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, AEtherial 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 Gaite 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.'