERLEY, Esq; This Gentleman was son of Daniel Wycherley, of Cleve in Shropshire, Esq; and was born (says Wood) in the year 1640. When he was about fifteen years of age, he was sent to France, in the western parts of which he resided upon the banks of the Charante; where he was often admitted to the conversation of the most accomplished ladies of the court of France, particularly madam de Montaufieur, celebrated by mons. Voiture in his letters[1]. A little before the restoration of Charles the IId, he became a gentleman commoner of queen's college in Oxford, and lived in the provost's lodgings; and was entered in the public library, under the title of philosophiæ studiosus, in July 1660. He quitted the university without being matriculated, having, according to the Oxford antiquary, been reconciled to the protestant religion, which he had renounced during his travels, probably by the person of those gay ladies, with whom he conversed in France. This circumstance shews how dangerous it is to engage in a debate with a female antagonist, especially, if that antagonist joins beauty with understanding. Mr. Wycherley afterwards entered himself in the Middle-Temple; but making his first appearance in town, in a reign when wit and gaiety were the favourite distinctions, he relinguished the study of the law, and engaged in pursuits more agreeable to his own genius, and the gallant spirit of the times. Upon writing his first Play, entitled Love in a Wood, or St. James's Park; and acted at the Theatre-royal, in 1672, he became acquainted with several of the most celebrated wits, both of the court and town; and likewise with the duchess of Cleveland. Mr. Dennis, in his Letters quoted above, has given a particular relation of the beginning of his acquaintance with this celebrated beauty of the times, which is singular enough.--One day Mr. Wycherley riding in his chariot through St. James's Park, he was met by the duchess, whose chariot jostled with his, upon which she looked out of her chariot, and spoke very audibly, "You Wycherley, you are a son of a whore," and then burst into a fit of laughter. Mr. Wycherley at first was very much surprized at this, but he soon recovered himself enough to recollect, that it was spoke in allusion to the latter end of a Song in his Love in a Wood; When parents are slaves, Their brats cannot be any other; Great wits, and great braves, Have always a punk for their mother. During Mr. Wycherley's surprize, the chariots drove different ways, they were soon at a considerable distance from each other; when Mr. Wycherley recollecting, ordered his coachman to drive back, and overtake the lady. As soon as he got over against her, he said to her, "Madam, you was pleased to bestow a title upon me, which generally belongs to the fortunate. Will your ladyship be at the play to night? Well, she replied, what if I should be there? Why then, answered he, I will be there to wait on your ladyship, though I disappoint a fine woman, who has made me an assignation. So, said she, you are sure to disappoint a woman who has favoured you, for one who has not. Yes, he replied, if she who has not favoured me is the finer woman of the two: But he who will be constant to your ladyship, till he can find a finer woman, is sure to die your captive." The duchess of Cleveland, in consequence of Mr. Wycherley's compliment, was that night, in the first row of the king's box in Drury-Lane, and Mr. Wycherley in the pit under her, where he entertained her during the whole play; and this was the beginning of a correspondence between these two persons, which afterwards made a great noise in the town. This accident, was the occasion of bringing Mr. Wycherley into favour with George duke of Buckingham, who was passionately in love with that lady, but was ill-treated by her, and who believed that Mr. Wycherley was his happy rival. The duke had long sollicited her, without obtaining any favour: Whether the relation between them shocked her, for she was his cousin-german; or, whether she apprehended that an intrigue with a person of his rank and character, must necessarily in a short time come to the king's ears; whatever was the cause, she refused so long to admit his visits, that at last indignation, rage, and disdain took place of love; and he resolved to ruin her. When he took this resolution, he had her so narrowly watched by his spies, that he soon discovered those whom he had reason to believe were his rivals; and after he knew them, he never failed to name them aloud, in order to expose the lady to all those who visited her; and among others, he never failed to mention Mr. Wycherley. As soon as it came to the knowledge of the latter, who had all his expectations from court, he apprehended the consequences of such a report, if it should reach the King; and applied himself therefore to Wilmot earl of Rochester, and Sir Charles Sedley, entreating them to remonstrate to the duke of Buckingham, the mischief he was about to do to one who had not the honour to know him, and who had not offended him. Upon opening the matter to the duke, he cried out immediately, that he did not blame Wycherley, he only accused his cousin. 'Ay, but they replied, by rendering him suspected of such an intrigue, you are about to ruin him; that is, your grace is about to ruin a man, whose conversation you would be pleased with above all things.' Upon this occasion, they said so much of the shining qualities of Mr. Wycherley, and the charms of his conversation, that the duke, who was as much in love with wit, as he was with his cousin, was impatient, till he was brought to sup with him, which was in two or three nights. After supper, Mr. Wycherley, who was then in the height of his vigour, both in body and mind, thought himself obliged to exert his talents, and the duke was charmed to that degree, that he cried out with transport, and with an oath, 'My cousin's in the right of it.' and from that very moment made a friend of a man he before thought his rival. In the year 1673 a comedy of his called the Gentleman Dancing-Master, was acted at the duke's Theatre, and in 1678 his Plain Dealer was acted with general applause. In 1683 his Country Wife was performed at the same Theatre. These Plays raised him so high in the esteem of the world, and so recommended him to the favour of the duke of Buckingham, that as he was master of the horse, and colonel of a regiment, he bestowed two places on Wycherley: As master of the horse, he made him one of his equeries; and as colonel of a regiment, a captain lieutenant of his own company. King Charles likewise gave our author the most distinguishing marks of favour, perhaps beyond what any sovereign prince had shewn before to an author, who was only a private gentleman: Mr. Wycherley happened to be ill of a fever, at his lodgings in Bow-Street, Covent-Garden; during his sickness, the king did him the honour of a visit; when finding his fever indeed abated, but his body extremely weakened, and his spirits miserably shattered, he commanded him to take a journey to the south of France, believing that nothing could contribute more to the restoring his former state of health, than the gentle air of Montpelier, during the winter season: at the same time, the king assured him, that as soon as he was able to undertake that journey, he would order five-hundred pounds to be paid him, to defray the expences of it. Mr. Wycherley accordingly went to France, and returned to England the latter end of the spring following, with his health entirely restored. The king received him with the utmost marks of esteem, and shortly after told him, he had a son, whom he resolved should be educated like the son of a king, and that he could make choice of no man so proper to be his governor as Mr. Wycherley; and, that for this service, he should have fifteen-hundred pounds a year allotted him; the King also added, that when the time came, that his office should cease, he would take care to make such a provision for him, as should set him above the malice of the world and fortune. These were golden prospects for Mr. Wycherley, but they were soon by a cross accident dashed to pieces. Soon after this promise of his majesty's, Mr. Dennis tells us, that Mr. Wycherley went down to Tunbridge, to take either the benefit of the waters, or the diversions of the place; when walking one day upon the wells-walk, with his friend Mr. Fairbeard of Grey's-Inn, just as he came up to the bookseller's, the countess of Drogheda, a young widow, rich, noble and beautiful, came to the bookseller, and enquired for the Plain Dealer. 'Madam, says Mr. Fairbeard, since you are for the Plain Dealer, there he is for you,' pushing Mr. Wycherley towards her. 'Yes, says Mr. Wycherley, this lady can bear plain dealing, for she appears to be so accomplished, that what would be a compliment to others, when said to her, would be plain dealing.--No truly Sir, said the lady, I am not without my faults more than the rest of my sex; and yet, notwithstanding all my faults, I love plain dealing, and never am more fond of it, then when it tells me of a fault:' Then madam, says Mr. Fairbeard, you and the plain dealer seem designed by heaven for each other. In short, Mr. Wycherley accompanied her upon the walks, waited upon her home, visited her daily at her lodgings whilst she stayed at Tunbridge; and after she went to London, at her lodgings in Hatton-Garden: where in a little time he obtained her consent to marry her. This he did by his father's command, without acquainting the king; for it was reasonably supposed that the lady having a great independent estate, and noble and powerful relations, the acquainting the king with the intended match, would be the likeliest way to prevent it. As soon as the news was known at court, it was looked upon as an affront to the king, and a contempt of his majesty's orders; and Mr. Wycherley's conduct after marriage, made the resentment fall heavier upon him: For being conscious he had given offence, and seldom going near the court, his absence was construed into ingratitude. The countess, though a splendid wife, was not formed to make a husband happy; she was in her nature extremely jealous, and indulged it to such a degree, that she could not endure her husband should be one moment out of her sight. Their lodgings were in Bow-street, Covent Garden, over against the Cock Tavern; whither if Mr. Wycherley at any time went, he was obliged to leave the windows open, that his lady might see there was no woman in the company. This was the cause of Mr. Wycherley's disgrace with the King, whose favour and affection he had before possessed in so distinguished a degree. The countess settled all her estate upon him, but his title being disputed after her death, the expence of the law, and other incumbrances, so far reduced him, that he was not able to satisfy the impatience of his creditors, who threw him at last into prison; so that he, who but a few years before was flourishing in all the gaiety of life, flushed with prospects of court preferment, and happy in the most extensive reputation for wit and parts, was condemned to suffer all the rigours of want: for his father did not think proper to support him. In this severe extremity, he fell upon an expedient, which, no doubt, was dictated by his distress, of applying to his Bookseller, who had got considerably by his Plain Dealer, in order to borrow 20 l. but he applied in vain; the Bookseller refused to lend him a shilling; and in that distress he languished for seven years: nor was he released 'till one day King James going to see his Plain-Dealer performed, was so charmed with it, that he gave immediate orders for the payment of the author's debts, adding to that bounty a pension of 200 1. per annum, while he continued in England. But the generous intention of that Prince to him, had not the designed effect, purely through his modesty; he being ashamed to tell the earl of Mulgrave, whom the King had sent to demand it, a full state of his debts. He laboured under the weight of these difficulties 'till his father died, and then the estate that descended to him, was left under very uneasy limitations, he being only a tenant for life, and not being allowed to raise money for the payment of his debts: yet, as he had a power to make a jointure, he married, almost at the eve of his days, a young gentlewoman of 1500 l. fortune, part of which being applied to the uses he wanted it for, he died eleven days after the celebration of his nuptials in December 1715, and was interred in the vault of Covent Garden church. Besides the plays already mentioned, he published a volume of poems 1704, which met with no great success; for, like Congreve, his strength lay only in the drama, and, unless on the stage, he was but a second rate poet. In 1728 his posthumous works in prose and verse were published by Mr. Lewis Theobald at London in 8vo. Mr. Dennis, in a few words, has summed up this gentleman's character; 'he was admired by the men for his parts, in wit and learning; and he was admired by the women for those parts of which they were more competent judges.' Mr. Wycherley was a man of great sprightliness, and vivacity of genius, he was said to have been handsome, formed for gallantry, and was certainly an idol with the ladies, a felicity which even his wit might not have procured, without exterior advantages. As a poet and a dramatist, I cannot better exhibit his character than in the words of George lord Lansdowne; he observes, 'that the earl of Rochester, in imitation of one of Horace's epistles, thus mentions our author; Of all our modern wits none seem to me, Once to have touch'd upon true comedy But hasty Shadwel, and slow Wycherley. Shadwel's unfinish'd works do yet impart Great proofs of nature's force; tho' none of art. 'But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains, He wants no judgment, and he spares no pains.' 'Lord Lansdowne is persuaded, that the earl fell into this part of the character (of a laborious writer) merely for the sake of the verse; if hasty, says he, would have stood as an epithet for Wycherley, and slow, for Shadwel, they would in all probability have been so applied, but the verse would have been spoiled, and to that it was necessary to submit. Those, who would form their judgments only upon Mr. Wycherley's writings, without any personal acquaintance with him, might indeed be apt to conclude, that such a diversity of images and characters, such strict enquiries into nature, such close observations on the several humours, manners, and affections of all ranks and degrees of men, and, as it were, so true and perfect a dissection of humankind, delivered with so much pointed wit, and force of expression, could be no other than the work of extraordinary diligence, labour, and application; but in truth, we owe the pleasure and advantage of having been so well entertained, and instructed by him, to his facility of doing it; if it had been a trouble to him to write, I am much mistaken if he would not have spared that trouble. What he has performed, would have been difficult for another; but a club, which a man of an ordinary size could not lift, was a walking staff for Hercules. To judge by the sharpness, and spirit of his satires, you might be led into another mistake, and imagine him an ill-natur'd man, but what my lord Rochester said of lord Dorset, is applicable to him, the best good man with the worst natured muse. As pointed, and severe as he is in his writings, in his temper he had all the softness of the tenderest disposition; gentle and inoffensive to every man in his particular character; he only attacks vice as a public enemy, compassionating the wound he is under a necessity to probe, or grieving, like a good natured conqueror, at the occasions which provoke him to make such havock. King Charles II. a nice discerner of men, and himself a man of wit, often chose him for a companion at his leisure hours, as Augustus did Horace, and had very advantageous views for him, but unluckily an amorous inclination interfered; the lover got the better of the courtier, and ambition fell a sacrifice to love, the predominant passion of the noblest mind. Many object to his versification; it is certain he is no master of numbers, but a Diamond is not less a Diamond for not being polished.' Mr. Pope, when very young, made his court to Mr. Wycherley, when very old; and the latter was so well pleased with the former, and had such an opinion of his rising genius, that he entered into an intimate correspondence with him, and submitted his works to Mr. Pope's correction. See the letters between Pope and Wycherley, printed in Pope's works. [Footnote 1: Dennis's Letters, vol. i. p. 213.] * * * * * NAHUM TATE Was born about the middle of the reign of Charles II. in the kingdom of Ireland, and there received his education. He was a man of learning, courteous, and candid, but was thought to possess no great genius, as being deficient in what is its first characteristic, namely, invention. He was made poet laureat to King William, upon the death of Shadwell, and held that place 'till the accession of King George I, on whom he lived to write the first Birth-Day Ode, which is executed with unusual spirit. Mr. Tate being a man of extreme modesty, was never able to make his fortune, or to raise himself above necessity; he was obliged to have recourse to the patronage of the earl of Dorset, to screen him from the persecution of his creditors. Besides several other poetical performances, which will be afterwards enumerated and a Version of the Psalms, in conjunction with Dr. Brady, Mr. Tate has been the author of nine plays, of which the following is the list; 1. Brutus of Alba, a Tragedy; acted at the Duke's Theatre 1678, dedicated to the Earl of Dorset. This play is founded on Virgil's Æneid, b. iv, and was finished under the name of Dido and Æneas, but by the advice of some friends, was transformed to the dress it now wears. 2. The Loyal General, a Tragedy; acted at the Duke's Theatre 1680. 3. Richard II. revived, and altered from Shakespear, under the title of the Sicilian Usurper; a Tragedy, with a Prefatory Epistle, in Vindication of the Author, occasioned by the Prohibition of this Play on the Stage. The scene is in England. 4. The Ingratitude of a Commonwealth, or the Fall of Caius Marius Coriolanus; this was printed in 4to. 1682, and dedicated to the Marquis of Worcester; it is founded on Shakespear's Coriolanus. 5. Cuckold's Haven, or an Alderman no Conjuror; a Farce; acted at the Queen's Theatre in the Dorset-Garden 1685. Part of the plot of this piece seems to be taken from Ben. Johnson's Eastward Hoe or the Devil is an Ass. 6. A Duke, and No Duke, a Farce, acted 1684. The plot from Trappolin supposed a Prince. 7. The Island Princess, a Tragi-Comedy; acted at the Theatre Royal 1687, dedicated to Henry Lord Waldegrave. This is the Island Princess of Fletcher revived, with alterations. 8. Lear King of England, and his Three Daughters, an Historical Play, acted at the Duke s Theatre 1687. It is one of Shakespear's most moving tragedies revived, with alterations. 9. Injured Love, or the Cruel Husband, a Tragedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal 1707. His other works are chiefly these, The Second Part of Absalom and Achitophel. Mr. Dryden, author of the first, assisted in this, he being himself pressed to write it, but declined the task, and encouraged Mr. Tate in the performance. The Rise and Progress of Priestcraft. Syphilis, or a Poetical History of the French Disease. Jephtha's Vow. In Memory of his Grace the Illustrious Duke of Ormond, 1688. On the Death of the Countess of Dorset. The Characters of Virtue and Vice described, in the Person of the Wise Man and the Hypocrite; attempted in Verse, from a Treatise of Jos. Hall, Bishop of Exeter. A Poem upon Tea. The Triumph, or Warriors Welcome; a Poem on the glorious Success of the last Year, with the Ode for New-Year's-Day, 1705. Thoughts on Human Life. The Kentish Worthies. The Monitor, intended for the promoting Religion and Virtue, and suppressing Vice and Immorality; containing forty one Poems on several Subjects, in pursuance of her Majesty's most gracious directions, performed by Mr. Tate, Mr. Smith, and others. This paper was published on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, in the years 1712, and 1713. The Triumph of Peace, a Poem on the Magnificent, Public Entry of his Grace the Duke of Shrewsbury, Ambassador from the Queen of Great Britain to the Most Christian King, and the Magnificent Entry of his Excellency the illustrious Duke D'Aumont, Ambassador from his Most Christian Majesty to the Queen of Great Britain, with the Prospect of the Glorious Procession for a General Thanksgiving at St. Paul's. The Windsor Muse's Address, presaging the taking of Lisle; presented to her Majesty at the Court's departure from the Castle, September 28, 1708, 4to. The Muses Memorial of the Right Hon. the Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, Lord High Treasurer of Great Britain, 1713. Funeral Poems on Queen Mary, Archbishop of Canterbury, &c. 8vo. 1700. A Poem occasioned by the late Discontents, and Disturbances in the State; with Reflections upon the Rise and Progress of Priestcraft. An Elegy on the much esteemed, and truly worthy Ralph Marshall, Esq; one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, &c. fol. 1700. Comitia Lyrica, five carmen Panegyricum, in quo, ad exornandas Magni Godolphini laudes, omnes omnium Odarum modi ab Horatio delegantur (per Ludovicum Maidvellium) Paraphrased in English, fol. 1707. On the Sacred Memory of our late Sovereign; with a Congratulation to his present Majesty, fol. 1685, second edition. Mausoleum, a Funeral Poem on our late Gracious Sovereign Queen Mary, of blessed memory. An Elegy on the most Rev. Father in God, his Grace John, late Archbishop of Canterbury; written in the year 1693. A Poem in Memory of his Grace the illustrious Duke of Ormond, and of the Right Hon. the Earl of Offory; written in the year 1688. An Elegy in Memory of that most excellent Lady, the late Countess of Dorset; written in the year 1691. A Consolatory Poem to the Right Hon. John Lord Cutts, upon the Death of his most accomplished Lady. A Poem on the last Promotion of several eminent Persons in Church and State; written in the year 1694, fol. dedicated in Verse to the Right Hon. Charles Earl of Middlesex, &c. These are all printed under the title of Funeral Poems on her late Majesty of blessed memory, &c. 8vo, 1700. Miscellanea Sacra; or Poems on Divine and Moral Subjects, collected by Mr. Tate. He also gave the public a great many translations from Ovid, Horace, Juvenal, Virgil. His song on his Majesty's birth-day has the following stanza, When Kings that make the public good their care Advance in dignity and state, Their rise no envy can create; Their subjects in the princely grandeur share: For, like the sun, the higher they ascend, The farther their indulgent beams extend. Yet long before our royal sun His destin'd course has run, We're bless'd to see a glorious heir, That shall the mighty loss repair; When he that blazes now shall this low sphere resign In a sublimer orb eternally to shine. A Cynthia too, adorn'd with every grace Of person and of mind; And happy in a starry race, Of that auspicious kind, As joyfully presage, No want of royal heirs in any future age. CHORUS. Honour'd with the best of Kings, And a set of lovely springs, From the royal fountain flowing, Lovely streams, and ever growing, Happy Britain past expressing, Only learn to prize thy blessing. We shall give some further account of the translation of the Psalms in the life of Dr. Brady. This author died in the Mint 1716, was interred in St. George's church, Southwark, and was succeeded in the laurel by Mr. Eusden. * * * * * Sir SAMUEL GARTH. This gentleman was descended from a good family in Yorkshire; after he had passed through his school education, he was removed to Peter-house in Cambridge, where he is said to have continued till he was created Dr. of Physic July 7, 1691[1]. In 1696 Dr. Garth zealously promoted the erecting the Dispensary, being an apartment, in the college for the relief of the sick poor, by giving them advice gratis, and dispensing medicines to them at low rates. This work of charity having exposed him, and many other of the most eminent Physicians to the envy and resentment of several persons of the same faculty, as well as Apothecaries, he ridiculed them with peculiar spirit, and vivacity, in his poem called the Dispensary in 6 Cantos; which, though it first stole into the world a little hastily, and incorrect, in the year 1669, yet bore in a few months three impressions, and was afterwards printed several times, with a dedication to Anthony Henley, esquire. This poem, gained our author great reputation; it is of the burlesque species, and executed with a degree of humour, hardly equal'd, unless in the Rape of the Lock. Our author's poetical character, joined with his skill in his profession, his agreeable conversation, and unaffected good nature, procured him vast practice, introduced him to the acquaintance, and established him in the esteem of most of the nobility and gentry. Much about the same time he gave a distinguishing instance of his profound knowledge in his profession, his perfect acquaintance with antiquity, and correct taste in Roman eloquence by a Latin oration, pronounced before the Faculty in Warwick-Lane, September 17, 1697, to the great satisfaction of the audience, and the raising his own reputation, as the college register testifies. Pieces of this kind are often composed with peculiar attention to the phrase, the sound of the periods in speaking, and their effect upon the ear; these advantages were by no means neglected in Dr. Garth's performance, but the sentiments, the spirit, and stile appeared to still greater advantage in the reading; and the applause with which it was received by its hearers, was echoed by those who perused it; this instance is the more singular, as few have been distinguished both as orators and poets. Cicero, who was not heard by his cotemporaries with greater applause, than his works are now read with admiration, attempted poetry without success; reputation in that kind of writing the Roman orator much desired, but never could compose a line to please himself, or any of his friends. Upon the death of Dryden in May 1701, by a very strange accident his burial[2] came to depend on the piety of Dr. Garth, who caused the body to be brought to the College of Physicians, proposed and encouraged by his generous example a subscription for defraying the expence of the funeral, and after pronouncing over the corpse a suitable oration, he attended the solemnity to Westminster-Abbey, where at last the remains of that great man were interred in Chaucer's grave. For this memorable act of tenderness and generosity, those who loved the person, or who honoured the parts of that excellent poet, expressed much gratitude to Dr. Garth. He was one of the most eminent members of a famous society called the Kit-Kat Club, which consisted of above thirty noblemen and gentlemen, distinguished by their zealous affection to the Protestant succession in the House of Hanover[3]. October 3, 1702 he was elected one of the Censors of the College of Physicians. In respect to his political principles, he was open and warm, and which was still more to be valued, he was steady and sincere. In the time of lord Godolphin's administration, nobody was better received of his rank than Dr. Garth; and nobody seemed to have a higher opinion of that minister's integrity, and abilities in which he had, however, the satisfaction of thinking with the public. In 1710, when the Whig ministry was discarded, and his lordship had an opportunity of distinguishing his own friends, from those which were only the friends of his power, it could not fail of giving him sensible pleasure to find Dr. Garth early declaring for him, and amongst the first who bestowed upon him the tribute of his muse, at a time when that nobleman's interest sunk: A situation which would have struck a flatterer dumb. There were some to whom this testimony of gratitude was by no means pleasing, and therefore the Dr's. lines were severely criticised by the examiner, a paper engaged in the defence of the new ministry; but instead of sinking the credit either of the author, or the verses, they added to the honour of both, by exciting Mr. Addison to draw his pen in their defence. In order to form a judgment both of the Criticism, and the Defence, it will be necessary first of all to read the poem to which they refer, more especially as it is very short, and may be supposed to have been written suddenly, and, at least, as much from the author's gratitude to his noble patron, as a desire of adding to his reputation. To the EARL of GODOLPHIN. While weeping Europe bends beneath her ills, And where the sword destroys not, famine kills; Our isle enjoys by your successful care, The pomp of peace amidst the woes of war. So much the public to your prudence owes, You think no labours long, for our repose. Such conduct, such integrity are shewn, There are no coffers empty, but your own. From mean dependence, merit you retrieve; Unask'd you offer, and unseen you give. Your favour, like the Nile, increase bestows; And yet conceals the source from whence it flows. So poiz'd your passions are, we find no frown, If funds oppress not, and if commerce run, Taxes diminish'd, liberty entire, These are the grants your services require. Thus far the State Machine wants no repair, But moves in matchless order by your care. Free from confusion, settled, and serene; And like the universe by springs unseen. But now some star, sinister to our pray'rs; Contrives new schemes, and calls you from affairs. No anguish in your looks, nor cares appear, But how to teach th' unpractic'd crew to steer. Thus like some victim no constraint; you need, To expiate their offence, by whom you bleed. Ingratitude's a weed in every clime; It thrives too fast at first, but fades in time. The god of day, and your own lot's the same; The vapours you have rais'd obscure your flame But tho' you suffer, and awhile retreat, Your globe of light looks larger as you set. These verses, however they may express the gratitude, and candour of the author, and may contain no more than truth of the personage to whom they are addressed, yet, every reader of taste will perceive, that the verses are by no means equal to the rest of Dr. Garth's poetical writings. Remarks upon these verses were published in a Letter to the Examiner, September 7, 1710. The author observes, 'That there does not appear either poetry, grammar, or design in the composition of this poem; the whole (says he) seems to be, as the sixth edition of the Dispensary, happily expresses it, a strong, unlaboured, impotence of thought. I freely examine it by the new test of good poetry, which the Dr. himself has established. Pleasing at first sight: Has this piece the least title even to that? or if we compare it to the only pattern, as he thinks, of just writing in this kind, Ovid; is there any thing in De Tristibus so wild, so childish, so flat? what can the ingenious Dr. mean, or at what time could he write these verses? half of the poem is a panegyric on a Lord Treasurer in being, and the rest a compliment of condolance to an Earl that has lost the Staff. In thirty lines his patron is a river, the primum mobile, a pilot, a victim, the sun, any thing and nothing. He bestows increase, conceals his source, makes the machine move, teaches to steer, expiates our offences, raises vapours, and looks larger as he sets; nor is the choice of his expression less exquisite, than that of his similies. For commerce to run[4], passions to be poized, merit to be received from dependence, and a machine to be serene, is perfectly new. The Dr. has a happy talent at invention, and has had the glory of enriching our language by his phrases, as much as he has improved medicine by his bills.' The critic then proceeds to consider the poem more minutely, and to expose it by enumerating particulars. Mr. Addison in a Whig Examiner published September 14, 1710, takes occasion to rally the fierce over-bearing spirit of the Tory Examiner, which, he says, has a better title to the name of the executioner. He then enters into the defence of the Dr's. poem, and observes, 'that the phrase of passions being poized, and retrieving merit from dependence, cavilled at by the critics, are beautiful and poetical; it is the same cavilling spirit, says he, that finds fault with that expression of the Pomp of Peace, among Woes of War, as well as of Offering unasked.' This general piece of raillery which he passes on the Dr's. considering the treasurer in several different views, is that which might fall upon any poem in Waller, or any other writer who has diversity of thoughts and allusions, and though it may appear a pleasant ridicule to an ignorant reader, is wholly groundless and unjust. Mr. Addison's Answer is, however, upon the whole, rather a palliation, than a defence. All the skill of that writer could never make that poetical, or a fine panegyric, which is in its own nature removed from the very appearance of poetry; but friendship, good nature, or a coincidence of party, will sometimes engage the greatest men to combat in defence of trifles, and even against their own judgment, as Dryden finely expresses it in his Address to Congreve, "Vindicate a friend." In 1711 Dr. Garth wrote a dedication for an intended edition of Lucretius, addressed to his late Majesty, then Elector of Brunswick, which has been admired as one of the purest compositions in the Latin tongue that our times have produced. On the accession of that King to the throne, he had the honour of knighthood conferred upon him by his Majesty, with the duke of Marlborough's sword[5]. He was likewise made Physician in ordinary to the King, and Physician General to the army. As his known services procured him a great interest with those in power, so his humanity and good nature inclined him to make use of that interest, rather for the support, and encouragement of men of letters who had merit, than for the advancement of his private fortune; his views in that respect having been always very moderate. He lived with the great in that degree of esteem and independency, and with all that freedom which became a man possessed of superior genius, and the most shining and valuable talents. His poem entitled Claremont, addressed to the duke of Newcastle, printed in the 6th volume of Dryden's Miscellanies, met with great approbation. A warm admirer of the Doctor's, speaking of Claremont, thus expresses himself; 'It will survive, says he, the noble structure it celebrates, 'and will remain a perpetual monument of its author's learning, taste, and great capacity as a poet; since, in that short work, there are innumerable beauties, and a vast variety of sentiments easily and happily interwoven; the most lively strokes of satire being intermixed with the most courtly panegyric, at the same time that there appears the true spirit of enthusiasm, which distinguishes the works of one born a poet, from those of a witty, or learned man, that has arrived at no higher art, than that of making verse[6].' His knowledge in philosophy, his correct taste in criticism, and his thorough acquaintance in classical literature, with all the advantages that can be derived from an exact, but concealed method, an accurate, though flowing stile, and a language pure, natural, and full of vivacity, appear, says the same panegyrist in the preface he prefixed to a translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, which would have been sufficient to have raised him an immortal reputation, if it had been the only product of his pen. Dr. Garth is said to have been a man of the most extensive benevolence; that his hand and heart went always together: A circumstance more valuable than all the lustre which genius can confer. We cannot however, speak of his works with so much warmth, as the author just quoted seems to indulge. His works will scarce make a moderate volume, and though they contain many things excellent, judicious, and humorous, yet they will not justify the writer, who dwells upon them in the same rapturous strain of admiration, with which we speak of a Horace, a Milton, or a Pope. He had the happiness of an early acquaintance with some of the most powerful, wisest, and wittiest men of the age in which he lived; he attached himself to a party, which at last obtained the ascendant, and he was equally successful in his fortune as his friends: Persons in these circumstances are seldom praised, or censured with moderation. We have already seen how warmly Addison espoused the Dr's. writings, when they were attacked upon a principle of party, and there are many of the greatest wits of his time who pay him compliments; amongst the rest is lord Lansdowne, who wrote some verses upon his illness; but as the lines do no great honour either to his lordship, or the Dr. we forbear to insert them. The following passage is taken from one of Pope's Letters, written upon the death of Dr. Garth, which, we dare say, will be more acceptable. 'The best natured of men (says he) Sir Samuel Garth has left me in the truest concern for his loss. His death was very heroical, and yet unaffected enough to have made a saint, or a philosopher famous. But ill tongues, and worse hearts have branded his last moments, as wrongfully as they did his life, with irreligion: you must have heard many tales upon this subject; but if ever there was a good christian, without knowing himself to be so, it was Dr. Garth.' Our author was censured for his love of pleasure, in which perhaps it would be easier to excuse than defend him; but upon the whole, his character appears to have been very amiable, particularly, that of his bearing a tide of prosperity with so much, evenness of temper; and his universal benevolence, which seems not to have been cramped with party principles; as appears from his piety towards the remains of Dryden. He died after a short illness, January 18, 1718-19, and was buried the 22d of the same month in the church of Harrow on the Hill, in the county of Middlesex, in a vault he caused to be built for himself and his family[7], leaving behind him an only daughter married to the honourable colonel William Boyle, a younger son of colonel Henry Boyle, who was brother to the late, and uncle to the present, earl of Burlington[8]. His estates in Warwickshire, Oxfordshire, and Buckinghamshire, are now possessed by his grandson, Henry Boyle, Esq; whose amiable qualities endear him to all who have the happiness of his acquaintance. His works are collected, and printed in one volume, published by Tonson. [Footnote 1: Biog. Brit, p. 2129.] [Footnote 2: See Dryden's Life.] [Footnote 3: History of the Stewarts, vol. ii. p. 479.] [Footnote 4: The line here referred to, was omitted in the later editions of these verses.] [Footnote 5: Chronol. Diary for A.D. 1714-15.] [Footnote 6: Biog. Britan, p, 2135.] [Footnote 7: Chronol. Diary, A.D. 1719.] [Footnote 8: Collins's Peerage, vol. iv. p. 259.] * * * * * NICHOLAS ROWE, Esq; This excellent poet was descended from an ancient family in Devonshire, which had for many ages made a very good figure in that county, and was known by the name of the Rowes of Lambertowne. Mr. Rowe could trace his ancestors in a direct line up to the times of the holy war, in which one of them so distinguished himself, that at his return he had the arms given him, which the family has born ever since, that being in those days all the reward of military virtue, or of blood spilt in those expeditions. From that time downward to Mr. Rowe's father, the family betook themselves to the frugal management of a private fortune, and the innocent pleasures of a country life. Having a handsome estate, they lived beyond the fear of want, or reach of envy. In all the changes of government, they are said to have ever leaned towards the side of public liberty, and in that retired situation of life, nave beheld with grief and concern the many encroachments that have been made in it from time to time. Our author was born at Little Berkford in Bedfordshire, at the house of Jasper Edwards, Esq; his mother's father, in the year 1673[1]. He began his education at a private grammar-school in Highgate; but the taste he there acquired of the classic authors, was improved, and finished under the care of the famous Dr. Busby of Westminster school; where, about the age of 12 years, he was chosen one of the King's scholars. Besides his skill in the Latin and Greek languages, he had made a tolerable proficiency in the Hebrew; but poetry was his early bent, and darling study. He composed, at different times, several copies of verses upon various subjects both in Greek and Latin, and some in English, which were much admired, and the more so, because they were produced with so much facility, and seemed to flow from his imagination, as fast as from his pen. His father, who was a Serjeant at Law, designing him for his own profession, took him from that school when he was about sixteen years of age, and entered him a student in the Middle Temple, whereof himself was a member, that he might have him under his immediate care and instruction. Being capable of any part knowledge, to which he thought proper to apply, he made very remarkable advances in the study of the Law, and was not content to know it, as a collection of statutes, or customs only, but as a system founded upon right reason, and calculated for the good of mankind. Being afterwards called to the bar, he promised as fair to make a figure in that profession, as any of his cotemporaries, if the love of the Belles Lettres, and that of poetry in particular, had not stopped him in his career. To him there appeared more charms in Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschilus, than in all the records of antiquity, and when he came to discern the beauties of Shakespear and Milton, his soul was captivated beyond recovery, and he began to think with contempt of all other excellences, when put in the balance with the enchantments of poetry and genius. Mr. Rowe had the best opportunities of rising to eminence in the Law, by means of the patronage of Sir George Treby, Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, who was fond of him to a very great degree, and had it in his power to promote him; but being overcome by his propension to poetry, and his first tragedy, called the Ambitious Step-mother, meeting with universal applause, he laid aside all thoughts of the Law. The Ambitious Step-mother was our author's first attempt in the drama, written by him in the 25th year of his age, and dedicated to the earl of Jersey. 'The purity of the language (says Mr. Welwood) the justness of his characters, the noble elevation of the sentiments, were all of them admirably adapted to the plan of the play.' The Ambitious Step-mother, being the first, is conducted with less judgment than any other of Rowe's tragedies; it has an infinite deal of fire in it, the business is precipitate, and the characters active, and what is somewhat remarkable, the author never after wrote a play with so much elevation. Critics have complained of the sameness of his poetry; that he makes all his characters speak equally elegant, and has not attended sufficiently to the manners. This uniformity of versification, in the opinion of some, has spoiled our modern tragedies, as poetry is made to supply nature, and declamation characters. Whether this observation is well founded, we shall not at present examine, only remark, that if any poet has a right to be forgiven for this error, Mr. Rowe certainly has, as his cadence is the sweetest in the world, his sentiments chaste, and his language elegant. Our author wrote several other Tragedies, but that which he valued himself most upon, says Welwood, was his Tamerlane; acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, and dedicated to the marquis of Hartington. In this play, continues Welwood, 'He aimed at a parallel between the late king William and Tamerlane, and also Bajazet, and a monarch who is since dead. That glorious ambition in Tamerlane, to break the chains of enslaved nations, and set mankind free from the encroachments of lawless power, are painted in the most lively, as well as the most amiable colours. On the other side, his manner of introducing on the stage a prince, whose chief aim is to perpetuate his name to posterity, by that havock and ruin he scatters through the world, are all drawn with that pomp of horror, and detestation, which such monstrous actions deserve. And, since nothing could be more calculated for raising in the minds of the audience a true passion for liberty, and a just abhorrence of slavery, how this play came to be discouraged, next to a prohibition, in the latter end of queen Anne's reign, I leave it to others to give a reason.' Thus far Dr. Welwood, who has endeavoured to point out the similiarity of the character of Tamerlane, to that of king William. Though it is certainly true, that the Tamerlane of Rowe contains grander sentiments than any of his other plays; yet, it may be a matter of dispute whether Tamerlane ought to give name to the play; for Tamerlane is victorious, and Bajazet the sufferer. Besides the fate of these two monarchs, there is likewise contained in it, the Episode of Moneses, and Arpasia, which is of itself sufficiently distressful to make the subject of a tragedy. The attention is diverted from the fall of Bajazet, which ought to have been the main design, and bewildered in the fortunes of Moneses, and Arpasia, Axalla and Selima: There are in short, in this play, events enough for four; and in the variety and importance of them, Tamerlane and Bajazet must be too much neglected. All the characters of a play should be subordinate to the leading one, and their business in the drama subservient to promote his fate; but this performance is not the tragedy of Bajazet, or Tamerlane only; but likewise the tragedies of Moneses and Arpasia, Axala and Selima. It is now performed annually, on the 4th and 5th of November, in commemoration of the Gun-powder Treason, and the landing of king William in this realm, when an occasional prologue is spoken. Another tragedy of Mr. Rowe's is the Fair Penitent, acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields; and dedicated to the duchess of Ormond: This is one of the most finished performances of our author. The character of Sciolto the father is strongly marked; Horatio's the most amiable of all characters, and is so sustained as to strike an audience very forcibly. In this, as in the former play, Mr. Rowe is guilty of a mis-nomer; for his Calista has not the least claim to be called the Fair Penitent, which would be better changed to the Fair Wanton; for she discovers not one pang of remorse till the last act, and that seems to arise more from the external distress to which she is then exposed, than to any compunctions of conscience. She still loves and doats on her base betrayer, though a most insignificant creature. In this character, Rowe has been true to the sex, in drawing a woman, as she generally is, fond of her seducer; but he has not drawn drawn a Penitent. The character of Altamont is one of those which the present players observe, is the hardest to represent of any in the drama; there is a kind of meanness in him, joined with an unsuspecting honest heart, and a doating fondness for the false fair one, that is very difficult to illustrate: This part has of late been generally given to performers of but very moderate abilities; by which the play suffers prodigiously, and Altamont, who is really one of the most important persons in the drama, is beheld with neglect, or perhaps with contempt; but seldom with pity. Altamont, in the hands of a good actor, would draw the eyes of the audience, notwithstanding the blustering Lothario, and the superior dignity of Horatio; for there is something in Altamont, to create our pity, and work upon our compassion. So many players failing of late, in the this character, leaves it a matter of doubt, whether the actor is more mistaken in his performance; or the manager in the distribution of parts. The next tragedy Mr. Rowe wrote was his Ulysses, acted at the queen's Theatre, in the Hay Market, and dedicated to the earl of Godolphin. This play is not at present in possession of the stage, though it deserves highly to be so, as the character of Penelope, is an excellent example of conjugal fidelity: Who, though her lord had been ten years absent from her, and various accounts had been given of his death, yet, notwithstanding this, and the addresses of many royal suitors, she preserved her heart for her Ulysses, who at last triumphed over his enemies, and rescued his faithful queen from the persecution of her wooers.--This play has business, passion, and tragic propriety to recommend it.--. The next play Mr. Rowe brought upon the stage, was his Royal Convert, acted at the queen's Theatre, in the Haymarket, and dedicated to the earl of Hallifax. His next was the Tragedy of Jane Shore, written in imitation of Shakespear's stile; acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, and dedicated to the duke of Queensberry and Dover. How Mr. Rowe could imagine that this play is written at all in imitation of Shakespear's stile, we cannot conceive; for so far as we are able to judge, it bears not the least resemblance to that of Shakespear. The conduct of the design is regular, and in that sense it partakes not of Shakespear's wildness; the poetry is uniform, which marks it to be Rowe's, but in that it is very different from Shakespear, whose excellency does not consist merely in the beauty of soft language, or nightingale descriptions; but in the general power of his drama, the boldness of the images, and the force of his characters. Our author afterwards brought upon the stage his Lady Jane Grey, dedicated to the earl of Warwick; this play is justly in posession of the stage likewise. Mr. Edmund Smith, of Christ's-Church, author of Phædra and Hyppolitus, designed writing a Tragedy on this subject; and at his death left some loose hints of sentiments, and short sketches of scenes. From the last of these, Mr. Rowe acknowledges he borrowed part of one, and inserted it in his third act, viz. that between lord Guilford, and lady Jane. It is not much to be regretted, that Mr. Smith did not live to finish this, since it fell into the hands of one so much above him, as a dramatist; for if we may judge of Mr. Smith's abilities of writing for the stage, by his Phædra and Hyppolitus, it would not have been so well executed as by Rowe. Phædra and Hyppolitus, is a play without passion, though of inimitable versification; and in the words of a living poet, we may say of it, that not the character, but poet speaks. It may be justly said of all Rowe's Tragedies, that never poet painted virtue, religion, and all the relative and social duties of life, in a more alluring dress, on the stage; nor were ever vice or impiety, better exposed to contempt and abhorrence. The same principles of liberty he had early imbibed himself, seemed a part of his constitution, and appeared in every thing he wrote; and he took all occasions that fell in his way, to make his talents subservient to them: His Muse was so religiously chaste, that I do not remember, says Dr. Welwood, one word in any of his plays or writings, that might admit of a double meaning in any point of decency, or morals. There is nothing to be found in them, to flatter a depraved populace, or humour a fashionable folly. Mr. Rowe's Plays were written from the heart. He practised the virtue he admired, and he never, in his gayest moments, suffered himself to talk loosely or lightly upon religious or moral subjects; or to turn any thing sacred, or which good men reverenced as such, into ridicule. Our author wrote a comedy of three acts, called the Biter. It was performed at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields; but without success, for Rowe's genius did not lie towards Comedy.--In a conversation he had with Mr. Pope, that great poet advised him to rescue the queen of Scots, from the hands of Banks; and to make that lady to shine on the stage, with a lustre equal to her character. Mr. Rowe observed in answer to this, that he was a great admirer of queen Elizabeth; and as he could not well plan a play upon the queen of Scots's story, without introducing his favourite princess, who in that particular makes but an indifferent figure, he chose to decline it: Besides, he knew that if he favoured the northern lady, there was a strong party concerned to crush it; and if he should make her appear less great than she was, and throw a shade over her real endowments, he should violate truth, and incur the displeasure of a faction, which though by far the minority, he knew would be yet too powerful for a poet to combat with. The late duke of Queensberry, when secretary of state, made Mr. Rowe secretary for public affairs; and when that nobleman came to know him well, he was never more delighted than when in his company: After the duke's death, all avenues were stopt to his preferment; and during the rest of queen Anne's reign, he passed his time with the Muses and his books, and sometimes with the conversation of his friends. While Mr. Rowe was thus without a patron, he went one day to pay his court to the earl of Oxford, lord high treasurer of England, then at the head of the Tory faction, who asked him if he understood Spanish well? He answered no: but imagining that his lordship might intend to send him into Spain on some honourable commission, he presently added, that in a short time he did not doubt but he should presently be able, both to understand it, and speak it. The earl approving of what he said, Mr. Rowe took his leave, and immediately retired out of town to a private country farm; where, within a few months, he learned the Spanish tongue, and then waited again on the earl to give him an account of his diligence. His lordship asking him, if he was sure he understood it thoroughly, and Mr. Rowe answering in the affirmative, the earl burst into an exclamation; 'How happy are you Mr. Rowe, that you can enjoy the pleasure of reading, and understanding Don Quixote in the original!' This wanton cruelty inflicted by his lordship, of raising expectations in the mind, that he never intended to gratify, needs only be told to excite indignation. Upon the accession of king George the 1st. to the throne, Mr. Rowe was made Poet-Laureat, and one of the surveyors of the customs, in the port of London. The prince of Wales conferred on him, the place of clerk of his council, and the lord chancellor Parker, made him his secretary for the presentations, the very day he received the seals, and without his asking it. He was twice married, first to a daughter of Mr. auditor Parsons; and afterwards to a daughter of Mr. Devenish of a good family in Dorsetshire. By his first wife, he had a son, and by his second a daughter. Mr. Rowe died the 6th of December 1718, in the 45th year of his age, like a christian and a philosopher, and with an unfeigned resignation to the will of God: He preferred an evenness of temper to the last, and took leave of his wife, and friends, immediately before his last agony, with the same tranquility of mind, as if he had been taking but a short journey. He was interred in Westminster-Abbey, over against Chaucer; his body being attended with a vast number of friends, and the dean and chapter officiating at the funeral. A tomb was afterwards erected to his memory, by his wife, for which Mr. Pope wrote an epitaph, which we shall here insert; not one word of which is hyperbolical, or more than he deserves. Epitaph on ROWE, by Mr. POPE. Thy reliques, Rowe! to this sad shrine we trust, And near thy Shakespear place thy honour'd bust, Oh next him skill'd, to draw the tender tear, For never heart felt passion more sincere: To nobler sentiment to fire the brave. For never Briton more disdain'd a slave! Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest, Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest! And blest, that timely from our scene remov'd Thy soul enjoys the liberty it lov'd. To these, so mourn'd in death, so lov'd in life! The childless parent and the widow'd wife With tears inscribes this monumental stone, That holds their ashes and expects her own Mr. Rowe, as to his person, was graceful and well made, his face regular and of a manly beauty; he had a quick, and fruitful invention, a deep penetration, and a large compass of thought, with a singular dexterity, and easiness in communicating his opinions. He was master of most parts of polite learning, especially the Classic Authors, both Greek and Latin; he understood the French, Italian and Spanish languages. He had likewise read most of the Greek and Roman histories in their original languages; and most that are written in English, French, Italian and Spanish: He had a good taste in philosophy, and having a firm impression of religion upon his mind, he took delight in divinity, and ecclesiastical history, in both which he made great advances in the times he retired to the country, which were frequent. He expressed upon all occasions, his full perswasion of the truth of revealed religion; and being a sincere member of the established church himself, he pitied, but condemned not, those who departed from him; he abhorred the principle of persecuting men on account of religious opinions, and being strict in his own, he took it not upon him to censure those of another persuasion. His conversation was pleasant, witty, and learned, without the least tincture of affectation or pedantry; and his inimitable manner of diverting, or enlivening the company, made it impossible for any one to be out of humour when he was in it: Envy and detraction, seemed to be entirely foreign to his constitution; and whatever provocation he met with at any time, he passed them over, without the least thought of resentment or revenge. There were not wanting some malevolent people, and some pretenders to poetry too, that would sometimes bark at his best performances; but he was too much conscious of his own genius, and had so much good-nature as to forgive them, nor could however be tempted to return them an answer.' This is the amiable character of Mr. Rowe, drawn by Mr. Welwood, to which we shall add the words of Mr. Pope, in a letter to Edward Blount, Esq; dated February the 10th, 1715. 'There was a vivacity and gaiety of disposition almost peculiar to Mr. Rowe, which made it impossible to part with him, without that uneasiness, which generally succeeds all our pleasures.' It would perhaps be injurious to the memory of Rowe, to dismiss his life, without taking notice of his translations of Lucan, and Quillet's Callipædia; the versification in both is musical, and well adapted to the subject; nor is there any reason to doubt but that the true meaning of the original, is faithfully preserved throughout the whole. These translations, however, with Mr. Rowe's Occasional Poems, and Birth-Day Odes, are but little read, and he is only distinguished as a dramatist; for which we shall not pretend to assign a reason; but we may observe, that a Muse capable of producing so many excellent dramatic pieces, cannot be supposed to have executed any plan indifferently; however, it may charm a reader less than that kind of composition, which is set off on the Theatre, with so many advantages. He published likewise an edition of the works of Shakespear, and prefixed the life of that great man, from materials which he had been industrious to collect, in the county where Shakespear was born, and to which, after he had filled the world with admiration of his genius, he retired. We deem it unnecessary to give any specimen of Mr. Rowe's poetry; the most celebrated speeches in his plays, which are beautifully harmonious; are repeated by every body who reads poetry, or attends plays; and to suppose the reader ignorant of them, would be to degrade him from that rank of intelligence, without which he can be little illuminated by perusing the _Lives of the Poets_. [Footnote 1: Welwood's preface to Rowe's Lucan] * * * * * JOHN SHEFFIELD, Duke of BUCKINGHAM. This nobleman, who made a very great figure in the last age, as an author, a statesman, and a soldier; was born about the year 1650. He lost his father when he was about nine years of age, and his mother soon after marrying lord Ossulton; the care of his education was left entirely to a governor, who though a man of letters, did not much improve him in his studies [1]. Having parted with his governor, with whom he travelled into France; he soon found by conversing with men of genius, that he was much deficient in many parts of literature, and that while he acquired the graces of a gentleman, he was yet wanting in those higher excellencies; without which politeness makes but an indifferent figure, and can never raise a man to eminence. He possessed an ample fortune, but for a while laid a restraint upon his appetites, and passions, and dedicated for some time a certain number of hours every day to his studies, by which means he acquired a degree of learning, that entitled him to the character of a fine scholar. But not content with that acquisition, our noble author extended his views yet farther, and restless in the pursuit of distinction, we find him at a very early age entering himself a volunteer in the second Dutch war; and accordingly was in that famous naval engagement, where the duke of York commanded as admiral, on which occasion his lordship behaved himself so gallantly, that he was appointed commander of the royal Katherine, a second rate man of war. His lordship in his own Memoirs, tells us, that when he entered himself a volunteer under his royal highness the duke of York, he was then deeply engaged, and under the soft influence of love: He says, he never shall forget the tenderness of parting from his mistress. On this account double honour is due to him:--To enter the bustle of war, without any other call, but that of honour, at an age when most young noblemen are under the tuition of a dancing master, argued a generous intrepid nature; but to leave the arms of his mistress, to tear himself from her he doated on, in order to serve his country, carries in it yet a higher degree of merit, and ought to put all young men of fortune to the blush, who would rather meanly riot in luxurious ease at home, than do honour to themselves and their country, by endeavouring to serve it. His lordship acknowledges in the above-mentioned Memoirs, that the duke of York did wonders in the engagement; and that he was as intrepid in his nature, as some of his enemies supposed him to be of an opposite character; though, says he, alluding to what afterwards happened, misfortunes, age, and other accidents, will make a great man differ from himself. We find our young nobleman while he was aboard a ship, amidst the noise of the crew, could yet indulge his genius for poetry. One would imagine that the ocean is too boisterous an element for the Muses, whose darling wish is for ease and retirement; yet, we find him amidst the roaring of winds and waves, open his Poem with these soothing lines. Within the silent shades of soft repose, Where fancy's boundless stream for ever flows; Where the enfranchis'd soul, at ease can play, Tir'd with the toilsome bus'ness of the day, Where princes gladly rest their weary heads, And change uneasy thrones for downy beds: Where seeming joys delude despairing minds, And where even jealousy some quiet finds; There I, and sorrow, for a while could part, Sleep clos'd my eyes, and eas'd a sighing heart. Our author afterwards made a campaign in the French service. As Tangier was in danger of being taken by the Moors, he offered to head the forces which were to defend it; and accordingly he was appointed commander of them. He was then earl of Mulgrave, and one of the lords of the bed-chamber to king Charles the IId. In May 28, 1674, he was installed knight of the Garter. As he now began to be eminent at court, it was impossible but he must have enemies, and these enemies being mean enough to hint stories to his prejudice, in regard to some ladies, with whom the king was not unconcerned; his lordship's command was not made so agreeable as it otherwise would have been. The particulars of this affair have been disputed by historians, some have imagined it to refer to some celebrated courtezan, whose affections his lordship weaned from the king, and drew them to himself; but Mrs. Manly, in her new Atalantis, and Boyer, in his History of queen Anne, assign a very different cause. They say, that before the lady Anne was married to prince George of Denmark, she encouraged the addresses which the earl of Mulgrave was bold enough to make her; and that he was sent to Tangier to break off the correspondence. Mrs. Manly in her Atalantis, says many unhandsome things of his lordship, under the title of count Orgueil. Orgueil. Boyer says, some years before the queen was married to prince George of Denmark, the earl of Mulgrave, a nobleman of Singular accomplishments, both of mind and person, aspired so high as to attempt to marry the lady Anne; but though his addresses to her were checked, as soon as discovered, yet the princess had ever an esteem for him. This account is more probably true, than the former; when it is considered, that by sending the earl to Tangier[2], a scheme was laid for destroying him, and all the crew aboard the same vessel. For the ship which was appointed to carry the general of the forces, was in such a condition, that the captain of her declared, he was afraid to make the voyage. Upon this representation, lord Mulgrave applied both to the lord admiral, and the king himself: The first said, the ship was safe enough, and no other could be then procured. The king answered him coldly, that he hoped it would do, and that he should give himself no trouble about it. His lordship was reduced to the extremity either of going in a leaky ship, or absolutely refusing; which he knew his enemies would impute to cowardice, and as he abhorred the imputation, he resolved, in opposition to the advice of his friends, to hazard all; but at the same time advised several volunteers of quality, not to accompany him in the expedition, as their honour was not so much engaged as his; some of whom wisely took his advice, but the earl of Plymouth, natural son of the king, piqued himself in running the same danger with a man who went to serve his father, and yet was used so strangely by the ill-offices of his ministers. Providence, however defeated the ministerial scheme of assassination, by giving them the finest weather during the voyage, which held three weeks, and by pumping all the time, they landed safe at last at Tangier, where they met with admiral Herbert, afterwards earl of Torrington, who could not but express his admiration, at their having performed such a voyage in a ship he had sent home as unfit for service; but such was the undisturbed tranquility and native firmness of the earl of Mulgrave's mind, that in this hazardous voyage, he composed the Poem, part of which we have quoted. Had the earl of Mulgrave been guilty of any offence, capital, or otherwise, the ministry might have called him to account for it; but their contriving, and the king's consenting to so bloody a purpose, is methinks such a stain upon them, as can never be wiped off; and had that nobleman and the ship's crew perished, they would have added actual murther, to concerted baseness. Upon the approach of his lordship's forces, the Moors retired, and the result of this expedition was, the blowing up of Tangier. Some time after the king was appeased, the earl forgot the ill offices, that had been done him; and enjoyed his majesty's favour to the last. He continued in several great ports during the short reign of king James the IId, till that prince abdicated the throne. As the earl constantly and zealously advised him against several imprudent measures, which were taken by the court, the king, some months before the revolution, began to grow cooler towards him; but yet was so equitable as not to remove him from his preferments: And after the king lost his crown, he had the inward satisfaction, to be conscious, that his councils had not contributed to that prince's misfortunes; and that himself, in any manner, had not forfeited his honour and integrity. That his lordship was no violent friend to, or promoter of, the revolution, seems to appear from his conduct during that remarkable æra: and particularly from the unfinished relation he left concerning it, which was suppressed some years ago, by order of the government. In a passage in his lordship's writings, it appears he was unwilling that king James should leave England[3]. Just as the king was stepping into bed the night before his going away, the earl of Mulgrave came into the bed-chamber, which, being at so late an hour, might possibly give the king some apprehensions of that lord's suspecting his design, with which he was resolved not to trust him, nor any protestant: He therefore stopped short, and turned about to whisper him in the ear, that his commissioners had newly sent him a very hopeful account of some accommodation with the Prince of Orange; to which that lord only replied with a question, asking him if the Prince's army halted, or approached nearer to London? the King owned they still marched on; at which the earl shook his head, and said no more, only made him a low bow, with a dejected countenance, humbly to make him understand that he gave no credit to what the King's hard circumstances at that time obliged him to dissemble. It also appears that the earl of Mulgrave was one of those lords, who, immediately after the King's departure, sent letters to the fleet, to the abandoned army of King James, and to all the considerable garrisons in England, which kept them in order and subjection, not only to the present authority, but that which should be settled afterwards. To his lordship's humanity was owing the protection King James obtained from the Lords in London, upon his being seized, and insulted by the populace at Feversham in Kent; before which time, says he, 'the Peers sat daily in the council chamber in Whitehall, where the lord Mulgrave one morning happened to be advertised privately that the King had been seized by the angry rabble at Feversham, and had sent a poor countryman with the news, in order to procure his rescue, which was like to come too late, since the messenger had waited long at the council door, without any body's being willing to take notice of him. This sad account moved him with great compassion at so extraordinary an instance of worldly uncertainty; and no cautions of offending the prevailing party were able to restrain him from shewing a little indignation at so mean a proceeding in the council; upon which, their new president, the marquis of Hallifax, would have adjourned it hastily, in order to prevent him. But the lord Mulgrave earnestly conjured them all to sit down again, that he might acquaint them with a matter that admitted no delay, and was of the highest importance imaginable. Accordingly the Lords, who knew nothing of the business, could not but hearken to it; and those few that guessed it, and saw the consequence, yet wanted time enough for concerting together about so nice, and very important a matter, as saving, or losing a King's life. The Lords then sat down again, and he represented to them what barbarity it would be, for such an assembly's conniving at the rabble's tearing to pieces, even any private gentleman, much more a great Prince, who, with all his popery, was still their Sovereign; so that mere shame obliged them to suspend their politics awhile, and call in the messenger, who told them with tears, how the King had engaged him to deliver a letter from him to any persons he could find willing to save him from so imminent a danger. The letter had no superscription, and was to this effect; 'To acquaint the reader of it, that he had been discovered in his retreat by some fishermen of Kent, and secured at first there by the gentry, who were afterwards forced to resign him into the hands of an insolent rabble. Upon so pressing an occasion, and now so very publickly made known, the council was surprized, and under some difficulty, for as there was danger of displeasing by doing their duty, so there was no less by omitting it, since the Law makes it highly criminal in such an extremity; besides that most of them as yet unacquainted with the Prince of Orange, imagined him prudent, and consequently capable of punishing so base a desertion, either out of generosity, or policy. These found afterwards their caution needless, but at present it influenced the council to send 200 of the life guards under their captain the earl of Feversham; first to rescue the King from all danger of the common people, and afterwards to attend him toward the sea side; if he continued his resolution of retiring, which they thought it more decent to connive at, than to detain him here by force.' Whoever has the least spark of generosity in his nature, cannot but highly applaud this tender conduct of his lordship's, towards his Sovereign in distress; and look with contempt upon the slowness of the council in dispatching a force to his relief, especially when we find it was only out of dread, lest they should displease the Prince of Orange, that they sent any: this shewed a meanness of spirit, a want of true honour, to such a degree, that the Prince of Orange himself could not, consistently with good policy, trust those worshippers of power, who could hear, unconcerned, that their late Sovereign was in the hands of a vile rabble, and intreating them in vain for rescue. The earl of Mulgrave made no mean compliances to King William, immediately after the revolution, but when he went to pay his addresses to him, he was well received; yet did he not accept of a post in the government till some years after. May 10, in the 6th year of William and Mary, he was created marquis of Normanby, in the county of Lincoln. When it was debated in Parliament, whether the Prince of Orange should be proclaimed King, or the Princess his wife reign solely in her own right, he voted and spoke for the former, and gave these reasons for it. That he thought the title of either person was equal; and since the Parliament was to decide the matter, he judged it would much better please that Prince, who was now become their Protector, and was also in itself a thing more becoming so good a Princess, as Queen Mary, to partake with her husband a crown so obtained, than to possess it entirely as her own. After long debates in Parliament, the crown at last was settled upon William and Mary. Burnet lord bishop of Salisbury, whose affection for the revolution none I believe can doubt, freely acknowledges that the King was resolved not to hold the government by right of his wife; 'he would not think of holding any thing by apron strings:' he was jealous of the friends of his wife, and never, forgave them; and, last of all, he threatened to leave them in the lurch, that is, to retire to Holland, with his Dutch army; so restless, says Mulgrave in another place, is ambition, in its highest scenes of success. During the reign of King William however, he enjoyed some considerable posts, and was generally pretty well in his favour, and confidence. April 21, 1702, he was sworn Lord Privy Seal, and the same year appointed one of the commissioners to treat of an union between England and Scotland, and was made Lord Lieutenant, and Custos Rotulorum for the North Riding of Yorkshire, and one of the governors of the Charterhouse. March 9, 1703, he was created duke of Normanby, having been made marquis of Normanby by King William, and on the 19th of the same month duke of Buckingham. In 1711 he was made Steward of her Majesty's Houshold, and President of the Council; and on her decease, was one of the Lords Justices in Great Britain, 'till King George arrived from Hanover. In 1710 the Whig ministry began to lose ground, and Mr. Harley, since earl of Oxford, and the Lord Treasurer made the proper use of those circumstances, yet wanting some assistance, applied to the duke of Buckingham. The duke, who was not then on good terms with Mr. Harley, at first slighted his proposal, but afterwards joined with him and others, which produced a revolution in the ministry, and shook the power of the duke and duchess of Marlborough, while Mr. Harley, the earl of Shrewsbury, lord Bolingbroke, &c. came into the administration. The duke was attached to Tory principles. Her Majesty offered to make him chancellor, which he thought proper to refuse. He was out of employment for some time, during which, he did not so much as pay his compliments at court, 'till he married his third wife, and then went to kiss her Majesty's hand. The duke of Buckingham, though reckoned haughty, and ill natured, was yet of a tender, compassionate disposition; but as the best characters have generally some allay, he is allowed to have been very passionate; but after his warmth subsided, he endeavoured to atone for it by acts of kindness and beneficence to those upon whom his passion had vented itself. Several years before his grace died, he was well known to have expressed some concern for the libertinism of his youth, especially regarding the fair sex, in which he had indulged himself himself very freely. He was survived only by one legitimate son, but left several natural children; Our noble author has been charged by some of his enemies, with the sordid vice of covetousness, but without foundation; for, as a strong indication that he was not avaritious, he lost a considerable part of his fortune, merely by not taking the pains to visit, during the space of 40 years, his estates at some distance from London; and whoever is acquainted with human nature knows, that indolence and covetousness are incompatible. His grace died the 24th of February 1720, in the 75th year of his age, and after lying in state for some days at Buckingham-House, was carried from thence with great funeral solemnity, and interred in Westminster-Abbey, where a monument is erected to his memory, upon which the following epitaph is engraved, by his own direction, as appears from a passage in his will. 'Since something is usually written on monuments, I direct that the following lines shall be put on mine, viz. 'In one place. Pro Rege sæpe, pro Republica semper. 'In another. Dubius, sed non improbus vixi. Incertus morior, sed inturbatus. Humanum est nescire & errare. Christum adveneror, Deo confido Omnipotenti, benevolentissimo. Ens Entium miserere mihi.' The words Christum adveneror are omitted at the desire of the late bishop Atterbury, who thought them not strong enough in regard to Christ; under the whole are the following words, Catharina Buckinghamicæ: Ducissa Mærens extrui curavit Anno MDCCXXI. Edmund, the duke's eldest son, already mentioned, was snatched away in his bloom; a youth from whom the greatest things might have been expected, as he was untainted with the vices of the age: he was very remarkable for his modesty, which vulgar minds imputed to want of powers, but those who knew him best, have given a different testimony concerning him, and have represented him as possessed of all the genius of his father, with more strict and inviolable morals. With this young nobleman the titles of the Sheffield family expired. The duke, his father, informs us of a duel he was to have fought with the witty earl of Rochester, which he thus relates; after telling us that the cause of the quarrel happened between the first and second Dutch war. 'I was inform'd (says his grace) that the earl of Rochester had said something very malicious of me; I therefore sent colonel Aston, a very mettled friend of mine, to call him to account for it; he denied the words, and indeed I was soon convinced he had never said them. But a mere report, though I found it to be false, obliged me (as I then foolishly thought) to go on with the quarrel; and the next day was appointed for us to fight on horseback: a way in England a little unusual, but it was his part to chuse. Accordingly I and my second lay the night before at Knightsbridge privately, to avoid being secured at London on any suspicion, which we found ourselves more in danger of there, because we had all the appearance of highwaymen, that had a mind to lye skulking in an odd inn for one night. In the morning we met the lord Rochester at the place appointed, who, instead of James Porter, whom he assured Aston he would make his second, brought an errant life-guard-man, whom nobody knew. To this Mr. 'Aston took exception, as being no suitable adversary, especially considering how extremely well he was mounted, whereas we had only a couple of pads; upon which we all agreed to fight on foot. But as my lord Rochester and I were riding into the next field in order to it, he told me that he had at first chosen to fight on horseback, because he was so weak with a certain distemper, that he found himself unfit to fight at all any way, much less a foot. I was extremely surprized, because no man at that time had a better reputation for courage; and my anger against him being quite subsided, I took the liberty to represent to him what a ridiculous story it would make, should we return without fighting; and told him, that I must in my own defence be obliged to lay the fault on him, by telling the truth of the matter. His answer was, that he submitted to it, and hoped I would not take the advantage in having to do with any man in so weak a condition: I replied, that by such an argument he had sufficiently tied my hands, upon condition, I might call our seconds to be witnesses of the whole business, which he consented to, and so we parted. Upon our return to London, we found it full of this quarrel, upon our being absent so long; and therefore Mr. Aston thought fit to write down every word and circumstance of this whole matter, in order to spread every where the true reason of our returning without having fought; which being not in the least contradicted, or resented by the lord Rochester, entirely ruined his reputation for courage, though nobody had still a greater as to wit, which supported him pretty well in the world, notwithstanding some more accidents of the same kind, that never fail to succeed one another, when once people know a man's weakness.' The duke of Buckingham's works speak him a beautiful prose writer, and a very considerable poet, which is proved by the testimony of some of the best writers, his cotemporaries. His prose works consist chiefly of Historical Memoirs, Speeches in Parliament, Characters, Dialogues, Critical Observations, Speeches and Essays, which, with his poetical compositions, were printed by Alderman Barber in 1723. in two splendid 4to volumes. The first volume containing pieces in most species of poetry, the epic excepted, and also imitations from other authors. His Grace wrote some Epigrams, a great number of lyric pieces, some in the elegiac strain, and others in the dramatic. Amongst his poems, an Essay on Poetry, which contains excellent instructions to form the poet, is by far the most distinguished. He wrote a play called Julius Cæsar and another called Brutus: or rather altered them from Shakespear. His grace was a great lover of the polite arts in general, as appears from the fondness he expresses for them in several parts of his works; particularly Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture; of the two former he made several curious collections, and his house, built under his direction in St. James's Park, speaks him not unacquainted with the latter. It would be superfluous to enumerate all the writers who have given testimony in his grace's favour as an author. Dryden in several of his Dedications, while he expresses the warmth of his gratitude, fails not to convey the most amiable idea of his lordship, and represents him as a noble writer. He lived in friendship with that great poet, who has raised indelible monuments to his memory. I shall add but one other testimony of his merit, which if some should think unnecessary, yet it is pleasing; the lines are delightfully sweet and flowing. In his Miscellanies thus speaks Mr. Pope; 'Muse 'tis enough, at length thy labour ends, And thou shalt live; for Buckingham commends. Let crowds of critics now my verse assail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail. This more than pays whole years of thankless pain, Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain. Sheffield approves: conferring Phoebus bends; And I, and malice, from this hour are friends.' The two plays of Julius Cæsar, which he altered from Shakespear, are both with Chorusses, after the manner of the Ancients: These plays were to have been performed in the year 1729, and all the Chorusses were set to music by that great master in composition, Signor Bononcini; but English voices being few, the Italians were applied to, who demanded more for their nightly performance, than the receipts of the house could amount to at the usual raised prices, and on that account the design was dropt. It appears that our noble author had conceived a great regard for Mr. Pope, on his earliest appearance in the literary world; and was among the first to acknowledge the young bard's merit, in commendatory verses upon his excellence in poetry. The following compliment from the duke is prefixed to the first volume of Mr. Pope's works. On Mr. POPE, and his POEMs, by his Grace JOHN SHEFFIELD, Duke of BUCKINGHAM. With age decay'd, with courts and bus'ness tir'd, Caring for nothing, but what ease requir'd; Too dully serious for the muses sport, And from the critics safe arriv'd in port; I little thought of launching forth agen, Amidst advent'rous rovers of the pen; And after so much undeserv'd success, Thus hazarding at last to make it less. Encomiums suit not this censorious time, Itself a subject for satyric rhime; Ignorance honour'd, wit and mirth defam'd, Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd! But to this genius, join'd with so much art, Such various learning mix'd in ev'ry part, Poets are bound a loud applause to pay; Apollo bids it, and they must obey. And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing, As the great ILIAD, scarce cou'd make me sing; Except I justly cou'd at once commend A good companion, and as firm a friend. One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed Can all desert in sciences exceed. 'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways, But a much greater to give merit praise. [Footnote 1: Character of the Duke of Buckingham, p. 2. London, 1739.] [Footnote 2: General Dictionary. See Article Sheffield.] [Footnote 3: Vol, ii, p. 106.] * * * * * CHARLES COTTON, Esq; This ingenious gentleman lived in the reigns of Charles and James II. He resided for a great part of his life at Beresford in the county of Stafford. He had some reputation for lyric poetry, but was particularly famous for burlesque verse. He translated from the French Monsieur Corneille's Horace, printed in 4to. London 1671, and dedicated to his dear sister Mrs. Stanhope Hutchinson. This play was first finished in 1665, but in his prefatory epistle he tells us, 'that neither at that time, nor for several years after, was it intended for the public view, it being written for the private divertisement of a fair young lady, and, ever since it had the honour first to kiss her hands, was so entirely hers, that the author did not reserve so much as the Brouillon to himself; however, she being prevailed upon, though with some difficulty, it was printed in 8vo. 1670.' As to the merit of this play in the original, it is sufficient to observe, that the critics have allowed it to be the best tragedy of Corneille, and the author himself is of the same opinion, provided the three last acts had been equal to the two first. As to the translation by Mr. Cotton, we have very considerable authority to pronounce it better than that of Mrs. Katherine Philips, who could not number versification among her qualities. The plot of this play, so far as history is concerned, may be read in Livy, Florus, Dionysius Halicarnasseus, &c. Our stage has lately had a play founded upon this story, added to the many it has received, called the Roman Father, by Mr. W. Whitehead. Besides this translation, Mr. Cotton is author of many other works, such as his poem called the Wonders of the Peak, printed in 8vo. London 168; [1] His burlesque Poem, called Scarronides, or Virgil Travestie, a mock Poem, on the first and fourth Books of Virgil's Æneid, printed in 8vo. London 1678. Though the title seems to imply as if his poem was in imitation of Scarron, who has translated eight books of Virgil in the same manner, yet they who will compare both these pieces, will possibly find, that he has not only exceeded the French, but all those who have made any attempts on that kind of poetry, the incomparable author of Hudibras excepted. Mr. Cotton likewise translated several of Lucian's Dialogues into burlesque verse, printed in 8vo. London 1675, under the title of the Scoffer Scoff'd. In 1689 a volume of poems, with Mr. Cotton's name prefixed, was published in London: on these poems colonel Lovelace, Sir Alton Cockaine, Robert Harrick, esq; and Mr. Alexander Brome, complimented the author by copies of verses prefixed; but Mr. Langbain observes, that the truest picture of Mr. Cotton's mind is to be seen in a little piece published at the end of these poems called Retirement; but the chief of Mr. Cotton's production, seems to be his translation of Montaigne's Essays, dedicated to George Lord Saville, Marquis of Hallifax; his lordship in a letter to him, thus express his esteem for the translator, and admiration of his performance. This letter is printed amongst the other pieces of the marquis's in a thin 12mo. 'Sir, I have too long delayed my thanks to you for giving me such an obliging evidence of your remembrance: that alone would have been a welcome present, but when joined with the book in the world I am the best entertained with, it raiseth a strong desire in me to be better known, where I am sure to be much pleased. I have, 'till now, thought wit could not be translated, and do still retain so much of that opinion, that I believe it impossible, except by one, whose genius cometh up to the author. You have so kept the original strength of his thought, that it almost tempts a man to believe the transmigration of souls. He hath by your means mended his first edition. To transplant and make him ours, is not only a valuable acquisition to us, but a just censure of the critical impertinence of those French scriblers, who have taken pains to make little cavils and exceptions, to lessen the reputation of this great man, whom nature hath made too big to confine himself to the exactness of a studied stile. He let his mind have its full flight, and shewed by a generous kind of negligence, that he did not write for praise, but to give to the world a true picture of himself, and of mankind. He scorned affected periods to please the mistaken reader with an empty chime of words; he hath no affectation to set himself out, and dependeth wholly upon the natural force of what is his own, and the excellent application of what he borroweth. 'You see, sir, I have kindness enough for Monsieur de Montaigne to be your rival, but nobody can pretend to be in equal competition with you. I do willingly yield, which is no small matter for a man to do to a more prosperous lover, and if you will repay this piece of justice with another, pray believe, that he who can translate such an author without doing him wrong, must not only make me glad, but proud of being his most humble servant,' * * *. Thus far the testimony of the marquis of Hallifax in favour of our author's performance, and we have good reason to conclude, that the translation, is not without great merit, when so accomplished a judge has praised it. We cannot be certain in what year our author died, but it was probably some time about the revolution. He appears to have been a man of very considerable genius, to have had an extraordinary natural vein of humour, and an uncommon flow of pleasantry: he was certainly born a poet, and wrote his verses easily, but rather too loosely; his numbers being frequently harsh, and his stile negligent, and unpolished. The cause of his Life being inserted out of chronological order, was an accident, the particulars of which are not of importance enough to be mentioned. [Footnote 1: M. Cotton's works are printed together in one volume, 12mo. The thirteenth edition is dated 1751.] * * * * * The Right Honourable Joseph Addison, Esq; This elegant writer, to whom the world owes so many obligations, was born at Milton near Ambrosbury in the county of Wilts (of which place his father, Mr. Lancelot Addison, was then rector) on the 6th of May 1672; and being not thought likely to live, was baptized on the same day, as appears from the church register. When he grew up to an age fit for going to school, he was put under the care of the rev. Mr. Naish at Ambrosbury. He afterwards removed to a school at Salisbury, taught by the rev. Mr. Taylor, thence to the Charter-house, where he was under the tuition of the learned Dr. Ellis, and where he contracted an intimacy with Mr. Steel, afterwards Sir Richard, which continued as long as Mr. Addison lived. He was not above fifteen years old when he was entered of Queen's College, Oxford, in which his father had been placed: where he applied himself so closely to the study of classical learning, that in a very short time he became master of a very elegant Latin stile, even before he arrived at that age when ordinary scholars begin to write good English. In the year 1687 a copy of his verses in that tongue fell into the hands of Dr. Lancaster dean of Magdalen College, who was so pleased with them, that he immediately procured their author's election into that house [1]; where he took the degrees of bachelor, and matter of arts. In the course of a few years his Latin poetry was justly admired at both the universities, and procured him great reputation there, before his name was so much as known in London. When he was in the 22d year of his age, he published a copy of verses addressed to Mr. Dryden, which soon procured him the notice of some of the poetical judges in that age. The verses are not without their elegance, but if they are much removed above common rhimes, they fall infinitely short of the character Mr. Addison's friends bestowed upon them. Some little space intervening, he sent into the world a translation of the 4th Georgic of Virgil, of which we need not say any more, than that it was commended by Mr. Dryden. He wrote also that discourse on the Georgics, prefixed to them by way of preface in Mr. Dryden's translation, and chose to withhold his name from that judicious composition, because it contained an untried strain of criticism, which bore hard upon the old professors of that art, and therefore was not so fit for a young man to take upon himself; and Mr. Dryden, who was above the meanness of fathering any one's work, owns the Essay on the Georgics to have come from a friend, whose name is not mentioned, because he desired to have it concealed. The next year Mr. Addison wrote several poems of different kinds; amongst the rest, one addressed to Henry Sacheverel, who became afterwards so exceedingly famous. The following year he wrote a poem to King William on one of his Campaigns, addressed to the Lord Keeper (Sir John Somers.) That excellent statesman received this mark of a young author's attachment with great humanity, admitted Mr. Addison into the number of his friends, and gave him on all occasions distinguishing proofs of a sincere esteem [2]. While he was at the university, he had been pressingly sollicited to enter into holy orders, which he seemed once resolved on, probably in obedience to his father's authority; but being conscious of the importance of the undertaking, and deterred by his extreme modesty, he relinquished, says Mr. Tickell, all views that way; but Sir Richard Steel in his letter to Mr. Congreve prefixed to the Drummer, who had a quarrel with Tickell, on account of an injurious treatment of him, says, that those were not the reasons which made Mr. Addison turn his thoughts to the civil world, 'and as you were the inducement (says he) of his becoming acquainted with my lord Hallifax, I doubt not but you remember the warm instances that noble lord made to the head of the college, not to insist on Mr. Addison's going into orders; his arguments were founded on the general pravity and corruption of men of business, who wanted liberal education; and I remember, as if I had read the letter yesterday, that my lord ended with a compliment, that however he might be represented as no friend to the church, he would never do it any other injury than by keeping Mr. Addison out of it.' Mr. Addison having discovered an inclination to travel, the abovementioned patron, out of zeal, as well to his country, as our author, procured him from the crown an annual pension of 300 l. which enabled him to make a tour to Italy the latter end of 1699. His Latin poems dedicated to Mr. Montague, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, were printed before his departure, in the Musaæ Anglicanæ, and were as much esteemed in foreign countries, as at home, particularly by that noble wit of France, Boileau. It is from Mr. Tickell we learn this circumstance in relation to Boileau, and we shall present it to the reader in his own words; 'his country owes it to Mr. Addison, that the famous Monsieur Boileau first conceived an opinion of the English genius for poetry, by perusing the present he made him of the Musæ Anglicanæ. It has been currently reported, that this famous French poet, among the civilities he shewed Mr. Addison on that occasion, affirmed, that he would not have written against Perrault, had he before seen such excellent pieces by a modern hand. The compliment he meant, was, that these books had given him a very new idea of the English politeness, and that he did not question, but there were excellent compositions in the native language of a country, which possessed the Roman genius in so eminent a degree.' In 1701 Mr. Addison wrote an epistolary poem from Italy to lord Hallifax, which is much admired as a finished piece in its kind, and indeed some have pronounced it the best of Mr. Addison's performances. It was translated by the Abbot Antonio Mario Salvini, Greek Professor at Florence into Italian verse, which translation is printed with the original in Mr. Tickell's 4to. edition of Mr. Addison's works. This poem is in the highest esteem in Italy, because there are in it the best turned compliments on that country, that, perhaps, are to be found any where: and the Italians, on account of their familiarity with the objects it describes, must have a higher relish of it. This poem likewise shews his gratitude to lord Hallifax, who had been that year impeached by the Commons in Parliament, for procuring exorbitant grants from the crown to his own use; and further charged with cutting down, and wasting the timber in his Majesty's forests, and with holding several offices in his Majesty's Exchequer, that were inconsistent, and designed as checks upon each other: The Commons had likewise addressed the King to remove him from his councils, and presence for ever. These were the causes of his retiring, and Mr. Addison's address at this time, was a noble instance of his fidelity, and stedfastness to his friends. On his return to England, he published an account of his travels, dedicated to lord Somers; he would have returned earlier than he did, had not he been thought of as a proper person to attend prince Eugene, who then commanded for the emperor in Italy, which employment would much have pleased him; but the death of king William intervening caused a cessation of his pension and his hopes. For a considerable space of time he remained at home, and as his friends were out of the ministry, he had no opportunity to display his abilities, or to meet a competent regard for the honour his works had already done his country. He owed both to an accident: In the year 1704 lord treasurer Godolphin happened to complain to the lord Hallifax, that the duke of Marlborough's victory at Blenheim, had not been celebrated in verse, in the manner it deserved, and told him, that he would take it kind, if his lordship, who was the patron of the poets, would name a gentleman capable of writing upon so elevated a subject. Lord Hallifax replied with some quickness, that he was well acquainted with such a person, but that he would not name him; and observed, that he had long seen with indignation, men of little or no merit, maintained in pomp and luxury, at the expence of the public, while persons of too much modesty, with great abilities, languished in obscurity. The treasurer answered, very coolly, that he was sorry his lordship had occasion to make such an observation; but that in the mean time, he would engage his honour, that whoever his lordship should name, might venture upon this theme, without fear of losing his time. Lord Hallifax thereupon named Mr. Addison, but insisted the treasurer should send to him himself, which he promised. Accordingly he prevailed upon Mr. Boyle, then chancellor of the exchequer, to go in his name to Mr. Addison, and communicate to him the business, which he did in so obliging a manner, that he readily entered upon the task [3]. The lord treasurer saw the Poem before it was finished, when the author had written no farther than the celebrated simile of the Angel, and was so much pleased with it, that he immediately made him commissioner of appeals, in the room of Mr. Locke, who was promoted to be one of the lords commissioners for trade, &c. His Poem, entitled the Campaign, was received with loud and general applause: It is addressed to the duke of Marlborough, and contains a short view of the military transactions in the year 1704, and a very particular description of the two great actions at Schellemberg and Blenheim. In 1705 Mr. Addison attended the lord Hallifax to Hanover; and in the succeeding year he was made choice of for under-secretary to Sir Charles Hedges, then appointed secretary of state. In the month of December, in the same year, the earl of Sunderland, who succeeded Sir Charles in that office, continued Mr. Addison in the post of under secretary. Operas being now much in fashion, many people of distinction and true taste, importuned him to make a trial, whether sense and sound were really so incompatible, as some admirers of the Italian pieces would represent them. He was at last prevailed upon to comply with their request, and composed his Rosamond: This piece was inscribed to the duchess of Marlborough, and met with but indifferent success on the stage. Many looked upon it as not properly an Opera; for considering what numbers of miserable productions had born that title, they were scarce satisfied that so superior a piece should appear under the same denomination About this time our author assisted Sir Richard Steel, in a play called the Tender Husband; to which he wrote a humorous Prologue. Sir Richard, whose gratitude was as warm and ready as his wit, surprized him with a dedication, which may be considered as one of the few monuments of praise, not unworthy the great person to whose honour it was raised. In 1709 he went over to Ireland, as secretary to the marquis of Wharton, appointed lord lieutenant of that kingdom. Her majesty also, was pleased, as a mark of her peculiar favour, to augment the salary annexed to the keeper of the records in that nation, and bestow it upon him. While he was in Ireland, his friend Sir Richard Steel published the Tatler, which appeared for the first time, on the 12th of April 1709: Mr. Addison (says Tickell) discovered the author by an observation on Virgil he had communicated to him. This discovery led him to afford farther assistance, insomuch, that as the author of the Tatler well exprest it, he fared by this means, like a distrest prince, who calls in a powerful neighbour to his aid: that is, he was undone by his auxiliary. The superiority of Mr. Addison's papers in that work is universally admitted; and being more at leisure upon the change of the ministry, he continued assisting in the Tatler till 1711, when it was dropt. No sooner was the Tatler laid down, but Sir Richard Steel, in concert with Mr. Addison, formed the plan of the Spectator. The first paper appeared on the first of March 1711, and in the course of that great work, Mr. Addison furnished all the papers marked with any Letters of the Muse CLIO; and which were generally most admired. Tickell, who had no kindness for Sir Richard Steel, meanly supposes that he marked his paper out of precaution against Sir Richard; which was an ill-natur'd insinuation; for in the conclusion of the Spectators, he acknowledges to Mr. Addison, all he had a right to; and in his letter to Congreve, he declares that Addison's papers were marked by him, out of tenderness to his friend, and a warm zeal for his fame. Steel was a generous grateful friend; it therefore ill became Mr. Tickell in the defence of Mr. Addison's honour, which needed no such stratagem, to depreciate one of his dearest friends; and at the expence of truth, and his reputation, raise the character of his Hero. Sir Richard had opposed Mr. Addison, in the choice of Mr. Tickell as his secretary; which it seems he could never forget nor forgive. In the Spectators, Sir Roger de Coverly was Mr. Addison's favourite character; and so tender was he of it, that he went to Sir Richard, upon his publishing a Spectator, in which he made Sir Roger pick up a woman in the temple cloisters, and would not part with his friend, until he promised to meddle with the old knight's character no more. However, Mr. Addison to make sure, and to prevent any absurdities the writers of the subsequent Spectators might fall into, resolved to remove that character out of the way; or, as he pleasantly expressed it to an intimate friend, killed Sir Roger, that no body else might murther him. When the old Spectator was finished, a new one appeared; but, though written by men of wit and genius, it did not succeed, and they were wise enough not to push the attempt too far. Posterity must have a high idea of the taste and good sense of the British nation, when they are informed, that twenty-thousand of these papers were sometimes sold in a day. [4] The Guardian, a paper of the same tendency, entertained the town in the years 1713 and 1714, in which Mr. Addison had likewise a very large share; he also wrote two papers in the Lover. In the year 1713 appeared his famous Cato. He entered into a design of writing a Tragedy on that subject, when he was very young; and when he was on his travels he actually wrote four acts of it: However, he retouched it on his return, without any design of bringing it on the stage; but some friends of his imagining it might be of service to the cause of liberty, he was prevailed upon to finish it for the theatre, which he accordingly did. When this play appeared, it was received with boundless admiration; and during the representation on the first night, on which its fate depended, it is said that Mr. Addison discovered uncommon timidity; he was agitated between hope and fear, and while he remained retired in the green-room, he kept a person continually going backwards and forwards, from the stage to the place where he was, to inform him how it succeeded, and till the whole was over, and the success confirmed, he never ventured to move. When it was published, it was recommended by many Copies of Verses prefixed to it, amongst which the sincerity of Mr. Steele, and the genius of Eusden, deserve to be distinguished: But, as I would not omit any particulars relative to this renowned play, and its great author, I shall insert a letter of Mr. Pope's to Sir William Turnbull, dated the 30th of April 1713, in which are some circumstances that merit commemoration. SIR, 'As to poetical affairs, I am content at present to be a bare looker on, and from a practitioner turn an admirer; which as the world goes, is not very usual. Cato was not so much the wonder of Rome in his Days, as he is of Britain in ours; and though all the foolish industry possible had been used to make it thought a party play, yet what the author once said of another, may the most properly in the world be applied to him on this occasion. Envy itself is dumb, in wonder lost, And factions strive who shall applaud him most. The numerous and violent claps of the Whig party, on the one side of the theatre, were ecchoed back by the Tories on the other; while the author sweated behind the scenes, with concern to find their applause proceeding more from the hand than the head. This was the case too with the Prologue writer, who was clapp'd into a staunch Whig at the end of every two lines. I believe you have heard, that after all the applauses of the opposite faction, my lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth, who played Cato, into the box, between one of the acts, and presented him with fifty guineas, in acknowledgment as he expressed it, for defending the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator. The Whigs are unwilling to be distanced this way, and therefore design a present to the same Cato very speedily; in the mean time, they are getting ready as good a sentence as the former on their side, so betwixt them it is probable, that Cato (as Dr. Garth exprest it) may have something to live upon after he dies.' Immediately after the publication of this Tragedy, there came abroad a pamphlet, entitled, Observations on Cato; written by the ingenious Dr. Sewel: The design of this piece was to show that the applause this Tragedy met with was founded on merit. It is a very accurate and entertaining criticism, and tends to secure the poet the hearts of his readers, as well as of his audience. Our author was not however without enemies, amongst whom was Mr. Dennis, who attacked it, first in a pamphlet, and then in a subsequent work, in which he employed seven letters in pulling it to pieces: In some of his remarks he is candid, and judicious enough, in others he is trifling and ill natur'd, and I think it is pretty plain he was agitated by envy; for as the intent of that play was to promote the Whig interest, of which Mr. Dennis was a zealous abettor, he could not therefore disesteem it from party principles. Another gentleman, who called himself a scholar at Oxford, considered the play in a very different light; and endeavoured to serve his party by turning the cannon upon the enemy. The title of this pamphlet is, Mr. Addison turned Tory: It is written with great spirit and vivacity. Cato was speedily translated into French by Mr. Boyer, but with no spirit: It was translated likewise into Italian. Voltaire has commended, and condemned Mr. Addison by turns, and in respect to Cato, he admires, and censures it extravagantly. The principal character he allows superior to any before brought upon the stage, but says, that all the love-scenes are absolutely insipid: He might have added unnecessary, as to the plot; and the only reason that can be assigned for the poet's introducing them was, the prevalence of custom; but it must be acknowledged, that his lovers are the most sensible, and address each other in the best language, that is to be found in any love dialogues of the British stage: It will be difficult to find a more striking line, or more picturesque of a lover's passion. than this pathetic exclamation; A lover does not live by vulgar time. Queen Anne was not the last in doing justice to our author and his performance; she was pleased to signify an inclination of having it dedicated to her, but as he intended that compliment to another, it came into the world without any dedication. If in the subsequent part of his life, his leisure had been greater, we are told, he would probably have written another tragedy on the death of Socrates; but the honours accruing from what he had already performed deprived posterity of that production. This subject was still drier, and less susceptible of poetical ornament than the former, but in the hands of so great a writer, there is no doubt but genius would have supplied what was wanting in the real story, and have covered by shining sentiments, and noble language, the simplicity of the plot, and deficiency in business. Upon the death of the Queen, the Lords Justices appointed Mr. Addison their secretary. This diverted him from the design he had formed of composing an English Dictionary upon the plan of a famous Italian one: that the world has much suffered by this promotion I am ready to believe, and cannot but regret that our language yet wants the assistance of so great a master, in fixing its standard, settling its purity, and illustrating its copiousness, or elegance. In 1716 our author married the countess of Warwick; and about that time published the Freeholder, which is a kind of political Spectator. This work Mr. Addison conducted without any assistance, upon a plan of his own forming; he did it in consequence of his principles, out of a desire to remove prejudices, and contribute all he could to make his country happy; however it produced his own promotion, in 1717, to be one of the principal secretaries of state. His health, which had been before impaired by an asthmatic disorder, suffered exceedingly by an advancement so much to his honour, but attended with such great fatigue: Finding, that he was not able to manage so much business as his station led him to, he resigned, and in his leisure hours began a work of a religious nature, upon the Evidence of the Christian religion; which he lived not to finish. He likewise intended a Paraphrase on some of the Psalms of David: but a long and painful relapse broke all his designs, and deprived the world of one of its brightest ornaments, June 17, 1719, when he was entering the 54th year of his age. He died at Holland-house near Kensington, and left behind him an only daughter by the countess of Warwick. After his decease, Mr. Tickell, by the authority and direction of the author, collected and published his works, in four volumes 4to. In this edition there are several pieces, as yet unmentioned, which I shall here give account of in order; the first is a Dissertation upon Medals, which, though not published 'till after his death; was begun in 1702, when he was at Vienna. In 1707 there came abroad a pamphlet, under the title of The Present State of the War, and the Necessity of an Augmentation Considered. The Whig Examiner came out September 14 1710, for the first time: there were five papers in all attributed to Mr. Addison; these are by much the tartest things he ever wrote; Dr. Sacheverel, Mr. Prior, and many other persons are severely treated. The Examiner had done the same thing on the part of the Tories, and the avowed design of this paper was to make reprisals. In the year 1713 was published a little pamphlet, called The Late Trial, and Conviction of Count Tariff; it was intended to expose the Tory ministry on the head of the French Commerce Bill: This is also a severe piece. The following have likewise been ascribed to our author; Dissertatio de insignioribus Romanorum Poetis, i. e. A Dissertation upon the most Eminent Roman Poets: This is supposed to have been written about 1692. A Discourse on Ancient and Modern Learning; the time when it was written is uncertain, but probably as early as the former. It was preserved amongst the manuscripts of lord Somers, which, after the death of Sir Joseph Jekyl, being publickly sold, this little piece came to be printed 1739, and was well received. To these we must add the Old Whig, No. 1 and 2. Pamphlets written in Defence of the Peerage Bill: The scope of the Bill was this, that in place of 16 Peers sitting in Parliament, as Representatives of the Peerage of Scotland, there were for the future to be twenty five hereditary Peers, by the junction of nine out of the body of the Scotch nobility, to the then 16 sitting Peers; that six English Peers should be added, and the peerage then remain fixed; the crown being restrained from making any new lords, but upon the extinction of families. This gave a great alarm to the nation, and many papers were wrote with spirit against it; amongst the rest, one called the Plebeian, now known to have been Sir Richard Steele's. In answer to this came out the Old Whig N°. 1. on the State of the Peerage, with some Remarks on the Plebeian. This controversy was carried on between the two friends, Addison and Steele, at first without any knowledge of one another, but before it was ended, it appears, from several expressions, that the author of the Old Whig was acquainted with his antagonist. Thus we have gone through the most remarkable passages of the life of this great man, in admiration of whom, it is but natural to be an Enthusiast, and whose very enemies expressed their dislike with diffidence; nor indeed were his enemies, Mr. Pope excepted, (if it be proper to reckon Mr. Pope Mr. Addison's enemy) in one particular case, of any consequence. It is a true, and an old observation, that the greatest men have sometimes failings, that, of all other human weaknesses, one would not suspect them to be subject to. It is said of Mr. Addison, that he was a slave to flattery, that he was jealous, and suspicious in his temper, and, as Pope keenly expresses it, Bore, like the Turk, no rival near the throne. That he was jealous of the fame of Pope, many have believed, and perhaps not altogether without ground. He preferred Tickel's translation of the first Book of Homer, to Pope's. His words are, 'the other has more of Homer', when, at the same time, in a letter to Pope, he strenuously advises him to undertake it, and tells him, there is none but he equal to it; which circumstance has made some people conjecture, that Addison was himself the author of the translation, imputed to Mr. Tickell: Be this as it may, it is unpleasing to dwell upon the failings, and quarrels of great men; let us rather draw a veil over all their errors, and only admire their virtues, and their genius; of both which the author, the incidents of whose life we have now been tracing, had a large possession. He added much to the purity of the English stile in prose; his rhime is not so flowing, nervous, or manly as some of his cotemporaries, but his prose has an original excellence, a smoothness and dignity peculiar to it. His poetry, as well as sentiments, in Cato, cannot be praised enough. Mr. Addison was stedfast to his principles, faithful to his friends, a zealous patriot, honourable in public stations, amiable in private life, and as he lived, he died, a good man, and a pious Christian. [Footnote 1: Tickell's Preface to Addison's works.] [Footnote 2: Tickell. Ubi supra.] [Footnote 3: Budgel's Memoirs of the Boyles.] [Footnote 4: Tickell's Preface.] * * * * * ANNE, Countess of WINCHELSEA. This lady, deservedly celebrated for her poetic genius, was daughter of Sir William Kingsmill of Sidmonton, in the county of Southampton. She was Maid of Honour to the Duchess of York, second wife to King James II. and was afterwards married to Heneage earl of Winchelsea, who was in his father's life-time Gentleman of the Bed-chamber to the Duke of York. One of the most considerable of this lady's poems, is that upon the Spleen, published by Mr. Charles Gildon, 1701, in 8vo. That poem occasioned another of Mr. Nicholas Rowe's, entitled an Epistle to Flavia, on the sight of two Pindaric Odes on the Spleen and Vanity, written by a Lady to her Friend. This poem of the Spleen is written in stanzas, after the manner of Cowley, and contains many thoughts naturally expressed, and poetically conceived; there is seldom to be found any thing more excellently picturesque than this poem, and it justly entitles the amiable countess to hold a very high station amongst the inspired tribe. Nothing can be more happily imagined than the following description of the pretended influence of Spleen upon surly Husbands, and gay Coquetes. Patron thou art of every gross abuse; The sullen husband's feign'd excuse, When the ill humours with his wife he spends, And bears recruited wit, and spirits to his friends The son of Bacchus pleads thy pow'r As to the glass he still repairs Pretends but to remove thy cares, Snatch from thy shades, one gay, and smiling hour, And drown thy kingdom in a purple show'r. When the coquette (whom ev'ry fool admires) Would in variety be fair; And changing hastily the scene, From light, impertinent, and vain, Assumes a soft, a melancholy air And of her eyes rebates the wand'ring fires, The careless posture, and the head reclin'd (Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent mind) Allows the fop more liberty to gaze; Who gently for the tender cause enquires; The cause indeed is a defect of sense, Yet is the Spleen alledged, and still the dull pretence. The influence which Spleen has over religious minds, is admirably painted in the next stanza. By spleen, religion, all we know; That should enlighten here below, Is veiled in darkness, and perplext With anxious doubts, with endless scruples vext And some restraint imply'd from each perverted text; Whilst touch not, taste not what is freely given, Is but thy niggard voice disgracing bounteous Heaven. From speech restrain'd, by the deceits abus'd, To desarts banish'd; or in cells reclus'd, Mistaken vot'ries, to the powers divine, Whilst they a purer sacrifice design, Do but the spleen obey, and worship at thy shrine. A collection of this lady's poems was published at London 1713 in 8vo. containing likewise a Tragedy never acted, entitled Aristomenes, or the Royal Shepherd. The general scenes are in Aristomenes's camp, near the walls of Phærea, sometimes the plains among the Shepherds. A great number of our authoress's poems still continue unpublished, in the hands of the rev. Mr. Creake, and some were in possession of the right hon. the countess of Hertford. The countess of Winchelsea died August 9, 1720, without issue. She was happy in the friendship of Mr. Pope, who addresses a copy of verses to her, occasioned by eight lines in the Rape of the Lock: they contain a very elegant compliment. In vain you boast poetic names of yore, And cite those Saphoes we admire no more: Fate doom'd the fall of ev'ry female wit, But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ. Of all examples by the world confest, I knew Ardelia could not quote the best, Who like her mistress on Britannia's throne Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own. To write their praise, you but in vain essay; E'en while you write, you take that praise away: Light to the stars, the sun does thus restore, And shines himself 'till they are seen no more. The answer which the countess makes to the above, is rather more exquisite than the lines of Mr. Pope; he is foil'd at his own weapons, and outdone in the elegance of compliment. Disarm'd with so genteel an air, The contest I give o'er; Yet Alexander have a care, And shock the sex no more. We rule the world our life's whole race, Men but assume that right; First slaves to ev'ry tempting face, Then martyrs to our spite. You of one Orpheus sure have read, Who would like you have writ Had he in London-town been bred, And polish'd too his wit; But he poor soul, thought all was well And great should be his fame, When he had left his wife in hell And birds, and beasts could tame. Yet venturing then with scoffing rhimes The women to incense, Resenting heroines of those times Soon punished his offence. And as the Hebrus roll'd his skull, And Harp besmeared with blood, They clashing as the waves grew full Still harmoniz'd the flood. But you our follies gently treat, And spin so fine the thread, You need not fear his awkward fate, The lock won't cost the head. Our admiration you command For all that's gone before; What next we look for at your hand Can only raise it more. Yet sooth the ladies, I advise (As me too pride has wrought) We're born to wit, but to be wise By admonitions taught. The other pieces of this lady are, An Epilogue to Jane Shore, to be spoken by Mrs. Oldfield the night before the Poet's day. To the Countess of Hertford with her Volume of Poems. The Prodigy, a Poem, written at Tunbridge-Wells 1706, on the Admiration that many expressed on a Gentleman's being in love, and their Endeavours to dissuade him from it, with some Advice to the young Ladies how to maintain their natural Prerogative. If all her other poetical compositions are executed with as much spirit and elegance as these, the lovers of poetry have some reason to be sorry that her station was such, as to exempt her from the necessity of more frequently exercising a genius so furnished by nature, to have made a great figure in that divine art. * * * * * CHARLES GILDON. This gentleman was born at Gillingham near Shaftsbury, in the county of Dorset. His parents, and family were all of the Romish persuasion, but they could not instil their principles into our author, who, as soon as he began to reason, was able to discover the errors, and foppery of that church. His father was a member of the society of Grays-Inn, and suffered much for the Royal cause. The first rudiments of learning Mr. Gildon had at the place of his nativity; thence his relations sent him to the English college of secular priests at Doway in Hainault, with a design of making him a priest; but after five years study there, he found his inclination direct him to a quite different course of life. When he was nineteen years old he returned to England, and as soon as he was of age, and capable of enjoying the pleasures of gaiety, he came to London, where he spent the greatest part of his paternal estate. At about the age of twenty-three, to crown his other imprudences, he married, without improving his reduced circumstances thereby. During the reign of King James II. he dedicated his time to the study of the prevailing controversies, and he somewhere declares, it cost him above seven years close application to books, before he could entirely overcome the prejudices of his education. He never believed the absurd tenets of the church of Rome; nor could he embrace the ridiculous doctrine of her infallibility: But as he had been taught an early reverence to the priesthood, and a submissive obedience to their authority, it was a long while before he assumed courage to think freely for himself, or declare what he thought. His first attempt in the drama, was not till he had arrived at his 32d year; and he himself in his essays tells us, that necessity (the general inducement) was his first motive of venturing to be an author. He is the author of three plays, viz. 1. The Roman Bride's Revenge, a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1697. This play was written in a month, and had the usual success of hasty productions, though the first and second acts are well written, and the catastrophe beautiful; the moral being to give us an example, in the punishment of Martian, that no consideration ought to make us delay the service of our country. 2. Phaeton, or the Fatal Divorce; a Tragedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal 1698, dedicated to Charles Montague, Esq; This play is written in imitation of the ancients, with some reflexions on a book called a Short View of the Immorality of the English Stage, written by Mr. Collier, a Non-juring Clergyman, who combated in the cause of virtue, with success, against Dryden, Congreve, Dennis, and our author. The plot of this play, and a great many of the beauties, Mr. Gildon owns in his preface, he has taken from the Medea of Euripides. 3. Love's. Victim, or the Queen of Wales; a Tragedy, acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. He introduced the Play called the Younger Brother, or the Amorous Jilt; written by Mrs. Behn, but not brought upon the stage 'till after her decease. He made very little alteration in it. Our author's plays have not his name to them; and his fault lies generally in the stile, which is too near an imitation of Lee's. He wrote a piece called the New Rehearsal, or Bays the Younger; containing an Examen of the Ambitious Step-mother, Tamerlane, The Biter, Fair Penitent, The Royal Convert, Ulysses, and Jane Shore, all written by Mr. Rowe; also a Word or Two on Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock, to which is prefixed a Preface concerning Criticism in general, by the Earl of Shaftsbury, Author of the Characteristics, 8vo. 1714. Scene the Rose Tavern. The freedom he used with Mr. Pope in remarking upon the Rape of the Lock, it seems was sufficient to raise that gentleman's resentment, who was never celebrated for forgiving. Many years after, Mr. Pope took his revenge, by stigmatizing him as a dunce, in his usual keen spirit of satire: There had arisen some quarrel between Gildon and Dennis, upon which, Mr. Pope in his Dunciad, B. iii. has the following lines, Ah Dennis! Gildon ah! what ill-starr'd rage Divides a friendship long confirm'd by age? Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool is barb'rous civil war. Embrace; embrace my sons! be foes no more, Nor glad vile poets with true critics gore. This author's other works are chiefly these, The Post-Boy Robb'd of his Mail, or the Packet Broke Open; consisting of Five Hundred Letters to several Persons of Quality, &c. 1692. He published the Miscellaneous Works of Charles Blount, Esq; to which he prefixed the Life of the Author, and an Account, and Vindication of his Death, in 12mo. 1695. In this volume are several of the publisher's own letters. Likewise Letters, and Essays, on several Subjects, philosophical, historical, critical, amorous, &c. in Prose and Verse, to John Dryden, Esq; George Granville, Esq; Walter Moyle, Esq; Mr. Congreve, Mr. Dennis, and other ingenious gentlemen of the age. Miscellaneous Poems, on several Occasions, and Translations from Horace, Persius, Petronius Arbiter, &c. with an Essay upon Satire, by the famous M. Dacier, 8vo. 1692. A Review of Her Royal Highness Princess Sophia's Letters to the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, and that of Sir Rowland Gwynn's, to the Right Hon. the Earl of Stamford, 8vo. 1706. Canons, or the Vision; a Poem, addressed to the Right Hon. James Earl of Carnarvon, &c. 1717. The Laws of Poetry, as laid down by the Duke of Buckingham in his Essay on Poetry, by the Earl of Roscommon in his Essay upon Translated Verse; and by Lord Lansdown on Unnatural Flights in Poetry, explained and illustrated, &c. 8vo. 1721. A Continuation of Langbain's Lives of the Poets. Mr. Coxeter has imputed to him a piece called Measure for Measure, or Beauty the best Advocate; altered from Shakespear, and performed at the Theatre in Lincoln's Inn-Fields 1700, with the addition of several Entertainments of Music. Prologue and Epilogue by Mr. Oldmixon. The Deist's Manual, or Rational Enquiry into the Christian Religion, with some Animadversions on Hobbs, Spinosa, the Oracles of Reason, Second Thoughts, &c. to which is prefixed a Letter from the Author of the Method with the Deists, 1705. Complete Art of Poetry. Mr. Gildon died on the 12th of January 1723, and in the words of Boyer's Political State, vol. xxvii. p. 102. we shall sum up his character. 'On Sunday, January 12, died Mr. Charles Gildon, a person of great literature, but a mean genius; who having attempted several kinds of writing, never gained much reputation in any. Among other treatises, he wrote the English Art of Poetry, which he had practised himself very unsuccessfully in his dramatic performances. He also wrote an English Grammar, but what he seemed to build his chief hopes of fame upon, was, his late Critical Commentary on the Duke of Buckingham's Essay on Poetry, which last piece was perused, and highly approved, by his grace.' * * * * * THOMAS D'URFEY, Was born in the county of Devon, and was first bred to the law; but we have not heard from what family he was descended, nor in what year he was born. He has written upwards of thirty plays, with various success, but had a genius better turned to a ballad, and little irregular odes, than for dramatic poetry. He soon forsook the profession of the law, and threw himself upon the public, by writing for the stage.----That D'Urfey was a man of some abilities, and, enjoyed the esteem and friendship of men of the greatest parts in his time, appears from the favourable testimony of the author of the Guardian: And as the design of this work is to collect, and throw into one view, whatever may be found concerning any poet of eminence in various books, and literary records, we shall make no scruple of transcribing what that ingenious writer has humorously said concerning our author. In Numb. 29. Vol. I. speaking of the advantages of laughing, he thus mentions D'Urfey. 'A judicious author, some years since published a collection of Sonnets, which he very successfully called Laugh and be Fat; or Pills to purge Melancholy: I cannot sufficiently admire the facetious title of these volumes, and must censure the world of ingratitude, while they are so negligent in rewarding the jocose labours of my friend Mr. D'Urfey, who was so large a contributor to this Treatise, and to whose humorous productions, so many rural squires in the remotest parts of this island are obliged, for the dignity and state which corpulency gives them. It is my opinion, that the above pills would be extremely proper to be taken with Asses milk, and might contribute towards the renewing and restoring decayed lungs.' Numb. 67. He thus speaks of his old friend.--'It has been remarked, by curious observers, that poets are generally long lived, and run beyond the usual age of man, if not cut off by some accident, or excess, as Anacreon, in the midst of a very merry old age, was choaked with a grape stone. The same redundancy of spirits that produces the poetical flame, keeps up the vital warmth, and administers uncommon fuel to life. I question not but several instances will occur to my reader's memory, from Homer down to Mr. Dryden; I shall only take notice of two who have excelled in Lyrics, the one an antient, the other a modern. The first gained an immortal reputation by celebrating several jockeys in the Olympic Games; the last has signalized himself on the same occasion, by the Ode that begins with----To horse brave boys, to New-market, to horse. The reader will by this time know, that the two poets I have mentioned are Pindar, and Mr. D'Urfey. The former of these is long since laid in his urn, after having many years together endeared himself to all Greece, by his tuneful compositions. Our countryman is still living, and in a blooming old age, that still promises many musical productions; for if I am not mistaken our British Swan will sing to the last. The best judges, who have perused his last Song on the moderate Man, do not discover any decay in his parts; but think it deserves a place among the finest of those works, with which he obliged the world in his more early years. 'I am led into this subject, by a visit which I lately received from my good old friend and cotemporary. As we both flourished together in king Charles the IId's reign, we diverted ourselves with the remembrance of several particulars that pass'd in the world, before the greatest part of my readers were born; and could not but smile to think how insensibly we were grown into a couple of venerable old gentlemen. Tom observed to me, that after having written more Odes than Horace, and about four times as many Comedies as Terence; he was reduced to great difficulties, by the importunities of a set of men, who of late years had furnished him with the accommodations of life, and would not, as we say, be paid with a song. In order to extricate my old friend, I immediately sent for the three directors of the Play-house, and desired they would in their turn, do a good office for a man, who in Shakespear's phrase, often filled their mouths; I mean with pleasantry and popular conceits. They very generously listened to my proposal, and agreed to act the Plotting Sisters (a very taking play of my old friends composing) on the 15th of next month, for the benefit of the author. 'My kindness to the agreeable Mr. D'Urfey, will be imperfect, if, after having engaged the players in his favour, I do not get the town to come into it. I must therefore heartily recommend to all the young ladies my disciples, the case of my old friend, who has often made their grand-mothers merry; and whose Sonnets have perhaps lulled asleep many a present toast, when she lay in her cradle. The gentleman I am speaking of, has laid obligations on so many of his countrymen, that I hope they will think this but a just return to the good service of a veteran Poet. 'I myself, remember king Charles the IId. leaning on Tom D'Urfey's shoulder more than once, and humming over a song with him. It is certain, that monarch was not a little supported, by joy to great Cæsar; which gave the Whigs such a blow, as they were not able to recover that whole reign. My friend afterwards attacked Popery, with the same success, having exposed Beliarmine, and Portocarero, more than once, in short satirical compositions, which have been in every body's mouth. He made use of Italian Tunes and Sonato's, for promoting the Protestant interest; and turned a considerable part of the Pope's music against himself. In short, he has obliged the court with political Sonnets; the country with Dialogues, and Pastorals; the city with Descriptions of a lord Mayor's Feast; not to mention his little Ode upon Stool-Ball; with many others of the like nature. 'Should the very individuals he has celebrated, make their appearance together, they would be sufficient to fill the play-house. Pretty Peg of Windsor, Gilian of Croydon; with Dolly and Molly; and Tommy and Johny; with many others to be met with in the musical Miscellanies, would make a great benefit. 'As my friend, after the manner of the old Lyrics, accompanies his works with his own voice; he has been the delight of the most polite companies and conversions, from the beginning of king Charles the IId's reign, to our own times: Many an honest gentleman has got a reputation in his country, by pretending to have been in company with Tom D'Urfey. 'I might here mention several other merits in my friend, as his enriching our language with a multitude of rhimes, and bringing words together, that without his good offices, would never have been acquainted with one another, so long as it had been a tongue; but I must not omit that my old friend angled for a trout, the best of any man in England. 'After what I have said, and much more that I might say, on this subject, I question not but the world will think that my old friend ought not to pass the remainder of his life in a cage, like a singing bird; but enjoy all that Pindaric liberty, which is suitable to a man of his genius. He has made the world merry, and I hope they will make him easy, as long as he stays amongst us. This I will take upon me to say, they cannot do a kindness, to a more diverting companion, or a more chearful, honest, good-natur'd man.'---- The same author, Numb. 82. puts his readers in mind when D'Urfey's benefit came on, of some other circumstances favourable to him. 'The Plotting Sisters, says he, is this day to be acted for the benefit of the author, my old friend Mr. D'Urfey. This comedy was honoured with the presence of King Charles II. three of the first five nights. My friend has in this work shewn himself a master, and made not only the characters of the play, but also the furniture of the house contribute to the main design. He has made excellent use of a table with a carpet, and the key of a closet; with these two implements, which would perhaps have been over-looked by an ordinary writer, he contrives the most natural perplexities (allowing only the use of these houshold goods in poetry) that ever were represented on a stage. He also made good advantage of the knowledge of the stage itself; for in the nick of being surprized, the lovers are let down, and escape at a trap door. In a word, any who have the curiosity to observe what pleased in the last generation, and does not go to a comedy with a resolution to be grave, will find this evening ample food for mirth. Johnson, who understands what he does as well as any man, exposes the impertinence of an old fellow who has lost his senses, still pursuing pleasures with great mastery. The ingenious Mr. Pinkethman is a bashful rake, and is sheepish, without having modesty with great success. Mr. Bullock succeeds Nokes in the part of Bubble, and, in my opinion, is not much below him, for he does excellently that kind of folly we call absurdity, which is the very contrary of wit; but next to that is, of all things, properest to excite mirth. What is foolish is the object of pity, but absurdity often proceeds from an opinion of sufficiency, and consequently is an honest occasion for laughter. These characters in this play, cannot but make it a very pleasant entertainment, and the decorations of singing and dancing, will more than repay the good-nature of those, who make an honest man a visit of two merry hours, to make his following year unpainful.' These are the testimonies of friendship and esteem, which this great author has given in favour of D'Urfey, and however his genius may be turned for the Sing-song, or Ballad, which is certainly the lowest species of poetry, yet that man cannot be termed contemptible, who was thus loved, and, though in jocular terms, praised by Mr. Addison. There are few, or no particulars relating to the life of this poet preserved. He was attached to the Tory interest, and in the latter part of Queen Anne's reign frequently had the honour of diverting her with witty catches, and songs of humour suited to the spirit of the times. He died, according to Mr. Coxeter, February 26, 1723, in a good old age, and was buried in the Church-yard of St. James's, Westminster. His dramatic works are, 1. The Siege of Memphis, or the Ambitious Queen; a Tragedy acted at the Theatre-royal, printed in quarto 1676. Mr. Langbain says that this play is full of bombast and fustian, and observes, 'That there goes more to the making a poet, than copying verses, or tagging rhimes, and recommends to the modern poetasters, the following lines from a Prologue to a Play called the Atheist.' 'Rhimsters get wit, e're ye pretend to shew it, Nor think a game at Crambo makes a poet.' 2. Madam Fickle, or the Witty False One; acted at the duke of York's Theatre, printed in quarto, 1677, dedicated to the duke of Ormond. This play is compiled from several other Comedies; the scene is laid in Covent-Garden. 3. Trick for Trick, or the Debauched Hypocrite; a Comedy acted at the Theatre-Royal 1678: This is the only one of Fletcher's plays, called Monsieur Thomas revived. 4. The Fool turn'd Critic; acted at the Theatre-Royal, 1678. Several of the characters of this play are borrowed; as Old-wine-love, Trim and Small-wit, seem to be taken from Senio Asotus, and Ballio, in Randolph's Jealous Lovers. 5. Fond Husband, or the Plotting Sisters, a Comedy. Of this we have already given some account, in the words of Mr. Addison. 6. Squire Old-Sap, or the Night-Adventures; a Comedy; acted at the duke's Theatre, printed in quarto, 1679. Several incidents in this play are taken from Francion's Comic. Hist. Boccace's Novels, les Contes de M. de la Fontaine. 7. The Virtuous Wife, or Good-Luck at last; a Comedy acted at the duke's Theatre 1680. Several hints are taken from the Town, Marriage A-la-mode, &c. the Scene Chelsea. 8. Sir Barnaby Whig, or no Wit like a Woman's; a Comedy acted at the Theatre-Royal 1681. Dedicated to the right honourable George Earl of Berkley. The plot of this play is taken from a Play of Marmion's, called the Fine Companion; and part from the Double Cuckold, a Novel, written by M. St. Evremond. Scene London. 9. The Royalist, a Comedy; acted at the Duke's Theatre 1682. This play, which is collected chiefly from novels, succeeded on the stage; printed in 4to. 1644. 10. The Injured Princess, or the Fatal Wager; a Tragi-Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1682. The foundation of this play is taken from Shakespear's Cymbeline. 11. A Common-wealth of Women, a Tragi-Comedy; acted at the Theatre Royal 1686, dedicated to Christopher Duke of Albemarle. This play is chiefly borrowed from Fletcher's Sea Voyage. The scene is in Covent Garden. 12. The Banditti, or a Lady's Distress; a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1688. This play met with great opposition during the performance, which was disturbed by the Catcalls. This occasioned the author to take his revenge upon the town, by dedicating it to a certain Knight, under the title of Sir Critic Cat-call. The chief plot of this play is founded on a Romance written by Don Francisco de las Coveras, called Don Fenise, translated into English in 8vo. See the History of Don Antonio, b. iv. p. 250. The design of Don Diego's turning Banditti, and joining with them to rob his supposed father, resembles that of Pipperollo in Shirley's play called the Sisters. Scene Madrid. 13. A Fool's Preferment, or the Three Dukes of Dunstable; a Comedy; acted at the Queen's Theatre in Dorset-Garden 1688, dedicated to Charles Lord Morpeth, in as familiar a way as if the Author was a man of Quality. The whole play is little more than a transcript of Fletcher's Noble Gentlemen, except one scene, which is taken from a Novel called The Humours of Basset. Scene the Court, in the time of Henry IV. The songs in this play were all composed by the celebrated Musician Mr. Henry Purcell. 14. Bussy D'Amboise, or the Husband's Revenge; a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal, 4to. 1691, addressed to Edward Earl of Carlisle. This is a play of Mr. Chapman's revis'd, and the character of Tamyra, Mr. D'Urfey tells us, he has altered for the better. The scene Paris. 15. Love for Money, or the Boarding School; a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1691, dedicated to Charles Lord Viscount Lansdown, Count of the Sacred Roman Empire, &c. This play met with opposition in the first day's representation, but afterwards succeeded pretty well. The scene Chelsea. 16. The Richmond Heiress, or a Woman once in the Right; a Comedy, acted at the Theatre-Royal 1693. 17. The Marriage-Hater Matched, a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1693, addressed to James Duke of Ormond. Mr. Charles Gildon, in an epistle prefixed to the play, tells us, that this is much the best of our author's performances. Mr. Dogget was first taken notice of as an excellent actor, from the admirable performance of his part in this play. Scene the Park, near Kensington. 18. The Comical History of Don Quixot, Part the First; acted at the Queen's Theatre in Dorset-Garden 1694, dedicated to the Duchess of Ormond. This play was acted with great applause; it is wholly taken from the Spanish Romance of that name. Scene Mancha in Spain. 19. The Comical History of Don Quixot, Part the Second; acted at the Queen's Theatre 1694, dedicated by an Epistle, in heroic Verse, to Charles Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, &c. This play was likewise acted with applause. 20. Don Quixot, Part the Third, with the Marriage of Mary the Buxom, 1669; this met with no success. 21. The Intrigues at Versailles, or A Jilt in all Humours; a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1697, dedicated to Sir Charles Sedley the Elder, Bart. and to his much honoured Friend Sir Charles Sedley, his Son. Scene Versailles. The author complains of the want of success in this play, when he asserts, the town had applauded some pieces of his of less merit. He has borrowed very liberally from a play of Mrs. Behn's called The Amorous Jilt. 22. Cynthia and Endymion, or The Lover of the Deities, a Dramatic Opera; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1697, dedicated to Henry Earl of Romney; this was acted with applause; and the author tells us, that King William's Queen Mary intended to have it represented at Court. 'There are many lines (says Jacob) in this play, above the genius which generally appears in the other works of this author; but he has perverted the characters of Ovid, in making Daphne, the chaste favourite of Diana, a whore, and a jilt; and fair Syrene to lose her reputation, in the unknown ignominy of an envious, mercenary, infamous woman.' Scene Ionia. 23. The Campaigners, or The Pleasant Adventures at Brussels; a Comedy; with a familiar Preface upon a late Reformer of the Stage, ending with a Satirical Fable of the Dog, and the Otter, 1698. This play is dedicated to Thomas Lord Wharton, and part of it is borrowed from a Novel called Female Falsehood. Scene Brussels. 24. Massanello, or a Fisherman Prince, in two Parts; acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1700. 25. The Modern Prophets, or New Wit for a Husband; a Comedy. 26. The Old Mode and the New, or Country Miss with her Furbelo; a Comedy. Scene Coventry. 27. Wonders in the Sun, or The Kingdom of Birds; a Comic Opera; performed at the Queen's Theatre in the Hay-Market. 28. Bath, or The Western Lass; a Comedy; dedicated to John Duke of Argyle. 29. The Two Queens of Brentford, or Bays no Poetaster; a Musical Farce, or Comical Opera; being the Sequel of the Rehearsal, written by the Duke of Buckingham; it has five Acts. Scene Inside of the Playhouse. 30. The Grecian Heroine, or The Fate of Tyranny; a Tragedy; written 1718. Scene Corinth. 31. Ariadne, or The Triumph of Bacchus; the Scene Naxos, an Island in the Archipelago. These last were published with a Collection of Poems 1721. These are the dramatic performances of D'Urfey, by which his incessant labours for the stage are to be seen; though not one of his numerous issue is now in possession of it. He was author of many poems, and songs, which we need not here enumerate. Mr. Coxeter takes particular notice of a piece of his called Gloriana, a Funeral Pindarique Poem to the memory of Queen Mary, 4to. 1695. The Trophies, or Augusta's Glory; a triumphant Ode, made in honour of the City, and upon the Trophies taken from the French at the Battle of Ramillies, May 25, 1706, by the Duke of Marlborough, and fixed in Guildhall, London, dedicated to the Lord Mayor, and Court of Aldermen and Sheriffs, and also to the President. and Court of Managers for the united Trade to the East Indies. Honor & Opes, or The British Merchant's Glory; a Poem Congratulatory, on the happy Decision, and Conclusion of all Difficulties between the Old and New Company in the Trade to the East Indies. As a specimen of his poetry take the following lines. VERSES Congratulatory, to the Honourable WILLIAM BROMLEY, Esq; on his being chosen SPEAKER of this present Parliament. As when Hyperion with victorious light Expels invading Pow'rs of gloomy night, And vernal nature youthful dress'd and gay, Salutes the radiant power that forms the day; The mounting Lark exalts her joyful note, And strains with harmony her warbling throat: So now my muse that hopes to see the day, When cloudy faction, that do's Britain sway, Shall be o'ercome by reason's dazling ray; Applauding senates for their prudent choice, The will of Heaven by the Peoples voice, First greets you Sir, then gladly do's prepare, In tuneful verse, your welcome to the chair. Awful th' assembly is, august the Queen, In whose each day of life are wonders seen: The nation too, this greatest of all years, Who watch to see blest turns in their affairs, Slighting the tempest on the Gallic shore, Hope from the senate much, but from you more: Whose happy temper judgment cultivates, And forms so fit to aid our three estates. The change of ministry late ordered here, Was fated sure for this auspicious year; That you predestin'd at a glorious hour, To be chief judge of legislative power, Might by your skill that Royal right asserts, Like Heaven, reconcile the jarring parts. Nor shines your influence, Sir, here alone, The Church must your unequall'd prudence own, Firm to support the cause, but rough to none. Eusebia's sons, in laws divine possest, Can learn from you how truth should be exprest; Whether in modest terms, like balm, to heal; Or raving notions, falsly counted zeal. Our holy writ no rule like that allows, No people an enrag'd apostle chose, Nor taught Our Saviour, or St. Paul, like those. Reason was mild, and calmly did proceed, Which harsh might fail to make transgressors heed; This saint your rhet'ric best knows how to prove, Whose gracious method can inform, and move; Direct the elders that such errors make, And shew both how to preach, and how to speak. Oh! sacred gift! in public matters great, But in religious tracts divinely sweet; Since to this grace they only have pretence Whose happy learning join with a cælestial sense. That Sir, you share both these, the muse forgive, If I presume to write what all believe, Your candour too, and charming courtesy, Rever'd by them is justly so by me, Let me not then offend your modesty, If now my genius to a height I raise, Such parts, and such humanity to praise. This ancient [1]Baginton can witness well, And the rich [2]library before it fell; The precious hours amongst wise authors past, Your Soul with their unvalued wealth possest; And well may he to heights of knowledge come, Who that Panthæon always kept at home. Thus once, Sir, you were blest, and sure the fiend That first entail'd a curse on human-kind, And afterwards contriv'd this fatal cross, Design'd the public, by your private loss. Oh! who had seen that love to learning bore, The matchless authors of the days of yore; The fathers, prelates, poets, books where arts Renown'd explain'd the men of rarest parts, Shrink up their shrivell'd bindings, lose their names, And yield immortal worth to temporary flames, That would not sigh to see the ruins there, Or wish to quench 'em with a flowing tear. But as in story, where we wonders view, As there were flames, there was a Phoenix too; An excellence from the burnt pile did rise, That still aton'd for past calamities; So my prophetic genius in its height, Viewing your merit, Sir, foretels your fate. Your valiant [3]ancestors, that bravely fought, And from the foe the Royal standard got; Which nobly now adorn your houshold coat, Denotes the former grandeur of your race; Your present worth fits you for present grace. The Sovereign must esteem what all admire, Bromley and Baginton shall both raise higher, Fate oft contrives magnificence by fire. [Footnote 1: The ancient seat of the Bromleys in Warwickshire.] [Footnote 2: A famous Library burnt there.] [Footnote 3: Vide History of Warwickshire.] * * * * * ELKANAH SETTLE, Son of Joseph Settle of Dunstable in Bedfordshire, was born there; and in the 18th year of his age, 1666, was entered commoner of Trinity College, Oxon, and put under the tuition of Mr. Abraham Champion, fellow of that house; but he quitted the university without taking any degree, and came to London[1], where he addicted himself to the study of poetry, in which he lived to make no inconsiderable figure. Finding the nation divided between the opinions of Whig and Tory, and being sensible that a man of parts could not make any considerable figure, unless he attached himself to one of these parties; Settle thought proper, on his first setting out in life, to join the Whigs, who were then, though the minor, yet a powerful party, and to support whose interest he employed his talents. About the year 1680, when the debates ran high concerning the exclusion of the Duke of York from the succession, on account of his religious principles, our author wrote a piece called the Character of a Popish Successor, and what may be expected from such an one, humbly offered to the consideration of both the Houses of Parliament appointed to meet at Oxon, on March 21, 1681. This essay it seems was thought of consequence enough to merit an answer, as at that time the Exclusion Bill employed the general conversation. The answer to it was entitled The Character of a Rebellion, and what England may expect from One; printed 1682. The author of this last piece, is very severe on the character of Settle; he represents him as an errant knave, a despicable coward, and a prophane Atheist, and seems amazed that any party should make choice of a champion, whose morals were so tainted; but as this is only the language of party violence, no great credit is to be given to it. The author of this pamphlet carries his zeal, and ill manners still farther, and informs the world of the meanness of our author's birth, and education, 'most of his relations (says he) are Barbers, and of the baseness, falseness, and mutability of his nature, too many evidences may be brought. He closed with the Whigs, contrary to the principles he formerly professed, at a time when they took occasion to push their cause, upon the breaking out of Oates's plot, and was ready to fall off from, and return to them, for his own advantage.' To the abovementioned pamphlet, written by Settle, various other answers were published, some by writers of distinction, of which Sir Roger L'Estrange was one; and to this performance of Sir Roger's, which was entitled The Character of a Papist in Masquerade, supported by Authority and Experience, Mr. Settle made a Reply, entitled The Character of a Popish Successor Compleat; this, in the opinion of the critics, is the smartest piece ever written upon the subject of the Exclusion Bill, and yet Sir Roger, his antagonist, 'calls it a pompous, wordy thing, made up of shifts, and suppositions, without so much as an argument, either offered, or answered in stress of the question, &c.' Mr. Settle's cause was so much better than that of his antagonist's, that if he had not possessed half the powers he really did, he must have come off the conqueror, for, who does not see the immediate danger, the fatal chances, to which a Protestant people are exposed, who have the misfortune to be governed by a Popish Prince. As the King is naturally powerful, he can easily dispose of the places of importance, and trust, so as to have them filled with creatures of his own, who will engage in any enterprise, or pervert any law, to serve the purposes of the reigning Monarch. Had not the nation an instance of this, during the short reign of the very Popish Prince, against whom Settle contended? Did not judge Jeffries, a name justly devoted to everlasting infamy, corrupt the streams of justice, and by the most audacious cruelty, pervert the forms of law, that the blood of innocent persons might be shed, to gratify the appetite of a suspicious master? Besides, there is always a danger that the religion which the King professes, will imperceptibly diffuse itself over a nation, though no violence is used to promote it. The King, as he is the fountain of honour, so is he the fountain of fashion, and as many people, who surround a throne, are of no religion in consequence of conviction; it is but natural to suppose, that fashion would influence them to embrace the religion of the Prince, and in James II's reign, this observation was verified; for the people of fashion embraced the Popish religion so very fast, in order to please the King, that a witty knight, who then lived, and who was by his education, and principles, a Papist, being asked by a nobleman what news? he made answer, I hear no news my lord, only, God's Papists can get no preferment, because the King's Papists swarm so thick. This was a sententious, and witty observation, and it will always hold true, that the religion of the King will become the religion of people of fashion, and the lower stations ape their superiors. Upon the coronation of King James II. the two Parts of the Character of a Popish Successor, were, with the Exclusion Bill, on the 23d of April, 1685, burnt by the sub-wardens, and fellows of Merton College, Oxon, in a public bonfire, made in the middle of their great quadrangle. During these contentions, Mr. Settle also published a piece called The Medal Revers'd, published 1681; this was an answer to a poem of Dryden's called The Medal, occasioned by the bill against the earl of Shaftsbury being found ignoramus at the Old Baily, upon which the Whig party made bonfires, and ordered a medal to be struck in commemoration of that event. Shaftsbury, who was by his principles a Whig, and who could not but foresee the miseries which afterwards happened under a Popish Prince, opposed the succession with all his power; he was a man of very great endowments, and being of a bustling tumultuous disposition, was admirably fitted to be the head of a party. He was the leading man against the succession of the Duke of York, and argued in the House of Lords with great force against him, and what was more remarkable, sometimes in the Duke's presence. It is related, that at the Council-table, when his Majesty, and his Royal Brother were both present, something concerning the succession was canvassed, when Shaftsbury, not in the least intimidated, spoke his opinion with great vehemence against the Duke, and was answered with equal heat, but with less force, by the then lord chamberlain. During this debate, the Duke took occasion to whisper the King, that his Majesty had a villain of a chancellor, to which the King merrily replied, oddsfish, York, what a fool you have of a chamberlain: by which it appears, his Majesty was convinced that Shaftsbury's arguments were the strongest. In consequence of Shaftsbury's violent opposition to the Duke, and the court party, there was a Bill of Indictment of High Treason, read before his Majesty's Commissioners of Oyer and Terminer in the Sessions-House at the Old Bailey, but the Jury found it Ignoramus; upon which, all the party rejoiced at the deliverance of their head. These disturbances gave Mr. Settle an opportunity to display his abilities, which he did not neglect to improve, by which means he procured so formidable an antagonist as Mr. Dryden, who was obliged by his place of laureat, to speak, and write for the court. Dryden had formerly joined Mr. Settle, in order to reduce the growing reputation of Shadwell, but their interest being now so opposite, they became poetical enemies, in which Settle was, no doubt, over-matched. He wrote a poem, however, called Azaria and Hushai, in five sheets, 4to. designed as an answer to Mr. Dryden's poem called Absalom and Achitophel. Soon after this, if we may credit the Oxford Antiquary, Settle changed sides, and turned Tory, with as much violence as he had formerly espoused the interest of the Whigs. He published in 1683, in eight meets in folio, a Narrative; the first part of which is concerning himself, as being of the Tory side; the second to shew the inconsistency, and contradiction of Titus Oates's Narrative of the Plot of the Popish Party, against the Life of King Charles II. at the time when that Monarch intended to alter his ministry, to have consented to the exclusion of his brother, and taken measures to support the Protestant interest. This Oates was in the reign of James II. tried, and convidled of perjury, upon the evidence chiefly of Papists, and had a severe sentence pronounced, and inflicted upon him, viz. Imprisonmehd for life, twice every year to stand on the pillory, and twice to be severely whipt; but he received a pardon from King William, after suffering his whippings, and two years imprisonment, with amazing fortitude, but was never allowed again to be an evidence. While Settle was engaged in the Tory party, he is said, by Wood, to have been author of Animadversions on the Last Speech and Confession of William Lord Russel, who fell a sacrifice to the Duke of York, and whose story, as related by Burnet, never fails to move the reader to tears. Also Remarks on Algernon Sidney's Paper, delivered to the Sheriffs at his Execution, London, 1683, in one sheet, published the latter end of December the same year. Algernon Sidney was likewise murdered by the same kind of violence, which popish bigotry had lifted up against the lives of some other British worthies. He also wrote a heroic poem on the Coronation of the High and Mighty Monarch James II. London 1685, and then commenced a journalist for the Court, and published weekly an Essay in behalf of the Administration. If Settle was capable of these mean compliances of writing for, or against a party, as he was hired, he must have possessed a very sordid mind, and been totally devoid of all principles of honour; but as there is no other authority for it than Wood, who is enthusiastic in his temper, and often writes of things, not as they were, but as he would wish them to be, the reader may give what credit he pleases to the report. Our author's dramatic works are 1. The Empress of Morocco, a Tragedy; acted at the Duke of York's Theatre. This play was likewise acted at court, as appears by the two Prologues prefixed, which were both spoken by the Lady Elizabeth Howard; the first Prologue was written by the Earl of Mulgrave, the other by Lord Rochester; when it was performed at court, the Lords and Ladies of the Bed-chamber played in it. Mr. Dryden, Mr. Shadwell, and Mr. Crowne, wrote against it, which began a famous controversy betwixt the wits of the town, wherein, says Jacob, Mr. Dryden was roughly handled, particularly by the lord Rochester, and the duke of Buckingham, and Settle got the laugh upon his side. 2. Love and Revenge, a Tragedy; acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 4to. 1675, dedicated to William Duke of Newcastle. 3. Cambyses King of Persia, a Tragedy; acted at the Duke's Theatre, dedicated to Anne Duchess of Monmouth. This tragedy is written in heroic verse; the plot from Justin, lib. i. c. 9. Herodotus, &c. The Scene is in Suza, and Cambyses's camp near the walls of Suza. 4. The Conquest of China by the Tartars, a Tragedy; acted at the Duke's Theatre, 4to. 1676, dedicated to the Right Hon. the Lord Howard of Castle-rising. This play is likewise written in heroic verse, and founded on history. 5. Ibrahim, the Illustrious Bassa, a Tragedy in heroic verse; acted at the Duke's Theatre 1677, dedicated to the Duchess of Albemarle. Plot from the Illustrious Bassa, a Romance, by Scuddery. The Scene Solyman's Seraglio. 6. Pastor Fido, or The Faithful Shepherd; a Pastoral; acted at the Duke of York's Theatre. This is Sir Richard Fanshaw's translation from the Italian of Guarini Improved. Scene Arcadia. 7. Fatal Love, or The Forced Inconstancy; a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal, 1680, dedicated to Sir Robert Owen. 8. The Female Prelate, being the History of the Life and Death of Pope Joan; a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal, 4to. 1680, dedicated to Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury. 9. The Heir of Morocco, with the Death of Gyland, a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal 1682. 10. Distressed Innocence, or the Princess of Persia; a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal, dedicated to John Lord Cutts. This play was acted with applause; the author acknowledges his obligations to Betterton, for some valuable hints in this play, and that Mr. Mountford wrote the last scene of it. 11. The Ambitious Slave, or a Generous Revenge; a Tragedy; acted at the Theatre Royal, 4to. 1694. This play met with ill success. 12. The World in the Moon, a Dramatic, Comic Opera; performed at the Theatre in Dorset-Garden, by his Majesty's Servants, 1698. 13. City Rambler, or The Playhouse Wedding; a Comedy; acted at the Theatre-Royal. 14. The Virgin Prophetess, or The Fate of Troy; an Opera; performed 1701. 15. The Ladies Triumph, a Comic Opera; presented at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, by Subscription, 1710. Our poet possessed a pension from the City Magistrates, for an annual Panegyric to celebrate the Festival of the Lord Mayor, and in consequence wrote various poems, which he calls Triumphs for the Inauguration of the Lord Mayors, which are preserved in his works, and which it would be needless to enumerate. Besides his dramatic pieces, he published many occasional poems, addressed to his patrons, and some funeral elegies on the deaths of his friends. It is certain Settle did not want learning, and, in the opinion of some critics, in the early part of his life, sometimes excelled Dryden; but that was certainly owing more to a power he had of keeping his temper unruffled, than any effort of genius; for between Dryden and Settle, there is as great difference, as between our modern versifiers, and Pope. Whatever was the success of his poetry, he was the best contriver of machinery in England, and for many years of the latter part of his life received an annual salary from Mrs. Minns, and her daughter Mrs. Leigh, for writing Drolls for Bartholomew, and Southwark Fairs, with proper decorations, which were generally so well contrived, that they exceeded those of their opponents in the same profession. Our author died in the Charterhouse 1724; some months before his decease, he offered a play to the managers of the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, but he lived not to introduce it on the stage; it was called The Expulsion of the Danes from Britain. End of the Third Volume. [Footnote 1: Wood's Athen. Oxon. vol, ii. p. 1076.] 
12090	----	THE LIVES OF THE POETS OF _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 B _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 C _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 D _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 E _Eachard_ IV _Etheredge_ III _Eusden_ V _Eustace Budgel_ V F _Fairfax_ I _Fanshaw_ II _Farquhar_ I _Faulkland_ I _Fenton_ IV _Ferrars_ I _Flecknoe_ III _Fletcher_ I _Ford_ I _Frowde_ V G _Garth_ III _Gay_ IV _Gildon_ III _Goff_ I _Goldsmith_ II _Gower_ I _Granville_, Lord _Landsdown_ IV _Green_ I _Greville_, Lord _Brooke_ I _Grierson_ V H _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 I _Johnson, Ben_ I _Johnson, Charles_ V K _Killegrew, Anne_ II _Killegrew, Thomas_ III _Killegrew, William_ III _King_, Bishop of _Chichester_ II _King_, Dr. _William_ III L _Lauderdale_, Earl of V _Langland_ I _Lansdown_, Lord _Granville_ IV _Lee_ II _L'Estrange_ IV _Lillo_ V _Lilly_ I _Lodge_ I _Lydgate_ III M _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 N _Nabbes_ II _Nash_ I _Needler_ IV _Newcastle_, Duchess of II _Newcastle_, Duke of II O _Ogilby_ II _Oldham_ II _Oldmixon_ IV _Orrery, Boyle_, Earl of II _Otway_ II _Overbury_ I _Ozell_ IV P _Pack_ IV _Phillips_, Mrs. _Katherine_ II _Phillips, John_ III _Phillips, Ambrose_ V _Pilkington_ V _Pit_ V _Pomfret_ III _Pope_ V _Prior_ IV R _Raleigh_ I _Randolph_ I _Ravenscroft_ III _Rochester_ II _Roscommon_, Earl of III _Rowe, Nicholas_ III _Rowe_, Mrs. IV _Rowley_ I S _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 V _Vanbrugh_ IV W _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 Y _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]. 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. 2. 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. 3. 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. 4. 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. 5. 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 1. 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. 2. 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. 3. 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. 4. 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? 5. 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! 6. 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. 7. 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. 1. 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. 2. '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. 3. 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. 4. 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. MELIB�US. 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. MELIB�US. 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 �neas, 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, �therial 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 �sop'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 �ther 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 �ther 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 �ra, 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. L�TITIA 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_.