The ingenious author of lord Roscommon's life, publish'd in the Gentleman's Magazine for the month of May, 1748, has the following remarks on the above relation of Aubrey's.

'The present age is very little inclined to favour any accounts of this sort, nor will the name of Aubrey much recommend it to credit; it ought not however to be omitted, because better evidence of a fact is not easily to be found, than is here offered, and it must be, by preserving such relations, that we may at least judge how much they are to be regarded. If we stay to examine this account we shall find difficulties on both sides; here is a relation of a fact given by a man who had no interest to deceive himself; and here is on the other hand a miracle which produces no effect; the order of nature is interrupted to discover not a future, but only a distant event, the knowledge of which is of no use to him to whom it is revealed. Between these difficulties what way shall be found? Is reason or testimony to be rejected? I believe what Osborne says of an appearance of sanctity, may be applied to such impulses, or anticipations. "Do not wholly slight them, because they may be true; but do not easily trust them, because they may be false."'

Some years after he travelled to Rome, where he grew familiar with the most valuable remains of antiquity, applying himself particularly to the knowledge of medals, which he gained in great perfection, and spoke Italian with so much grace and fluency, that he was frequently mistaken there for a native. He returned to England upon the restoration of King Charles the IId, and was made captain of the band of pensioners, an honour which tempted him to some extravagancies. In the gaieties of that age (says Fenton) he was tempted to indulge a violent passion for gaming, by which he frequently hazarded his life in duels, and exceeded the bounds of a moderate fortune. This was the fate of many other men whose genius was of no other advantage to them, than that it recommended them to employments, or to distinction, by which the temptations to vice were multiplied, and their parts became soon of no other use, than that of enabling them to succeed in debauchery.

A dispute about part of his estate, obliging him to return to Ireland, he resigned his post, and upon his arrival at Dublin, was made captain of the guards to the duke of Ormond.

When he was at Dublin he was as much as ever distempered with the same fatal affection for play, which engaged him in one adventure, which well deserves to be related. 'As he returned to his lodgings from a gaming table, he was attacked in the dark by three ruffians, who were employed to assassinate him. The earl defended himself with so much resolution, that he dispatched one of the aggressors, while a gentleman accidentally passing that way interposed, and disarmed another; the third secured himself by flight. This generous assistant was a disbanded officer of a good family and fair reputation; who by what we call partiality of fortune, to avoid censuring the iniquities of the times, wanted even a plain suit of clothes to make a decent appearance at the castle; but his lordship on this occasion presenting him to the duke of Ormond, with great importunity prevailed with his grace that he might resign his post of captain of the guards to his friend, which for about three years the gentleman enjoyed, and upon his death, the duke returned the commission to his generous benefactor.'[1]

His lordship having finished his affairs in Ireland, he returned to London, was made master of the horse to the dutchess of York, and married the lady Frances, eldest daughter of the earl of Burlington, and widow of colonel Courtnay.

About this time, in imitation of those learned and polite assemblies, with which he had been acquainted abroad; particularly one at Caen, (in which his tutor Bochartus died suddenly while he was delivering an oration) he began to form a society for refining and fixing the standard of our language. In this design, his great friend Mr. Dryden was a particular assistant; a design, says Fenton, of which it is much more easy to conceive an agreeable idea, than any rational hope ever to see it brought to perfection. This excellent design was again set on foot, under the ministry of the earl of Oxford, and was again defeated by a conflict of parties, and the necessity of attending only to political disquisitions, for defending the conduct of the administration, and forming parties in the Parliament. Since that time it has never been mentioned, either because it has been hitherto a sufficient objection, that it was one of the designs of the earl of Oxford, by whom Godolphin was defeated; or because the statesmen who succeeded him have not more leisure, and perhaps less taste for literary improvements. Lord Roscommon's attempts were frustrated by the commotions which were produced by King James's endeavours to introduce alterations in religion. He resolved to retire to Rome, alledging, 'it was best to sit next the chimney when the chamber smoaked.'

It will, no doubt, surprize many of the present age, and be a just cause of triumph to them, if they find that what Roscommon and Oxford attempted in vain, shall be carried into execution, in the most masterly manner, by a private gentleman, unassisted, and unpensioned. The world has just reason to hope this from the publication of an English Dictionary, long expected, by Mr. Johnson; and no doubt a design of this sort, executed by such a genius, will be a lasting monument of the nation's honour, and that writer's merit.

Lord Roscommon's intended retreat into Italy, already mentioned, on account of the troubles in James the IId's reign, was prevented by the gout, of which he was so impatient, that he admitted a repellent application from a French empyric, by which his distemper was driven up into his bowels, and put an end to his life, in 1684.

Mr. Fenton has told us, that the moment in which he expired, he cried out with a voice, that expressed the most intense fervour of devotion,

My God! my father, and my friend! Do not forsake me, at my end.

Two lines of his own version of the hymn, Dies irae, Dies illa.

The same Mr. Fenton, in his notes upon Waller, has given Roscommon a character too general to be critically just. 'In his writings, says he, we view the image of a mind, which was naturally serious and solid, richly furnished, and adorned with all the ornaments of art and science; and those ornaments unaffectedly disposed in the most regular and elegant order. His imagination might have probably been fruitful and sprightly, if his judgment had been less severe; but that severity (delivered in a masculine, clear, succinct stile) contributed to make him so eminent in the didactical manner, that no man with justice can affirm he was ever equalled by any of our nation, without confessing at the same time, that he is inferior to none. In some other kinds of writing his genius seems to have wanted fire to attain the point of perfection: but who can attain it?'

From this account of the riches of his mind, who would not imagine that they had been displayed in large volumes, and numerous performances? Who would not, after the perusal of this character, be surprized to find, that all the proofs of this genius, and knowledge and judgment, are not sufficient to form a small volume? But thus it is, that characters are generally written: We know somewhat, and we imagine the rest. The observation that his imagination would have probably been more fruitful and sprightly, if his judgment had been less severe; might, if we were inclined to cavil, be answer'd by a contrary supposition, that his judgment would have been less severe, if his imagination had been more fruitful. It is ridiculous to oppose judgment and imagination to each other; for it does not appear, that men have necessarily less of the one, as they have more of the other.

We must allow, in favour of lord Roscommon, what Fenton has not mentioned so distinctly as he ought, and what is yet very much to his honour, That he is perhaps the only correct writer in verse before Addison; and that if there are not so many beauties in his composition, as in those of some of his contemporaries, there are at least fewer faults. Nor is this his highest praise; for Mr. Pope has celebrated him as the only moral writer in Charles the IId's reign.

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

Mr. Dryden speaking of Roscommon's essay on translated verse, has the following observation: 'It was that, says he, that made me uneasy, till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the speculation into practice. For many a fair precept in poetry, is like a seeming demonstration in mathematics: very specious in the diagram, but failing in mechanic operation. I think I have generally observed his instructions. I am sure my reason is sufficiently convinced both of their truth and usefulness; which in other words is to confess no less a vanity, than to pretend that I have at least in some places made examples to his rules.'

This declaration of Dryden will be found no more than one of those cursory civilities, which one author pays to another; and that kind of compliment for which Dryden was remarkable. For when the sum of lord Roscommon's precepts is collected, it will not be easy to discover how they can qualify their reader for a better performance of translation, than might might have been attained by his own reflexions.

They are however here laid down:

'Tis true composing is the nobler part, But good translation is no easy art: For tho' materials have long since been found, Yet both your fancy and your hands are bound; And by improving what was writ before, Invention labours less, but judgment more. Each poet with a different talent writes, One praises, one instructs, another bites. Horace did ne'er aspire to epic bays Nor lofty Maro stoop to lyric lays. Examine how your humour is inclin'd, And watch the ruling passion of your mind. Then seek a poet, who your way does bend. And chuse an author, as you chuse a friend. United by this sympathetic bond, You grow familiar, intimate, and fond; Your thoughts, your words, your stiles, your souls agree, No longer his interpreter, but he. Take then a subject, proper to expound * * * * * But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice, For men of sense, despise a trivial choice: And such applause, it must expect to meet As would some painter busy in the street; To copy bulls, and bears, and every sign That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. Take pains the genuine meaning to explore, There sweat, there strain, tug the laborious oar: Search every comment, that your care can find. Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind. Yet, be not blindly guided by the throng, The multitude is always in the wrong. When things appear unnatural, or hard, Consult your author, with himself compar'd. Who knows what blessings Phaebus may bestow, And future ages to your labours owe? Such secrets are not easily found out, But once discovered leave no room for doubt. Truth stamps conviction in your ravish'd breast, And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. They who too faithfully on names insist; Rather create, than dissipate the mist: And grow unjust by being over nice, (For superstition, virtue turns to vice) Let Crassus ghost, and Labienus tell How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell, Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame, That few know Pacorus, or Monaeses name. And 'tis much safer to leave out than add * * * * * Abstruse and mystic thoughts, you must express, } With painful care, but seeming easiness; } For truth shines brightest, thro' the plainest dress, } Your author always will the best advise, Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise.

Nothing could have induced us to have laboured thro' so great a number of cold unspirited lines, but in order to shew, that the rules which my lord has laid down are meerly common place, and must unavoidably occur to the mind of the most ordinary reader. They contain no more than this; that the author should be suitable to the translator's genius; that he should be such as may deserve a translation; that he who intends to translate him, should endeavour to understand him; that perspicuity should be studied, and unusual or uncouth names, sparingly inserted; and that the stile of the original should be copied in its elevation and depression. These are the common-place rules delivered without elegance, or energy, which have been so much celebrated, but how deservedly, let our unprepossess'd readers judge.

Roscommon was not without his merit; he was always chaste, and sometimes harmonious; but the grand requisites of a poet, elevation, fire, and invention, were not given him, and for want of these, however pure his thoughts, he is a languid unentertaining writer.

Besides this essay on translated verse, he is the author of a translation of Horace's Art of poetry; with some other little poems, and translations published in a volume of the minor poets.

Amongst the MSS. of Mr. Coxeter, we found lord Roscommon's translation of Horace's Art of Poetry, with some sketches of alterations he intended to make; but they are not great improvements; and this translation, of all his lordship's pieces, is the most unpoetical.

Footnote: 1. Fenton.



END of the SECOND VOLUME.