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THE

LIVES
OF

THE MOST EMINENT

'

ENGLISH POETS
WITH

CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS
ON THEIR

WORKS,
BY SAMUEL JOHNSON,
L.L.

I).

JX

TWO

VOLUMES.

VOL.

1.

CHARLESTOWN.
"HIXTED AND SOLD BY S\7,1UEL ETHERIDGK, .Tiu.V
1810.

557 A

ORIGINAL ADVERTISEMENT
TO THE

FIRST EDITION,

1779, 1780.

JL

HE booksellers
poetry,
I

having determined to publish a body of Engto

lish

was persuaded
;

promise them a preface

it

to the

works of each author

to

an undertaking, as

was then presented

my

mind, not very extensive or

difficult.

My

purpose was only

to

have allotted to every poet an adver-

tisement, like those which

we

find in

the French miscellanies,

;

containing a few dates and a general character

led beyond

but

have been

my

intention, I hope,

by the honest desire of giving

useful pleasure.

In this minute kind of history, the succession of

easily discovered
;

facts is

not

and

am

not without suspicion that

in

some of

Dryden's works are placed

wrong

years.

I
;

have followed
and
if I shall
it
;

Langbaine, as the best authority for his plays

hereafter obtain a
I

more

correct chronology, will publish

but

do not yet know that

my

account

is

erroneous.*
printed
trans-

Dryden's Remarks on
before.

Rymer have been somewhere f

own manuscript.

The former

edition I have not seen.

This was

cribed for the press from his

*

plays.

Langbaine's authority will not support the dates assigned to Dryden's These are now rectified in the margin by reference to the original

editions, the only guides to

be relied on.

R. R.

f In the edition of Beaumont and Fletcher, by Mr. Colman

ADVERTISEMENT.
As
this

undertaking was occasional and unforeseen,

in
it

must be

supposed to have engaged

with less provision of materials

than might have been accumulated by longer premeditation.

Of the

later writers

at

least I

might, by attention and inquiry,

have gleaned many particulars, which would have diversified and

enlivened

my

biography.

These omissions, which

it

is

now

useless to lament, have been often supplied by the

kindness of

Mr. Steevens and other

given

friends

and great assistance has been

I

me

by Mr. Spence's collections, of which

consider the

communication as a favour worthy of public acknowledgment

CONTENTS

THE FIRST VOLUME.

Page-

COWLEY,

DENUAM,
MILTON, BUTLER, ROCHESTER, ROS COMMON,
OTVVAY,

51

-59
127 139
145

153

WALLER, FOMFRET,
"

157
195

DORSET, STEPNEY,
J.

197

'....

201

PHILIPS,

203

WALSH, DRYDEN,
SMITH, DUKE,
KING,

217
219
321 341

343

SPRVT, HALIFAX, PARNELL,

347 353

357
361

GARTH, ROWE,
ADDISON,

365 375

HUGHES,
SHEFFIELD,
duke of Buckinghamshire,
.

423
.
-

487

COWLEY.

Life of Cowley, notwithstanding the penury of English biography, has been written by Dr. Sprat, an author whose pregJL

HE

nancy of imagination and elegance of language have deservedly

set

him high

in the ranks of literature

but his zeal of friendship?

or ambition of eloquence, has produced a funeral oration rather than a history ; he has given the character, not the life, of Cowley
;

for

he writes with so

little detail,

that scarcely any thing is

distinctly
f

known, but

all is

shown confused and enlarged through

.he mist of panegyric.

ABRAHAM COWLEY was born in the year one thousand six hundred and eighteen. His father was a grocer, whose condition Dr. Sprat conceals under the general appellation of a citizen ; and,
what would probably not have been less carefully suppressed, the omission of his name in the register of St. Dunstan's parish,
gives reason to suspect that his father

was a

sectary.

Whoever

he was, he died before the birth of his son, and consequently left him to the care of his mother j whom Wood represents as struggling earnestly to procure him a literary education, and who, as she lived to the age of eighty, had her solicitude rewarded by seeing her son eminent, and, I hope, by seeing him fortunate, and

know at least, from Sprat's acpartaking his prosperity. count, that he always acknowledged her care, and justly paid
f

We

the dues of

filial

gratitude.

In the window of his mother's apartment lay Spenser's Fairy Queen in which he very early took delight to read, till, by feeling
;

the charms of verse, he became, as he relates, irrecoverably a Such are the accidents which, sometimes remembered, poet.

and perhaps sometimes forgotten, produce that particular designation of mind, and propensity for some certain science or em-

The true genius is commonly called genius. mind of large general powers, accidentally determined to some particular direction. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great painter
ployment, which
is a

of the present age, had the first fondness for his art excited by the perusal of Richardson's treatise.

LIFE OF CO\VLEY.

By

his mother's solicitation he

was admitted

into

He distinguished. " that he had this defect in his Sprat, to relate,

school,

where he was soon

Westminster was wont, says

at that

memory

time, that his teachers never could bring rules of grammar."

it

to retain the ordinary

This
a.

is

an instance of the natural desire of

It is

wonder.

surely very difficult to

tell

man to propagate any thing as it was

heard, when Sprat couki not refrain from amplifying a commodious incident, though the book to which he prefixed his narrative contained its confutation.

A memory admitting some tilings,

and rejecting others, an intellectual digestion that concocted the pulp of learning, but refused the husks, had the appearance of an instinctive elegance, of a particular provision made by nature
for literary politeness.

But

in the author's

own honest

relation,

the marvel vanishes

constraint, that
his

he was, he says, such " an enemy to all master never could prevail on him to learn

the rules without book."

learn the rules
;

He

does not

tcil

that

he could not

but that, being able to perform his exercises without them, and being an " enemy to constraint/' he spared himself the labour.

Among the English poets, Cowley, Milton, and Pope, might be said " to lisp in numbers ;" and have given such early proofs, not only of powers of language, but of comprehension of things,
as to more tardy minds seem scarcely credible. But of the learned puerilities of Cowley there is no doubt, since a volume of his poems was not only written, but printed in his thirteenth
" The year ;* containing, with other poetical compositions, tragof and written when he was ten Thisbe," History Pyramus

ical

years old
after.

and " Constantia and Philetus." written two years

While he was yet at school he produced a comedy called " Love's Riddie," though it was not published till he had been some time at Cambridge. This comedy is of the pastoral kind,
fore the time at

which requires no acquaintance with the living world, and therewhich it was composed adds little to the won-

ders of Cowley's minority.

*

years

This volume was not published before 1633, wlvcn Cowley w;is fifteen alt!. Dr. Johnson, as well as former biographers, seems to have been

misled b> the portrait of Cowley being by mistake thirteen ears. R.

;.

marked with the age

of

LIFE OF COWLEY.

In 1636, he was removed to Cambridge,* where he continued

his studies with great intenseness
;

for

he

is

said to

have written,

while he was yet a young student, the greater part of his " Davideis ;" a work of which the materials could not have been collected without the study of

many

years, but by a

mind

of the

greatest vigour and activity.

Two years after his settlement at Cambridge he published " Love's Riddle," with a poetical dedication to Sir Kenelm Digby of whose acquaintance all his contemporaries seem to have been ambitious ; and " Naufragium Joculare," a comedy writ;

ten in Latin, but without due attention to the ancient models

for
it is

not loose verse, but

mere

prose.

It

was printed, with

having neither the

learned work,

a dedication in verse, to Dr. Comber, master'of the college ; b'ut, facility of a popular nor the accuracy of a

it seems to be now universally neglected. the beginning of the civil war, as the prince passed through Cambridge in his way to York, he was entertained with the repre" sentation of the Guardian," a comedy, which Cowley says was

At

by sence from his country, he appears to have considered as into his reputation ; though, during the suppression of the
jurious
bation.

neither written nor acted, but rough drawn by him, and repeated That this comedy was printed during his abthe scholars.

theatres,

it

was sometimes privately acted with

sufficient

appro-

In 1643, being now master of arts, he was, by the prevalence of the parliament, ejected from Cambridge, and sheltered himself at St. John's college in Oxford ; where, as is said by Wood ) " The Puritan and he published a satire, called Papist," which was only inserted in the last collection of his works ;f and so the warmth of his loyalty and the eledistinguished himself by that he gained the kindness and configance of his conversation,

dence of those who attended the king, and amongst others of

*
i

He was a

candidate this year at Westminster school for election to Trin-

ty college, but
first

proved unsuccessful.
edition of this

N.

" which was never life, Dr. Johnson wrote, f In the inserted in any collection ot'his works :" but he altered the expression when the lives were collected into volumes. The satire was added to Cowley's

Works by

the particular direction of Dr. Johnson.

N.

Vor

i.

4
lord Falkland,

LIFE OF COWLEY.

whose notice cast a

lustre on all to

whom

it

was

extended.

mcnt, he followed the queen

tary to

About the time when Oxford was surrendered to the paiTux" to Paris, where he became secrethe
lord Jermin, afterwards
in

earl of

St.

Albans,

and

such correspondence as the royal cause rethe letand quired, particularly in cyphering and dccyphering

was employed

ters that passed

between the king and queen ; an employment of the highest confidence and honour. So wide was his province of intelligence, that, for several years, it filled all his days and
in the week. In the year 1647, his " Mistress" was published ; for he imagined, as he declared in his preface to a subsequent edition,

two or three nights

that " poets

are

scarcely thought freemen of their

duties, or obliging

company

\vithout paying to love."

some

themselves to be true

to the

This obligation to amorous ditties owes, I believe, its original fame of Petrarch, who, in an age rude and uncultivated, by

his tuneful

homage
is

to his

Laura, refined the rwanners of the

let-

tered world, and

filled

of
its

all

excellence

Europe with love and poetry. But the basis he that professes love ought to feel truth
;

power. Petrarch was a real lover, and Laura doubtless deserved his tenderness. Of Cowley, -we m-^ tnlrl by Barnes,* \vlio had means enough of information, that, whatever he may talk of his own inflammability, and the variety of characters

by which his heart was divided, he in reality was in love but once, and then never had resolution to tell his passion.
reader's esteem for the
lence,
is

This consideration cannot but abate, in some measure, the work and the author. To love excel-,
natural
;

it

is

natural likewise for the lover to solicit

reciprocal regard by an elaborate display of his own qualifications. The desire of pleasing has in different men produced actions of

but it seems as reasonable to ap; as the poet of an " airy the champion nothing," and to pear for what Cowley might have learned from quarrel as to write

heroism, and effusions of wit

his master Pindar to call

"

the

dream of

a shadow."

It is surely not difficult, in the solitude of a college, or in the bustle of the world, to find useful studies and serious
*

employment.

V- Barnesii Anacreontem.

Dr.

J,

LIFE OF COY\ LEY.

5
as to squander
it

No man
down
to

needs to be so burthened with

fictitious

life

in

voluntary dreams of
heats his

occurrences.

The man

that sits

suppose himself charged with treason or peculation, and mind to an elaborate purgation of his character from
possibility of

crimes which he was never within the

differs only

committing,

by the infrequency of his folly from him who praises beauty which he never saw ; complains of jealousy which he never
felt
;

saken

supposes himself sometimes invited, and sometimes forfatigues his fancy, and ransacks his memory, for images

may exhibit the gaiety of hope, or the gloominess of desand dresses his imaginary Chloris or Phyllis, sometimes in flowers fading as her beauty, and sometimes in gems lasting as her virtues.
pair
;

which

At Paris, as secretary to lord Jermin, he was engaged in transacting things of real importance with real men and real women, and at that time did not much employ his thoughts upon

Some of his letters to Mr. Bennet, phantoms of gallantry. afterward earl of Arlington, from April to December, in 1650, are preserved in " Miscellanea Aulica," a collection of papers
published by Brown. These letters, being written like those of other men whose minds are more on things than words, contribute no otherwise to his reputation than as they shew him to have

been above the

affectation

known

that the business of a statesman can be

of unseasonable elegance, and to have little forwarded

by flowers of rhetoric.

One passage, however, seems not unworthy of some notice. Speaking of the Scotch treaty then in agitation " The Scotch " treaty," says he, is the only thing now in which Vie are vitally concerned ; I am one of the last hopers, and yet
:

cannot

now
all

abstain

from believing

that an

agreement

will

be

made

people upon the place incline to that of union. The Scotch will moderate something of the rigour of their demands ;
;

the mutual necessity of an accord is visible, the king is persuaded And to tell you the truth which I take to be an argument of it. above all the rest, Virgil has told the same thing to that purpose."

This expression from a secretary of the present time would be considered as merely ludicrous, or at most as an ostentatious but the manners of that time were so display of scholarship
;

tinged with superstition, that I cannot but suspect Cowley of

LIFE OF CO NY LEY.
lots,*

to

having consulted on this great occasion the Virgilian have given some credit to the answer of his oracle.

and

* Consulting the Virgilian lots, Sortes Virgilianie, is a method of divination by the opening of Virgil, and applying to the circumstances of the
I"
;

user

tin-

first
oil.

passage
It is :;aid

in

either of the two pages that he accidentally

ihi-

lord Falkland, being in I. and experiment of their future fortunes, and in ft with That of the king was the passages equally ominous to each. (olio wing
l;\( s Iiis

fvf

that king Charles

this

UiMlk-ian library,

made

At

hello audacis populi vcxatns S-t armis, Finilms extorris, complexu avnlsus luli,

Auxilium imploret, videatque indigna suorum Funera, nee, cum se sub leges patis iniijuie
Tradiderit, regno aut optata luce fruatur ; Sed cadat ante diem, mediaquc inhumatus arena.

JEncid iv. C15.

race untam'd, and haughty foes, His peaceful entrance with dire arms oppose,
let a

Yet

Oppress'd with numbers in th' unequal field, His men discourag'd, and himself expell'd ;

Let him for succour sue from place to place, Torn from his subjects and his son's embrace. First let him see his friends in battle slain,

And their untimely fate lament in vain And when, at length, the cruel war shall cease, On hard conditions may he buy his peace;
;

Nor let him then enjoy supreme command, Hut fall untimely by some hostile hand,

And

lie

unbury'd on the barren sand.

D& YD EN.

LORD FALKLAND'S. Xou hxc, O

(

Palla, dederas promissa parenti,

'autius ut sicvo velles te

credere Marti.

quantum nova gloria in armis, Et priedulce decus primo ccrtamine posset.

ignarus cram,
I'rimilix juvenis miscne, belliquc propinqui

Hand

Dura rudimenta,

^c nulli
!

exaudita

Dcorum,
jEncid xi. 152.

Vota pivcesque mcic

O
To
1

Pallas, thou hast fa I'd thy plighted

i

light

\\

ith

caution, not to
in vain, for

word, tempt the sword

well
I

warn'd thee, but

knew
;

AVhat

perils youthful

ardour would pursue

boiling blood would carry thee too far, Young as thou wert to dangers, raw to war.

That

LIFE OF COWLEY.

Some years afterwards, " business," says Sprat, " passed of course into other hands ;" and Cowiey, being no longer useful at Paris, was in 1656 sent back into England, that, " under pretence
of privacy and retirement, he might take occasion of giving notice of the posture of things in this nation." Soon after his return to London, he was seized by some mes-

sengers of the usurping powers, who were sent out in quest of another man ; and being examined, was put into confinement, from which he was not dismissed without the security of a thousand pounds given by Dr. Scarborow.

This year he published his poems, with a preface, in which he seems to have inserted something suppressed in subsequent editions, which was interpreted to denote some relaxation of his loyalty.

In this preface he declares, that " his desire had been for
past,

some days
himself
to

and did

still

very vehemently continue, to retire

plantations,

some of the American

and

to forsake this

world for ever."

From the obloquy which the appearance of submission to the usurpers brought upon him, his biographer has been very diligent to clear him, and indeed it does not seem to have lessened his
reputation.

His wish
;

for retirement

we

can easily believe to be

harassed in one kingdom, and persecuted in another, who, after a course of business that employed all his

undissembled

man

days and half his nights in cyphering and decyphering, comes to his own country and steps into a prison, will be willing enough to
retire to

some place of

quiet and of safety.

Yet

let

neither our

reverence for a genius, nor our pity for a sufferer, dispose us to

forget that, if his activity was virtue, his retreat was cowardice. He then took upon himself the character of physician, still, " according to Sprat, with intention to dissemble the main design of his coming over ;" and, as Mr. Wood relates, " complying
curst essay of arms, disastrous doom, Prelude of bloody fields and fights to come Hard elements of unauspicious war,

'.

Vain

vosvs to

Heaven, and unavailing care

DRYDEXT.
Hoffman, in hisLexicon, gives a very satisfactory account of this practice ot seeking fates in books and says, that it was used by the pagans, the Jewish the latter taking the New Testament rabbins, and even the early Christians
; ;

for their oracle.

H.

Ul-'K

()!

in power, which was much taken noiice of by he ohlained an order to be created doctor of royal parly, which being done to his mind, whereby he gained the physic

with the

men

then

the

ill

will

of

some of

his friends,

he went into France again, having

made

a copy of verses on Oliver's death."

is

This

wrong
in

can be discovered.

no favourable representation, yet even in this not much How far he complied with the men

said that

power, is to be inquired lie fore lie can be blamed. It is not he told them any secrets, or assisted them by intelligence or any other act. If he only promised to be quiet, that they in
free

whose hands he was might

v,

him from confinement, he

a just cause has put

did

hat no law of society prohibits.

The man whose miscarriage in

power of
his

him

into the

without any violation of his integrity, regain his liberty, or preserve his life, by a promise of neutrality ; for the stipulation gives the enemy nothing which he had not

enemy may,

before

the neutrality of a captive

may be

always secured by his

imprisonment or death.
net promise to aid

He
in

that is at the disposal of another

act,

may

him

any injurious

can compel active obedience. not to do ill.

He may

because no power engage to do nothing, but

little.

There

is

reason to think that Cowley promised

It

does

not appear that his compliance gained him confidence enough to be trusted without security, for the bond of his bail was never cancelled
;

nor that

it

made him

think himself secure, for at that

dissolution of

returned into
staid
<;

government which followed the death of Oliver, he France, where he resumed his former station, and

the restoration. " under these bonds till continued," says his biographer, the general deliverance ;" it is therefore to be supposed, that he
till

He

did not go to France, and act again for the king, without the consent of his bondsman ; that he did not shew his loyalty at the haz-

ard of his friend, but by his friend's permission. Of the verses on Oliver's death, in which Wood's narrative

seems
ance.

to

imply something encomiastic, there has been no appearis

There

a discourse

with verses intermixed, but such as certainly gained friends among the abettors of usurpation.

concerning his government, indeed, its author no

LIFE OF COWLEY.

A doctor

cember 1657

of physic however he was made at Oxford, in Deand in the commencement of the Royal Society, ;

of which an account has been given by Dr. Birch, he appears busy among- the experimental philosophers with the title of Dr.

Cowley.
is no reason for supposing that he ever attempted pracbut his preparatory studies have contributed something to the honour of his country. Considering botany as necessary to a physician, he retired into Kent to gather plants ; and as the

There
;

tice

predominance of a favourite study

tions of the intellect, botany in the

affects all subordinate opera-

mind

of

poetry.

He composed in Latin

several books on plants, of

in elegiac

Cowley turned into which

verse
;

the

first

and second display the qualities of herbs,

the third and fourth, the beauties of flowers, in various measures ; and in the fifth and sixth, the uses of trees, in heroic numbers.

At

the

same time were produced, from the same

university,

the two great poets, Cowley and Milton, of dissimilar genius, of opposite principles ; but concurring in the cultivation of Latin
poetry, in

which the English, till their works and May's poem with any other of appeared,* seemed unable to contest the palm
the lettered nations.
If the Latin performances of

for
lie

Cowiey and Milton be compared, to be both, the advantage seems to superior May on the side of Cowley. Milton is generally content to express
I hold to

the thoughts of the ancients in their language ; Cowley, without much loss of purity or elegance, accommodates the diction of
to his own conceptions. the restoration, after all the diligence of his long service, and with consciousness not only of the merit of fidelity, but of the

Rome
At

ments

dignity of great abilities, he naturally expected ample prefer; and, that he might not be forgotten by his own fault,

But this was a time of such general hope, that great numbers were inevitably disappointed and CowHe had been promley found his reward very tediously delayed.
wrote a song of triumph.
;

ised by both Charles the

*

first

and second, the mastership of the

By May's poem

v,-e

are here to understand a continuation of Lucan's

Pharsalia to the death of Julius Csesar, by Thomas May, an eminent poet and historian, who flourished in the reigns of Jarnes and Charles I, and of

whom

life is

given in the Biographia Britannica.

11.

LIFE OF COWLEY.
" Savoy hut he lost it," says Wood, "by certain persons, enemies to the muses." 1 he neglect of the court was not his mortification hav;

only

such alteration as he thought proper, fitted his old com" edy of The Guardian" for the stage, he produced it to the public * under the title of The Cutter of Coleman street."! It was
ing, by

treated on the stage with great severity, and was afterwards censured as a satire on the king's party.
related to

Mr. Drydcn, who went with Mr. Sprat to the first exhibition, Mr. Dennis, " that when they told Cowley how little
ill

favour had been shewn him, he received the news of his cess, not with so much firmness as have been

suc-

might

expected

from so great a man."

What firmness they expected, or what weakness Cowley discovered, cannot be known. lie that misses his end will never be as much pleased as he that attains it, even when he can impute no part of his failure to himself ; and when the end is to
please the multitude, no man perhaps has a right, in things admitting of gradation and comparison, lo throw the whole blame
his judges, and totally to exclude diffidence and a haughty consciousness of his own excellence.

upon

shame by

For the rejection of this play

son
:

it is

difficult

now

to find the rea-

power of fixing attention and exciting merriment. From the charge of disaffection he exculpates himself in his preface, by observing how unlikely it is that, having followed the royal family through all their distresses, " he should choose the time of their restoration
to begin a quarrel with
theatrical register of

it

certainly has, in a very great degree, the

them.

1*

It

appears, however, from the

to

Downes, the prompter,

have been pop-

ularly considered as a satire on the royalists.

That he might shorten

plaint ;" in
*
ifio.i.

this tedious suspense,

he published

his pretentious and his discontent, in an ode called "

The ComThis

which he

styles himself the

mdanchohj Cowley.

f HIT.: is an error in the tlesi^i.ution of this comedy, -which our author "i>ied from the title |>a-r of the latter editions of Cow ley's works: the title of tin! |.I:iy itself is without the article, " Cutler of Colemau street," and
li:U
I..
.

:ui.-,e

merry sharking
it.

fellow about the town,

named

Cutter,

is

principal character in

II.

LIFE OF COWLEY.

11

met with the usual fortune of complaints, and seems to have excited more contempt than pity. These unlucky incidents are brought, maliciously enough, together in some stanzas, written about that time, on the choice of a laureate a mode of satire, by which, since it was first introduc;

ed by Suckling, perhaps every generation of poets has been

teazecl.

Savo)' missing Cow-ley

came

into the court,

;

Making

Every That Apollo gave heed to all he could say Nor would he have had, 'tis thought, a rehuke, Unless he had done some notahle folly
;

apologies for his bad play one gave him so good a report,

Writ verses unjustly iu praise of Sam Tuke, Or printed his pitiful Melancholy.

His vehement desire of retirement now came again upon him. "Not finding," says the morose Wood, "that preferment conferred upon him which he expected, while others for their money
he retired discontented into Surrey." " the says weary of the vexacourtly Sprat, tions and formalities of an active condition. He had been perplaces,

carried

away most

"

He was now,"

plexed with a long compliance to foreign manners. He was satiated with the arts of a court which sort of life, though
;

his virtue
quiet.

innocent to him, yet nothing could make it Those were the reasons that made him to follow the

made

it

violent inclination of his

own mind, which,

still

in the greatest

throng

of his former business, had

called

upon him, and represent-

ed to him the true delights of solitary studies, of temperate pleasures, and a moderate revenue below the malice and flatteries of fortune."

So differently are things seen and so differently are they shown but actions are visible, though motives are secret. Cow1 1

ley certainly retired

sey, in Surrey.

He

dread of the*

hum

first to Barnelms, and afterwards to Chertseems, however, to have lost part of his of men. He thought himself now safe enough
;

from

intrusion, without the defence of

mountains and oceans

and, instead of seeking shelter in America, wisely went only so

*

I/ Allegro of Milton. 3

Dr.

J.

VOL,

I.

LIFE OF CO U LEY.
that he might easily find his way back; but grow tedious. His retreat was at first interest the soon he obtained, by slenderly accommodated yet of the carl of St. Albans and the duke of Buckingham, such a lease of the queen's lands as afforded him an ample income.
far

from the bustle of

life as

Mhcn

solitude should

By
if

the lovers of virtue and of wit

it

will

be solicitously asked,

Let them peruse one of his letters accidentally preserved by Peck, which I recommend to the considhe
eration of
all

now was happy.

that

may
"

hereafter pant for solitude.

TO

DR.

THOMAS SPRAT.
'

CHERTSEY, MAY

i31,

1C65.

The first night that I came hither I caught so great a cold, with a defluxion of rheum, as made me keep my chamber ten
clays.

"

And, two
I

after,

had such a bruise on

my

ribs

with a

fall,

that
is

my

This or turn myself in my bed. personal fortune here to begin with. And, besides, I can
yet unable to

am

move

get no

money from my
cattle

tenants,

every night by
fies,

put in

my meadows eaten up by my neighbours. What this signiand have

to in time, God knows ; if it be ominous, it nothing less than hanging. Another misfortune has been, and stranger than all the rest, that you have broke your

or

may come
in

can end

word with me, and

that

failed to
is

you would.
to

This

come, even though you what they call JMonstri

told

Mr. Bois
1

simile.

do

hope

recover

my

late

hurt so farre within five or six

clays,

though it be uncertain yet whether I shall ever recover it, as to walk about again. And then, methinks, you and I and the Dean might be very merry upon St. Ann's Hill. You might very
conveniently

come
I

hither the

there one night.

write this in pain, and can say no

way of Hampton Town, lying more

Verbum sapienti"

He

did not long enjoy the pleasure, or suffer the uneasiness

;

of solitude

for

he died

at

the Porch house * in Chertsey, in

1667, in the forty ninth

year of his age.

Now in the possession of Mr. Clark, alderman of London. Dr. J. Mr. Clark was in 1~98 fleeted to the important office of chamberlain of Loudou and has every year since Iccn unanimously re-elected. K.
;

LIFE OF CCTVVLEY.

13

He was buried with great pomp near Chaucer and Spenser ; and king Charles pronounced, u That Mr. Cowley had not left a better man behind him in England." He is. represented by Dr. Sprat as the most amiable of mankind and this posthumous praise may safely be credited, as it has never been contra;

dicted by envy or by faction. Such are the remarks and memorials which I have been able
to

add

to the narrative of
civil

of the

were

easily

Dr. Sprat who, wilting when the feuds war were yet recent, and the minds of either party irritated, was obliged to pass -over many transactions
;

in general expressions, and to leave curiosity often unsatisfied. What he did not tell, cannot however now be known ; I must
therefore

recommend

the perusal of his work, to which

my na r-

ration can be considered only as a slender supplement.

COWLEY, like other poets who have written with narrow views, and, instead of tracing intellectual pleasure to its natural sources in the mind of man, paid their court to temporary prejudices, has been
at

one time too

much

Wit,

like all other things subject

its

of man, has

much neglected at another. by their nature to the choice changes and fashions, and at different times takes
praised, and too

About the beginning of the seventeenth centuappeared a race of writers that may be termed the metaphysical poets ; of whom, in a criticism on the works of Cowley, it is
different forms.
ry,

not improper to give

some

account.

metaphysical poets were men of learning, and to shew their learning was their whole endeavour ; but, unluckily resolv-

The

ing to shew it in rhyme, instead of writing poetry, they only wrote verses, and very often such verses as stood the trial of the finger for the modulation was so imperfect, that better than of the ear
;

they were only found to be verses by counting the syllables. If the father of criticism has rightly denominated poetry T^V
fjn tunlia

an imitative

art,

these writers
of poets
;

will,

without great wrong,

lose their right to the

name
;

for they cannot

be said

to

have imitated any thing they neither copied nature nor life j neither painted the forms of matter, nor represented the operations of intellect.

wits.

Those however who deny them to be poets, allow them to be Dry den confesses, of himself and his contemporaries, that

14
they
fall

UFE OF COWLEY.
below Donne
in wit
;

but maintains, that they surpass

"

him

in poetry.

that which has by Pope, as being been often thought, but was never before so well expressed," they for they endeavourcertainly never attained, nor ever sought it
If \\it be well described
;

ed

to

be singular

in

their thoughts,
\vit

and were careless of their

is

diction.
lie

But Pope's account of

it

undoubtedly erroneous
it

depresses

bclo\v

its

natural dignity, and reduces

from

strength of thought to happiness of language. If by a more noble and more adequate conception that be considered as wit which
is

at

once natural and new, that which,

first

though not obvious,

if be just he missed
;

is,

it

be that

upon its which he

production, acknowledged to
it

that never found

wonders how

to wit of this

dom
far

risen.

kind the metaphysical poets have selTheir thoughts are often new, but seldom natural ;
;

they are not obvious, but neither are they just

and the reader,

from wondering that he missed them, wonders more frequently by what perverseness of industry they were ever found.

But

wit, abstracted

from

its

effects

upon the hearer, may be

more

rigorously and philosophically considered as a kind of di$cordia concors ; a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery

of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike. Of wit, thus de lined, they have more than enough. The most heterogeneous
ideas arc yoked by violence together
;

nature and art are ran-

comparisons, and allusions ; their learnbut the reader coming instructs, and their subtlety surprises

sacked

for illustrations,

monly thinks his improvement dearly bought, and, though he sometimes admires, is seldom pleased.

From

this account of their compositions

it

will

be readily in-

ferred, that they

were not successful

in representing or

moving

the affections.

they were wholly employed on something unand surprising, they had no regard to that uniformity of expected sentiment which enables us to conceive and to excite the pains

As

and the pleasure of other minds they never inquired what, on but wrote rather as any occasion, they should have said or done
;

beholders than partakers of

human

nature

as beings looking
;

upon good and evil, impassive and at leisure as epicurean deities, making remarks on the actions of men, and the vicissitudes

LIFE OF COWLEY.
of

15

life, without interest and without emotion. Their courtship was void of fondness, and their lamentation of sorrow. Their wish was only to say what they hoped had never been said before.

Nor was
ic
;

the sublime

more

within their reach than the pathet-

never attempted that comprehension and expanse of thought which at once fills the whole mind, and of which the first effect is sudden astonishment, and the second rational admiration.
for they
is produced by aggregation, and littleness by disperGreat thoughts are always general, and consist in positions not limited by exceptions, and in descriptions not descending to

Sublimity
sion.

minuteness.
its

It is

original import

with great propriety that subtlety, which in means exility of particles, is taken in its

who

metaphorical meaning for nicety of distinction. Those writers lay on the watch for novelty, could have little hope of greatness
;

for great things cannot

have escaped former observation.

;

Their attempts were always analytic they broke every image into fragments and could no more represent, by their slender
;

the scenes of

conceits and laboured particularities, the prospects of nature, or life, than he who dissects a sunbeam with a prism,

can exhibit the wide effulgence of a summer noon. What they wanted however of the sublime, they endeavtheir amplification had no limits ; oured to supply by hyperbole
;

they left not only reason but fancy behind them ; and produced combinations of confused magnificence, that not only could not

be credited, but could not be imagined.

lost

Yet great labour, directed by great abilities, is never wholly if they frequently threw away their wit upon false conceits,
;

they likewise sometimes struck out unexpected truth ; if their conceits were far fetched, they were often worth the carriage. To write on their plan it was at least necessary to read and think.

No man could be born a metaphysical poet, nor assume the dignity

of a writer, by descriptions copied from descriptions, by imitations borrowed from imitations, by traditional imagery, and hereditary similies, by readiness of rhyme, and volubility of syllables.
In perusing the works of this race of authors, the

mind

is

exer-

cised either by recollection or inquiry ; either something already learned is to be retrieved, or something new is to be examined.
If their greatness seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises ; if the imagination is not always gratified, at least the powers

16

LIFE OF COWLEY.
;

of reflection and comparison arc employed

terials

and

in the

mass of ma-

which ingenious absurdity has thrown together, genuine wit and useful knowledge may be sometimes found buried perin

haps

grossness of expression, but useful to those

;

their value
ity,

and such
to

and polished

who know when they are expanded to perspicuelegance, may give lustre to works which
as,

have more propriety though less copiousness of sentiment. This kind of writing, which was, I believe, borrowed from

Marina and
ple of

his followers,

had been recommended by the exam-

Donne, a man of very extensive and various knowledge ; and by Jonson, whose manner resembled that of Donne more in
the ruggcdness of his lines than in the cast of his sentiments.

When
ors, of

their reputation

imitators than time has

left

was high, they had undoubtedly more Their immediate successbehind.

whom

Suckling, Waller,

any remembrance can be said to remain, were Denham, Cowley, Cleiveland, and Milton.

Denham
the

and Waller, sought another way to fame, by improving harmony of our numbers. Milton tried the metaphysic

style only in his lines

upon Hobson the

carrier.

Cowley adopt-

and excelled his predecessors, having as much sentiment and more music. Suckling neither improved versification, nor

ed

it,

abounded

in conceits.

The

with Cowley; Suckling could not reach ed it.

fashionable style remained chiefly it, and Milton disdain-

CRITICAL REMARKS
ples
;

are not easily understood without

exam-

and

have therefore collected instances of the modes of

writing by which this species of poets, for poets they were called by themselves and their admirers, was eminently distinguished, As the authors of this race were perhaps more desirous of

being admired than understood, they sometimes drew their conceits from recesses of learning not very much frequented by -ommon readers of poetry. Thus Cowley on knowledge ;

The sacred tree 'midst the fair orchard grew The phoenix truth did on rest, And built his pcrfumM nest,
it.

That

right 1'orphyriun tree which did true logic sliev Eacli leaf did learned notions give,

And
So

th'

apples were demonstrative;

clear their colour and divine,

The

very shade they cast did other lights outshine.

LIFE OF COWLEY.

i"f

On

Anacreon continuing a lover

Love was with thy
Close as heat with
life

in his old age.

entwin'd,
;

fire is join'd

powerful brand prescrib'd the date

like

Of thine,
Th'

Meleager's

fate.

antiperistasis of age

More

enflam'd thy amorous rage.

In the following verses

opinion concerning

we have an

allusion to a rabbinical

manna ;

me one To live perpetually upon. The person Love does to us fit,

Variety I ask not; gire

Like manna, has the

taste of all in

it.

Thus Donne shews

astic verses
;

his medicinal

knowledge

in

some encomi-

In every thing there naturally grows

A balsamum to keep

it

fresh and new,

;

If '"'twere not injur'd by extrinsique blows

Your youth and beauty are this balm But you, of learning and religion,

in you.

virtue and such ingredients, have made mithridate, whose operation Keeps off, or cures what can be done or said.

And

Though
gant.

the following lines of Donne, on the last night of thfr

in them too scholastic, they are not ineleyear, have something

This twilight of two years, not past nor next,

Some emblem is of me, or I of this, Who, meteor like, of stuff and form perplext, Whose what and where in disputation is, If I should call me any thing, should miss. I sum the years and me, and find me not
Debtor
to th' old,
say,

nor creditor to

th'

new.

That cannot

my. thanks I have forgot, Nor trust I this with hopes and yet scarce true This bravery is, since these times shew'd me you.
;

DONNE.
Yet more abstruse and profound man as a microcosm.
If

is

JDonne's reflection

upon

men

Something

be worlds, there is in every one to answer in some pi'oportion

;

and in good men, this Virtue, onr form's form, and our soul's sowl, is.
All the world's riches

18

LIFE OF COWLEY.
so far fetched, as to be not only unexpected, but

Of thoughts
unnatural,
all

their books arc full.

a lady,

To

who wrote

poesies for rings.

They, who above do various cin les find, Say, like a ring, th' equator Heaven does bind. "When Heaven shall he udorii'd by thce, Which then more IIe;iv'n than 'tis will be, 'Tis thou must write the poesj there, For it -wanteth one as yet,

Though

The

sun,

the sun pass tlmmgh't twice a year, which is esteem'd the god of wit.

C o \v LEV.

The
love.

difficulties

which have been raised about

still

identity in phito

losophy, are by

Cowiey with

more perplexity applied

Five years ago, says story, I lov'd you, For w^hich you call me most inconstant now
;

Pardon me, madam, you mistake the man For I am not the same that I was then No flesh is now the same 'twas then in me, And that my mind is chang'd yourself may see. The same thoughts to retain still, and intents, Were more inconstant far for accidents
;
r
;

Must
If

of

all

things most strangely inconstant prove,

t'

from one subject they

another move

My

members

then, the father

From w hence
If then this

these

members were, take their birth, which now

are here.

body love what th' other did, 'Twere incest, which by nature is forbid.

The
pared

love of different
to travels

women

is,

in geographical poetiy,

com-

through

different countries.

Hast thou not found each woman's breast, The land where thou hast travelled,
Either by savages possest, Or wild, and uninhabited

What joy

could'st take, or

what repose,
?

In countries so unciviliz'd as those

Lust, the scorching dogstar, here Rages with immoderate heat ;

Whilst pride, the rugged northern bear,

In others

makes the

cold too great.

And where these are temperate known, The soil's all barren sand, or rocky stone.

COWLEY.

LIFE OF COWLEY.

A lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt

The fate of Egypt I sustain, And never feel the dew of rain, From clouds which in the head appear; But all my too much moisture owe

To

overflowings of the heart helow.

COWLEY.

The

lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws

;

of augury and rites of sacrifice

And

yet this death of mine, I fear,

;

Will ominous to her appear When sound in every other part, Her sacrifice is found without an heart, For the last tempest of my death
Shall sigh out that too, with

my

breath.

That the chaos was harmonized, has been but whence the different sounds arose, remained
discover
;

recited of old
for a

modern

to

TV ungovern'd
An artless
Till

parts no correspondence knew, war from thwarting motions grew they to number and fixt rules were brought.
;

Water and

air

he for the tenor chose,

;

Earth made the base

the treble flame arose.

COWLEY.

The Donne

tears of lovers are always of great poetical account

but

has extended them into worlds.

If the lines

are not

easily understood, they

may be

read again.
a round ball,

On

workman, that hath copies

An Europe,
And

by, can lay Africa, and Asia,

all.

quickly make that, which was nothing, So doth each tear,

Which

thee doth wear,

yea world, by that impression grow, Till thy tears mixt with mine do overflow; This world, by waters sent from thee my heaven dissolved

A globe,

so.

On reading the following lines, the reader may perhaps cry out
Confusion worse confounded.

Here

lies

a she sun, and a he

moon

here,

She gives the best

light to his sphere,

Or each is both, and all, and so They unto one another nothing owe.

DONME.

VOL.

I.

20

LIFE OF COWLEY.
but
?

Who

Donne would have thought

that a

good
we
sec

man

is

telescope

Though God
Vt

be our true glass, through which

all

All, since the being of

things

is

he,

are

i'i-

trunks, which do to us derive

fit,

Things in proportion Deeds of good men

;

by perspective

for by their living here,

Virtues, indeed remote, seem to be near.

would imagine it possible that in a very few ? many remote ideas could be brought together

Who

lines se

Since

'tis

mv doom,

love's umlershrieve,

Why this

Why
To

doth

my

reprieve ? she advowson.

?

fly

Incumbency
sell

thyself dost thou intend By candle's end,

Life's taper out

And

hold the contrast thus in doubl,

?

Think but how soon the market fails, Your sex lives faster than the males As if to measure age's span,
;

The

sober Julian were th* account of man,

live

Whilst you

by the

fleet

Gregorian.

CLEIVEJ.A.XIJ

OF enormous
ples
;

and disgusting hyperboles, these

maybe exam-

By

every wind that comes this way, Send me at least a sigh or two, Such and so many I'll repay

As

shall

themselves

make winds

to get to you.

COWLEY.
In tears
I'll

waste these eyes,

;

By
So

love so vainly fed

lust of old the

deluge punished.

COWLEY.
All arm'd in brass, the richest dress of war,

The

dismal glorious sight he shone afar. sun himself started with sudden fright,
!

To

see his

beams return

so dismal bright.

COWLEY.

An universal

consternation.

his sharp paws His bloody eyc he hurls round, then runs he wild about, the ground Tear

up

Lashing his angry

tail,

and roaring out

LIFE OF COWLEY.
Beasts creep into their dens, and tremble there Trees, though no wind is stirring, shake with fear
;

Silence and horror

Echo

the place around ; itself dares scarce repeat the sound.

fill

Cowi.EY.

THEIR

fictions

were often

violent and unnatural.

Of his
The
fish

mistress bathing.

To And

around her crowded, as they do the false light that treacherous fishers shew.
all

with as
first

much
took

ease might taken be,

As

she at

me

For ne'er

Among

did light so clear the waves appear,

Though every

night the sun himself set there.

COWLEY.

The

poetical effect of a lover's

name upon

glass.

My name
As hard

engrav'd herein
to this glass
;

Doth contribute my firmness

Which, ever
as that

since that charm, hath been

which grav'd

it

was.

DONNE.

THEIR

conceits

were sometimes

slight and

trifling.

On
He
And

an inconstant woman.

enjoys the calmy sunshine now, no breath stirring hears,

In the clear heaven of thy brow, No smallest, cloud appears.

He sees thee gentle, fair and gay, And trusts the faithless April of thy May.
COWLEY.

Upon
fire.

a paper written with the juice of lemon, and read by the

Nothing yet

in

thee

is

seen,

But when a genial heat warms thee within, A new born wood of various lines there grows Here buds an L, and there a B, Here sprouts a V, and there a T,

And

all

the flourishing letters stand in rows.

COWLEY.
they sought only for novelty, they did not much inquire whether their allusions were to things high or low, elegant or
gross
;

As

whether they compared the

little

to the great, or the

great to the little.

LIFE OF COWLEY.
Physic and chirurgery for a lover.
Gently, ah gently,

madam, touch

The

which you yourself have made; That pain must needs be very much, Which makes me of your hand afraid.
\KIIIII(|,

Cordials of pity give me now, For I too weak for purgings grow.

COWLEV.

The
Through
all

-world

and a clock.
maze
did trace
;

IVlahol, th' inferior world's fantastic face,

the turns of matter's

(ireat nature's well set clock in pieces took

On all the springs and smallest wheels did Of life and motion and with equal art Made up again the whole of every part.
;

look

COWLEY.

coal pit has not often found its poet but, that it may not want its due honour, Cleiveland has paralleled it with the sun :
;

The moderate value of our guiltless ore Makes no man atheist, and no woman whore Yet why should hallow'd vestal's sacred shrine
;

Deserve more honour than a flaming mine ? These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter be

Than a few embers, for a deiiy. Had he our pits, the Persian would admire

No sun, but warm's devotion at our fire He'd leave the trotting whipster, and prefer, Our profound Vulcan 'hove that wag-goner.
;

For wants

lie
'tis

heat, or light

or would have store

.

and what can suns give more Nay, what's the sun, but in a different name, A coal pit rampant, or a mine on flame

Of both

here

Then let this truth reciprocally run, The sun's Heaven's coalery, and coals our
Death, a voyage.

sun-

No
E'er riggM
a soul for

famil}-

Heaven's discovery,

With whom more venturers might boldly dare Venture their stakes, with him in joy to share.

DONNE.

THEIR
.-.urd,

expressions were sometimes grossly abthoughts and such as no figures or license can reconcile to the uncind

derstanding.

LIFE OF COWLEY.

23
alive.

A lover neither
Then down
I laid

dead nor

my
;

head,

Down on cold And my freed

Ah,

earth

and for a while was dead,

soul to a strange

somewhere
it fly

fled

sottish soul, said I,

When

back to

its

cage again J saw

!

Fool to resume her broken chain

And row her galley here again Fool, to that body to return
Where

it condemn'd and destin'd is to burn Once dead, how can it be, Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, That thou should'st come to live it o'er again in me ?
!

A lover's heart, a hand

Into the self same

grenado.

Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine

room
;

come

Like

'Twill tear and blow up all within, a grenado shot into a magazin.

Then shall love keep the ashes, and torn parts, Of both our broken hearts Shall out of both one new one make From her's th' allay from mine, the metal take.
; ;
;

The

poetical propagation of light.

The prince's favour is diffus'd o'er all, From which all fortunes, names, and natures fall Then from those wombs of stars, the bride's bright At every glance a constellation flies, And sowes the court with stars, and doth prevent
;

eyes,

In light and power, the

all

eyed firmament

First her eye kindles other ladies* eyes, Then from their beams their jewels' lustres rise

And from their jewels torches do take fire, And all is warmth, and light, and good desire.

DONNE,

THEY were
which are

in

very

little

care to clothe their notions with ele*

therefore miss the notice and the praise gance of dress, and often gained by those, who think less, but are more diligent to adorn their thoughts.

That a mistress beloved

Cowley thus expressed
;

is

fairer in idea than in reality, is

by

Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand, Than women can be plac'd by nature's hand; And I must needs, I'm sure, a loser be,

To

change thee, as thou'rt there, for very thee,

24

LIFE OF COWLEY.

That prayer and labour should co-operate, are thus taught by

Donne

As hands
\\
till

In none but us, arc such mix'd engines found, tor the ground of double otlice
;

uiih

IK-HI

and them to Heaven we raise

none.

Who
By
the

pra\ erli-ss labours, or, without this, prays,

hall, that's

Doth but one

same

author, a

common
;

topic, the

danger of procrasti-

nation, is thus illustrated

That
In

vv

hich

should have begun

my

youth's morning,

And I, as giddy Which stray or

travellers

now late must be done must do,

day, and having lost
tir'd,

sleep

all

Light and strength, dark and

must then
;

ride post.

All that
is

man

has to do

is

to live

and die

the

sum
;

of humanity

comprehended by Donne
Think
in

in the following lines

lie
;

how poor

a prison tliou didst

After, enabled but to suck and cry. Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor inn, province paek'd up in two yards of skin,
that usurp 'd, or threaten'd with a rage

And

Of sicknesses, or their true mother, age. But think that death hath now enfranchised thee

Thou

hast thy expansion now, and liberty ; Think, that a rusty piece discharged is flown

In pieces, and the bullet

is

his

own,

And

freely

flies

this to thy soul allow,

Think

thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch'd but now.

THEY

were sometimes indelicate and disgusting.

;

Cowley

thus apostrophizes beauty

Thou tyrant, which leav'st no man free Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be Thou murthercr, which hast kill'd, and devil, which damn me.
! !

would'st

Thus he

addresses his mistress

in

Thou who,

many

a propriety,

So truly art the sun to me, Add one more likeness, \\hich I'm sure you And let me and my sun beget a man.

cm..

LIFE OF COWLEY.

25
;

Thus he

a lover represents the meditations of

Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracts have been So much as of original sin,
Such charms thy beauty wears,
Desires
in

as

might

Thou
Dost
in

dying confest saiuts excite. with strange adultery

Awake,

each breast a brothel keep ; all men do lust for thee,

enjoy thee when they sleep.

And some

The

true taste of tears.

vials, lovers,

Hither with crystal

come,

And take my tears, which And try your mistress' tears

For
all

are love's wine,

at

home

are false, that taste not just like mine.

DONNE.
This
is

yet

more

indelicate

As the sweet sweat still, As that which from ehaf 'd musk cat's pores doth As the almighty balm of th' early east,
of roses in a

trill,

Such are the sweet drops of my

mistress' breast.

And

on her neck her skin such lustre sets, They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets

Rank sweaty

froth thy mistress'

brow

defiles.

DONNE.
expressions sometimes be pathetic ; to perhaps

THEIR

raise horror,

when

they intend

As men

in hell are

from diseases

free,

So from all other ills am I, Free from their known formality

But

all

pains eminently

lie in

thee.

COWLEY.

THEY were not always strictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their illustrations were true ; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks, that some
falsehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply com-

modious

allusions.
It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke In vain it something would have spoke ;

The

love within too strong for

't

was,

Like poison put into a Venice

glass.

COWLEY.

26

LIFE OF COWLEY.

for conceits.

Iv forming descriptions, they looked out, not for images, but Night has been a common subject, which poets
to

have contended

adorn.
;

Dryden's Night

is

well

known

Donne's

is

as follows

Thou

seest

me

Time's dead low water; when

here at midnight, now all rest ; all minds divest

Tomorrow's business, when the labourers have Such rest in bed, that their last church yard grave,

Now

Subject to change, will scarce be a type oi this when the client, whose last hearing is

Tomorrow,

sleeps;

when

the

condemned man,

Who, when he
Doth

opes his eyes, must shut them then

Again by death, although sad watch he keep,

Thou

practice dying by a little sleep at this midnight seest me.

are upon

IT must be however confessed of these writers, that if they common subjects often unnecessarily and unpoetically

subtle; yet, where scholastic speculation can be properly admitted,

their copiousness and acuteness

may

justly

be admired.

What
of

Cowley has written upon hope, shews an unequalled

invention
;

fertility

Hope, whose weak being ruin'd

Alike
if it

is,
;

succeed, and

if it

miss

Whom
And

good or ill does equally confound, both the horns of fate's dilemma wound.

Vain shadow, which dost vanish quite, Both at full noon and perfect night
!

The

stars

have not a

possibility

Of blessing thee ; If things then from their end we happy call, 'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
Hope, thou bold
taster of delight,
it

Who, whilst thou should'st but taste, devour'st Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor,
J5y clogging
it

quite

with legacies before

The joys which we entire should wed, Come deflowered virgins to our bed
;

Good

fortunes without gain imported be, Such mighty custom's paid to thee
;

For joy,
If
it

like wine,

kept close, does better

its

taste,

take air before,

spirits waate.

LIFE OF COWLEY.

To the following comparison of a man that travels, and his wife that stays at home, with a it may be pair of compasses, doubted whether absurdity or ingenuity has the better claim.
Our two
souls therefore,
I

which are one,

Though

must

go,

endure not yet

Like gold

breach, but an expansion, to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are

two

so

As

Thy To move, And though

It leans,

twin compasses are two, soul the fix'd foot, makes no show
stiff"

but doth, if th' other do. it in the centre sit,

Yet when the other far doth roam, and hearkens after it,

And grows erect as that comes home.. Such wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot obliquely run.

Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.

DONNE.
these examples it is apparent, that whatever is improper or vicious is produced by a voluntary deviation from nature in pursuit of something new and strange ; and that the writers fail to give delight, by their desire of exciting admiration.
all

In

HAVING thus endeavoured to exhibit a general representation of the style and sentiments of the metaphysical poets, it is now proper to examine particularly the works of Cowley, who was
almost the
last

of that race, and undoubtedly the best.

His miscellanies contain a collection of short compositions, written, some as they were dictated by a mind at leisure, and

some

as they

were

called forth

by different occasions

with

great variety of style and sentiment, from burlesque levity to awful grandeur. Such an assemblage of diversified excellence

no other poet has hitherto afforded. To choose the best, among many good, is one of the most hazardous attempts of criticism.
I

to join

know not whether Scaliger himself has persuaded many readers with him in his preference of the two favourite odes,
in his raptures at the value of a to

which he estimates
I

kingdom.

will

however venture
to be
is

which ought
VOL.

recommend Cowley's first piece, inscribed to my muse, for want of which the

second couplet
i.

without reference.
5

When

the

title is

added*

LIFE OF COWLEY.
there will
in itself

some
be

for every piece ought to contain ; necessary to make it intelligible. Pope has without names which arc therefore ; epitaphs epitaphs to
still

remain a defect
is

whatever

let,

The ode

occupied indeed for the present, but hardly appropriated. on wit is almost without a rival. It was about the
7t'//,

time of Cowley that

ever
it

which had been

till

then used for

hitellectionj in contradistinction to ivill,

took the meaning, what-

be,

which

it

now

bears.

Of
own

the passages in which poets have exemplified their precepts, none will easily be found of greater excellence
all
;

than that in which Cowley condemns exuberance of wit

Yet
'tis

That shews more

Jewels at nose snd

not to adorn ami gild each part, cost than art.

lips

hut

ill

appear

things wit, let none be there. Several lights will not he seen, If there be nothing else between.
all

Rather than

Men
If

doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, those be stars which paint the galaxy.

In his verses to lord Falkland,

whom
;

every

man

of his time

was proud
wrought.

to praise, there are, as there

must be

in all

Cowley's

compositions,

some

striking thoughts

but they are not well

py

His elegy on sir the series of thoughts

though a
little

sion,

is vigorous and hapeasy and natural, and the concluweakened by the intrusion of Alexander, is
is

Henry Wot ton

elegant and forcible. It may be remarked, that in this elegy, and in most of his encomiastic poems, he has forgotten or neglected to name his heroes.

In his
little

poem on
;

the death of Hervey, there

is

much

praise, but

passion as a studious privacy admits, and such intellectual excellence as a

a very just and ample delineation of such virtues

mind

companion ; but when he wishes to make us weep, he forgets to weep himself, and diverts his sorrow by imagining how his crown of bays, It is the odd fate of this if he had it, would crackle in the Jire.
thought to be

distinguish, and

not yet called forth to action can display. He how to commend the qualities of his

knew how

to

worse

for

being true.

The

bay leaf crackles

LIFE OF COWLEY.
as therefore this property was not as; the mind must be thought sufficiently at ease by chance, that could attend to such minuteness of the physiology. But

remarkably as
signed
it

it

burns

power of Cowiey
ercise the

is

not so

much

to

move

the affections, as to ex-

understanding. The Chronicle is a composition unrivalled and alone ; such gaiety of fancy, such facility of expression, such varied similitude, such a succession of is images, and such a dance of words, it vain to expect except from Cowiey. His strength always appears in his agiiity ; his volatility is not the flutter of a light, but

His levity never leaves his learning the moralist, the politician, and the critic, mingle their influence even in this airy frolic of genius. To such a performance
behind it
;

the bound of an elastic mind.

Dryden could have supplied

Suckling could have brought the gaiety, but not the knowledge ; the knowledge, but not the gaiety.

The

pily concluded, contain

verses to Davenant, which are vigorously begun, and hapsome hints of criticism very justly con-

ceived and happily expressed. Cowiey 's critical abilities have not been sufficiently observed ; the few decisions and remarks, which his prefaces and his notes on the Davideis supply, were at that time accessions to English literature, and shew such skill
as raises our wish for

more examples.
speci-

The lines from Jersey are a very curious and pleasing men of the familiar descending to the burlesque.
His two metrical
disquisitions for

and against reason, are no

mean specimens
to exalt the
it
;

of metaphysical poetry.
little

The

stanzas against

knowledge produce

conviction.

In those which are intended

its

human

faculties,

reason has

proper task assigned

that of judging, not of things revealed, but of the reality of In the versesybr reason is a passage which Bentley, revelation.

in the only English verses

which he

is

known

to

have written,

seems to have copied, though with the inferiority of an imitator.

The holy book like the eighth sphere does shine With thousand lights of truth divine,
So numberless the stars, that to our eye It makes all but one galaxy. Yet reason must assist too for, in seas
;

and dangerous as these, Our course by stars above we cannot know,

vast

So

Without, the compass too below.

30

uri: OF cowi.ni
After this says lic-nUcy
\\
;'

ho ravels
1

in religious jars,

Truth mix'd with error, clouds with

"With AVliishm wanting jtyx anil stkrs, In ihr M iilc ocean sinks or strays.

rays,

Cowlcy seems
wanted, the

lo

have had what Milton

is

believed to have
their just value,

skill to rate his

own performances by

and has therefore closed his miscellanies with the verses upon Crashaw, which apparently excel all that have gone before them,
and
in

which there are beauties which

common

authors

may justly

think not only above their attainment, but above their ambition. To the miscellanies succeed the anacreontigues, or paraphrastical translations

of

some

little

poems, which pass, however

justly,
fes-

under the name of Anacreon.

tivity

Of those

songs dedicated to

and gaiety, in which even the morality is voluptuous, and which teach nothing but the enjoyment of the present day, he has
given rather a pkvsing than a faithful representation, having retained their sprightliness, but lost their simplicity. The Anacre-

on of Cowlcy, like the

of

Homer of Pope,
which he

has admitted the decoration

some modern

graces, by

amiable to

common

is undoubtedly made more and readers, perhaps, if they would honestly

declare their

whom

own perceptions, to far the greater part of those courtesy and ignorance are content to style the learned.

These little pieces will be found more finished in their kind The diction shews nothing than any other of Cowley's works. of the mould of time, and the sentiments are at no great distance
from our present habitudes of thought. Real mirth must always he natural, and nature is uniform. Men have been wise in very
different

modes

but they have always laughed the same way.

Levity of thought naturally produced familial ity of language, and the familiar part of language continues long the same ; the
dialogue of comedy, when it is transcribed from popular manners and real life, is read from age to age with equal pleasure. The artifice of inversion, by which the established order of words is

changed, or of innovation, by which new words or new meanings of words are introduced, is practised, not by those who talk to be understood, but by those who write to be admired.
anacreontiques therefore of Cowlcy give now all the If he was formed by nature for pleasure which they ever gave.
*

The

Dodsley's collection of poems,

vol. T.

R.

LIFE OF COWLEY.

31

one kind of writing more than for another, his power seems to

have been greatest in the familiar and the festive. The next class of his poems is called The Mistress, of which
it is

not necessary to select any particular pieces for praise or and nearcensure. They have all the same beauties and faults,

ly in the

same

proportion.

They

are written with exuberance

of wit, and with copiousness of learning

and it is truly asserted ; flows in by Sprat, that the plenitude of the writer's knowledge
his page, so that the reader is

commonly surprised into as the verses of a lover, considered But, no man that has ever loved will much commend them. They are neither courtly nor pathetic, have neither gallantry nor fondness. His praises are too far sought, and too hyperbolical, either to exis crowded with darts and press love, or to excite it ; every stanza with and wounds with death, mingled souls, and with flames,
upon

some improvement.

broken hearts.

The

principal artifice by

which The Mistress is

by Addison.

filled

with con-

ceits is very copiously displayed

Love

is

by Cow-

flame and ley, as by other poets, expressed metaphorically by fire ; and that which is true of real fire is said of love, or figurative fire, the
nifications.

same word
Thus,
"

in the

same sentence

retaining both sig-

observing the cold regard of his mistress's time their power of producing love in him, eyes, and at the same as them considers he burning glasses made of ice. Finding himself able to live in the greatest extremities of love,

he concludes

the torrid zone to be habitable.

the dying of a tree, on which he had cut his loves, he observes, that his flames had burnt

Upon

up and withered the tree." These conceits Addison

false in the other.

calls

mixed wit

that

is,

wit which

consists of thoughts true in one sense of the expression, and

Addison's representation

is

sufficiently indul-

gent.

That confusion of images may

it

entertain for a

moment

but, being unnatural, ed in it, as much as if

soon grows wearisome. Cowley delighthe had invented it ; but, not to mention
it

the ancients, he might have found

full

blown

in

modern

Italy.

Thus Sannazaro

Aspice quam variis distringar Lesbia curis, Uror, et heu nostro manat ab igne liquor Sum Nilus, sumque JEtna simul restringite
!

lacrimje, ant tacrrmas ebibo ftaroma meas.

L1FL OF COWLEY.

One

of the severe theologians of that time censured

him

as

having published a book of jirofanc and lascivious -verses. From the charge of profancncss, the constant tenour of his life, which

seems to have been eminently virtuous, and the general tendency of his opinions, -which discover no irreverence of religion,
is

must defend him

but that the accusation of lasciviousness

work will sufficiently evince. " Mistress has no plays Cowley's power of seduction ; she round the head, but reaches not the heart." Her beauty and abunjust, the perusal of his

sence, her kindness and cruelty, her disdain and inconstancy,

produce no correspondence of emotion. His poetical account of the virtues of plants, and colours of flowers, is not pursued
with more sluggish
frigidity.

The

compositions are such as

penance by a hermit, or for hire by a philosophical rhymer who had only heard of another sex for they turn the mind only on the writer, whom, without thinking on a woman, but as the subject for his task, we sometimes
for
;

might have been written

esteem as learned, and sometimes despise as

trifling,

always

admire as ingenious, and always condemn as unnatural. The Pinclarique odes are now to be considered a species of composition, which Cowley thinks Pancirolus might have
;

his list of the lost inventions of antiquity, and which he has made a bold and vigorous attempt to recover. The purpose with which he has paraphrased an Olympic and Nemaean ode, is by himself sufficiently explained. His endeavour was, not to shew precisely what Pindar spoke, but his man-

counted in

ner ofsfieaking. He was therefore not at all restrained to his expressions, nor much to his sentiments ; nothing was required of

him, but not to write as Pindar would not have written.

Of the Olympic
inal in elegance,

ode, the beginning is, I think, above the origand the conclusion below it in strength. The
;

connection

is

supplied with great perspicuity

and the thoughts,

seem thrown together by chance, are concatenated without any abruption. Though the English ode cannot be called a translation, it may be very properly consultwhich
to a reader of less skill

ed as a commentary.

The
served.

spirit

of Pindar

The

is indeed not every where equally prefollowing pretty lines are not such as his deefi

was used

to

pour

LIFE OF COWLEY.
Great Rhea's son, Olympus' top, where thou
behold thy sacred show,

33

If in

Sitt'st to

If in Alpheus* silver flight, If in my verse thou take delight,

My verse,
In the

great Rhea's son, which

this.

is

Lofty as that, and smooth as

Nemsean ode

the reader must, in

is

mere

justice to Pin-

dar, observe, that

whatever

said of the original

is

new moon, her

his paraphrast,

tender forehead

and her

horns,

superadded by

who has many

original, as,

other plays of words and fancy unsuitable to the

The

No
And

doubt

table, free for ev'ry guest, will thee admit,

feast

more upon

thee, than thou on

it.

He sometimes extends his author's thoughts without improving them. In the Olympionic an oath is mentioned in a single word, and Cowley spends three lines in swearing by the Castalian
stream.

We

are told of Theron's bounty, with a hint that he

in

had enemies, which Cowley thus enlarges

But
Is
in this thankless

rhyming prose

world the giver

;

envied even by the receiver J Tis now the cheap and frugal fashion

Rather

to hide than

Nay,
It

'tis

own the obligation much worse than so

;

now

an artifice does grow

Wrongs and injuries to do, Lest men should think we owe.

It is hard to conceive that a man of the first rank in learning and wit, when he was dealing out such minute morality in such feeble diction, could imagine, either waking or dreaming, that he

imitated Pindar.

he sometimes

In the following odes, where Cowley chooses his rises to dignity truly Pindaric ; and,

own subjects, if some defi-

ciencies of language be forgiven, his strains are such as those of the Theban bard were to his contemporaries ;

Lo how

Begin the song, and strike the living lyre the years to come, a numerous and well All hand in hand do decently advance,
;

fitted quire,

And

to

my

song with smooth and equal measure dunce

LIFE OF COWLEY.
While the
ilancc lasts, linw long soe'er
it

it
;

be,

My

music's voice shall hear

all

company

Till

gentle notes ho drown'd

In the last trumpet's dreadful sound-

After such enthusiasm, who will not lament to find the poet conclude with lines like these !
But stop, my muse Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus
;

closely in,

Which
"Tv
But
ill

does to rage begin 'Tis an unruly and a hard mouth'd horse,

;

flings

no unskilful touch endure, writer and reader too that

all

sits

not sure.

The

fault of

Cowlcy, and perhaps of

is

the writers of the

of pursuing his thoughts to their last ramifications, by which he loses the grandeur of generality ; for of the greatest things the parts are little ; what is little can be

metaphysical race,

that

but pretty, and by claiming dignity becomes ridiculous. Thus all power of description is destroyed by a scrupulous enumeration ; arid the force of metaphors is lost, when the mind by the
the

mention of particulars
the secondary sense,
is

drawn than that

is turned more upon the original than more upon that from which the illustration to w hich it is applied.
r

we have a The Muse, who goes

Of

this

very eminent example in the ode entitled to take the air in an intellectual chariot, to

which he harnesses fancy and judgment, wit and eloquence, memory and invention. How he distinguished wit from fancy,

how memory could properly contribute to motion, he has not we are however content to suppose that he could have justified his own fiction, and wish to see the muse begin her
or
explained
career
;
;

but there

is

yet

more

to be done.
let

Let the postilion nature mount, and The coachman art be set
;

And let Make a

the &\ry footmen, running long row of goodly pride;

all

beside,

Figures, conceits, raptures, and sentences, In a well worded dress,

And
In
all

innocent loves, and pleasant truths, and useful

their

lies,

gaudy

liveries.

Every mind
cence
;

is

now

disgusted with this

cumber of magnifi;

yet I cannot refuse myself the four next lines

LIFE OF COWLEY.
Mount,
glorious queen, thy travelling throne, bid it to put on ;
is

And

For long though cheerful

And
In the

life,

alas

allows but one

ill

the way, winter's day.

same ode, celebrating the power of the muse, he gives

or, in poetical

language, the foresight of events but hatching futurity ; having once an egg in his mind, he cannot forbear to shew us that he knows what an egg contains.

her prescience,
in

Thou into the close nests of time And there with piercing eye
Through the firm shell and the Years to come a forming lie,
Close
in their

dost peep,

thick white dost spy

sacred secundine asleep.

The same

thought

is

more

generally, and therefore

etically expressed by Casimir, a writer

more powho has many of the

beauties and faults of Cowley.

Omnihus mundi Dominator

horis

Aptat urgendas per inane pennas, Pars adhuc nido latet, et futures
Crescit in annos.'

Cowley, whatever was his subject, seems to have been carried, by a kind of destiny, to the light and the familiar, or to conceits which require still more ignoble epithets. slaughter in

the red sea,

civil

new

dies the water's

name

and England, during the

war, was Albion no more, nor

to be

named from

white.

It is

surely by

some
to

fascination not easily surmounted, that a writer

professing

revive the noblest and highest writing in

makes

this address to the

if

new

year

Nay, Let not so much as love he there, Vain fruitless love I mean for, gentle year, Although I fear
;

thou

lov'st

me, gentle year,

There's of this caution

little

need,

Yet, gentle year, take heed How thou dost make

Such a mistake Such love I mean alone

;

As hy thy
I fain

For, though

cruel predecessors has been shown ; I have too much cause to doubt it,
it try, for once, if life can live without

would

VOL.

i.

.16

MIT, OF COWLEV.
reader of this will be inclined to cry out with Prior,
J
i

The

iti(
t!ii-:

/;>j-.c

juKjr to

\i'iin

t l imlnr"s style !

Kven those who cannot perhaps

songs what
will
anii iviity
art;
ill

iind in the

Isthmian or Nemxat)

has disposed them

to expect, will at least

;

sec that they

determine that
revival.

if this

represented by such puny poetry be the old Theban strain,

and
is

all

it

not

worthy of

To
must

the disproportion and incongruity of Cowley's sentiments be added the uncertainty and looseness of his measures.

from two

Hi- takes the liberty of using in any place a verse of any length, The verses of Pindar have, as he to twelve.
syllables

observes, very

little harmony to a modern ear ; yet by examinthem to be regular, and have reathe syllables, we perceive ing son enough for supposing that the ancient audiences were de-

lighted with the sound.

The

imitator ought therefore to have

what was wanting ; adopted what he found, and to have added of a constant return the same have to numbers, and to preserved
have supplied smoothness of transition and continuity of thought. It is urged by Dr. Sprat, that the irregularity of numbers is the
-very thing

subjects.

which makes that kind of jioesy Jit for all manner of But he should have remembered that what is fit for
fit

every thing can

arises

nothing well.

The

great pleasure of verse

from the known measure of the lines, and uniform structure of the stanzas, by which the voice is regulated, and the memory relieved. If the Pindaric style be, what Cowlcy thinks it, the highest and ;/o/;/r.sY kind of writing in verse, it can be adapted only to

high and noble subjects ; and it will not be easy to reconcile the poet with the critic, or to conceive how that can be the highest kind of writing in verse, which, according to Sprat, is chiefly to be preferred for i(s near affinity to /in.
.

This lax and lawless

versification

so

much

concealed the deidle,

ficiencies of the barren,

and flattered the laziness of the

that

immediately overspread our books of poetry ; all the boys and girls caught the pleasing fashion, and they that could do
it

The rights of antiquity nothing else could write like Pindar. were invaded, and disorder tried to break into the Latin ; a

LIFE OP COWLEY.

3T

poem* on

the Sheldonian theatre, in which all kinds of verse are shaken together, is unhappily inserted in the Mus<e Anglicana. Pindarism prevailed above half a century but at last died grad;

ually away, and other imitations supply its place. The Pindarique odes have so long enjoyed the highest degree of

poetical reputation, that I

am

not willing to dismiss

them with

and surely, though the mode of their composition be erroneous, yet many parts deserve at least that admiunabated censure
;

ration

which

great

fertility
;

striking

due to great comprehension of knowledge, and of fancy. The thoughts are often new, and often but the greatness of one part is disgraced by the littleis
;

ness of another

and

blest conceptions the

negligence of language gives the noappearance of a fabric august in the plan,

total

but

mean

in the materials.

Yet surely those verses are not

without a just claim to praise ; of which it may be said with truth, that no man but Cowley could have written them.

The

Davideis

now remains

to

be considered

poem which

the author designed to have extended to twelve books, merely, as he makes no scruple of declaring, because the jEneid had that

number

third part.

but he had leisure or perseverance only to write the Epic poems have been left unfinished by Virgil,

That we have not the whole Statins, Spenser, and Cowley. for in this unDavideis is, however, not much to be regretted dertaking Cowley is, tacitly at least, confessed to have miscarried.
;

There are not many examples of so great a work, produced by an author generally read, and generally praised, that has crept through a century with so little regard. Whatever is said of
Cowley, is meant of his other works. Of the Davideis no mention is made ; it never appears in books, nor emerges in conver-

By the S/iectator it has once been quoted, by Rymer it has " once been praised, and by Dryden, in Mac Flecknoe," it has once been imitated ; nor do I recollect much other notice from
sation.
its

publication

till

now,

in the

whole succession of English

liter-

ature.
*

in

Theatrum

First published in quarto, 1669, under the title of "Carmen Pindaricum Sh.eldoni.anum in solennibus magnifici Operis Encssniis. ReciJulii die 9,

tatum

Anno

1669, a Crobetto

Owen, A. B. JEd. Chr. Altimno

Authore."

R.

LIFE OF

COWLE\

Of this

silence and neglect, if the reason

in

be found partly

be inquired, it wil the choice of the subject, and partly in the

performance of the work. Sacred history has been always read with submissive reverhave ence, and an imagination overawed and controlled.

We

been accustomed
of the

the nakedness and simplicity acquiesce authentic narrative, and to repose on its veracity with
to
in

such humble confidence as suppresses curiosity. go with the historian as he goes, and stop with him when he stops. All amplification is frivolous and vain ; all addition to that which is
already sufficient for the purposes of religion, less, but in some degree profane.

We

seems not only use-

Such events as were produced by the visible interposition of Divine Power are above the power of human genius to dignify.

The
ivord,

miracle of creation, however

little

it

may teem
language
ivith

with images,
;

is

best described with

diffusion of

He

spake the

We
this

and they were made. are told that Saul was troubled

an

evil spirit ;
hell,

from

Cowley takes an opportunity of describing

and

telling

the history of Lucifer,

who

was, he says,

Once general of a

gilded host of sprites,

;

Like Hesper leading forth the spangled nights But down like light'ning, which him struck, he came,

And

roar'd at his

first

plunge into the flame.

which there
propriety
;

Lucifer makes a speech to the inferior agents of mischief, in is something of heathenism, and therefore of imhis breast

ing and

and, to give efficacy to his words, concludes by lashwith his long tail. Luvy, after a pause, steps out.
;

among

other declarations of her zeal utters these lines

reply,

Do thon hut threat, loud storms shall make And thunder echo to the trembling sk\.
Whilst raging seas swell

to so bold an height,

As shall the fire's proud element aftVight. Th' old drudging sun, from his long beaten way,
Shall at thy voice start, and misguide the dayThe jocund orbs shall break their measur'd pace,

And stubborn poles change their allotted place. Heaven's gilded troops shall flutter here and there,
Leaving their boasting songs tunM
to a sphere.

Every reader

feels

himself weary with this useless talk of an

allegorical being.

LIFE OF COWLEY.

39

It is not only when the events are confessedly miraculous, that fancy and fiction lose their effect ; the whole system of life, while the theocracy was yet visible, has an appearance so different from ail other scenes of human action, that the reader

of the sacred volume habitually considers it as the peculiar mode of existence of a distinct species of mankind, that lived and acted

with manners uncommunicabie

so that

it

is difficult

even for

imagination to place us in the state of

them whose

story is re-

lated, and by consequence their joys and griefs are not easily adopted, nor can the attention be often interested in any thing

that befals them.

the subject, thus originally indisposed to the reception of poetical embellishments, the writer brought little that could reconcile impatience, or attract curiosity. Nothing can be more disgusting than a narrative spangled with conceits, and conceits are all that the Davideis supplies.

To

One of the great sources of poetical delight is description,* or the power of presenting pictures to the mind. Cowley gives inferences instead of images, and shews not what may be supposed to have been seen, but what thoughts the sight might have suggested. When Virgil describes the stone which Turnus lifted
on against ^SLneas, he fixes the attention
its

bulk and weight.

Saxum

circumspicit ingens,

Saxum
Limes

antiquura, ingens, carapo quod forte jacebat agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis.

Cowley says of the stone with which Cain slew

I

his brother,

saw him fling the stone, as if he meant At once his murder and his monument.

Of the sword

taken from Goliah, he says,

To cut

sword so great, that it was only fit off his great head that came with
its

it.

Other poets describe death by some of

ances.

common

appear-

Cowley

says,

with a learned

allusion to

sepulchral

lamps
* Dr.

real or fabulous,

Warton

discovers

some contrariety of opinion between

C.

this,

and

what

is

said of description in p. 34.

4O

LIFE OF COWLEY.
"I'wixt his right ribs

And oprnM
Life's light

\\iilr

deep pierc'd the furious blade, those secret vessels v.herc

goes out,

when

first

they

let in air.

But he has

allusions vulgar as well as learned.

;

In a visionary

succession of kings

.loan at first

In

life's

fresh

dors bright and glorious show, morn his fume does early crow.
ele-

Describing an undisciplined army, after having said with

gance,
His forces seem'd no army, but
a

crowd
;

Heartless, unarm'd, disorderly, and loud

he gives them a

fit

of the ague.
;

The

allusions,

however, are not always to vulgar things

he

offends by exaggeration as

much

as by diminution.

The

king was plac'd alone, and o'er his head well wrought heaven of silk and gold was spread.

Whatever he

writes

is

always polluted with some conceit.

Where the sun's fruitful beams give metals birth, Where he the growth of fatal gold does see,
Gold, which alone more influence has than he.

In one passage he starts a sudden question, to the confusion of philosophy.

Ye learned

Why

heads, whom ivy garlands grace, does that twining plant the oak embrace
it.

The oak, for courtship most of all unfit, And rough as are the winds that fight with

His expressions have sometimes a degree of meanness

surpasses expectation.
Nay, gentle
guests, he cries, since now you're in, story of your gallant friend begin.

that

The

In a simile descriptive of the morning.

As glimmering

stars just atth'

approach of da)
all

Cashier'd by troops, at last drop

away.

The
He
That

dress of Gabriel deserves attention.

soft

took for skin a cloud most

e'er the

and bright,
light

mid day sun pierc'd through with

LIFE OF COWLEY.
Upon
his

cheeks a

lively blush

he spread,
;

"VVash'd

An

from the morning beauties' deepest red harmless flatt'ring meteor shone for hair,
;

And fell adown his shoulders with loose care He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies, Where the most sprightly azure pleas'd the eyes
This
lie

Took Of a new rainbow

with starry vapours sprinkles all, in their prime ere they grow ripe and
ere
it

fall

fret or fade,
is

The
This
is

choicest piece cut out, a scarfe

made.

a just specimen of Cowley's imagery

in general expressions

be great and

forcible,

what might ; he weakens and

That Garidiculous by branching it into small parts. was invested with the softest or brightest colours of the sky, we might have been told, and been dismissed to improve the

makes
briel

idea in our different proportions of conception ; but could not let us go till he had related where Gabriel got
skin,

Cowley
first

his

and then his mantle, then his lace, and then his related it in the terms of the mercer and tailor.

scarfe,

and

Sometimes he indulges himself in a digression, always conceived with his natural exuberance, and commonly, even where
it is

not long, continued

I' th'

till it is

tedious.

Yet 'twas well

library a few choice authors stood, stor'd, for that small store

was good

Writing, man's spiritual physic, was not then Itself, as now, grown a disease of men. Learning, young virgin, but few suitors knew

The common And Avith the

Laborious

prostitute she lately grew, spurious brood loads now the press

effects of idleness.

As

consist of twelve, there is

the Davideis affords only four books, though intended to no opportunity for such criticism as

Epic poems commonly supply. The plan of the whole work is The duration of an very imperfectly shown by the third part. Of characters either not unfinished action cannot be known.
yet introduced, or shown but upon few occasions, the full extent and the nice discriminations cannot be ascertained. The fable
is

plainly implex,
;

formed rather from the Odyssey than the

of diversification are employed, with The past acquainted with the best models.

Iliad

and many
of a

artifices

the
is

skill

man

recalled by narration, and the future anticipated

by

vision

i~

LIFE Or COWLEV.
art, that it is difficult to

but he has been so lavish of his poetical

imagine how he could fill eight books more without practising again the same modes of disposing his matter and perhaps the perception of this growing incumbrance inclined him to stop. By this abruption, posterity lost more instruction than delight.
;

If the continuation of the Davideis can be missed,

it is

for the

learning that had been diffused over

it

it,

and the notes

in

which

had been explained.

Had
praise.

not his characters been depraved like every other part

by improper decorations, they would have deserved uncommon He gives Saul both the body and mind of a hero.
His Avay once chose, he forward thrust outright,

Nor

turn'd aside for danger or delight.

And

the different beauties of the lofty

justly conceived

Merah and

the gentle

Michol are very

Rymcr
Tasso,

and strongly painted. has declared the Davideis superior to the Jerusalem of

" the which," says he, poet, with all his care, has not from totally purged pedantry." If by pedantry is meant that minute knowledge which is derived from particular sciences and
"
studies, in opposition to

survey of

life

the general notions supplied by a wide and nature, Cowley certainly errs, by introducing-

I know not, indeed, pedantry, far more frequently than Tasso. why they should be compared ; for the resemblance of Cowley's

work
lestial

to

Tasso's

is

only that they both exhibit the agency of cespirits

;

and infernal

in

which however they

differ widely

for

Cowley supposes them commonly to operate upon the mind Tasso represents them as promoting or obstructby suggestion
;

ing events by external agency.

Of particular passages that can be properly compared, I remember only the description of heaven, in which the different
manner
is

of the two writers

is

sufficiently discernible.
it

Cowley 's

be possible to describe by negatives ; for he tells us only what there is not in heaven. Tasso endeavours to represent the splendours and pleasures of the rescarcely description, unless

Tasso affords images, and Cowley sentihappens, however, that Tasso's description affords some reason for Rymer's censure. He says of the Supreme
gions of happiness.

ments.

It

Being,

LIFE OF COWLEY.

43

Ha

sotto

piedi e fato c la natura

e'L

Ministri hamili,

moto, e

cli'il

misura.

it more of pedantry than perhaps can be found in any other stanza of the poem. In the perusal of the Davideis, as of all Cowley's works, we find wit and Attention has no learning unproihably squandered.

The

second line has in

relief

the affections are never

moved
the

prised, but never delighted, and find

to approve.
Still

we are sometimes surmuch to admire, but little

;

however

it is

work of Cowley, of a mind

capacious by nature, and replenished by study. In the general review of Cowley's poetry it will be found, that he wrote with abundant fertility, but negligent or unskilful selecwith much thought, but with little ; imagery ; that he is never pathetic, and rarely sublime, but always either ingenious or
tion

learned, either acute or profound.

It is said

by

Denham
To him

in his elegy,
;

no author was unknown Yet what he .writ was all his own.

This wide position requires

yet borrowed little. His character of writing

less limitation,

when

it is

affirmed of

Cowley, than perhaps of any other poet.

He

read much, and

pily adopted that

was indeed not his own he unhapwhich was predominant. He saw a certain way and not sufficiently inquiring by what means to present praise the ancients have continued to delight through all the changes of
; ;

human manners, he

contented himself with a deciduous laurel,

of which the verdure in

its spring was bright and gay, but which time has been continually stealing from his brows. He was in his own time considered as of unrivalled excellence.

Clarendon represents him as having taken a flight beyond all that went before him; and Milton is said to have declared, that the three
greatest English poets

were Spenser, Shakespeare, and Cowiey.

His manner he had

in

common

with others

but his sentiments

were

every subject he thought for himself; and such was his copiousness of knowledge, that something at once
his

own.

Upon

remote and applicable rushed into his mind yet it is not likely he always rejected a commodious idea merely because another had used it ; his known wealth was so great, that he might
;

that

have borrowed without

VOL.
i.

loss of credit.

44
In his elegy on
sir

UPE OF COWLEY.
Henry Wotton, the
last lines

have

such

resemblance

to the noble
I

Scaiiger, that

epigram of Grotius upon the death of cannot but think them copied from it, though

they are copied by no servile hand. One passage in his Mint rents is so apparently borrowed from Donne, that he probably would not have written it, had it not

mingled with his own thoughts, so as that he did not perceive himself taking it from another.
Although I think them never found wilt he, Yet I'm resolv'd to search for thee The search itself rewards the pains.
;

So, though the chymic his great secret miss', For neither it in art nor nature is,

Yet

tilings well

worth

his toil

he gains

And
With

does his charge and labour pay good unsought experiments by the way.
I,

COWLEY.

Some
I

that have deeper digg'd love's mine than Say, where his centric happiness doth lie ;

have

lov'd,
I

and got, and told

till I

But should
Oh,
'tis

love, get, tell,

were
;

old,

I should not find that hidden mystery

And

as

imposture all no chymic yet th'

;

elixir got,

But

glorifies his

pregnant pot,

If by the

way

to

him

befal

Some

odoriferous thing, or medicinal, So lovers dream a rich and long delight,

a winter

But get

seeming summer's night.

Jonson and Donne, as Dr. highest esteem.

It is

Hurd remarks, were then

in the

his obligation to the learning

Cowley always acknowledged and industry of Jonson but I have found no traces of Jonson in his works to emulate Donne, appears to have been his purpose ; and from Donne he may have
;

related by Clarendon, that

learned that familiarity with religious images, and that light allusion to sacred things, by which readers far short of sanctity
are frequently offended
;

and which would not be borne

in the

present age,
delicate.

when

devotion, perhaps not

more

fervent, is

more

I will

Having produced one passage taken by Cowley from Donne, recompense him by another which Milton seems to have

borrowed from him.

He

says of Goliah,

XIFE OF COWLEY.
His spear, the trunk was of a lofty tree, "Which nature meant some tall ship's mast should
be.

45

Milton of satan.
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn, on Norwegian hills, to be the mast

Of some great admiral, were but a wand,

He
His

walked with.

diction
to

was

in his

own time censured

to

as negligent.

He

have considered, that words owe their must power to association, and have being arbitrary Lanthe influence, and that only, which custom has given them.

seems not

have known, or not

guage

is

the dress of thought

graceful action,

propriated to so the most heroic sentiments will lose their efficacy, and the most splendid ideas drop their magnifi&ence } if they are conveyed

and as the noblest mien, or most ; would be degraded and obscured by a garb apthe gross employments of rustics or mechanics ;

by words used commonly upon low and trivial occasions-, debased by vulgar mouths, and contaminated by inelegant applications. Truth indeed is always truth, and reason is always reason ;
intellectual gold

they have an intrinsic and unalterable value, and constitute that which defies destruction but gold may be so
;

concealed in baser matter, that only a chymist can recover it ; sense may be so hidden in unrefined and plebeian words, that none but philosophers can distinguish it ; and both may be so
buried in impurities, as not to pay the cost of their extraction. The diction being the vehicle of the thoughts, first presents
the intellectual eye ; and if the first appearance offends, knowledge is not often sought. Whatever professes The pleasures of to benefit by pleasing, must please at once.
itself to

a further

the

elevates

mind imply something sudden and unexpected that which must always surprise. What is perceived by slow de;

grees may gratify us with the consciousness of improvement, but will never strike with the sense of pleasure.

or without care.

Cowley appears to have been without knowledge, He makes no selection of words, nor seeks any he has no elegancies either lucky or elaboneatness of phrase rate ; as his endeavours were rather to impress sentences upon
all this,
;

Of

thets,

the understanding than images on the fancy, he has few epiand those scattered without peculiar propriety or nice

Ml

{:

OF COWLEV.

It seems to follow from the necessity of the subject, adaptation. rather than the care of the writer, that the diction of his heroic

poem

is less

familiar than that of his slightest writings.

He

has

given not the same numbers, but the same diction, to the gentle Anacreon and the tempestuous Pindar.

His versification seems

and
if

to

have had very

little

of his care

numbers are unmusical only when they are ill read, the art of reading them is at present lost for they arc commonly harsh to modern ears. He has indeed many noble lines, such as the feeble care of Waller never
what he thinks be
true, that his
;

could produce.
his verse to

bulk of his thoughts sometimes swelled unexpected and inevitable grandeur ; but his excelis

The

lence of this kind

to his general carelessness,

he sinks willingly down merely fortuitous and avoids with very little care either
;

meanness or asperity. His contractions are often rugged and harsh.

One flings a mountain, and Torn up Avith't.
its

rivers too

the like unimportant words,

His rhymes are very often made by pronouns, or particles, or which disappoint the ear, and destroy
is

the energy of the line. His combination of different measures

;

sometimes dissonant

and unpleasing he joins verses together, of which the former docs not slide easily into the latter.

The words do and

mation the
little

which so much degrade in present estiadmits them, were in the time of Cowley censured or avoided ; how often he used them, and with
did,
line

that

how bad an
in

effect, at least to

our ears,

will

which every reader

will

lament

to see just

appear by a passage, and noble thoughts

defrauded of their praise by inelegance of language.

Where honour

No
Nor

other

lu\v shall

or Avhcre conscience docs not bind, shackle me ;

Slave to myself I ne'er \vill be ; shall my future actions be confinM

Jly

nn own present mind.

vows engfig'd docs stand, that yet belong to taio, JJoex, like an unthrifl mortgage his estate
\Y!io by resolves and

For days,
TJefore

it falls

into his

hand

The bondman

of the cloister so.

LIFE OP COWLEY.
All that he does receive does always owe.

4,

And

still

as

time comes

in, it

goes away,
!

Not

to enjoy, but debts to

slave,

pay

Unhappy

Which

his

and pupil to a bell hour's work as well as hours does

!

tell

Unhappy

till

the

last,

the kind releasing knell.

His heroic

lines are often

formed of monosyllables

but yet-

they are sometimes sweet and sonorous.

He

says of the Messiah,

Round

the whole earth his dreaded

to

And reach

name shall sound, worlds that must not yet be found.

In another place, of David,

Yet bid him go securely, when he sends;
'Tls Saul that

The man

is his foe, and ive his friends. ivho has his God, no aid can lack ;

And ive
Yet amidst

ivho bid

him go,

ivill

bring him back.

his negligence

ed and
his

scientific versification

he sometimes attempted an improvof which it will be best to give ;

;

own account
Nor

subjoined to this line

can the glory contain

itself in th'

endless space.

" I

am

sorry that
it is

of readers, that

long, and as it ture of the thing-

it is necessary to admonish the most part not by negligence that this verse is so loose, were, vast ; it is to paint in the number the na-

which

it

describes,

which

would have observ-

ed

in divers other places of this

;

poem,

that else will pass for very

careless verses

as before,
-with violent

Jlnd overruns the neighboring fields

cwrsf

" In the second book

Doivn a precipice deep, down he casts them

all,

"

And,

And fell
In the third,
Brass

adoiun his shoulders ivith loose care

ivas his helmet, his boots brass,

and o'er

His breast a thick plate of strong brass he

48
" In the fourth,

Ul.-

OF COVVLEY.

Like some fair pine

o'er looking all tlC i^ nobler ivod.

"

And,
.'i'lwr.

from

tlu:

rocks cast themselves down

"

And many more

is,

but

it

is

thing be such, as that, out of the order and sound of them, the things This the Greeks were not so themselves may be represented.

The

that the disposition of

enough to instance in a fc\N words and numbers should

accurate as to bind themselves to

neither have our English

poets observed
in
all

it,

colunt scveriores,

ways
of by

whom

and their prince, Virgil, althe examples are innumerable, and taken notice
it
;

aught sometimes did

for

can

find.

The

Latins, qui musa.i

judicious men, so that

it

is

superfluous

to

collect

them."
I know not whether he has, in many of these instances, attained the representation or resemblance that he purposes. Verse

can imitate only sound and motion. A boundless verse, a headlong verse, and a verse of brass or of strong brass^ seem to com What there is prise very incongruous and unsociable ideas.
discover
peculiar in the sound of the line expressing loose care, I cannot nor why the fiine is taller in an Alexandrine than in ;

ten syllables.
But, not to defraud him of his due praise, he has given oneexample of representative versification, which perhaps no other

English

line

can equal.
:ind

Begin, be bold,

venture to be vise.

He, who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay Till the whole stream that stopp'd him shall be gone, Which runs, and as it runs, for ever shall run on.

mingled Alexandrines from liim Dry den borrowed the practice, whether ornamental or licen-

Cowlcy was,

believe, the first poet that

at pleasure

with the

common

heroic of ten syllables, and

tious.

He

considered the verse of twelve syllables as elevated

and majestic, and has therefore deviated into that measure when he supposes the voice heard of the Supreme Being.

The

author of the Davideis

it

ing written

in couplets,

is commended by Dryden for havbecause he discovered that any staff was

LIFE OF COWLEY,
too lyrical for an heroic

poem

but this seems to have been

known

before by May and Sandijs, the translators of the Pharsalia and the Metamorphoses.

In the Davideis are some hemistichs, or verses left imperfect by the author, in imitation of Virgil, whom he supposes not to have intended to complete them ; that this opinion is erroneous, may be probably concluded, because this truncation is imitated

by no subsequent Roman poet because Virgil himself filled up one broken line in the heat of recitation because in one the sense
;

is

now

unfinished

and because

all

that can be

done by a broken

verse, a line intersected by a caesura^ and a full stop, will equally

effect.

Of
not at

triplets in his
first

think

them

Davideis he makes no use, and perhaps did allowable ; but he appears afterwards to

have changed his mind, for in the verses on the government of Cromwell he inserts them liberally with great happiness.
After so

much

criticism on his

poems, the essays which ac-

company them must not be

his conversation, that

forgotten.

What is
it

no

man

could draw from

said by Sprat of any suspicion of

his excellence in poetry,

No

may be applied to these compositions. author ever kept his verse and his prose at a greater distance from each other. His thoughts are natural, and his style has a

smooth and placid equability, which has never yet obtained its due commendation. Nothing is far sought, or hard laboured ; but all
is

It

easy without feebleness, and familiar without grossness. has been observed by Felton, in his essay on the classics,

that

Cowley was beloved by every muse

that

he courted; and that

he has
It

rivalled the ancients in every kind of poetry but tragedy.

may be

affirmed, without any encomiastic fervour, that he

brought
that his

to his poetic labours a

mind

replete with learning, and

pages are embellished with all the ornaments which books could supply ; that he was the first who imparted to English numbers the enthusiasm of the greater ode, and the gaiety
of the less
;

that

and

for lofty flights

he was equally qualified for sprightly sallies, that he was among those who freed trans;
of following his author at a dis-

lation

from

servility, and, instead

tance, walked by his side ; and that if he left versification yet such specimens improvable, he left likewise from time to time

of excellence as enabled succeeding poets to improve

it.

DENHAM.

SIR
of

JOHN DENHAM veiy little

or by himself.
at

is

known but what

is

related

him by Wood,

He

was born

Dublin

in
in

1615; the only son of

sir

John

Denham, of Little Horsely

baron of Mellefont.

Essex, then chief baron of the ex-

chequer in Ireland, and of Eleanor, daughter of sir Garret Moore,

Two years afterward, his father, being made one of the barons of the exchequer in England, brought him away from his native country, and educated him in London. In 163 1 he was sent to Oxford, where he was considered " as a
dreaming young man, given more to dice and cards than study ;" and therefore gave no prognostics of his future eminence ; nor

was suspected to conceal, under sluggishness and laxity, a genius born to improve the literature of his country. When he was, three years afterward, removed to Lincoln's
Inn, he prosecuted the

common law xvith sufficient appearance of application ; yet did not lose his propensity to cards and dice ; but was very often plundered by gamesters.
Being severely reproved for this folly, he professed, and perhaps believed himself reclaimed ; and, to testify the sincerity of his repentance, wrote and published " An Essay upon Gaming."

He seems
try
;

to

for in 1636,

have divided his studies between law and poehe translated the second book of the ^Eneid.
;

Two years after, his father died

resolutions and professions,

and then, notwithstanding his

to

he returned again

the vice of
left

gaming, and him.

lost

several thousand pounds that had been

In 1642, he published "

given

The Sophy."

This seems
;

to

have

him

his first hold of the public attention

for

Waller re-

marked,

" That he broke out like the Irish rebellion three score
least sus-

thousand strong, when nobody was aware, or in the 8 VOL. T.

Jpcctcd
it

LIPE OF DRNIIAM.
;" an observation

which could have had no propriety,

had

his poetical abilities

been known before.

He was alter that pricked for sheriff of Surrey, and made governor of Farnham castle for the king ; but he soon resigned that charge, and retreated to Oxford, where, in 1643, he published " Cooper's Hill."

This poem had such reputation as to excite the common artiby which envy degrades excellence. A report was spread, that the performance was not his own, but that he had bought
fice

The same attempt was made to it of a vicar for forty pounds. rob Addison of his Cato, and Pope of his Essay on Criticism.
In 1647, the distresses of the royal family required

him

to en-

gage

in

more dangerous employments.

;

the queen with a message to the king

so far softened the ferocity of
sion,

was intrusted by and, by whatever means ?

He

admission

Hugh Peters, that, by his interceswas procured. Of the king's condescension he

has given an account in the dedication of his works. He was afterward employed in carrying on the king's correspondence ; and, as he says, discharged this office with great safediscovered by the adty to the royalists ; and being accidentally verse party's knowledge of Mr. Cowley's hand, he escaped hapfor himself and his friends. pily both
In April, yet engaged in a greater undertaking. of York duke from the London James into he 1648, conveyed France, and delivered him there to the queen and prince of

He was

Wales.
Major."

This year he published

his

translation

of " Cato

He now
ed king
;

resided in France, as one of the followers of the exiland, to divert the melancholy of their condition,

was
;

sometimes enjoined by his master to write occasional verses one of which amusements was probably his ode or song upon the embassy to Poland, by which he and lord Crofts procured a contribution of ten thousand

over that kingdom.

pounds from the Scotch, that wandered Poland was at that time very much frequent-

ed by itinerant traders, who, in a country of very little commerce and of great extent, where every man resided on his own estate, contributed very much to the accommodation of life, by bringing to every man's house those little necessaries which it was I very inconvenient to want, and very troublesome to fetch.

LIFE OF DENHAM.
formerly read, \vithout
their

33

much

reflection, of the multitude

;

of Scotchmen that travelled with their wares in Poland

and that

numbers were

not small, the success of this negotiation

gives sufficient evidence.

this time, what estate the war and the gamesters had him, was sold, by order of the parliament ; and when, in 1652, he returned to England, he was entertained by the earl of

About

left

Pembroke.

Of the
toration
loyalty
;

next years of his

life

there

is

no account.

At

the res-

he obtained that which many missed, the reward of his being made surveyor of the king's buildings, and digni-

fied with the order of the bath.

some

attention to

money

for

He seems now to have learned Wood says, that he got by his

poem on prudence and
;

place seven thousand pounds. After the restoration, he wrote the

justice, and perhaps some of his other pieces

pears,

and as he apwhenever any serious question comes before him, to have been a man of piety, he consecrated his poetical powers to religIn ion, and made a metrical version of the Psalms of David. but in sacred poetry who has sucthis attempt he has failed
;

ceeded
It

might be hoped

that the favour of his master,

and esteem

of the public would now make him happy. But human felicity is short and uncertain ; a second marriage brought upon him so much disquiet, as for a time disordered his understanding ;

and Butler lampooned him

for his lunacy.

know

not whether

the malignant lines were then made public, nor what provocation incited Butler to do that which no provocation can excuse.
his full force of

seems to have regained he wrote afterward his excellent poem upon the death of Cowley, whom he was not long to survive, for on the 19th of March, 1668, he was buried by his
lasted not long ;* and he

His frenzy

mind

for

side.

DENHAM

is

English poetry.

deservedly considered as one of the fathers of " Denham and

Waller," says Prior,

it."

improved

our versification,
*

and

Dryden perfected
many
little

He

has given

In Grammont's memoirs

marriage and his frenzy, very

favourable to his character.

circumstances are related, both of his R.

LIFE OF DENHAM.
specimens of various composition, descriptive, ludicrous, didactic, and sublime.

He

appears to have had,

in

common

with almost

all

mankind,

the ambition of being upon proper occasions a merry fellow, and in common with most of them to have been by nature, or by
early habits, debarred from
it.

Nothing

is less
fail

exhilarating than

the ludicrousnessof Dcnham.

He

does not
is

for

want of

efforts

never merry, unless the " in the close Committee" be excepted. Speech against peace
is familiar,
is

he

he

gross

but he

him

For grave burlesque, however, his imitation of Davenant shews to have been well qualified.

Of

his

more

elevated occasional

poems there

is

perhaps none

that does not deserve

commendation.

In the verses to Fletcher,

we have

an image that has since been often adopted.

" But whither am

Trophies
to thee

I stray'd I need not raise from other men's dispraise ;

?

Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, Nor need thy juster title the foul guilt Of eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred
After

slain."

Denham,

Orrery, in

one of his prologues,

" Poets are sultans, if they had their will ; For every author would his brother kill."

And Pope,
" Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne."
it is excelled ; by Fanshaw, and his elegy on Cowley. His praise of Fanshaw's version of Guarini contains a very character of a good translator. sprightly and judicious

But

this is not the best of his little pieces to

his

poem

" That

servile path

thou nobly dost decline,

line

Of tracing word by word, and

Those are the labour'd

by

line.

births of slavish brains,

;

Not

the effect of poetry, but pains

arts,

Cheap, vulgar

whose narrowness

affords

No

flight for

A new
They
True

thoughts, but poorly stick at words. and nobler way thou dost pursue,
translations and translators too.
;

To make

but preserve the ashes thou the flame, to his sense, but truer to his lame."

LIFE OF DENHAM.

The

excellence of these lines

is

greater, as the truth

which

they contain was not at that time generally known. His poem on the death of Cowley was his last, and,
his shorter works, his best
sical,

among

performance

the

numbers are mu-

and the thoughts are just. " COOPER'S HILL" is the work that confers upon him the rank and dignity of an original author. He seems to have been,
at least among us, the author of a species of composition that may be denominated local fioetry, of which the fundamental sub-

ject is

some

particular landscape, to be poetically described,

with the addition of such embellishments as

may be

supplied by

historical retrospection or incidental meditation.

To trace a new scheme of poetry has in itself a very high claim to praise, and its praise is yet more when it is apparently copied by Garth and Pope ;* after whose names little will be
gained by an enumeration of smaller poets, that have
ly a corner of the island not dignified either
left

scarce-

by rhyme or blank
will not

verse.

" COOPER'S HILL,"

if

it

be maliciously inspected,

be

found without

digressions are too long, the morality too frequent, and the sentiments sometimes such as will not bear a rigorous inquiry.
its

faults.

The

The four verses, which, since Dryden has commended them, almost every writer for a century past has imitated, are generally
known.
*'

could I flow like thee, and

great example, as
it is
;

make

thy stream
!

My

my theme

yet clear thougk gentle, yet not dull Strong without rage, without o'erfkrwing full."

Though deep,

The

lines are in

themselves not perfect

for

most of the

words, thus artfully opposed, are to be understood simply on one side of the comparison, and metaphorically on the other ; and if
there be any language which does not express intellectual operations by material images, into that language they cannot be
translated.

But so much meaning

and every

is

comprised

in

so few

words

the particulars of resemblance are so perspicaciously

collected,
*

mode of

excellence separated from

in his

its

By

Garth, in his

" Form

on f'bremont;" and hr Pope,

" Win<)

sor Forest."

H.

LIFE OF DENHAM.
adjacent fault by so nice a line of limitation ; the different parts of the sentence are so accurately adjusted ; and the flow of the
last

couplet

is

so smooth and sweet

that the passage,

its

however

celebrated, has not been praised above

merit.

It

has beauty

peculiar to itself, and must be numbered among those felicities which cannot be produced at -will by wit and labour, but mus
arise unexpectedly in

some hour

propitious to poetry.

appears to have been one of the first that understood the necessity of emancipating translation from the drudgery of countvile practice
tiful

He

How much this sering lines and interpreting single words. obscured the clearest and deformed the most beauparts of the ancient authors,
;

may be

discovered by a perusal
well

of our earlier versions

some

of

them the works of men

qualified, not only by critical knowledge, but by poetical genius, who yet, by a mistaken ambition of exactness, degraded at once

their originals and themselves.

the better way, but has not pursued it with great His versions of Virgil are not pleasing but they taught Dryden to please better. His poetical imitation of Tully on " Old Age" has neither the clearness of prose, nor the
success.
;

Denham saw

sprightliness of poetry. The " strength of Denham,"

mentions,

is to

be found in

many

which Pope so emphatically lines and couplets, which con-

vey much meaning in few words, and exhibit the sentiment with more weight than bulk.

On

the

Thames.
hold,

" Though with those streams he no resemblance Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold
;

His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore."

On
*

Strafford.

His wisdom

such, at

once

it

did appear

Three kingdoms wonder, and three kingdoms fear. While single he stood forth, and seem'd, although Each had an army, as an equal foe. Such was his force of eloquence, to make The hearers more concern'd than he that spake Each seem'd to act that part lie came to see, And none was more a looker on than he
;
;

LIFE OF DENHAM.

57

To

So did he move our passions, some were known wish for the defence, the crime their own.
private pity strove Avith public hate,
Avith rage,

Now

Reason

and eloquence with

fate.'*

On

Cowley.

" To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, He did not steal, but emulate
!

And, when he would like them appear, Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear.' 7

As
arises

one of Denham's principal claims to the regard of posterity from his improvement of our numbers, his versification

ought to be considered. It will afford that pleasure which arises from the observation of a man of judgment, naturally right, forpractice, as

saking bad copies by degrees, and advancing toward a better he gains more confidence in himself. In his translation of Virgil, written when he was about twenty old, may be still found the old manner of continuing
" Then

one years

the sense ungracefully from verse to verse,

all

those

Who

dark our fury did escape, Returning, knoAv our borrow'd arms, and shape. And differing dialect then their numbers swell
in the
;

And grow upon

us

first
;

Chorcebus

fell

Before Minerva's

altar

next did bleed

Just Ripheus, whom no Trojan did exceed In virtue, yet the gods his fate decreed.

Then Hypanis and Dymas, wounded by

Their

Nor
111

nor thee, Pantheus, thy piety, friends consecrated mitre, from the same fate could save my country's funeral flame
; ;

And Troy's cold ashes I attest, and call To witness for myself, that in their fall

No

foes, no death, nor danger, I declin'd, Did, and descrv'd no less, my fate to find."

From

this

kind of concatenated metre he afterward refrained;

and taught his followers the art of concluding their sense in which has perhaps been with rather too much concouplets
;

stancy pursued.

This passage exhibits one of those but which frequent in this first essay,

triplets
it

which are not unbe supposed his

ft

to

LIFE OF DENHAIM.
maturer judgment disapproved, since them.
lowing the sense
in his latter

works he has

totally forborne

His rhymes are such as seem found without difficulty, by foland are for the most part as exact at least as
;

those of other poets, though off with what he can get.

now and then the reader

"

is

shifted

O how

How much

unlike that Hector, Clad in Achilles' spoils !"

transformed / who returned

And

again, " From thence a thousand

lesser poets sprung,

iall

Like petty princes from the

of

Rome"
upon a word
falls

Sometimes the weight

ble to sustain
it.

of

rhyme

is laid

too fee-

"

Troy confounded
;

From all her glories if it might have stood By any power, by this right hand it shoiid. And though my outward state misfortune hath Deprest thus low, it cannot reach my faith."
Thus, by
his fraud

and our own

faith

o'ercome,

feigned tear destroys us, against -whom Tydides nor Achilles could prevail,
ten years conflict, nor a thousand sail."

Nor

not very careful to vary the ends of his verses ; in one word die rhymes three couplets in six. the passage Most of these petty faults are in his first productions, when
is

He

he was less

skilful,

or at least less dexterous in the use of words

and though they had been more frequent, they could only have
lessened the grace, not the strength of his composition.

He

is

one of the writers that improved our

taste,

and advanced our

lan-

guage

and

whom we

ought therefore
left

to

read with gratitude*

though, having done much, he

much

to do.

MILTON.

A life of Milton has been already written in so many forms s and with such minute inquiry, that I might perhaps more properly have contented myself with the addition of a few notes to

HE

Mr. Fenton's elegant abridgment, but that a new narrative was thought necessary to the uniformity of this edition. JOHN MILTON was by birth a gentleman, descended from the
proprietors

of Milton, near

Thame
not
;

in

whom
Which

forfeited his estate in

the times of

Oxfordshire, one of York and Lancaster.

side

he took

know

his descendant inherited

no

veneration for the white rose.

His grandfather John was keeper of the forest of Shotover, a zealous papist, who disinherited his son, because he had forsaken
the religion of his ancestors.

His

father, John,

who was

the son disinherited, had recourse

for his support to the profession of a scrivener.

He

was a

man

eminent
still

for his skill in music,

;

many

of his compositions being

and his reputation in his profession was such, that he grew rich, and retired to an estate. He had probably more than common literature, as his son addresses him in one of
to

be found

his

most elaborate Latin poems.

He

married a gentlewoman of

the name of Caston, a Welsh family,bywhom he had two sons, John the poet, and Christopher, who studied the law, and adhered, as the

law taught him, to the king's party, for which he was a while persecuted, but having, by his brother's interest, obtained permission to live in quiet, he supported himself so honourably by

chamber

practice, that soon after the accession of king

;

James, he

was knighted and made a judge but, his constitution being too weak for business, he retired before any disreputable compliances

became necessary.

He

had likewise a daughter Anne,

whom

he married

witli

considerable fortune to

Edward
9

Philips,

who came from Shrews-

VOL.

i,

60

L1FK OF MILTON.
by him she John and Edward, who were educated by the poet,
;

bury, and rose in the crown office to be secondary

had

t\vo sons,

and from

whom

is

derived the only authentic account of his

domestic manners.
John, the poet, was born in his father's house, at the Spread

Eagle, in Bread street, Dec. 9, 1608, between six and seven in the morning;. His father appears to have been very solicitous
about his education
tuition,
;

for

he was instructed

at first

by private

under the care of Thomas Young, who was afterward chaplain to the English merchants at Hamburgh, and of whom

we have

reason to think well, since his scholar considered

him

as worthy of an epistolary elegy.

He was
Gill
;

then sent to St, Paul's school, under the care of Mr.

and removed, in the beginning of his sixteenth year, to Christ's college in Cambridge, where he entered a sizer,* Feb.
12, 1624.

He was at this time eminently skilled in the Latin tongue and he himself, by annexing the dates to his first compositions, a boast of which the learned Politian had given him, an example,
;

seems

to

commend

the earliness of his

own

proficiency to the

notice of posterity.

have been surpassed by many, and particularly by his contemporary Cowley. Of the powers of the mind it is difficult to form an estimate many have excelled Milton in their first essays, who
;

But the products of

his vernal fertility

never rose to works like Paradise Lost.

till he is sixteen, he transtwo Psalms, 114 and 136, which he thought worthy of the public eye but they raise no great expectations they would in any numerous school have obtained praise, but not

At

fifteen,

a date which he uses

lated or versified

excited wonder.

Many of his elegies appear to have been written in his eighteenth year, by which it appears that he had then read the Roman authors with very nice discernment. I once heard Mr.
*

In tins assertion Dr. Johnson was mistaken.

]Milton \vas admitted a pen-

:-.ioner,

appear by the following extract from the " Johannes Milton Lomlinensis, iilius Johannis, institutus college register; luit in literarum dementis sub Mag'ro Gill Gymnasii Paulini, prsefccto admissus est Pensionarius Minor Feb. 12, 1624, sub M'ro Chappell, solaizer, aa will
;

ami not a

vitq.

pro Ingr.

01. 10s.

OJ."

li.

LIFE OF MILTON.

Hampton, the

translator of Polybius,

remark, what

think

is

true, that Milton

was the

first

Englishman who,

after the revival

of letters, wrote Latin verses with classic elegance.

If

any

exceptions can be made, they are very few ; Haddon and Ascham, the pride of Elizabeth's reign, however they may have

succeeded
derision.

in prose,

no sooner attempt verses than they provoke

before thing worthy of notice the elegies of Milton, it \vas perhaps Alabaster's Roxana.* Of the exercises which the rules of the university required,
If

we produced any

some were published by him

been undoubtedly applauded,
perform
;

in his

for they

maturer years. They had were such as few can

yet there

is

in his college with

no great fondness.
;

reason to suspect that he was regarded That he obtained no fel-

lowship

is

certain

but the unkindness with which he

I

was
what

treated was not merely negative.

I fear is true, that Milton

am ashamed
last

to relate

was one of the

students in either

coruniversity that suffered the public indignity of corporal

rection.
It

was, in the violence of controversial

that

hostility,

objected to

him

he was expelled
;

apparently not true

but

it

he steadily denies, and it was seems plain, from his own verses to
this
loss of a term.
alluit

Diodati, that he had incurred rustication, a temporary dismission

into the country, with

perhaps the
i*eflua

Me

tenet urbs

quam Thamesis

unda,

Meque nee invitum pati-ia dulcis habet. Jam nee arundiferum niihi cura revisere Camum, Nee dudum vetiti me laris angit amor. Nee duri libet usque minas perferre magistri,
Si

Cceteraque ingenio non subeunda meo. sit hoc exilium patrias adiisse penates,

Et vacuum

curis otia grata sequi,

Non

ego \e\profngi nomen sortemve recuso,

Ltetus et exilii conditione fruor.

I cannot find any meaning but this, which even kindness and reverence can give to the term ~oe titi laris, " a habitation from which he is excluded j" or how exile can be otherwise interpreted.

He

declares yet more, that he

is

of a rigorous waster,

and something
*

weary of enduring the threats else, which a temper like his

R.

Published 1632.

62
cannot undergo.

LIFE OF MILTON.

What

was more than threat was probably punexile,

ishment.
that
it

This poem, which mentions his

;

proves likewise

was not perpetual for it concludes with a resolution of returning sometime to Cambridge. And it may be conjectured, from the willingness with which he has perpetuated the memory of his exile, that its cause was such as gave him no shame.

He

took both

and that of master

kindness for
its

the usual degrees ; that of batchelor in 1628, in 1632; but he left the university with no
alienated either by the injudicious

institution,

severity of his

The
ings.
all

governors, or his own captious perverseness. cause cannot now be known, but the effect appears in his writ-

His scheme of education, inscribed to Hartlib, supersedes academical instruction, being intended to comprise the whole time which men usually spend in literature, from their entrance

upon grammar,

till

they proceed, as

it

is called,

masters of arts.

And

in

his discourse on the likeliest

way

to

remove hirelings out

of the church, he ingeniously proposes, that the profits of the lands forfeited by the act for superstitious uses, should be applied to such
academies
together
;

all

over the land where languages and arts

may
to

be taught

so that youth

may

be at once brought

up

a competen-

cy of learning and an honest trade, by which means, such of them as had the gift, being enabled to support themselves, without tithes^

by the

latter,

may, by the help of the former, become

worthy

preachers.

One

conducted,

of his objections to academical education, as it was then is, that men designed for orders in the church were

permitted to act plays, writhing and unboning their clergy limbs

to all the antic and dishonest gestures of Trincalos,* buffoons and bawds, prostituting the shame of that ministry which they had, or were near having, to the eyes of courtiers and court ladies, their

grooms and mademoiselles. This is sufficiently peevish

his exile
"

in a

man who, when

he mentions

from the college,

relates,

with great luxuriance, the

at

By the mention of this name, he evidently refers to Albemazor, acted Cambridge in 1G14. Ignoramus and other plays were performed at the same time. The practice was ihen very frequent. The last dramatic
performance
at cither university

was The Grateful Fair, written by Chris-

topher Smart, and represented at 1747. R.

Pembroke

college,

Cambridge, about

LIFE OF MILTON.

6S

compensation which the pleasures of the theatre afford him.

Plays were therefore only criminal academics.

when they were

acted by

He

went

to the university with a design of entering into the

;

church, but in time altered his mind

for

he declared, that who-

ever became a clergymen must u subscribe slave, and take an oath withal, which, unless he took with a conscience that could
retch, he

must

straight

perjure himself.

He

thought

it

bet-

ter to prefer a blameless silence before the office of speaking,

bought and begun with servitude and forswearing."

These expressions are, I find, applied to the subscription of the articles ; but it seems more probable that they relate to canonical obedience. I know not any of the articles which seem
to thwart his opinions ; but the thoughts of obedience, canonical or civil, raised his indignation.

whether

His unwillingness to engage in the ministry, perhaps not yet advanced to a settled resolution of declining it, appears in a letter to one of his friends, who had reproved his suspended and dilatory
life,

which he seems to have imputed

to an insatiable curiosity,

and

luxury of various knowledge. To this he writes a cool and plausible answer, in which he endeavours to persuade
fantastic

him, that the delay proceeds not from the delights of desultory
study, but

from the

desire of obtaining

more

fitness for his task

late^ so it

and that he goes on, not taking thought of being advantage to be more Jit.

gives

When

he

left

the university, he returned to his father, then

residing at Horton in Buckinghamshire, with

whom he

lived five

years ; in which time he is said to have read all the Greek and Latin writers. With what limitations this universality is to be

understood,
It

who

shall

inform us

might be supposed, that he who read so much should have

done nothing else ; but Milton found time to write the masque of Comus, which was presented at Ludlow, then the residence of the lord president of Wales, in 1634 ; and had the honour
of being acted by the earl of Bridgewater's sons and daughter. The fiction is derived from Homer's Circe ;* but we never can
refuse to any
*

modem

the liberty of borrowing from

Homer.

The earl of Bridge-water It has, nevertheless, its foundation in reality. being president of Wales in the year 1634, had his residence at Lndlow

LIFE OF MILTON.
a quo ceu fonte perenni Y.ifum Pieriis ora rigantur aquis.

His next production was Lycidus, an elegy, written in 1657, on the death of Mr. King, the son of sir John King, secretary for
Ireland in the time of Elizabeth, James, and
Charles. King was much a favourite at Cambridge, and many of the wits joined to do honour to his memory. Milton's acquaintance with
the Italian writers

may

shorter verses, according to the rules of

be discovered by a mixture of longer and Tuscan poetry, and his

as malignity to the church, by some lines which are interpreted extermination. its threatening

He
for,

is

supposed about

this

time to have written his Arcades

while he lived at Hoiton, he used sometimes to steal from his studies a few days, which he spent at Harefield, the house of

the countess dowager

of Derby,

where the Arcades made

part of a dramatic entertainment. He began now to grow weary of the country, and had some purpose of taking chambers in the inns of court, when the death of
his

mother

set

him

at liberty to travel, for

sir

which he obtained his

;

father's consent,
cast.le in

and

Henry Wotton's directions

with the

and lady Alice Egertou,

iv-ood forest, or

Shropshire, at which time lord Brackly and Mr. Egerton, his sons, his daughter, passing through a place called the Hay-

in Herefordshire, were benighted, and the lady accident heing related to their father, upon their arrival at his castle, Milton, at there-quest of his friend Henry Lawes, who taught music in the family, wrote this masque. Lawes set it to music, and

Haywood
;

for a short time lost

this

it

was acted on Michaelmas night

Lawes

the two hrothers, the himself, bearing each a part in the representation.
;

young

lady,

and

The lady Alice Egerton became afterwards the wife of the earl of Carbury, who, at his seat called Golden grove, in Caermarthenshire, harboured Dr. Jeremy Taylor in the time of the usurpation. Among the doctor's
sermons

Her

one on her death, in which her character is finely portrayed. Mary, was given in marriage to lord Herbert of Cherbury. Dr. Johnson's that the fiction is derived from Notwithstanding assertion,
is

sister, lady

Homer's Circe, it may be conjectured, that it Mas rather taken from the r.imusof Erycius Puteanus, in which, under the fiction of a dream, the haracters of Conius and his attendants are delineated, and the of
delights

exposed and reprobated. This little tract was published atLouvain m 1611, and afterward at Oxford in 1634, the very year in which Milton's Comus was written. II. Milton evidently was indebted to the Old JJ'ires Tale of Pci-1'
sensualists

George

for the plan of

Comus.

R.

LIFE OF MILTON.
celebrated precept of prudence, i fiensieri " thoughts close, and looks loose."
stretti^

65
ed
il

-viso sci-

tlto ;

In 1638 he

left

England, and went

first to

Paris

where, by the

favour of lord Scudamore, he had the opportunity of visiting Grotius) then residing at the French court, as ambassador from Christina of

Sweden.

From

Paris he hasted into Italy, of

which he had

with particular diligence studied the language and literature ; and though he seems to have intended a very quick perambulation of the country, staid two months at Florence ; where he

found his way into the academies, and produced his compositions with such applause as appears to have exalted him in his own " opinion, and confirmed him in the hope, that, by labour and " intense study, which," says he, I take to be my portion in this
life,

" joined with a strong propensity of nature," he might leave as should not so written to aftertimes, they something willinglyit

let

die."

appears in all his writings that he had the usual concomitant of great abilities, a lofty and steady confidence in himself,
It

perhaps not without some contempt of others for scarcely any man ever wrote so much, and praised so few. Of his praise he was very frugal ; as he set its value high, and considered his
;

mention of a name as a security against the waste of time, and a certain preservative from oblivion. At Florence he could not indeed complain that his merit

wanted

distinction.

Carlo Dati presented

him with an encomi;

astic inscription, in the

tumid lapidary
first

style
is

and Francini wrote

him an ode, of which the

natural and beautiful.

stanza

only

empty noise
;

the

rest are perhaps too diffuse on

common

topics

but the

last is

Florence he went to Sienna, and from Sienna to Rome, where he was again received with kindness by the learned and who the great. Holstenius, the keeper of the Vatican library, had resided three years at Oxford, introduced him to cardinal

From

and he, at a musical entertainment, waited for him the assembly. Here at the door, and led him by the hand into and Salsilli in a tetrastic ; a in him distich, Selvaggi praised The Italians were gainers by neither of them of much value. for the encomiums with which Milton this literarv commerce
Barberini
;
;

66

LIFE OF MILTON.

repaid Salsilli, though not secure against a stern grammarian, turn the balance indisputably in Milton's favour.

Of these
enough

Italian

testimonies, poor as they are, he

was proud
says,

to publish

them

before his
to

connot be suspected but

tarn de se,

poems though he have known that they were

;

he

said non

quam sufira se. At Rome, as at Florence, he

sufficient, if

staid

only two

months

time indeed

plainer of its antiquities, but certainly too short for the contemplation of learning, policy,

he desired only to ramble with an exor to view palaces and count pictures ;

or manners.

From Rome he passed on to Naples, in company of a hermit, a companion from whom little could be expected yet to him
;

Milton owed his introduction to Manso marquis of Villa, had been before the patron of Tasso. Manso was
lighted with
distich, in
;

who

enough de-

his accomplishments to honour him with a sorry which he commends him for every thing but his reand Milton, in return, addressed him in a Latin poem, ligion which must have raised an high opinion of English elegance and literature.

His purpose was now to have visited Sicily and Greece ; but, hearing of the differences between the king and parliament, he thought it proper to hasten home, rather than pass his life in foreign amusements while his countrymen were contending for their rights. He therefore came back to Rome, though the

merchants informed him of plots

laid against

him by

the Jesuits,

for the liberty of his conversations

on

religion.

He

had sense

enough

to

judge

that there

was no danger, and therefore kept or

visiting-

his way, and acted as before, neither obtruding nor shunning

controversy.

He

had perhaps given some offence by

'Galileo, then a prisoner in the inquisition for philosophical here-

sy

and at Naples he was told by Manso, that, by his declarations ; on religious questions, he had excluded himself from some disBut such tinctions which he should otherwise have paid him.
conduct, though
it

did not please,

at

was

yet sufficiently safe

and

Milton staid two months more

without molestation.

Rome, and went on to Florence

From Florence he
ice
;

visited

Lucca.

He afterward went to Ven-

and having sent away a collection of music and other

LIFE OF MILTON.
books, travelled to Geneva, which he probably considered as the metropolis of orthodoxy.

Here he reposed, as in a congenial element, and became acquainted with John Diodati and Frederic Spanheim, two learned

From Geneva he passed through France ; professors of divinity. and came home, after an absence of a year and three months. At his return he heard of the death of his friend Charles Dioit is reasonable to suppose of great merit, was thought by Milton worthy of a poem, entitled Epitaphium Damonis, written with the common but childish imitation
;

dati

man whom

since he

of pastoral

life.

hired a lodging at the house of one Russel, a taylor in St. Bride's churchyard, and undertook the education of John and
Philips, his sister's sons. Finding his rooms too little, he took a house and garden in Aldersgate street,* which was not then so much out of the world as it is now ; and chose his dwell-

He now

Edward

ing at the upper end of a passage, that he might avoid the noise of the street. Here he received more boys to be boarded and
instructed.

Let not our veneration

for Milton forbid us to look

with some de-

gree of merriment on great promises and small performance, on the man who hastens home, because his countrymen are contending for their liberty, and,
the period of his
to shrink.

when he reaches the scene

in a private
all

of action, va-

pours away his patriotism

life

boarding school.

This

is

from which

his biographers

seem

inclined

They are
;

schoolmaster

but, since

unwilling that Milton should be degraded to a it cannot be denied that he taught boys,

one finds out that he taught for nothing, and another that his motive was only zeal for the propagation of learning and virtue and
;

all tell

what they do not know

to

be true, only to excuse an act

This is inaccurately expressed. Philips, and Dr. Newton after him, say a garden house, i. e. a house situated in a garden, and of which there were, especially in the north suburbs of London, very many, if not few else. The

term

is

technical, and frequently occurs in the Athen. and Fast.

Oxon.

The
the

meaning thereof may be

famous schoolmaster, of

collected

from the

article

Thomas Farnaby,

whom

the author says, that he taught in Goldsmith's

rents, in Cripplegate parish, behind Redcross street, where were large gardens and handsome houses. Milton's house in Jewin street was also a gar-

den house, don. H.

as

were indeed most of his dwellings

JO

after his settlement in

Lon-

VOL.

I.

LIFE Oi MILTON
which no wise man
ther was alive
;

will consider as in itself disgraceful.

His

faits

his allowance

was not ample

and he supplied

deficiencies by an honest and useful

employment. It is told, that in the art of education he performed wonders and a formidable list is given of the authors, Greek and Latin, that were read in Aldersgate street, by youth between ten and fif;

Those who tell or receive these teen or sixteen years of age. stories should consider, that nobody can be taught faster than he can learn. The speed of the horseman must be limited by the

power of

his horse.

struct others, can tell

Every man that has ever undertaken to inwhat slow advances he has been able to
it

make, and how much patience

misapprehension.

requires to recal vagrant inat-

tention, to stimulate sluggish indifference, and to rectify absurd

The
more

purpose of Milton, as
than the

it

seems, was to teach something

literature of schools, by reading
;

solid

common

those authors that treat of physical subjects gic, and astronomical treatises of the ancients.
jectors of that age.

such as the Geor-

This was a scheme

of improvement which seems to have busied

many

literary pro-

Cowley, who had more means than Milton of knowing what was wanting to the embellishments of life, formed the same plan of education in his imaginary college. But the truth is, that the knowledge of external nature, and the
sciences which that knowledge requires or includes, are not the Whether great or the frequent business of the human mind.

we

useful or pleasing, the

provide for action or conversation, whether we wish to be first requisite is the religious and moral
;

knowledge of right and wrong the next is an acquaintance with the history of mankind, and with those examples which may be
said to

embody

truth,

opinions.
all

Prudence and

and prove by events the reasonableness of justice are virtues and excellencies of

times and of all places ; we are perpetually moralists, but we Our intercourse with intellecare geometricians only by chance. our speculations upon mutter are voltual nature is necessary
;

untary, and at

leisure.

emergence,

that one

man may know

Physiological learning is of such rare another half his life, without

;

being able to estimate his skill in hydrostatics or astronomy his moral and prudential character immediately appears.

but

LIFE OF MILTON.

Those authors

therefore, are to be read at schools that supply

most axioms of prudence, most principles of moral truth, and most materials for conversation and these purposes are best
;

served by poets, orators, and historians. Let me not be censured for this digression as pedantic or paradoxical ; for if I have Milton on against me, I have Socrates

my side. It was his labour to turn philosophy from the study of nature to speculations upon life; but the innovators whom I oppose are turning off attention from life to nature. They seem to think
we are placed here to watch the growth of plants, or the motions of the stars. Socrates was rather of opinion, that what
that

we had

to learn was,

how

to

do good, and avoid

1

evil.

OT?/ TGI

\v

juayaipoia-t kotKOP ?' *ytt.Qoiftt TtTvula-t.

Of

institutions

we may judge by
I

their effects.

From

this

wonder working academy,

ceeded any

man

do not know that there ever proits only genuine very eminent for knowledge
;

product, I believe,

is

a small history of poetry, written in Latin

by his nephew Philips, of which perhaps none of ever heard.*

my readers

has

That

in his school, as in every thing else

is

which he undertook,
for doubting.

he laboured with great diligence, there

no reason

One

part of his

method deserves general

imitation.

He was

careful to instruct his scholars in religion.

Every Sunday was

spent upon theology ; of which he dictated a short system, gathered from the writers that were then fashionable in the Dutch
universities.

He
only

set his

pupils an

example of hard study and spare

diet

now and then he allowed himself to pass a day of festivity and indulgence with some gay gentlemen of Gray's inn. He now began to engage in the controversies of the times, and
lent his breath to

blow the flames of contention.

In 1641, he

published a treatise of Reformation, in two books, against the established church ; being willing to help the puritans, who were,

he

says, inferior to the prelates in learning,

* " We may be sure at least that Dr. Johnson had never seen the hook he speaks of; for it is entirely composed in English, though its title begins with two latin words, Theatrurn Poetarum or, a complete collection of
'
;

the Poets, &c.' a circumstance that probably misled the biographer of Mil* toiu" European Magazine, June 1787, p. 388. R.

70

LIFE OF MILTON.

Hall, bishop of Norwich, had published an

strance, in defence of episcopacy
ters,* of
;

Humble Remon-

to which, in 1641, five minis-

whose names the

first letters

made

the celebrated

word

Smecfymnuus, gave their answer. Of this answer a confutation was attempted by the learned Usher; and to the confutation
Milton published a reply, entitled, Of Prdalical Episcopacy, and whether it may be deduced from the apostolical times, by -virtue of those testimonies which are alleged to that purpose in some late
treatises, one

whereof goes under the name of James, lord

bishop,

of Armagh.
I have transcribed this title to shew, by his contemptuous mention of Usher, that he had now adopted the puritanical savageness of manners. His next work was, The reason of church government urged against prelacy, by Mr. John Milton, 1642.

In this book

lie

discovers, not with ostentatious exultation, but

;

with calm confidence, his high opinion of his own powers and promises to undertake something, he yet knows not what, that

may be of use and honour to his country. " This," says he, " is not to be obtained but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit that can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his
the lips of

seraphim, with the hallowed whom he pleases.

fire

of his
this

altar, to

touch and purify

To
;

must be added, industrious

and generous
compassed,

and select reading, steady observation, and insight into all seemly arts and affairs till which in some measure be
I refuse not to sustain this expectation." at

From

promise

like this,

once

fervid, pious,

and

rational,

might be

expected the Paradise Lost.

He published the same year two more pamphlets, upon the same question. To one of his antagonists, who affirms that hewas -vomited out of the university, he answers in general terms " The fellows of the college wherein I spent some years, at riiy after I had taken two degrees, as the manner is, signified parting, many times how much better it would content them that I shoul d
;
!

stay.

As
it is,

now

approbation or dislike of that place, a's that I should esteem or disesteem myself the more for

for the

common

that, too

Of

simple is the answerer, if he think to obtain with me. small practice were the physician who could not judge, by
!N

* Stephen Marshall, Edmund Calamy, Thomas Young, Matthew comen, William Spursttw. R.

ew-

LIFE OF MILTON.
what she and her
sister

71

have of long time vomited, that the

worser stuff she strongly keeps in her stomach, but the better she is ever kecking at, and is queasy ; she vomits now out of
sickness
;

but before

it

be well with her, she must vomit by

I

strong physic.

The

university, in the time of her better health,

and

my

younger judgment,
is

never greatly admired, but

now

much

less."

This

been injured.

surely the language of a man who thinks that he has He proceeds to describe the course of his conduct,

and the train of his thoughts; and, because he has been suspected of incontinence, gives an account of his own purity ; " that if I

be justly charged," says he, " with this crime, me with tenfold shame."

it

may come upon

The

style of his piece is

rough, and such perhaps was that of

his antagonist. This roughness he justifies, by great examples, in a long digression. Sometimes he tries to be humorous ; "lest

I should take

him

for

some chaplain

body

to his prelate,

one

who

in hand, some squire of the serves not at the altar only, but at

the court cupboard, he will bestow on us a pretty model of himself; and sets me out half a dozen pthisical mottos, wherever he

had them, hopping short in the measure of convulsion fits ; in which labour the agony of his wit having escaped narrowly, instead of well sized periods, he greets us with a quantity of thumbring
posies.
self."

And
Such

thus ends this section, or rather dissection of himis

the
is

controversial

gloomy
that hell

seriousness

yet more

offensive.

merriment of Milton his Such is his malignity,

;

grows darker

His
in his

father, after

at his frown. Reading was taken by Essexy came

to reside

house

and his school increased.

thirty fifth year,

At Whitsuntide, in his he married Mary, the daughter of Mr. Powel,

He brought her to town a justice of the peace in Oxfordshire. with him, and expected all the advantages of a conjugal life. The lady, however, seems not much to have delighted in the
pleasures of spare diet and hard study ; for, as Philips relates, " having for a month led a philosophical life, after having been used at home to a great house, and much company and joviality,

her friends, possibly by her own desire, made earnest suit to have her company the ^remaining part of the summer ; which was at Michaelmas.' granted, upon a promise of her return

LIFE OF MTLTON.
Milton was too busy to much miss his wife he pursued his and now and then visited the lady Margaret JLeighj
; ;

studies

whom
mas

he has mentioned in one of his sonnets.

;

At

last

Michael-

but the lady had no inclination to return to the sullen gloom of her husband's habitation, and therefore very
arrived

He sent her a letter, but had no willingly forgot her promise. answer; he sent more with the same success. It could be he therefore despatched a mesalleged that letters miscarry
;

His messensenger, being by this time too angry to go himself. ger was sent back with some contempt. The family of the lady

were

cavaliers.

In a

man whose

opinion of his

own merit was

like Milton's,

less provocation than this

might have raised

violent resentment.
;

Milton soon determined

to repudiate

her for disobedience

and,

being one of those

inclination,

who

could easily find arguments to justify

divorce

published, hi 1644, The doctrine and discipline of which was followed by The judgment of Martin Bucer^

concerning divorce; and the next year, his Tetrachordon, Expositions

upon

the four chief places of scripture^

which treat of mar-

riage.

This innovation was opposed, as might be expected, by the

clergy, who, then holding their famous assembly at Westminster, " but procured that the author should be called before the lords ;
that house," says

Wood,

" whether approving the doctrine, or

not favouring his accusers, did soon dismiss him." There seems not to have been much written against him, nor

any thing by any writer of eminence.

The

antagonist that
solicitor.
;

appeared
was,
tion. I

is

styled by

him a serving man turned

Hoivel,

in his letters,

mentions the new doctrine with contempt

and

it

suppose, thought more worthy

of derision than of confuta-

first is

complains of this neglect in two sonnets, of which the contemptible, and the second not excellent. From this time it is observed, that he became an enemy to the

He

presbyterians,
his party by his
it

whom
;

he had favoured before.

is

He

that

changes

by his

humour, he loves himself rather than interest

not

more

virtuous than he that changes

truth.

His wife and her relations now found

that Milton

was not an

and perceiving that he had begun unresisting sufferer of injuries; f his doctrine in practice, by courting a young woman to put

LIFE OF MILTON,

who great accomplishments, the daughter of one doctor Davis, endeavour to resolved was however not ready to comply, they a reunion. He went sometimes to the house of one Blackborough,
his relation, in the lane of St. Martin's le

his usual visits

was surprised

to see his wife

Grand, and at one of come from another

room, and implore forgiveness on her knees.

entreaties for a while
;

He

resisted her

" but partly,"

says Philips,

" his

own

generous nature, verance in anger or revenge, and partly the strong intercession of friends on both sides, soon brought him to an act of oblivion and a firm league of peace." It were injurious to omit, that Milton afterward received her father and her brothers in his own
house,

more

inclinable to reconciliation than to perse-

He
Mr.

when they were distressed, with other royalists, published about the same time his Areopagitica^ a speech of

"John Milton, for the liberty of unlicensed printing.

The

danger of such unbounded liberty, and the danger of bounding it$ have produced a problem in the science of government, which

human
ing

may be

understanding seems hitherto unable to solve. If noth^ published but what civil authority shall have previ-

standard of truth ; if ously approved, power must always be the innovations of dreamer may propagate his projects, there every

can be no settlement

if

diffuse discontent, there can

in theology

every murmurer at government may be no peace ; and if every sceptic

follies,
is to

may

teach his

yet punish, though not prevent, the publication of opinions which that society shall think pernicious ; but this punishment, though it may crush the author,

remedy

against these evils

there can be no religion. punish the authors ; for it

The
is

allowed that every society

may

promotes the book

and

it

seems not more reasonable

to leave

the right of printing unrestrained because writers may be afterward censured, than it would be to sleep with doors unbolted

because by our laws we can hang a thief. But whatever were his engagements, civil or domestic, poetry

was never long out of his thoughts. About this time, 1645, a collection of his Latin and English poems appeared, in which the Allegro and Penseroso, with some
others,

were

first

published.

He

had taken a larger house

;

scholars

in Barbican for the reception of but the numerous relations of his wife, to whom he
\vhile,.

for a generously granted refuge

occupied his rooms.

Tn

LII'E 01'

MILTON".

Philips,

" and the house time, however, they went away ; again," says " now looked like a house of the muses only, though the

ceeded so

accession of scholars was not great. Possibly his having profar in the education of youth, may have been the occawell

sion of his adversaries calling hinv

whereas

it is

known he never
fry of a

to teach all the

young

pedagogue and schoolmaster set up for a public school, hut only was willing to parish
;
;

impart his learning and knowledge to relations, and the sons of gentlemen who were his intimate friends ; and that neither his
writings nor his

way of teaching ever savoured

in the least of

pedantry."

Thus

laboriously does his

nephew extenuate what cannot be

Milton

denied, and what might be confessed without disgrace. was not a man who could become mean by a mean

employment.
;

This, however, his warmest friends

seem

not to have found

lie did not sell literature to they therefore shift and palliate, all comers at an open shop ; he was a chamber milliner, and

measured

his

commodities only

to his friends.

Philips, evidently impatient of viewing him in this state of degradation, tells us that it was not long continued ; and, to raise his character again, has a mind to invest him with military splendour. " He is much mistaken," he says, " if there was not about this time a design of making him an adjutant general in sir Wil-

liam Waller's army. But the new modelling of the army proved an obstruction to the design." An event cannot be set at a

much greater distance, than by having been only designed, about some time, if a man be not much mistaken. Milton shall be a pedagogue no longer for if Philips be not much mistaken, some;

some time designed him for a soldier. About the time that the army was new modelled, 1645, he removed to a smaller house in Ilolborn, which opened backward He is not known to have published any into Lincoln's inn fields.
body
at

thing afterward till the king's death, when, finding his murderers condemned by the presbyterians, he wrote a treatise to it,
justify

minds of the jteo/ilc. He made some remarks on (lie articles ofpeace between Ormond and the Irish rebels. While he contented himself to write, he per-

and

to comfiosc the

and if he did not very haps did only what his conscience dictated of his own the influence watch passions, and the gradual vigilantly
;

LIFE OF MILTON.
prevalence of opinions,
ally
first

75

willingly admitted and then habitu-

by being overlooked, were forgotten, and desire superinduced conviction he yet shared only the common weakness of mankind, and might be no less sincere than
indulged
;

if objections,

his opponents. But as faction seldom leaves a man honest, however it might find him, Milton is suspected of having interpolated the book called Icon Basilike, which the council of state, to

whom

sure, by inserting a prayer taken

he was now made Latin secretary, employed him to cenfrom Sidney's Arcadia, and im-

puting it to the king ; whom he charges, in his Iconoclastes, with the use of this prayer, as with a heavy crime, in the indecent language with which prosperity had emboldened the advocates " for rebellion to insult all that is venerable or
great.

Who

would have imagined so

little

fear in

him of the

true allseeing

Deity ; as, immediately before his death, to pop into the hands of the grave bishop that attended him, as a special relic of his
saintly exercises, a

of a heathen

woman

prayer stolen word for word from the mouth praying to a heathen god ?"

The papers which the king gave to Dr. Juxon on the scaffold, the regicides took away, so that they were at least the publishers of this prayer ; and Dr. Birch, who had examined the question
with great care, was inclined to think them the forgers. The use of it by adaptation was innocent and they who could so noisily censure it, with a little extension of their malice, could
;

contrive what they wanted to accuse.

King Charles the second, being now sheltered in Holland, employed Salmasius, professor of polite learning at Leyden, to write a defence of his father and of monarchy and, to excite his Salindustry, gave him as was reported, a hundred jacobuses.
;

man of skill in languages, knowledge of antiquity, and sagacity of emendatory criticism, almost exceeding all hope of human attainment and having, by excessive praises, been confirmed in great confidence of himself, though he probably had
masius was a
;

not

considered the principles of society, or the rights of government, undertook the employment without distrust of his
qualifications
;

much

own

and, as his expedition in writing

was wonder-

ful, in

To
VOL.

1649 published Defensio Regis. this Milton was required to write a sufficient answer
in

which he performed, 1651,

i.

such a manner,

that

Hobbes

11

LIFE OF MILTON.
declared himself unable to decide whose language was best, or whose arguments were worst. In my opinion, Milton's periods arc smoother, neater, and more but he delights himself pointed with teasing his He adversary as much as with confuting him.
;

makes a foolish allusion of Salmasius, whose doctrine he considers as servile and unmanly, to the stream of Salmacis^ which whoever entered, left half his Salmasius was a virility behind him.
says Milton,

Frenchman, and was unhappily married to a scold. Tu es Callus, But his supreme el, ut aiunt, nimium galtinaccus. pleasure is to tax his adversary, so renowned for criticism, with

vicious Latin.

He

opens his book with

telling that

he has used

Persona, which, according to Milton, signifies only a mask, in a sense not known to the Romans, by applying it as we apply person. But as Nemesis is always on the watch, it is memorable
that
in itself grossly solecistical,

he has enforced the charge of a solecism by an expression when for one of those supposed blun-

ders, he says, as Ker, and I think some one before him, has remarked, firo/iino te grammatistis tuis vapulandum. From -vafiulo y which has a passive sense, vafiulandus can never be derived. No

man

forgets his original trade

kings, sink into questions of

the rights of nations, and of grammar, if grammarians discuss

;

them.
Milton,

when he undertook
;

this answer,

was weak of body and

dim of

but his will was forward, and what was wanting of health was supplied by zeal. He was rewarded with a thousand
sight

pounds, and his book was

much

read

for paradox,
;

recommended

by

and elegance, easily gains attention and he, who told every man that he was equal to his king, could hardly want an
spirit

audience.

That the performance of Salmasius was not dispersed with

equal rapidity, or read with equal eagerness, is very credible. He taught only the stale doctrine of authority, and the unpleasing and he had been so long not only the monduty of submission
;

arch but the tyrant of literature, that almost delighted to find him defied and insulted by a

all

mankind were

considered as any one's rival. If Christina, ed the Defence of the peo/ile, her purpose must be to torment Salmasius, who was then at her court for neither her civil station^
;

new name, not yet as is said, commend-

nor her natural character, could dispose her to favour the doctrine, who was by birth a queen, and by temper despotic.

LIFE OF MILTOX.

77

That Salmasius was, from the appearance of Milton's book,

is not much proof; but to a man so long accustomed to admiration, a little praise of his antagonist would be sufficiently offensive, and might incline him to leave

treated with neglect, there

Sweden, from which, however, he was dismissed, not with any

mark

of contempt, but with a train of attendance scarce less than regal. He prepared a reply, which, left as it was, imperfect, was pubIn the beginning^
in

lished by his son in the year of the restoration.

being probably most

pain for his latinity,

he endeavours

to

defend his use of the word fiersona ; but if I remember right, he misses a better authority than any that he has found, that of Juvenal in his fourth satire.
Quid agis, cum dira Crimine person a est ?
&c fcedior

omni

As

Salmasius reproached Milton with losing his eyes

in the

quarrel, Milton delighted himself with

the belief that he had

shortened Salmasius's
nity than reason.

life,

Salmasius died

and both perhaps with more maligat the Spa, Sept. 3, 1653 and,
;

as controvertists are

commonly

said to

be killed by their

last dis-

pute, Milton was flattered with the credit of destroying him. Cromwell had now dismissed the parliament by the authority of

which he had destroyed monarchy, and commenced monarch himself, under the title of protector, but with kingly and more

That his authority was lawful, never was than kingly power. pretended ; he himself founded his right only in necessity ; but
Milton, having now tasted the honey of public employment, would not return to hunger and philosophy, but continuing to exercise his office under a manifest usurpation, betrayed to his pow-

er that liberty which he had defended. Nothing can be more in slavery ; that he, who had end than should that rebellion just
justified the

murder of his king, for some acts which to him seemed unlawful, should now sell his services, and his flatteries, to

a tyrant, of

whom
that

it

was evident
for

that

he could do nothing lawful.

;

He
lect

had now been blind

some years
to

was such,

he was not disabled

but his vigour of inteldischarge his office of

His mind was too Latin secretary, or continue his controversies. subdued. be to eager to be diverted, and too strong

About

this

time his

first

wife died in childbed, having left

him

three daughters

As he

probably did not

much

love,

he

78

LIFE OF MILTON.

did not long continue the appearance of lamenting her; but after a short time married Catharine, the daughter of one captain

Woodcock

of

opinions like his

own.

Hackney a woman doubtless educated in She died, within a year, of childbirth, or

;

some distemper
her

that followed

it

and her husband has honoured

a poor sonnet. to Milton's Dc/cnvo Pofmli was published in Pojiulo Anglicano, contra Jo1651, called ^fiologia pro Rege hannis Polyjiragmatici, alias Miltoni, defensionem destructivam

memory Avith The first reply

&

Of this the author was not known but MilPofiuli. Regis and his nephew Philips, under whose name he published an answer so much corrected by him that it might be called his
;

&

ton,

own, imputed

it

to

Bramhal

and,

knowing him no

friend to

regicides, thought themselves at liberty to treat

him

as

if

they

had known what they only suspected.

this the

Next year appeared Regii Sanguinis clamor ad Cxlum. author was Peter clu Moulin, who was afterward

Of
pre-

bendary of Canterbury

but Morus, or More, a French minister, ; having the care of its publication, was treated as the writer by Milton in his Defensio Secunda, and overwhelmed by such vio-

lence of invective, that he began to shrink under the tempest, and gave his persecutors the means of knowing the true author. Du
in great danger ; but Milton's pride operated against his malignity ; and both he and his friends were more willing that Du Moulin should escape, than that he should be con-

Moulin was now

victed of mistake.

satirical

In this second defence he shows that his eloquence is not merely the rudeness of his invective is equalled by the gross; ness of his flattery. u Deserimur, Cromuelle, tu solus superes,

ad

te

summa

nostrarum rerum

rediit, in te

solo consistit, insu-

perabili tuse virtuti

cedimus

cuncti,

nemine

vel obloquente, nisi

qui sequales inaequalis ipse honores sibi quazrit, aut digniori concessos invidet, aut non intelligit nihil esse in societate hominum

magis

vel

Deo gratum,

vel ration!

consentancum,essein

civitate

nihil squius, nihil utilius,

quam

potiri

rerum dignissimum.

Eum

omnes, Cromuelle, catu civis maximus 8c gloriosis* simus,* dux publici consilii, exercituum fortissimorum imperate agnoscunt
"

It

may be doubted whether gloriosissimus be here used with

Res gloriosa
is

Milton's
is

boasted purity.

an illustrious thing commonly a braggart, as in miles gloriosus. Dr. J.

but vir gloriosue

LIFE OF MILTON.
tor,
c

pater patrix gessisti.

Sic tu spontanea

bonorum omnium
had not
shevr

animatus missa voce salutaris."

Cesar,

more
its

servile or
;

when he assumed the perpetual more elegant flattery. A

but
its

dictatorship,
translation

may

servility

elegance

is less attainable.

Having ex-

posed the unskilfulness or selfishness of the former government, " were left," says Milton, " to ourselves ; the whole nation-

We

al interest fell into

To

your hands, and subsists only in your abilities. your virtue, overpowering and resistless, every man gives way, except some who, without equal qualifications, aspire to equal honours, who envy the distinctions of merit greater than
their own, or

society

who have yet to learn, that in nothing is more pleasing to God,

the coalition of
or

human
to

more agreeable

reason, than that the highest mind should have the sovereign Such, sir, are you by general confession ; such are the

power.

of our things achieved by you, the greatest and most glorious countrymen, the director of our public councils, the leader of unconquered armies, the father of your country ; for by that
title

does every good

man

hail

you with sincere and voluntary

praise."

Next

year, having defended all that

wanted defence, he found

leisure to defend himself.

He

undertook his own vindication

in

against

More,

whom

he declares

his title to be justly called

the author of the Regii Sanguinia Clamor.

In this there

is

no

want of vehemence or eloquence, nor does he forget his wonted " Moms es ? an Momus ? an wit. uterque idem est ?" He
then remembers that Morus
hints at the
is

Latin for a mulberry tree, and

known

transformation.

Poma
Quae post nigra
tulit

alba fercbat

Morus.
;

With

this piece

ended his controversies

to his private studies

and he from
civil

this

time gave himself up ment.

and his

employ-

As secretary to the protector, he is supposed to have writHis ten the declaration of the reasons for a war with Spain. was considered as of great importance ; for, when a
agency treaty with Sweden was
licly

artfully

imputed

to

Mr. Milton's

indisposition

suspended, the delay was puband the Swedish

;

8O

LIFE OF MILTON.

agent was provoked to express his wonder, that only one England could write Latin, and that man blind.

man

in

Being now forty seven years old, and seeing himself disencumbered from external interruptions, he seems to have recollected his former purposes and to have resumed three great works which he had planned for his future employment an
s

epic poem, the history of his country, and a dictionary of the Latin tongue.

To

collect a dictionary,

seems

work of
it

all

others least prac-

ticable in a state

of blindness,

because

petual and minute inspection and collation.

depends upon perNor would Milton

probably have begun it after he had lost his eyes ; but, having had it always before him, he continued it, says Philips, almost to
his

dying day

but

the.

jia/iers

were

so discomfiosed

and

deficient,

compilers of the Latin dictionary, printed at Cambridge, had the use of those collections in three folios ; but what was their fate afterward is not

that they could net be fitted for the firess.

The

known.*

To compile a history from various authors, when they can only be consulted by other eyes, is not easy, nor possible, but with more skilful and attentive help than can be commonly obtained ;
and
of consulting and comparing a period at which affairs were not yet very intricate, nor authors very numerous. For the subject of his epic poem, after much deliberation,
it

was probably the

difficulty

that stopped Milton's narrative at the conquest

long choosing, and beginning

*

late,

he fixed upon Paradise Lost

The Cambridge dictionary, published in 4to, 1693, is no other than a copy, with some small additions, of that of Dr. Adam Littleton in 1685, by sundry persons, of whom, though their names are concealed, there is great
reason to conjecture that .Milton's nephew,
is

Edward

expressly said by
;

Wood,

Fasti, vol.

1.

p. 266, that

for it Philips, is one " Milton's Thesaurus"

;

came

to his hands and it is asserted, in the preface thereto, that the editors thereof had the use of three large folios in manuscript, collected and digested into alphabetical order by Mr. John Milton.
It has been remarked, that the additions, together with the preface above1 " mentioned, and a large part of the title of the Cambridge Dictionary,' have been encorporated and printed with the subsequent editions of" Little-

ton's Dictionary,"
1'or

till

that of 1735. Vid- Biog. Brit 2985, in note.

last

So

that,

aught that appears to the contrary. Philips was the

II.

possessor of Mil-

an's MS.

LIFE OF MILTON.

81

a design so comprehensive, that it could be justified only by success. He had once designed to celebrate king Arthur, as he
hints in
his verses to
to

Mansus

but Arthur was reserved, says

Fenton,
It

another destiny*

appears, by some sketches of poetical projects left in manuscript, and to be seen in a library f at Cambridge, that he had digested his thoughts on this subject into one of those wild

dramas which were anciently called mysteries ; and Philips had seen what he terms part of a tragedy, beginning with the first
ten lines of Satan's address to the sun.

These mysteries consist ef allegorical persons ; such as justice, mercy, faith. Of the tragedy or mystery of Paradise Lost there are two plans.

The
Michael.

Persons.

The
Moses.

Persons.

Chorus of Angels.
Heavenly Love.
Lucifer.

Divine Justice, Wisdom, Heavenly Love.

The Evening
-

Star,

Hes-

Adam, 7
Eve,

Wlth the

P erus Corus of Angels.

Lucifer.

Conscience.

Death.

Adam
Eve
~]
j
-

'

Labour,
Sickness,
Discontent,

Conscience.

J>

mutes.

Labour,
-j

Sickness,

Ignorance,

|
j

with others ;j
Faith.

Discontent,

mutes

Ignorance,

Hope.
Charitv.

Fear >

Death
Faith.

Hope.
Charity.
*

Id

est,

to

written by Sir Richard be the subject of an heroic poem,

Blackmore.

H.
Tf

| Trinity College.

LIFE OF

M1LTOX

Paradise Lost.

The

Persons.
,

recounting how he assumed his true body corrupts not, because it is with God in the mount ; declares the like of Enoch and beside the purity of the place, Elijah
tsTpoiQ-yifri,

Moses
it

that

that certain pure winds, dews, and clouds, preserve

;

it

from

cor-

ruption ; whence exhorts to the sight of God tells they cannot see Adam in the state of innocence, reason of their sin. by
Justice,

)
V
)

Mercy,

debating what should become of man,

if

he

fall.

Wisdom,

Chorus of angels singing

Heavenly Love.

hymn

of the creation.
II.

ACT

Evening Star. Chorus sing the marriage song, and describe

paradise.

ACT
Lucifer contriving Adam's ruin.

III.

Chorus

fears for

Adam, and

relates Lucifer's rebellion and

fall.

ACT
Adam,
v

IV.

fallen.

Eve,

Conscience

cites

them

to

God's examination.

Chorus

bewails, and tells the good

Adam
V.

has

lost.

ACT
Adam
--

and Eve driven out of paradise. presented by an angel with

Labour, Grief, Hatred, Envy, War, Famine, J Pestilence, Sickness, Discontent, Ignomutes. \ ranee, Fear, Death,

To whom
Tempest,
Faith,

he gives their names.

Sec.

Likewise Winter, Heat,

J
C comfort

Hope,
Charity,

him und

instruct him.

Chorus briefly concludes. Such was his first design, which could have produced only an The following sketch seems to have allegory, or mystery.
attained

more

maturity.

.LIFE

OF MILTON.

The

Adam unparadised. angel Gabriel, either descending or entering

showing,

since this globe was created, his frequency as much on earth as in heaven; describes paradise. Next, the chorus, showing the

reason of his coming to keep his watch in paradise, after Lucifer's rebellion,

by

his desire to see and

creature,

man.

command from God and withal expressing know more concerning this excellent new The angel Gabriel, as by his name signifying a
;

prince of power, tracing paradise with a more free office, passes by the station of the chorus, and, desired by them, relates what he knew of man ; as the creation of Eve, with their love and

marriage.

bemoans

this, Lucifer appears j after his overthrow, seeks himself, revenge on man. The chorus prepare resistance at his first approach. At last, after discourse of en-

After

mity on either side, he departs whereat the chorus sings of the as battle and victory in heaven, against him and his accomplices
; ;

before, after the

was sung a hymn of the creation. Here Lucifer relating and exulting in what he had again may appear done to the destruction of man. Man next, and Eve having by
first act,

this

with leaves.

time been seduced by the serpent, appear confusedly covered Conscience in a shape accuses him justice cites
;

him

to the place

whither Jehovah called for him.

In the

mean

while, the chorus entertains the stage, and is informed by some Here the chorus;.bewails Adam's angel the manner of the fall.

Adam then and Eve return accuse especially Adam lays the blame to his wife
fall
;
;
;

one another
is

but

stubborn in his

offence.

Justice appears, reasons with him, convinces him.

The

Adam, and bids him beware Lucifer's example of impenitence. The angel is sent to banish them out of
chorus admonisheth
paradise
;

mask

of all the evils of this

but before causes to pass before his eyes, in shapes, a He is humbled, relife and world.

lents, despairs ; at last appears mercy, comforts him, promises the Messiah ; then calls in faith, hope, and charity ; instructs

him

he repents, gives God the

chorus briefly concludes.

glory, submits to his penalty.

this with the

The

Compare

former

draught.

These are very imperfect rudiments of Paradise Lost ; but

is

it

pleasant to see great works in their seminal state, pregnant with latent possibilities of excellence ; nor could there be any

VOL.

i.

12

LIFE OF AliLTOX.

more delightful entertainment than to trace their gradual growth and expansion, and to observe how they are sometimes suddenly
advanced by accidental
hints,

and sometimes slowly improved

by steady meditation. Invention is almost the only literary labour which blindness cannot obstruct, and therefore he naturally solaced his solitude by
the indulgence of his fancy, and the melody of his numbers.

He
and

had done what he

;

knew

to

be necessarily previous

to poetical

excellence
affairs

he had made himself acquainted with seemly arts his comprehension was extended by various knowl-

edge, and his

was
little

skilful in

tion attained

memory stored with intellectual treasures. He many languages, and had by reading and composithe full mastery of his own He would have wanted

help from books, had he retained the power of perusing

his greater designs

them. But while

like

were advancing, having now,

many other amused himself,

authors, caught the love of publication, he as he could, with little productions. He sent

*o the press, 1658, a

manuscript of Raleigh, called the Cabinet

council; and next year gratified his malevolence to the clergy, a Treatise of civil Jioiver in ecclesiastical cased) and the means

by
of-

removing hirelings out of the church. Oliver was now dead ; Richard was constrained

to resign ; the system of extemporary government, which had been held to-

gether only by force, naturally fell into fragments when that force was taken away ; and Milton saw himself and his cause in equal

But he had still hope of doing something. He wrote which Toland has published, to such men as he thought friends to the new commonwealth and even in the year of the restoration he bated no jot of heart or hope^ but was fantastical
danger.
letters,
;

enough
settled

to think that the nation, agitated as

it

ready and easy way to establish a by a pamphlet, called free commonwealth ; which was, however, enough considered to be both seriously and ludicrously answered.

was, might be

commonwealthmen was very the king was apparently returning, Harrington, with a few associates as fanatical as himself, used to meet, with all the gravity of political importance, to settle an
remarkable.

The

obstinate enthusiasm of the

When

equal government by rotation

and Milton, kicking when he

LIFE OF MILTON.

85
f

could strike no longer, was foolish enough to publish, a few* weeks before the restoration, notes upon a sermon preached by one Griffiths, entitled, The fear of God and the king. To these
notes an answer was written by L'Estrange, in a pamphlet petulantly called JVb blind guides.

But whatever Milton could write, or men of greater activity could do, the king was now about to be restored, with the irresistible approbation of the people. He was therefore no longer
secretary, and

was consequently obliged

;

he held by

his office

to quit the house which and, proportioning his sense of danger to

his opinion of the importance of his writings, thought it convenient to seek some shelter, and hid himself for a time in Bartholo-

mew
I

Close, by

West

Smithfield.

cannot but remark a kind of respect, perhaps unconsciously

;

paid to this great man by his biographers he resided is historically mentioned, as

neglect

if it

every house in which were an injury to

The

naming any place that he honoured by his presence. king, with lenity of which the world has had perhaps no

other example, declined to be the judge or avenger of his own or his father's wrongs ; and promised to admit into the act of
all, except those whom the parliament should except ; and the parliament doomed none to capital punishment but the wretches who had immediately co-operated in the murder of the Milton was certainly not one of them ; he had only justiking.

oblivion

fied

This

what they had done. was indeed justification

sufficiently offensive

and, June

16, an order

was issued

to seize Milton's Defence,

and Goodwin's

Obstructors of justice, another book of the

same tendency, and

burn them by the

common hangman.

ordered to prosecute the authors ; nor perhaps very diligently pursued.

attorney general was but Milton was not seized,

The

Not long after, August 19, the flutter of innumerable bosoms was stilled by an act, which the king, that his mercy might want no recommendation of elegance, rather called an act of oblivion than of grace. Goodwin was named, with nineteen more, as incatrust ; but of Milton there was no exception. pacitated for any public Of this tenderness shown to Milton, the curiosity of mankind

has not forborne to inquire the reason. Burnet thinks he was which may confirm forgotten ; but this is another instance

86

LIFE OF MILTOX.

" Dalrymple's observation, who says, that whenever Bumet's narrations arc examined, he appears to he mistaken."

Forgotten he was not

oblivion.

for his prosecution

was ordered
in the

it

must be therefore by design

that

he was included

general

He

is

said to have

as Marvel, Morrice,

and

sir

had friends in the house, such Thomas Clerges and undoubtedly a

;

man

like

him must have had

is told

influence.

A very particular

story

memoirs, which he received from Pope, as delivered by Bettcrton, who might have heard it from Davcnant. In the war between the king and parby Richardson*
in his

of his escape

liament, Davenant was

made

prisoner, and

condemned

to die

but was spared at the request of Milton. When the turn of success brought Milton into the like danger, Davenant repaid the benefit by appearing in his favour. Here is a reciprocation
of generosity and gratitude so pleasing, that the tale

makes

its

help were wanted, I know not where to find it. The danger of Davenant is certain from his own relation ; but of his escape there is no account. Betterton's

own way

to credit.

But

if

narration can be traced no higher

it

it

is

not

known

that

he had

from Davenant.
;

life for life

in danger.

exchanged was but it seems not certain that Milton's life ever was Goodwin, who had committed the same kind of
that the benefit
;

We are told

crime, escaped with incapacitation

public trust
is

a punishment which the

and, as exclusion from power of government can

it

commonly
no great
tion

inflict

interest to

without the help of a particular law, exempt Milton from a censure

to veneration of his abilities,
it
fit

required

little

more

than verbal.

Something may be reasonably ascribed

;

to

venera-

and compassion

for his distresses,

which made

to forgive his

and compassion malice for his

He was now poor and blind ; and who would pursue learning.with violence an illustrious enemy, depressed by fortune, and disarmed by nature
*
It

?f

was

told before

by A.

Wood

in

Ath. Oxon.

vol. II. p. 412, 2d. edit.

C.
is

different account of the

means by which Milton secured himself

light.

"Milton, Latin secretary to Ooimvell, distinguished by his writings in favour of the rights and liberties of the people, pretended to be dead, and had a public funeral procession.

given by an historian lately brought to

The king applauded his policy in escaping the punishment of death, by a seasonable show of dying." Cunningham's Junlory of Great Britain, vol. \p. 14.

R.

LIFE OF MILTOX.

87

The publication of the act of oblivion put him in the condition with his fellow subjects. He was, however, upon

pretence not now known, in cember ; and when he was released, upon his refusal of the fees demanded, he and the sergeant were called before the house.

same some the custody of the sergeant in De-

He

was now

safe within the

shade of oblivion, and

knew himself

to be as

much

man.

How

out of the power of a griping officer as any other Milton the question was determined is not known.
to

would hardly have contended, but that he knew himself right on his side.

have

He then removed to Jewin street, near Aldersgate street and* being blind, and by no means wealthy, wanted a domestic companion and attendant ; and therefore, by the recommendation of Dr. Paget, married Elizabeth Minshul, of a gentleman's a mily
;

in Cheshire, probably without a fortune.

virgins

All his wives were he has declared that he thought it gross and indelicate to be a second husband ; upon what other principles his but marriage afforded choice was made cannot now be known
;

for

not

much

of his happiness.

The

first

wife

left

him

in disgust,

and was brought back only by terror ; the second, indeed, seems The third, to have been more a favourite, but her life was short. as Philips relates, oppressed his children in his life time, and
cheated them at his death.

Soon

after his marriage, according to

an obscure story, he was

offered the continuance of his employment ; and, being pressed " You, like other women, by his wife to accept it, answered, want to ride in your coach ; my wish is to live and die an honest

man."

he considered the Latin secretary as exercising any of the powers of government, he that had shared authority, either with the parliament or Cromwell, might have forborne to talk
If

very loudly of his honesty

ministerial,

and, if he thought the office purely

it

he But

certainly
this tale

might have honestly retained

has too
little

under

the king.
quisition
;

evidence to deserve a dis-

common

are large offers and sturdy rejections falsehood. of topics

among

the most

He

had so

much

either of

prudence or gratitude, that he

for-

bore to disturb the

settlement with any of his political or and from this time devoted himself to po-, ecclesiastical opinions,
etry

new

and

literature.

Of

his zeal for learning, in

all its

parts,

he

88

MIT.

<>i

Ml l. TON.

Accidence comgave a proof by publishing, the next year, 1661, menced grammar ; a little book which has nothing remarkable,

but that

its

author,

who had been

lately

defending the supreme

powers of his country, and was then writing Paradise Lout, could descend from his elevation to rescue children from the perplexity

of grammatical confusion, and the trouble of lessons unneces-

sarily repeated.

time Klwood the quakcr, being recommended to read Latin to him for the advantage of his conversation, attended him every afternoon except on Sun-

About

this

him

as one

who would

days.

Milton, who, in his letter to read Latin with an Jtfiglixh mouth in

Ilartlib,
rz.v

had declared, that

to

ill

a hearing an law French,

required that Elwood should learn and practise the Italian pronunciation, which, he said, was necessary, if he would talk with
foreigners.

This seems
is
little

to

have been a task troublesome with-

out use.

There

reason for preferring the Italian pro-

nunciation to our own, except that it is more general ; and to leach it to an Englishman is only to make him a foreigner at

home.

lie who travels, if he speaks Latin, may so soon learn the sounds which every native gives it, that he need make no provision before his journey ; and if strangers visit us, it is tl.rir

business to practise such conformity to our modes as they exKlwood complied with pect from us in their own countries.
the directions, and improved himself by his attendance; for he relates, that Milton, having a curious car, knew by his voice

when he
and
o/i en

read what he did not understand, and would stop him, the most difficult fiaxxageN.

to Bunhill fields

In a short time he took a house in the Artillery walk, leading ; the mention of which concludes the register

of Milton's removal* and habitations.

place than in any other. lie was now busied by Paradiae Lost.

He

lived

longer in this

original design has been variously conjectured,

Whence he dVcw the hymen who cannot

bear to think themselves ignorant of that which, at last, neither Some find the hint in an diligence nor sagacity can discover.
Voltaire tells a wild and unauthorized story of Italian tragedy. a farce seen by Milton in Italy, which opened thus ; Let the ruin-

of heaven. It has been already a tragedy or mystery, not of was conception u narrative, but a dramatic work, which he is supposed to have
boii'

he the fiddlestick of the fiddle

first

shown, that the

UlT, OK MILTON.

89

begun

to reduce to

its

present form about the time, 1655,

when

he finished

his dispute with the defenders of the king.

lie Ion"; before

had promised to adorn his native country by

great performance, while he had yet perhaps no settled design, and was stimulated only by such expectations, as naturally

some
arose,

from (he survey of

his attainments,

and the consciousness

of his powers. What he should undertake, it was difficult to determine. He was long choosing, and began laic.

While he
Studies and

w.is obliged to divide his

aflV.irs

time between his private

of stale, his poetical labour must have hern

often interrupted ; and perhaps he did little more in that busy time than construct the narrative, adjust the episodes, pioportion

the parts, accumulate images and sentiments, and ircjMiie in his memory, or preserve in writing, such hints as books or meditation

would supply.

Nothing particular
at hand,

is
;

known
for,

of his intellect-

ual operations while he was a statesman

having every help

and accommodation
dients.

he had no need of

uncommon expeyet too great not

Being driven from

to

all

public stations, he
;

is

where he has been be traced by curiosity to his retirement found by Mr. Richardson, the fondest of bis admirers, sitting
in warm xultry before his door in a grei/ coat of coarse cloth, in his own room, UK well as f and to lie air ; ,10, weather, fresh enjoy

receiving the visits

ity.

(if/ieo/ilr <>f

distinguished fiarfs as will as vital-

His
;

visitors of

high quality

must now be imagined

to

be

few
of a

but

man

of parts might reasonably court the conversation so generally illustrious, that foreigners are reported, by

men

Wood,
born.

to

have visited the house

in

Bread

street

where he was

a small house? According to another account, he was seen in wally enough d rested in black clothe*, sifting in a room hung with,
rusty green
;

in pule hut vot cadaverous, with chalkstoncx

it

/tin

/muds,

lie said, that if

tolerable.

were not for the gout,

his blindncxR

would be

In the intervals of his pain, being made unable to use tin. common exercises, he used to swing in a chair, and sometimes
played upon an organ.
lie
*>!.'

was now confessedly and

visibly
be.

employed upon

his poem,,

wlnVh the progress might

noted by those with

whom

hr

9O
was
familiar
;

urn or MILTON.
for

he

\vas obliged,

when he had composed

as

conveniently retain, to employ many some friend in writing them, having, at least for part of the time, no regular attendant. This gave opportunity to observations and
lines as his

memory would

reports.

Mr. Philips observes, that there was a very remarkable cir" cumstance in the composure of Paradise Lost, which I have a I had the whereas for remember to particular reason," says he," for some years, as I went of it fiom the
;

perusal

very beginning,
visit

from time

to

time to

him,

in parcels of ten, twenty, or

thirty verses at a time,

which, being written by whatever hand

to the orthography

came

next,

might possibly want correction as

and pointing, having, as the

for a considerable while,

summer came

on, not

been showed

and desiring the reason thereof, was any answered, that his vein never happily flowed but from the autumnal equinox to the vernal ; and that whatever he attempted at other times was never to his satisfaction, though he courted his he was about this fancy never so much ; so that, in all the years

poem, he may be

said to have spent half his time therein."

Upon

this relation

Toland remarks, that

in his opinion Philips

has mistaken the time of the year ; for Milton, in his elegies, declares, that with the advance of the spring he feels the inTo this crease of his poetical force, redeunt in carmina -vires.
answered, that Philips could hardly mistake time so well marked and it may be added, that Milton might find different
it is
;

times of the year favourable to different parts of life. Mr. Richardson conceives it impossible that such a work should be
or slowsuspended for six months, orfor one. It may go on faster By what necessity it must continually go er, but it must go on. on, or why it might not be laid aside and resumed, it is not easy to
discover.

This dependance of the soul upon the seasons, those temporary and periodical ebbs and flows of intellect, may, I suppose, Sapiens domjustly be derided as the fumes of vain imagination.
inabitur astris.

The

author that thinks himself weatherbound

will find, with a little help

from hellebore,
it

that

he

is

only idle

or exhausted.
it

But while
inability

this notion has possession of the head,

produces the

which

supposes.
;

Our powers owe

much

of their energy to our hopes

possunt quia posse -vidcntur.

LIFE OF MILTOX.

91
is

When
it

success seems attainable, diligence

enforced

but

when

admitted that the faculties are suppressed by a cross wind, or a cloudy for who sky, the day is given up without resistance can contend with the course of nature ?
is
;

From
There

such prepossessions Milton seems not to have been free. prevailed in his time an opinion that the world was in its

decay, and that

we have had
It

the misfortune to be produced in the

that the

decrepitude of nature.

was suspected

whole creation

languished, that neither trees nor animals had the height or bulk of their predecessors, and that every thing was daily sinking by Milton appears to suspect that souls pargradual diminution.*

take of the general degeneracy, and is not without some fear that his book is to be written in an age too late for heroic poesy.

Another opinion wanders about the world, and sometimes

among wise men ; an opinion that restrains the operations of the mind to particular regions, and supposes that a luckless mortal may be born in a degree of latitude too high or
finds reception

too low for

wisdom

or for wit.
his head,

From

this fancy, wild as

it is,

he

had not wholly cleared

when he

feared lest the climate

of his country might be too cold for flights of imagination. Into a mind already occupied by such fancies, another not more reasonable might easily find its way. He that could fear lest
his genius had fallen upon too old a world, or too chill a climate, might consistently magnify to himself the influence of the seasons,

and believe

his faculties to

be vigorous only half the year.

His submission

to the seasons

was

at

least

more reasonable
;

for general than his dread of decaying nature, or a frigid zone causes must operate uniformly in a general abatement of mental

power

if less could be performed by the writer, less likewise would content the judges of his work. Among this lagging race of frosty grovellers he might still have risen into eminence, by
;
f

This opinion
little

now

very idence of

known,
in

God

with great learning and ingenuity, refuted in a book "An apology or declaration of the power and provthe government of the world," by Dr. George llake\vill>
is,

London,
\\

folio,

1635.

as Dr. Gabriel

The first who ventured to propagate it in this country Goodman, bishop of Gloucester, a man of a versatile tem-

per, and the author of a book entitled, "The fall of man, or the corruption of nature proved by natural reason." 1G16 and 10-24, quarto, lie was undered in the usurpation, turned Roman Catholic, and died in obscurity.
pi

See Athen. O\on.

vol.

I.

p. 7C7.

II.

VOL.

1.

1^

j.in;

or MILTON.

producing something which they should not willingly let die. However inferior to the heroes who were born in better ages, he might still be great among his contemporaries, with the hope of

growing every day greater in the dwindle of posterity. He might still be the giant of the pygmies, the one eyed monarch
of the blind.

Of

his artifices of study, or particular hours of composition,

little

we have

account, and there was perhaps

little

to

be

told.

Richardson,

very but discovers always a wish to find Milton discriminated from other men, relates, that " he would sometimes lie awake whole

who seems to have been

diligent in his inquiries,

nights, but not a verse could he

make

and on a sudden his

poetical faculty would rush upon him with an iwju-tus or oestrum, and his daughter was immediately called to secure what came. At other times he would dictate perhaps forty lines in a breath,

and then reduce them to half the number."

These

bursts of light, and involutions of darkness, these tran-

sient and involuntary excursions

and retrocessions of invention,

having some appearance of deviation from the common train of Yet somenature, are eagerly caught by the lovers of a wonder.
thing of this inequality happens to every man in every mode of The mechanic cannot handle his exertion, manual or mental.

hammer

and his

file at all

times with equal dexterity

his

there are

hours, he knows not why, when

hand

is

out.

By Mr. Rich-

much regard cannot be That, in his intellectual hour, Milton called for his daughter to secure what came, may be questioned ; for unluckily it happens to be known that his daughters were never taught to
ardson's relation, casually conveyed,

claimed.

write
ed,

to

nor would he have been obliged, as is universally confesshave employed any casual visitor in disburdening his
if his

memory,

daughter could have performed the

office.

story of reducing his exuberance has been told of other authors, and, though doubtless true of every fertile and copious

The

mind, seems to have been gratuitously transferred to Milton. What he has told us, and we cannot now know more, is, that he composed much of his poem in the night and morning, I
suppose before his mind was disturbed with common business ; and that he poured out with great fluency his unpremeditated
verse.

Versification, free, like his,

from the distresses of rhyme.

LIFE OF MILTON.
must, by a work so long, be made prompt and habitual when his thoughts were once adjusted, the words would
at his
;

93
and,

come

command. At what particular times

of his

life

written, cannot often be

known.

The beginning

the parts of his work were of the third

book shows

that he had lost his sight ; and the introduction to the seventh, that the return of the king had clouded him with

discountenance, and that he was offended by the licentious festivThere are no other internal notes of time. ity of the restoration.
Milton, being

now

cleared from

all effects

of his disloyalty, had

nothing required from him but the common duty of living in quiet, to be rewarded with the common right of protection ; but
this,

which, when he skulked from the approach of his king, was perhaps more than he hoped, seems not to have satisfied him ; for no sooner is he safe, than he finds himself in danger, ,///<?w on
evil

days and evil tongues, and with darkness and with danger com-

flassed round.

This darkness, had his eyes been better employhad undoubtedly deserved compassion but to add the mention of danger was ungrateful and unjust. He was fallen indeed on evil days ; the time was come in which regicides could no longer
ed,
;

boast their wickedness.

plain, required

But of

evil tongues for

Milton to com-

impudence at least equal Milton, whose warmest advocates must

to his other

allow, that he

powers ; never

spared any asperity of reproach, or brutality of insolence. But the charge itself seems to be false ; for it would be hard
to recollect any

reproach cast upon him, either serious or ludi-

crous, through the whole remaining part of his life. He pursued his studies, or his amusements, without persecution, molestation,

or insult.

misused

Such is the reverence paid to great abilities, however they who contemplated in Milton the scholar and the wit, were contented to forget the reviler of his king. When the plague, 1665, raged in London, Milton took refuge
;

at

where Elwood, who had taken the house ; saw a complete copy of Paradise Lost, and, having " Paraperused it, said to him, Thou hast said a great deal upon dise Lost ; what hast thou to say upon Paradise found ?" Next year, when the danger of infection had ceased, he reChalfont in Buck's
for

him,

first

turned to Bunhill

fields, and designed the publication of his poem. was license necessary, and he could expect no great kindness

Lll-'K

Of

.MILTON'.

Irom

a chaplain of the archbishop of Canterbury.

to

He

however,
jections

have been treated with tenderness

for

seems, though ob-

were made to particular passages, and among them to the simile of the sun eclipsed in the first book, yet the license
;

was granted and he sold his copy, April 27, 1667, to Samuel Simmons, fur an immediate payment of five pounds, with a stipulation to receive five pounds more when thirteen hundred should
be sold of the of the same
first

edition

and again,

five

pounds after the

;

sale

pounds
editions

after

number of the second edition and another five the same sale of the third. None of the three
to

were
first

be extended beyond

fifteen

hundred copies.

The

edition

was ten books,

to

in a

small quarto.

The

titles

were varied from year

ed
in others.

year

and an advertisement and the

in

arguments of the books were omitted

some

copies, andinsert-

for

sale gave him in two years a right to his second payment, which the receipt was signed April 26, 1669. The second edition was not given till 1674 it was printed in small octavo
;

The

and the number of books was increased

of the seventh and twelfth
;

to twelve,

by a division

were made.
widow,
to to

The

third edition

and some other small improvements was published in 1678 ; and the
all

whom
1680.
to

the copy was then to devolve, sold

her claims

Simmons
21,

for eight

pounds,

according to her receipt given

already agreed to transfer the
for
five

Dec.

Simmons had

whole right

Brabazon Aylmer

twenty

pounds

and

Aylmer sold to Jacob Tonson half, August 17, 1683, and half, March 24, 1690, at a price considerably enlarged. In the history of Paradise Lost a deduction thus minute will rather gratify

than fatigue. The slow sale and tardy reputation of this poem have been always mentioned as evidences of neglected merit, and of the

and inquiries have been made, and uncertainty of literary fame conjectures offered, about the causes of its long obscurity and
;

late

reception.

But has the case been

truly stated

Have

not

lamentation and wonder been lavished on an evil that was never

felt?

That in the reigns of Charles and James the Paradise Lo&f received no public acclamations, is readily confessed. Wit and literature were on the side of the court ; and who that solicited

LIFE OF MILTON.
favour or fashion would venture to praise the defender of the his due, from mil regicides ? All that he himself could think
tongues in evil days, was that reverential silence which was genBut it cannot be inferred, that his poem was erously preserved.
not.

read, or not,

however unwillingly, admired.

The sale, if it be considered, will justify the public. Those who have no power to judge of past times but by their own? should always doubt their conclusions. The call for books was not in Milton's age what it is in the present. To read was not then
a general amusement neither traders, nor often gentlemen, thought themselves disgraced by ignorance. The women had not then aspired to literature, nor was every house supplied wiih
;

a closet of knowledge. Those, indeed, who professed learning^ were not less learned than at any other time ; but of that middle

race of students who read for pleasure or accomplishment, and who buy the numerous products of modern typography, the number was then comparatively small. To prove the paucity of
readers,
satisfied,
it

may be

sufficient to
to

from 1623

1664, that

remark, that the nation had been is, forty one years, with only

two

editions of the

works of Shakespeare, which probably did not

copies.

together

make one thousand

The sale of thirteen hundred copies in two years, in opposition to so much recent enmity, and to a style of versification new to all and was an uncommon example of the prevalence disgusting to many, of genius. The demand did not immediately increase for many
;

more readers than were supplied

Only three thousand were
its

at first

the nation did not afford.

;

sold in eleven years

for

it

forced

way without
;

assistance

its

admirers did not dare to publish

their opinion

notice by advertisements

and the opportunities now given of attracting were then very few ; the means of pro-

books have been produced by that claiming the publication of new now pervades the nation through all its general literature which
ranks.

But the reputation and price of the copy still advanced, till the revolution put an end to the secrecy of love, and Paradise Lose broke into open view with sufficient security of kind reception.
Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper Milton
surveyed the
stealing its
silent

way in

progress of his work, and marked his reputation a kind of subterraneous current through fear and

96
silence.
I

UM; OF
cannot but conceive
all

.MILTON.

appointed, not at

dejected, relying on his

him calm and confident, liltle disown merit with steady

consciousness, and waiting, without impatience, the vicissitudes ot opinion, and the impartiality of a future generation.

In the mean time he continued his studies, and supplied the want of sight by a very odd expedient, of which Philips gives the
following account.

Mr. Philips

him
their

" that though our author had daily about one or other to read, some persons of man's estate, who, of
tells us,

own

his readers, that they

accord, greedily catchcd at the opportunity of being might as well reap the benefit of what they
;

read

and to him, as oblige him by the benefit of their reading others of younger years were sent by their parents to the same end yet excusing only the eldest daughter, by reason of her
;

to say bodily infirmity, and difficult utterance of speech, which, truth, I doubt was the principal cause of excusing her, the other

two were condemned

to the

performance of reading, and exactly

book he should, at pronouncing of all the languages of whatever one time or other, think fit to peruse, viz. the Hebrew, and I
think the Syriac, the Greek, the Latin, the Italian, Spanish and All which sorts of books to be confined to read, without French.

almost understanding one word, must needs be a trial of patience a for both was endured Yet it long time, by beyond endurance. the irksomeness of this employment could not be always

though

concealed, but broke out

easiness
;

so that at length they

more and more into expressions of unwere all, even the eldest also,
sorts of manufacture,
to learn, particularly

sent out to learn

some curious and ingenious

that are proper for

women

embroideries in

gold or silver." In the scene of misery which this

sets before our eyes,
it is

mode

of intellectual labour

hard to determine whether the daughto be lamented. most are father language not ters or the understood can never be so read as to give pleasure, and very

seldom so as

to

convey meaning.
ability to find

If

few

men would

have had

resolution to write books with such embarrassments, few likewise

would have wanted

some better expedient. Paradise Lost, 1667, he published his Three whole fable of Geoffrey of the comprising England, History of Monmouth, and continued to the Norman invasion. Why he
years after his

LIFE OF MILTON.
should have given the
first part,

9.7

which he seems not

it

to believe,

and which

is

universally rejected,
;

is

difficult to

conjecture.

The

style is

harsh

but

it

perhaps may often

strike,

has something of rough vigour, -which though it cannot please.

On

this history the licenser again fixed his claws,

it

and before

he would transmit
be applied to the

to the press tore out several parts.

Some

censures of the Saxon

monks were taken away, lest they should modern clergy and a character of the long
;

parliament and assembly of divines was excluded ; of which the author gave a copy to the earl of Anglesea, and which, being afterward published, has been since inserted in its proper place.

The same

year were printed, Paradise Regained^ and Samfison

dgonistes) a tragedy written in imitation of the ancients, and never

lished by another bookseller,

designed by the author for the stage. As these poems were pub. it has been asked whether Simmons

was discouraged from receiving them by the slow sale of the former. Why a writer changed his bookseller a hundred years Certainly, he who in ago, I am far from hoping to discover. two years sells thirteen hundred copies of a volume in quarto, bought for two payments of five pounds each, has no reason to
repent his purchase. When Milton showed Paradise Regained to Elwood, " This," said he, " is owing to you ; for you put it in my head by the question you put to me at Chalfont, which otherwise I had not

thought of." His last poetical offspring was his favourite. lie could not, as Elwood relates, endure to hear Paradise Lost preferred to
Paradise Regained. Many causes may vitiate a writer's judgment of his own works. On that which has cost him much labour

he

sets a high value, because he is unwilling to think that he has been diligent in vain what has been produced without toilsome efforts is considered with delight, as a proof of vigorous faculties
;

invention ; and the last work, whatever it be, has of the grace of novelty. Milton, however it hapmost necessarily

and

fertile

pened, had this prejudice, and had

it

to himself.

To

that multiplicity of attainments, and extent of

comprehenser-

sion, that entitle this great

author to our veneration,

may be added

a kind of

humble

dignity,

which did not disdain the meanest

vices to literature.

The epic

poet, the controvert! st, the politician.

LIFR Or Ml I, TON.
having already descended to accommodate children with a book of rudiments, now, in the last years of his life, composed a book of logic, for the initiation of students in philosophy ; and published, 1 672, Artis Logics jilcnior Innfitutifj ad Pe.tri Rand ^h-lhodinn concinnata
the
;

that

"
is,

A
I

method of Ramus."
of the

new scheme of logic, according to know not whether, even in this book'
universities
;

he did not intend an act of

hostility against the

for

Ramus was one

first

oppugners of the

old philosophy,

who

disturbed with innovations the quiet of the schools. His polemical disposition again revived. He had
safe so long, that

now been

irw

religion,

and published a Treatise of heresy, schism, toleration, and the. best means to firefears,

he forgot his

vent the growth offio/iery.

But

this iitlle tract is

tion of the
articles.

modestly written, with respectful menchurch of England, and an appeal to the thirty nine His principle of toleration is, agreement in the suffi;

ciency of the scriptures

and he extends

it

to all

who, whatever

their opinions are, profess to derive

them from

the sacred books-

papists appeal to other testimonies, and are therefore, in his opinion, not to be permitted the liberty of either public or private

The

worship he says,

though they plead conscience, ive ha-ve no warrant^ regard conscience which in not grounded in scrifiture. Those who arc not convinced by his reasons, may be perhaps
;

for

to

delighted with his wit. one of the jwjie's bulls ;

matic.

The term Roman

it is

Catholic

is,

he says,

particular universal, or catholic sc his-

He

has,

tive against popery,

scriptures

however, something better. As the best preservahe recommends the diligent perusal of the a duty, from which he warns the busy part of man-

kind not to think themselves excused.

He now
In the

last

reprinted his juvenile poems, with some additions. year of his life he sent to the press, seeming to take

to which, being too

a collection of familiar epistles in Latin ; delight in publication, few to make a volume, he added some aca-

demical exercises, which perhaps he perused with pleasure, as thev recalled to his memory the days of youth, but for which
a nothing but veneration for his name could now procure reader. When he had attained his sixty sixth year, the gout, with

which he had been long tormented, prevailed over the enfeebled

LIFE OF MILTON.
powers of nature.

99

He

about the tenth ot November,

died by a quiet and silent expiration, 1 674, at his house in Bunhiil fields ;

and was buried next his father in the chancel of St. Giles at His funeral was very splendidly and numerously Cripplegate.
attended.

supposed to have been no memorial ; has been erected in Westminster To the author Paradise of Losf, by Mr. Benson, who has Abbey in the inscription bestowed more words upon himself than upon

Upon

his grave there is

but in our time a

monument

Milton.
the inscription for the monument of Philips, in which to be soli Milt QUO sccundus, was exhibited to Dr. Sprat, then dean of Westminster, he refused to admit it ; the name of Milton was. in his opinion, too detestable to be read on
lie

When

was said

the wall of a building; dedicated to devotion.

Atterbury,

who

succeeded him, being author of the inscription, permitted its re" And such has been the change of public opinion,"
ception.
said Dr. Gregory,

from

whom

" heard this account, that I have

seen erected in the church a statue of that man, whose

name

once knew considered as a pollution of its walls." Milton has the reputation of having been in his youth eminently His beautiful, so as to have been called the lady of his college.
at the foretop, and hung hair, which was of alight brown, parted down upon his shoulders, according to the picture which he has not of the heroic stature, but given of Adam. He was, however, middle the size, according to Mr. Richardson, who rather below

mentions him as having narrowly escaped from being short and thick. He %vas vigorous and active, and delighted in the exercise
of the sword, in which he
is

related to have been eminently skilful.

not the rapier, but the backsword, of His weapon was, which he recommends the use in his book on education. His eyes arc said never to have been bright but, if he was a
I believe,
;

dexterous fencer, they must have been once quick. His domestic habits, so far as they are known, were those of a severe student. He drank little strong drink of any kin'cl, and
fed without excess in quantity, and in his earlier years without In hi>> youth he studied late at night ; but afterward changed his hours, and rested in bed from nine to four
delicacy of choice.
in the

summer, and
i.

five in winter.

The

course of his day was

VOL.

14

j.iKK

OF .MIL.TOX

best

known

alter lie

was

blind.

When
;

he

first rose,
till

he heard a
;

chapter
took

in the

Hebrew
for

bible,

and then studied

then dined
;

twelve

then

some exercise

an hour

organ, and sung, or heard another sing ; then entertained his visitors till eight ; then supped, and, after a pipe of tobacco and a glass of water, went to bed.

then played on the then studied to six ;

So

is

his

life

described

but this even tenor appears attain-

able only in colleges. He that lives in the world will sometimes have the succession of his practice broken and confused. Visitors, of will

whom

Milton

is

come and

stay unseasonably

represented to have had great numbers, ; business, of which every man

others will do
it.

has some, must be done

when

When
him by

he did not care to

;

rise early,
at

his bedside

perhaps

this

he had something read to time his daughters were

morning, and dictated in

employed.

He composed much

in the

the day, sitting obliquely in an elbow chair, with his leg thrown over the arm.

Fortune appears not to have had much of his care. In the civil wars he lent his personal estate to the parliament but when, after the contest was decided, he solicited repayment, he met
;

; and, having tired both himself and his friends, was given up to poverty and hopeless indignation, till he showed how able he was to do greater service.

not only with neglect, but sharp rebuke

was then made Latin secretary, with two hundred pounds and had a thousand pounds for his Defence of the people. His widow, who, after his death, retired to Namptwich in Cheshire, and died about 1729, is said to have reported that he lost two
a year
;

He

thousand pounds by intrusting

it

to a scrivener

and

that, in

the

general depredation upon the church, he had grasped an estate of about sixty pounds a year belonging to Westminster Abbey, which, like other sharers of the plunder of rebellion, he was after-

ward obliged
placed
in

to return.

Two

the excise office, were also

thousand pounds, which he had lost. There is yet no reason

to indigence.

to believe that

he was ever reduced

His wants,

being few,
his

his

were competently supplied. He sold his library before death, and left his family fifteen hundred pounds, on which widow laid hold, and only gave one hundred to each of his

daughters.

LIFE OF MILTC^7
His
literature

was unquestionably

great.

He

read

all
;

the lan-

guages which are considered either as learned or polite Hebrew, with its two dialects, Greek, Latin, Italian, French, and Spanish.

was such as places him in the first rank of and he appears to have cultivated Italian with uncommon diligence. The books in which his daughter, who used to read to him, represented him as most delighting, after Homer, which he could almost repeat, were Ovid's MetaIn Latin his
skill

writers and critics

morphoses and Euripides.

kindness,

His Euripides
;

is,

by Mr. Cradock's
;

now

in

my

hands

the margin

is

sometimes noted

but

Of

have found nothing remarkable. the English poets he set most value upon Spenser, Shake-

Cowley. Spenser was apparently his favourite ; Shakespeare he may easily be supposed to like, with every other skilful reader but I should not have expected that Cow;

speare, and

ley,

whose ideas of excellence were different from his own, would have had much of his approbation. His character of Dryden, who sometimes visited him, was, that he was a good rhymist, but no poet. His theological opinions are said to have been first calvinistical
;

terians,

and afterward, perhaps when he began to hate the presbyto have tended toward arminianism. In the mixed

can recede
says of

questions of theology and government, he never thinks that he far enough from popery or prelacy ; but what Baudius

fugeret,

Erasmus seems applicable to him, magis habuit quod quam quod sequeretur. He had determined rather what He has not associated himto condemn, than what to approve. we know rather what self with any denomination of protestants he was not, than what he was. He was not of the church of Rome he was not of the church of England.
;

rewards are

is dangerous. Religion, of which the and which is animated only by faith and hope, will glide by degrees out of the mind, unless it be invigorated and reimpressecl by external ordinances, by stated calls to

To

be of no church
distant,

Milton, who worship, and the salutary influence of example. to had of have of the truth full conviction Christianity, appears
to have regarded the holy scriptures with the profoundest veneration, to have been untainted by an heretical peculiarity of

and

opinion, and to have lived in a confirmed belief of the immediate

and occasional agency of Providence, yet grew old without any

102
visible worship.

LU E OF

.MILTON".

In the distribution of his huuib, there was no

solitary, or

hour of prayer, cither

with his household

omitthr

public prayers, he omitted all. Of this omission the reason has been sought upon a supposition, which ought never to be made, that men live with their own

Prayer approbation, and justify their conduct to themselves. certainly was not thought superfluous by him, who represents
our
first

and efficaciously
habitual prayer.
fault for

parents as praying acceptably in the state of innocence? after their fall. That he lived without prayer
;

can hardly be affirmed

his studies
it

and meditations were an

The

neglect of

in his family

was probably

which he condemned himself, and which he intended

that death, as too often happens, intercepted his

to

con ec.t, but

reformation.

His political notions were those of an acrimonious and surly republican, for which it is not known that he gave any better reason than that a popular government was the most frugal ; for
the trafiftivgs

of a monarchy would

set

ufi

an ordinary common-

to surely very shallow policy, that supposes money be the chief good ; and even this, without considering that the

wealth.

It is

support and expense of a court

ticular kind of traffic,

is,

for the
is

most

part, only a par-

by which money

circulated, without any

national impoverishment.

Milton's republicanism was, I am afraid, founded in an envious hatred of greatness, and a sullen desire of independence ; in petulance impatient of control, and pride disdainful of superiority.

He
;

hated monarchs in the

state,

and prelates in the

church

for

he hated

all

to be suspected, that his

he was required to obey. It is predominant desire was to destroy rather

felt

whom

than establish, and that he

to authority.

not so

much

the love of liberty as

repugnance It has been observed, that they who most loudly clamour for What we know of Milton's liberty do not most liberally grant it.
is, that he was severe and arbiHis family consisted of women ; and there appears in his books something like a Turkish contempt of females, as sub-

character, in domestic relations,

trary.

ordinate and inferior beings. break the ranks, he suffered

That his own daughters might not them to be depressed by a mean

thought

and penurious education. obedience, and man only for

He

woman made

only for

rebellion,

LIFE OF MILTON.

103

some account may be expected. His sister, first Philips, afterward married Mr. Agar, a friend of her first husband, who succeeded him in the crown office. She had by her first husband, Edward and John, the two nephews
family
to

Of his

married

Mr.

whom

Milton educated

and by her second, two daughters.

His brother, sir Christopher, had two daughters, Mary and Catharine ;* and a son, Thomas, who succeeded Agar in the

crown
street.

office,

and

left

a daughter living in 1749 in Grosvenor

first wife ; Anne, Mary, and Anne, though deformed, married a master builder, and died of her first child. Mary died single. Deborah married Abraham Clark, a weaver in Spitalfields, and lived seventy

Milton had children only by his

Deborah.

six years, to
lic

August 1727.

This

is

the daughter of

whom

pub-

She could repeat the first lines of Homer, the Metamorphoses, and some of Euripides, by having
mention has been made.

often read them.

Yet here incredulity

is

ready to

make

a stand-

Many repetitions are necessary to fix in the memory lines not and why should Milton wish or want to hear them understood
;

so often

These

lines

were

at the

beginning of the poems.

Of

a book written in a language not understood, the beginning raises no more attention than the end ; and as those that understand it

know commonly

the beginning best,

its

rehearsal will seldom be

necessary. It is not likely that Milton required any passage to be so much repeated as that his daughter could learn it ; nor likely that he desired the initial lines to be read at all ; nor that

the daughter, weary of the drudgery of pronouncing unideal

sounds, would voluntarily

commit them

to

memory.

To
her

this

gentlewoman Addison made a present, and promised

some establishment ; but died soon after. Queen Caroline sent She had seven sons and three daughters ; but fifty guineas. none of them had any children, except her son Caleb and her daughter Elizabeth.
*

Caleb went to

fort St.

George

in the

East Indies,

Both these persons were living at Holloway about the year 1734, and at that time possessed such a degree of health and strength as enabled them on Sundays and prayer days to walk a mile up a steep hiil to Hig-hgate
chapel.

One

of

them was ninety two

at the

time of her death.

Tlieir par-

entage Y\-RS known to few, and their names Avere corrupted into ]\lelfon. By the crown office, mentioned in the two last paragraphs, we are to IT. derstand the crown office of thr court of chanccrv. IT

104
and had two sons of

U1/E OF MILTON.

whom

nothing

is

now known.
;

Elizabeth

married Thomas Foster, a weaver

children,

in Spitalfields

and had seven

who

all

died.

She kept
little

a petty grocer's or chandler's

shop,

first at

liolloway, and afterward in

Cock

lane, near

Shorelittle

ditch church.

She knew

of her grandfather, and that

was not good.

his refusal to

She told of his harshness have them taught to write

to his daughters,

and

and, in opposition to

other accounts, represented

in his diet.

him

as delicate, though temperate,

In 1750, April
so
little

know

She had 5, Comus was played for her benefit. acquaintance with diversion or gaiety, that she did not what was intended when a benefit was offered her. The
were only one hundred and
thirty
;

profits of the night

pounds,

though Dr. Newton brought a large contribution and twenty pounds were given by Ton son, a man who is to be praised as often

Of this sum one hundred pounds were placed in as he is named. the stocks, after some debate between her and her husband in
whose name
little
it

should be entered

stock, with

which they removed

and the rest augmented their This was to Islington.

the greatest benefaction that Paradise Lost ever procured the author's descendants ; and to this he who has now attempted to
relate his
life,

had the honour of contributing a prologue.*

IN the examination of Milton's poetical much regard to time as to begin with his

works, I shall pay so

For his early pieces he seems not very laudable ; what he has once written he resolves to preserve, and gives to the public an unfinished poem, which he
broke off because he was nothing
satisfied with

juvenile productions. to have had a degree of fondness

what he had donej

supposing

his readers less nice than himself.

to his future labours arc in Italian, Latin,

Italian I cannot pretend
to

These preludes and English. Of the speak as a critic ; but I have heard
well qualified to decide their merit.
;

them commended by

man

The

Latin pieces arc lusciously elegant

but the delight

which

they afford is rather by the exquisite imitation of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction, and the harmony of the numbers, than by any

power of invention, or vigour of sentiment. They

*

Johnson's Works, Vol.

I.

LIFE OF M1LTOX.

105

are not all of equal value ; the elegies excel the odes ; and some ef the exercises on gunpowder treason might have been spared.

The

English poems, though they

make no promises

of Para-

dise Lost,* have this evidence of genius, that they

have a cast
;

original and unborrowed.

if

But

their peculiarity is not excellence

they differ from verses of others, they differ for the worse ; for the com. they are too often distinguished by repulsive harshness
;

words are new, but they are not pleasing ; the rhymes and epithets seem to be laboriously sought, and violently applied.
bination of

That

in the early parts of his life

he wrote with

much

care

appears from his manuscripts, happily preserved at Cambridge, in which many of his smaller works are found as they were first Such relics show how written, with the subsequent corrections.
excellence
is

acquired

what we hope ever

to

do with ease

we

must learn first to do with diligence. Those who admire the beauties of this great poet, sometimes force their own judgment into false approbation of his little pieces,
and prevail upon themselves
to think that admirable

which

is

All that short compositions can commonly attain, only singular. is neatness and elegance. Milton never learned the art of doing little things with grace ; he overlooked the milder excellence of
suavity and softness
the kid*
;

he was a

lion that

had no

skill in

dandling

One
is

of the
;

poems on which much

is

praise has been bestowed

Lycidas rhymes uncertain, and the numbers unpleasing. What beauty there is, we must It is not to be therefore seek in the sentiments and images.
considered as the effusion of real passion ; for passion runs not Passion plucks no after remote allusions and obscure opinions. berries from the myrtle and ivy, nor calls upon Arethusa and

of which the diction

harsh, the

Mincius, nor

tells

Where
is

there

is leisure for fiction,

of rough satyrs and fauns with cloven heel. there is little grief.

In this

poem

there
is

no

art, for

there

no nature, nothing new.

is

for there is
Its
;

no truth

there

form

is

that of a pastoral,
it

easy, vulgar, and therefore disgusting

;

whatever images

can

and its inherent improbability supply are long ago exhausted dissatisfaction on the mind. When Cowley tells of forces always
*

With

lanay

the exception of Comus, in which, Dr. Johnson afterward very plainly he discovered the dawn or twilight of Paradise I,oit.

says.,

106

I.U-E

OF MILTON.

much he must

it is easy to suppose how Ilervcy, that Uicy studied together, miss the companion of his labours, and the part;

ner of his discoveries

cited by these lines
?

but what image of tenderness can be ex-

drove a field, and both together heard time the grey fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our Hocks with the fresh dews of night."

"

We

What

We
that

know

that they
;

never drove a
it

flocKs to batten

and though

field, and that they had no be allowed that the representation

is

may be
it

allegorical, the true

is

meaning
it

so uncertain and remote,

never sought, because

cannot be

known when

it is

found. the flocks, and copses, and flowers, appear the heathen Jove and Phoebus, Neptune and TEolus, with a long train of mythological imagery, such as a college easily supplies. Noth-

Among
;

deities

to tell

ing can less display knowledge, or less exercise invention, than how a shepherd has lost his companion, and must now
skill in

feed his flocks alone, without any judge of his

piping

and how one god asks another god what is become of Lycidas, and how neither god can tell. He who thus grieves will excite
no sympathy he who thus praises will confer no honour. This poem has yet a grosser fault. With these trifling fictions
;

are mingled the most awful and sacred truths, such as ought never to be polluted with such irreverend combinations. The

shepherd likewise

is

now

a feeder of sheep, and afterward an

ecclesiastical pastor, a superintendant of a Christian flock.

Such

but here they are indecent* and at least approach to impiety, of which, however, I believe the writer not to have been conscious.
equivocations are always unskilful
;

is the power of reputation justly acquired, that its blaze away the eye from nice examination. Surely no mail could have fancied that he read Lijcidas with pleasure, had he

Such

drives

not

known
is

its

author.
pieces,
;

Of the two
ion

U Allegro and
man

// Pcnscroso^ I believe opin-

uniform

every

that reads
is not,

pleasure.

The

author's design

them, reads them with what Theobald has re-

to show how objects derive their colours from the mind, by representing the operation of the same things upon the gay and the melancholy temper, or upon the same man as

marked, merely

LIFE OF MILTON.
he
is

107

differently disposed

but rather how,

among the

successive

variety of appearances, every disposition of

mind takes hold on

the fiensive

those by which

it may be gratified. The cheerful man hears the lark in the morning man hears the nightingale in the evening. The

cheerful

man

sees the cock strut, and hears the horn and hounds echo in the

then walks not unseen to observe the glory of the rising ; sun, or listen to the sing-ing milkmaid, and view the labours of the ploughman and the mower ; then casts his eyes about him

wood

over scenes of smiling plenty, and looks up to the distant tower, the residence of some fair inhabitant thus he pursues rural
;

gaiety through a day of labour or of play, and delights himself at night with the fanciful narratives of superstitious ignorance.'

The

pensive man, at one time, walks unseen to

muse

at

mid-

If the weather night ; and at another hears the sullen curfew. drives him home, he sits in a room lighted only by glowing embers;

or by a lonely lamp outwatches the north star, to discover the habitation of separate souls, and varies the shades of meditation,

by contemplating the magnificent or pathetic scenes of tragic and epic poetry. When the morning comes, a morning gloomy with rain and wind, he walks into the dark trackless woods, falls
asleep by

some murmuring water, and with melancholy enthusiasm expects some dream of prognostication, or some music played by aerial performers. Both mirth and melancholy are
solitary, silent inhabitants
;

of

the breast, that neither receive nor transmit communication

no

mention

of a philosophical friend, or a pleasant companion. The seriousness does not arise from any participation of calamity, nor the gaiety from the pleasures of the bottle.
is

therefore

made

The man

what towered

of cheerfulness, having exhausted the country, tries cities will afford, and mingles with scenes of splen-

mere

dour, gay assemblies, and nuptial festivities ; but he mingles a spectator, as, when the learned comedies of Jonson, or the
wild dramas of Shakespeare are exhibited, he attends the theatre. The jiensive man never loses himself in crowds, but walks the
cloister, or frequents the cathedral.

Milton probably had not yet

but he seems to think

forsaken the church.

Both
VOL.

his characters delight in

music

that cheerful notes

i.

would have obtained from Pluto a complete

15

IUS

LIFH OF MILTON.

dismission of F.urydicc, of
conditional release.

whom

solemn sounds only procured a

but

For the old age of cheerfulness he makes no provision

melancholy he conducts with great dignity to the close of life. His cheerfulness is without levity, and his pensiveness \vithout
asperity.

Through these two poems the images are properly selected, and nicely distinguished but the colours of the diction seem not I know not whether the characters sufficiently discriminated.
;

his melancholy

No mirth can, indeed, be found in are kept sufficiently apart. that I always meet some melanafraid am but I ;

They are two noble efforts of imagination.* choly in his mirth. The greatest of his juvenile performances is the Ma.uk of
which may very plainly be discovered the dawn or Lost. Paradise Milton appears to have formed very twilight of
Comus,
in

early that system of diction, and

mode

of verse, which his

ma-

turer judgment approved, and from which he never endeavoured nor desired to deviate.

Nor does Comus

hibits likewise his

afford only a

specimen of his language

it

ex-

ment, employed

description and his vigour of sentiin the praise and defence of virtue. work

power of

more

truly poetical is rarely found

epithets,

allusions,

images, and deconsidered

scriptive

embellish almost every period with lavish

it

decoration.

As
all

a series of lines, therefore,

may be

as worthy of

the admiration with which the votaries have re-

ceived

it.

As

a drama

it is

deficient.

The

action

is

not probable.

mask, in those parts where supernatural intervention is admitted, must indeed be given up to all the freaks of imagination but, so far as the action is merely human, it ought to be reasonable, which can hardly be said of the conduct of the two brothers ;
;

who, when their

*

sister sinks

with fatigue in a pathless wilderness,

little

.Mr.

Warton

intimates, and there can be

doubt of the truth of his

conjecture, that Milton borrowed many of the images in these two fine poems from " Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy," a book published in 1621, and at sundry times since, abounding in learning, curious information, and
pleasantry.

Mr. Warton

says, that

Milton appears to have been an attenI

tive reader thereof;

it

and to

this assertion

add, of

my own
to, as

was a book that Dr. Johnson frequently resorted

many

knowledge, that others have

done, for amusement after the fatigue of study.

II.

LIFE OF MILTON.

109

their

Wander both away together in search of berries too far to find way back, and leave a helpless lady to all the sadness and
solitude.

danger of
its

This, however,

is

a defect overbalanced by
that the prologue

convenience.

What deserves more reprehension

in the wild

is,

spoken

wood by the attendant

spirit is

addressed to the audi-

ence

mode

of communication so contrary to the nature of

dramatic representation, that no precedents can support it. The discourse of the spirit is too long an objection that
;

may

be made
but

to

almost

all

the following speeches

they have not the

sprightliness of a dialogue animated by reciprocal contention,

seem

ly repeated,

rather declamations deliberately composed, and formalon a moral question. The auditor therefore listens

as to a lecture, without passion, without anxiety.

The

song of

Comus

has airiness and

jollity

but,

what may

Milton's morals as well as his poetry, the invitations to pleasure are so general, that they excite no distinct images of corrupt enjoyment, and take no dangerous hold on the fancy.

recommend

The following soliloquies of but tedious. The song must

can delight.
lity
;

Comus and
owe much

the lady are elegant,

it

to the voice if

ever

and,

At last the brothers enter, with when they have feared lest their
is

too

much

tranquil-

sister

should be in

not in danger, the elder makes a speech in praise of chastity, and the younger finds how fine it is to be a philosopher.
clanger, and hoped that she

Then descends

the spirit in the form of a shepherd

and the

brother, instead of being in haste to ask his help, praises his

singing, and inquires his business in that place.
ble, that at this interview the brother is
It is

remarkafit

taken with a short

is

of

rhyming.

The

spirit relates that

the lady
;

Comus

the brother moralizes again

it

power of and the spirit makes a

in the

long narration of no use because

suitable to a

is

false,

and therefore un-

good being. these parts the language is poetical, and the sentiments are generous ; but there is something wanting to allure attention.
In
all

The dispute between the lady and Comus is the most animated and affecting scene of the drama, and wants nothing but a brisker reciprocation of objections and replies to invite attention
and detain
it.

110

LIFE OF MILTON

The songs arc vigorous, and full of imagery ; but they arc harsh in their diction, and not very musical in their numbers.
Throughout the whole, the
guage
style, inelegantly splendid,

figures are too bold, and the lanIt

is

too luxuriant for dialogue.

drama

in the epic

and tediously instructive.

The
upon
icism
;

different occasions.
for of the best
it

Sonnets were written in different parts of Milton's life, They deserve not any particular crit-

can only be

said, that

they are not bad

and perhaps only the eighth and the twenty first are truly entiThe fabric of a sonnet, howtled to this slender commendation.
ever adapted to the Italian language, has never succeeded in ours,

which, having greater variety of termination, requires the rhymes to be often changed.
without much anxiety ; greater care. I am now to examine Paradise Lost ; a poem, which, considered with respect to design, may claim the first place, and with respect to performance,

Those

little

pieces

may be despatched

a greater

work

calls for

among the productions of the human mind. the general consent of critics, the first praise of genius is due to the writer of an epic poem, as it requires an assemblage of all the powers which are singly sufficient for other composithe second,

By

the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling help of reason. Epic poetry undertakes to imagination teach the most important truths by the most pleasing precepts,
tions.

Poetry

is

to the

manner.

and therefore relates some great event in the most affecting History must supply the writer with the rudiments of

narration, which he must improve and exalt by a nobler art, must animate by dramatic energy, and diversify by retrospection and anticipation morality must teach him the exact bounds, and
;

different shades, of vice and virtue

tice of
life,

from

policy, and the prac-

he has

to learn the discriminations of character,

and

the tendency of the passions, either single or combined ; and him with illustrations and images. To physiology must supply to poetical use, is required an imagination materials these put and realizing fiction. Nor is he yet capable of painting nature,
a poet,

he has attained the whole extcntion of his language, of phrase, and all the colours of distinguished all the delicacies
till

words, and learned to adjust their different sounds to

rieties of metrical

all

the va-

modulation.

LIFE OF MILTON.

Ill

Bossu is of opinion that the poet's first work is to find a moral, which his fable is afterward to illustrate and establish. This seems to have been the process only of Milton the moral of
;

other

poems
and

is

incidental

essential

intrinsic.

and consequent in Milton's only it is His purpose was the most useful and
;

to vindicate the ~i-ays of God to man ; to show ; the reasonableness of religion, and the necessity of obedience to the divine law.

the most arduous

To
tion.

convey

this

moral, there must be a fable, a narration art-

fully constructed, so as to excite curiosity,

and surprise expectaIn this part of his work, Milton must be confessed to have He has involved in his account of equalled every other poet.
the
fall

to follow

of man, the events which preceded, and those that were it ; he has interwoven the whole system of theology

with such propriety, that every part appears to be necessary ; and scarcely any recital is wished shorter for the sake of quickening
the progress of the main action.

The subject of an epic poem is naturally an event of great That of Milton is not the destruction of a city, the importance. conduct of a colony, or the foundation of an empire. His subject is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of heaven and of earth ; rebellion against the

created beings of their crime

;

supreme King, raised by the highest order of the overthrow of their host, and the punishment the creation of a new race of reasonable creatures

their original happiness and innocence, their forfeiture of

tality,

immor-

and their restoration to hope and peace. Great events can be hastened or retarded only by persons of Before the greatness displayed in Milton's elevated dignity.

poem,

The weakest of his all other greatness shrinks away. of and noblest human are the highest beings, the original agents whose actions with the elements mankind of consented ; ; parents
on whose rectitude, or deviation of will, depended the state of all the future inhabitants terrestrial nature, and the condition of
of the globe. Of the other agents in the

irreverence to

name on

slight occasions.

poem, the chief are such as it is The rest were lower

powers

oF which the least could wield

Those elements, and arm him wifh the Of all their regions
;

112

LIFE OF MILTON.

of Omnipotence restrains from powers, which only the control the vast expanse of space with and creation waste, filling laying
ruin and confusion.

To

display the motives and actions of beings

thus superior, so far as

human

reason can examine them, or

human

which this mighty imagination represent them, is the task and has undertaken performed. poet In the examination of epic poems much speculation is comThe characters in the the character*.

monly employed upon

Paradise Lost, which admit of examination, are those of angels and of man ; of angels good and evil ; of man in his innocent

and

sinful state.

Among the angels,

the virtue of Raphael

is
;

easy condescension and free communication of his regal and lofty, and, as may seem, attentive to the dignity own nature. Abdiel and Gabriel appear occasionally, and act as

that of

mild and placid, of Michael is

every incident requires

the solitary fidelity of Abdiel

is

very

amiably painted. Of the evil angels the characters are more diversified.

To

Satan, as Addison observes, such sentiments are given as suit the

Milton has been censured most exalted and most depraved being. by Clarke* for the impiety which sometimes breaks from Satan's

For there are thoughts, as he justly remarks, which no observation of character can justify, because no good man would
mouth.
willingly permit

them

to pass,

however

transiently,

through his

own mind.

Satan speak as a rebel, without any such expressions as might taint the reader's imagination, was indeed one of the great difficulties in Milton's undertaking ; and I cannot but think that he has extricated himself with great happiThere is in Satan's speeches little that can give pain to a

To make

ness.

The language of rebellion cannot be the same with pious ear. The malignity of Satan foams in haughtiness that of obedience. and obstinacy ; but his expressions are commonly general, and
no otherwise offensive than as they arc wicked.

The

discriminated in the
character of

other chiefs of the celestial rebellion are very judiciously first and second books ; and the ferocious

Moloch appears, both

in the battle

and the council,

with exact consistency. To Adam and to Eve are given, during their innocence, such sentiments as innocence can generate and utter. Their love is
*

Author of the " Essav on studv."

Dr.

J.

LIFE OF MILTON.

113

pure benevolence and mutual veneration ; their repasts are without luxury, and their diligence without toil. Their addresses to
their

Maker have

little

gratitude.

Fruition

left

more than the voice of admiration and them nothing to ask, and innocence left
and discord, mutual accusation,

them nothing
But with

to fear.

guilt enter distrust

;

they regard each other with alienated minds, and dread their Creator as the avenger of their transgression. At last they seek shelter in his mercy, soften to repent-

and stubborn self defence

Both before and after the ance, and melt in supplication. the superiority of Adam is diligently sustained.

fall,

Of the probable
dise

poem, which immerge the

and the marvellous, two parts of a vulgar epic critic in deep consideration, the ParaIt contains the history of a
;

Lost requires little to be said. miracle, of creation and redemption

it

displays the

power and

the

mercy of the Supreme Being

marvellous, and the marvellous is the narrative is truth ; and, as truth allows no choice,
necessity,

the probable therefore is The substance of probable.

;

it is,

like

superior to rule.

To

the accidental or adventitious

slight exceptions

parts, as to every thing

human, some
is

may be
by the
uni-

made

but the main fabric

immovably supported.
that this

It is justly

remarked by Addison,

poem

has,

nature of

its

that subject, the advantage above all others,

it is

versally and perpetually interesting.

all

All mankind

ages, bear the

same

relation to

Adam

through and to Eve, and must

will,

partake of that good and evil which extend to themselves. Of the machinery, so called from QMS O.TTO ^H^AVM?, by which is meant the occasional of supernatural power, another
interposition
fertile topic

of critical remarks, here

is

no room

to speak,

because

of every thing is done under the immediate and visible direction action the Heaven; but the rule is so far observed, that no part of could have been accomplished by any other means.

Of episodes, I
relation of the

war

think there are only two, contained in Raphael's in heaven, and Michael's prophetic account

of the changes to happen in this world. Both are closely con" nected with the great action ; one was necessary to Adam as a

warning, the other as a consolation.

To the
objected
;

completeness or integrity of the design, nothing can be it has distinctly and clearly what Aristotle requires, a

114-

LIFE

Ol-

MILTON.
There
little is

beginning, a middle, and an end. the same length, from which so

perhaps no poem, of
is

can be taken -without apthere any

parent mutilation.

Here

are no funeral games, nor

short digressions at the beginning of the third, seventh, and ninth books, might doubtless be spared ; but superfluities so beautiful, who would take away

long description of a shield.

The

or

who does

not wish that the author of the Iliad had gratified

succeeding ages with a little knowledge of himself ? Perhaps no passages are more frequently or more attentively read than
those extrinsic paragraphs ; and, since the end of poetry is pleasure, that cannot be unpoetical with which all are pleased.

The
one,
is

questions, whether the action of the poem be strictly whether the poem can be properly termed heroic, and who the hero, are raised by such readers as draw their principles

of judgment rather from books than from reason, Milton, though he entitled Paradise Lost only a fioem, yet calls it himself heroic song.

Dryden

petulantly and indecently denies the

;

heroism of Adam, because he was overcome but there is no reason why the hero should not be unfortunate, except established practice, since success and virtue do not go necessarily toCato is the hero of Lucan ; but Lucan's authority will gether. not be suffered by Quintilian to decide. However, if success be
necessary,

Adam's deceiver was

rank.

at last

crushed

Adam was
securely re-

restored to his Maker's favour, and therefore

may

sume

his

human

After the scheme and fabric of the poem, must be considered its component parts, the sentiments and the diction.

The

sentiments, as expressive of manners, or appropriated to

characters, are, for the greater part, unexceptionably just. Splendid passages, containing lessons of morality, or precepts

of prudence, occur seldom.

this

Such

is

poem,

that, as it

admits no

is to raise can give little assistance to the thoughts above sublunary cares or pleasures. Yet the praise of that fortitude, with which Abdiel maintained his singularity of

human manners till human conduct. Its end

the original formation of the fall, it

virtue against the scorn of multitudes,

all

may

be accommodated to

and Raphael's reproof of Adam's curiosity after the planetary motions, with the answer returned by Adam, may
times
;

LIFE OF MILTOX.
ae confidently opposed to any rule of
delivered.
life

which any poet has

thoughts which are occasionally called forth in the progsuch as could only be produced by an imagination in the highest degree fervid and active, to which materials were
ress, are

The

The heat supplied by incessant study and unlimited curiosity. of Milton's mind might be said to sublimate his learning, to
throw off into his woi k the
grosser parts.
spirit

of science, unmingled with

its

He

had considered creation

in its

scriptions are therefore learned.

He

whole extent, and his dehad accustomed his imag-

ination to unrestrained indulgence, and his conceptions therefore

limity.
is

were extensive. The characteristic quality of his poem is subHe sometimes descends to the elegant, but his element
the
great.

He

but his natural port

pleasure
is

can occasionally invest himself with grace ; He can please when is gigantic loftiness.*

He seems
and
to

required ; but it is his peculiar power to astonish. to have been well acquainted with his own genius,
it

know what

was that nature had bestowed upon him more

the power of displaying the vast, bountifully than upon others ; the awful, darkening the the enforcing splendid, illuminating a subdreadful the ; he therefore chose and aggravating gloomy, on which too much could not be said, on which he might
ject

without the censure of extravagance. the occurrences of life, did appearances of nature, and not satiate his appetite of greatness. To paint things as they and employs the memory rather are, requires a minute attention, Milton's than the fancy. delight was to sport in the wide regions was a scene too narrow for his mind. He of reality
tire his fancy

The

possibility

sent his faculties out upon discovery, into worlds

ination can travel,

where only imagand delighted to form new modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and action to superior beings, to trace the
counsels of hell, or accompany the choirs of heaven. But he could not be always in other worlds ; he must some-

times revisit earth, and

tell

of things visible and known.

When

he

cannot raise

wonder by the sublimity of

his mind, he gives

delight by
*

its fertility.
T)r. J.

Algarotti terms \tgigantesea su&ttmitd JWZltoniafta.

I.

VOL.

16

116

LIFE OP MILTON.
his subject,

Whatever be
But
his

he never

fails to

fill

the imagination.

images and descriptions of the scenes or operations of nature do not seem to be always copied from original form, nor to have the freshness, raciness, and energy of immediate observation

He

sfiectaclcs of books

saw nature, as Dryden expresses it, through the his ; and on most occasions calls learning to
of

assistance.

The garden

Eden brings

to his

mind the

vale of

Enna, where Proserpina was gathering flowers. Satan makes his way through fighting elements, like Argo between the Cyanean rocks, or Ulysses between the two Sicilian whirlpools, when
he shunned Charybdis on the larboard. The mythological allusions have been justly censured, as not being always used with
notice of their vanity
;

but they contribute variety to the narration,

and produce an alternate exercise of the memory and the fancy. His similes are less numerous, and more various, than those
of his predecessors.

But he does not confine himself within the

;

limits of rigorous comparison

his great excellence is amplitude,

and he expands the adventitious image beyond the dimensions which the occasion required. Thus, comparing the shield of Satan to the orb of the moon, he crowds the imagination with the
discovery of the telescope, and
all

the wonders which the teles-

it is hardly praise to affirm that they other poets ; for this superiority he was indebted The ancient epic to his acquaintance with the sacred writings. of the were revelation, light poets, wanting very unskilful teach-

cope discovers. Of his moral sentiments

all

excel those of

ers of virtue

their principal characters

may

be great, but they

are not amiable.

The

reader

may

rise

from their works with a

of greater degree of active or passive fortitude, and sometimes of will he be able to few but precepts carry away jusprudence ;
tice,

and none of mercy.

the Italian writers it appears, that the advantages of even Christian knowledge may be possessed in vain. Ariosto's pravity is generally known ; and though the deliverance of Jerusalem may be considered as a sacred subject, the poet has been

From

very sparing of moral instruction. In Milton every line breathes sanctity of thought, and purity of manners, except when the train of the narration requires
the introduction of the rebellious spirits
;

and even they are

LIFE OF MILTON.
compelled
to acknowledge their subjection to God, as excites reverence and confirms piety. in

such a

manner

Of human beings there are but two ; but those two are the parents of mankind, venerable before their foil for dignity and innocence, and amiable after it for repentance and submission.
In their
first state

their affection is tender without weakness,

and
sin-

their piety sublime without presumption.

When they have

ned, they show how discord begins in mutual frailty, and how it ought to cease in mutual forbearance ; how confidence of the
divine favour
is forfeited

by

sin,

and

how hope

of pardon

may

be

obtained by penitence and prayer.

A state of innocence we
to learn, as

can

only conceive, if indeed, in our present misery, it be possible to conceive it ; but the sentiments and worship proper to a fallen

and offending
practise.

being-,

we have

all

we have

all

to

The
and
sin

poet, whatever be done, is always great.

Our

progenifolly

tors, in their first state,

conversed with angels

even when

had degraded them, they had not in their humiliation the suitors ; and they rise again to reverential regard) mean port of when we find that their prayers were heard.

As human
there
is in

passions did not enter the world before the fall, the Paradise Lost little opportunity for the pathetic ;

but what

little

there

is

has not been

lost.

peculiar to rational nature, the anguish arising

That passion which is from the con-

sciousness of transgression, and the horrors attending the sense of the divine displeasure, are very justly described and forcibly moved only on one occasion ; impressed. But the passions are
sublimity
is the general and prevailing quality in poem ; sometimes sublimity variously modified, sometimes descriptive,

this

argumentative.

The

defects and faults of Paradise Lost, for faults and defects

is

every work of man must have, it icism to discover.

the business of impartial

crit-

As

in displaying the excellence of Milton, I

have not made long quotations, because of selecting beauties there had been no end, I shall in the same general manner menfor what Englishman tion that which seems to deserve censure
;

can take delight

in transcribing passages,

which,

the reputation of Milton, diminish in

some

they lessen honour of the degree

if

our countrv

118

LIFE OF MILTON.

The generality of my scheme does not admit the frequent notice of verbal inaccuracies ; which Bcntley, perhaps better skilled in grammar than in poetry, has often found, though he
sometimes made them, and which he imputed
of a reviser,
to the obtrusions

whom

the author's blindness obliged

if

him
it

to

A supposition,
vile
false.

rash and groundless,

if,

he thought
in private

true

employ. and ;
it

and pernicious,

as

is

said,

he

allowed

to

be

plan of Paradise Lost has this inconvenience, that it comThe man prises neither human actions nor human manners.* and woman who act and suffer, are in a state which no other

The

man
in

or

woman

can ever know.

;

The

reader finds no transaction

which he can be engaged beholds no condition in which he can by any effort of imagination place himself; he has, therefore,

little

We
all sin

natural curiosity or sympathy. all, indeed, feel the effects of

like

Adam, and

like

Adam's disobedience we him must all bewail our offences

;

we

have restless and insidious enemies

in the fallen angels

;

and

in the blessed spirits

we have

guardians and friends

in

the re-

demption of mankind we hope to be included ; in the description of heaven and hell we are surely interested, as we are all to
reside hereafter either in the regions of horror or of bliss.

But these truths are too important to be new ; they have been taught to our infancy ; they have mingled with our solitary thoughts and familiar conversation, and are habitually interwoven
with the whole texture of
raise no
life. Being therefore not new, they unaccustomed emotion in the mind what we knew
;

before,
prise.

we

cannot learn

what

is

not unexpected, cannot sur-

Of the ideas suggested by these awful scenes, from some we recede with reverence, except when stated hours require their association ; and from others we shrink with horror, or admit
them
and passions.
than incite
only as salutary inflictions, as counterpoises to our interests Such images rather obstruct the career of fancy
it.

Pleasure and terror are indeed the genuine sources of poetry ; but poetical pleasure must be such as human imagination can at
*

actions.

But, says Dr. Warton, C.

it

has throughout a reference to

human

life

and

LIFE OF MILTON.
least conceive
;

119

fortitude

may combat.
for the

and poetical terror such as human strength and The good and evil of eternity are too

ponderous
ration.

wings of wit

the

mind

sinks under

them

in

passive helplessness, content with calm belief and humble ado-

Known truths, however, may take a different appearance, and be conveyed to the mind by a new train of intermediate images. This Milton has undertaken, and performed with pregnancy and vigour of mind peculiar to himself. Whoever considers the few
radical positions

which the scriptures afforded him,

will

wonder

by what energetic operation he expanded them to such extent, and ramified them to so much variety, restrained as he was by religious reverence from licentiousness of fiction.

Here is a full display of the united force of study and genius ; of a great accumulation of materials, with judgment to digest,
and fancy
to

combine them.

Milton was able to select from

nature, or from story, from ancient fable, or from

modern

science,

whatever could
tion of

illustrate

or adorn his thoughts.

An

accumula-

knowledge impregnated his mind, fermented by study, and exalted by imagination. It has been therefore said, without an indecent hyperbole, by-

one of his encomiasts, that in reading Paradise Lost, we read a book of universal knowledge.

But

original deficience cannot be supplied.

felt.

The want

of hu-

man

interest is always

Paradise Lost
lays

is

one of the books

to take

which the reader admires and

again.

down, and forgets

up

longer than it is. Its perusal is a read Milton for instruction, duty rather than a pleasure. retire harassed and overburdened, and look elsewhere for recreit

None ever wished

We

ation

we

desert our master, and seek for companions.

Another inconvenience of Milton's design is, that it requires the description of what cannot be described, the agency of spirits. He saw that immateriality supplied no images, and that he could
not
fore invested
sary,

show angels acting but by instruments of action he therethem with form and matter. This, being neces;

was therefore defensible

and he should have secured the

consistency of his system, by keeping immateriality out of sight, and enticing his reader to drop it from his thoughts. But he

has unhappily perplexed his poetry with his philosophy.

His

120
infernal and

LIFfc

OF MILTON.

celestial powers are sometimes pure spirit, and sometimes animated body. When Satan walks with his lance beupon the burning mart, he has a body ; when, in his passage

and the new world, he is in danger of sinking in the he has a vacuity, and is supported by a gust of rising vapours, be mere to seems he spirit, the when ne animates toad, body ;

tween

hell

that can penetrate matter at pleasure ; when he starts uji in Ids civn shafie, he has at least a determined form ; and when he is

brought before Gabriel, he has a sjitar and a shield, which he had the power of hiding in the toad, though the arms of the contending angels are evidently material.

The

spirits, are at large,

vulgar inhabitants of Pandaemonium, being incorporeal though without number, in a limited space ;

when they were overwhelmed by mountains, armour hurt them, crushed in u/ion their substance, now grown gross by sinning. This likewise happened to the uncorrupted angels, who were overthrown the sooner for their arms, for unarmed they might easily as spirits have evaded by contracyet in the battle,
their
tion or remove.

Even

as spirits they are

contraction and

remove are images of matter

hardly spiritual ; for but if they could ;

have escaped without their armour, they might have escaped from it, and left only the empty cover to be battered. Uriel, when he rides on a sunbeam, is material Satan is material when he is afraid of the prowess of Adam. The confusion of spirit and matter, which pervades the whole
;

narration of the war of heaven,

fills it

with incongruity

and the

book, in which

it is

related

is, I

believe, the favourite of children,

and gradually neglected as knowledge is increased. After the operation of immaterial agents, which cannot be explained, may be considered that of allegorical persons, which
have no real existence.

To

exalt causes into agents, to invest

abstract ideas with form, and animate

them with

activity,

has

always been the right of poetry. But such airy beings arc, for the most part, suffered only to do their natural office, and retire.

Thus fame

tells

talc,
;

perches on a standard

and victory hovers over a general, or but fame and victory can do no more.
to

To
the

give

them any
is to

real

employment, or ascribe

them any ma-

terial

agency,

make them allegorical no

effects to nonentity.

mind by ascribing

longer, but to shock In the Prometheus of

LIFE OF.AHLTON.
Sj

we

see -violence and strength^ and

iiv

the Mcestis of

Euripides, we see death, brought upon the stage, all as active persons of the drama ; but no precedents can justify absurdity. Milton's allegory of sin and death is undoubtedly fauhy. Sin
is

tress of hell

indeed the mother of death, and may be allowed to be the por; but when they stop the journey of Satan, a journey
real,

described as
is

and when death

sin

offers

him

battle,

the allegory

broken.

That

and death should have shown the way to

hell, might have been allowed ; but they cannot facilitate the passage by building a bridge, because the difficulty of Satun's passage is described as real and sensible, and the bridge ought to be

The hell assigned to the rebellious spirits is only figurative. described as not less local than the residence of man. It is placed
in some distant part of space, separated from the regions of harmony and order by a chaotic waste and an unoccupied vacubut sin and death worked up a mole of aggravated soil, ceity mented with asjihatius ; a work too bulky for ideal architects.
;

of the

This unskilful allegory appears to me one of the greatest faults poem and to this there was no temptation, but the au;

thor's opinion of

To
Satan

its beauty. the conduct of the narrative

some

objections

may be made.

with great expectation brought before Gabriel in paraThe creation of dise, and is suffered to go away unmolested. man is represented as the consequence of the vacuity left in
is

heaven by the expulsion of the rebels

yet Satan mentions

it

as

a report rife in heaven before his departure.

To

find sentiments for the state of innocence,

was very

diffi-

something of anticipation perhaps is now and then Adam's discourse of dreams seems not to be the discovered.
cult; and
I know not whether his speculation of a new created being. answer to the angel's reproof for curiosity does not want something of propriety ; it is the speech of a man acquainted with

many other men. Some philosophical notions, especially when The the philosophy is false, might have been better omitted. timorous deer, before deer angel, in a comparison, speaks of
were yet timorous, and before
parison.

Adam

could understand the com-

Dryden remarks,
tions.

that Milton lias

all

some

flats

among

his eleva-

This

is

only to say, that

the parts arc not equal.

Tr

J22

LIFE OF MILT OX.

;

every work, one part must be for the sake of others must have passages a poem must have transitions.
;

a palace
It is

no

be required that wit should always be blazing, than that the sun should always stand at noon. In a great work there is a \icissitude of luminous and opaque parts, as there is in the world
to
in the sky,

more

a succession of day and night. Milton, when he has expatiated be allowed sometimes to revisit earth ; for what may

other author ever soared so high, or sustained his flight so long ? Milton, being well versed in the Italian poets, appears to have

borrowed often from them

thing from
ity

and, as every

man

catches some-

his companions, his desire of imitating Ariosto's lev-

has disgraced his work with the paradise of fools ; a fiction not in itself ill imagined, but too ludicrous for its place.

His play on words, in which he delights too often his equivocations, which Bcntley endeavours to defend by the example of the ancients ; his unnecessary and ungraceful use of terms of
;

art

it is

marked, and generally censured

not necessary to mention, because they are easily reand at last bear so little pro;

portion to the whole, that they scarcely deserve the attention of a critic.

Lost

Such are the faults of that wonderful performance Paradise ; which he who can put in balance with its beauties must
dull, as less to

be considered not as nice but as

be censured for

want of candour, than

pitied for

want of

sensibility.

Of Paradise
right, that
ive.
It
it is

Regained, the general judgment seems now to be in many parts elegant, and every where instructto

was not

be supposed that the writer of Paradise Losf

could ever write without great effusions of fancy, and exalted The basis of Paradise Regained is narrow ; precepts of wisdom.

a dialogue without action can never please like an union of the Had this poem been written not narrative and dramatic powers.

by Milton, but by some imitator,

ceived universal praise.
.4g<mistes has in requital

it

would have claimed and re-

I^Paradise Regained has been too much depreciated, Sampson been too much admired. It could only

be by long prejudice, and the bigotry of learning, that Milton could prefer the ancient tragedies, with their encumbrance of a
chorus, to the exhibitions of the French and English stages
it is
;

and

only by a blind confidence in the reputation of Milton, that

LIFE OF MILTON.

123

a drama can be praised in which the intermediate parts have neither cause nor consequence, neither hasten nor retard the
catastrophe.

In this tragedy are, however,

many
;

particular beauties,
it

many

just sentiments and striking lines

wants that power of the attention which a well connected attracting plan produces. Milton would not have excelled in dramatic writing ; he knew
but
nature only in the gross, and had never studied the shades

human

of character, nor the combinations of concurring, or the perplexHe had read much, and knew what ity of contending passions.

books could teach

deficient in the

Through
little

all

but had mingled little in the world, and was knowledge which experience must confer. his greater works there prevails an uniform pe;

culiarity of diction, a

mode and

cast of expression

which bears

far

resemblance to that of any former writer, and which is so removed from common use, that an unlearned reader, when he

first

opens his book, finds himself surprised by a new language.' This novelty has been, by those who can find nothing wrong in Milton, imputed to his laborious endeavours after words suitable to the grandeur of his ideas. son, sunk wider him.

Our
is,

lajiguage, says

Addi-

But the truth

that

both in prose and

verse, he had
ciple.

He

formed his style by a perverse and pedantic prinwas desirous to use English words with a foreign

idiom.

This in all his prose is discovered and condemned ; for there judgment operates freely, neither softened by the beauty, nor awed by the dignity of his thoughts ; but such is the power
of his poetry, that his call is obeyed without resistance, the reader feels himself in captivity to a higher and a nobler mind, and
criticism sinks in admiration.

Milton's style was not modified by his subject ; what is shown with greater extent in Paradise Lout, may be found in Comus. One source of his peculiarity was his familiarity with the Tus-

can poets
Italian
;

the disposition of his words

is,

think, frequently

Of

perhaps sometimes combined with other tongues. him, at last, may be said what Jonson says of Spenser, that

he wrote no language, but has formed what Butler calls a Babylonish dialect, in itself harsh and barbarous, but made by exalted genius, and extensive learning, the vehicle of so much instruction

and so
its

much

pleasure, that, like other lovers,

]7

we

find grace in

deformity. VOL. r.

Lil'E

UF MILTOX.
diction,

Whatever be die

faults of his

he cannot want the

praise of copiousness and variety ; he was master of his language in its full extent ; and has selected the melodious words

with such diligence, that from his book alone the art of Englishpoetry might be learned. After his diction, something musi be said of his -versification. The measure, he says, is the English heroic verse without rhyme. Of this mode he had many examples among the Italians, and some in his own country. The earl of Surrey is said to have
translated one of Virgil's books without

rhyme
in

and, beside our

;

tragedies, a few short

ticularly

poems had appeared

blank verse

par-

one tending to reconcile the nation to Raleigh's wild attempt upon Guiana, and probably written by Raleigh himself. These petty performances cannot be supposed to have much in-

fluenced Milton,
Italiq,

who more

probably took his hint from Trisino's

and finding blank verse easier than rhyme, was desirous of persuading himself that it is better.
Liberata
;

jioetry.

Rhyme, he says, and says truly, is no necessary adjunct of true But perhaps, of poetry, as a mental operation, metre or music is no necessary adjunct ; it is however by the music of metre that poetry has been discriminated in all languages ; and,
in languages melodiously constructed with a

scanty The music of the Engnecessary. lish heroic line strikes the ear so faintly, that it is easily lost, un-

due proportion of long and short syllables, metre is sufficient. But one language cannot communicate its rules to another ; where metre is
is

and imperfect, some help

less
all

the syllables of every line co-operate together ; this cooperation can be only obtained by the preservation of every verse unmingled with another, as a distinct system of sounds ; and this
distinctness is obtained and preserved by the artifice of

rhyme.

The

variety of pauses, so

much

boasted by the lovers of blank

measures of an English poet to the periods and there are only a few skilful and happy readers of Milton, who enable their audience to perceive where the lines end or begin. Blank verse, said an ingenious critic, seems
verse, changes the

of a dcclaimer

to be

verse only

to the eye.

Poetry
lot often

may

please

'be subject is

rhyme, but English poetry \\\\ nor can rhyme ever be safely spared but where able to support itself. Blank verse makes som
;

subsist without

LIFE OP MILTON.
to that which is called the lajiidary style ; has neither approach the easiness of prose, nor the melody of numbers, and therefore tires by long continuance. Of the Italian writers without rhyme,

whom Milton alleges as precedents, not one is popular ; what reason could urge in its defence, has been confuted by the ear. But, whatever be the advantage of rhyme, I cannot prevail on myself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer ; for I cannot wish
his

work

to

be other than

it is

yet, like other heroes,

he

is to

be

admired rather than imitated.

of astonishing,
to please,

He

that thinks himself capable

;

may

write blank verse

to

but those that hope only

must condescend

rhyme.

Milton highest praise of genius is original invention. cannot be said to have contrived the structure of an epic poem, and
therefore owes reverence to that vigour and amplitude of mind, to which all generations must be indebted for the art of poetical
narration, for the texture of the fable, the variation of incidents.

The

the interposition of dialogue, and all the stratagems that surprise and enchain attention. But, of all the borrowers from Homer,

Milton

is

perhaps the

least indebted.

He

er for himself, confident of his

own

abilities,

was naturally a thinkand disdainful of

help or hinderance ; he did not refuse admission to the thoughts or images of his predecessors, but he did not seek them. From
his contemporaries
is in his writings

he neither courted nor received support ; there nothing by which the pride of other authors might be gratified, or favour gained ; no exchange of praise, nor
solicitation of support.

His great works, were performed under discountenance, and in blindness, but difficulties vanished at his
;

touch

he was born

for

whatever

is

arduous

and his work

it is

is

not the greatest of heroic poems, only because

not the

first.

BUTLER.

the great author of Hudibras there

later editions of his

is

life

prefixed to the

poem, by an unknown

writer, and therefore

of disputable authority ; and some account is incidentally given by Wood, who confesses the uncertainty of his own narrative ;

more however
remains but
to

than they

knew cannot now be

learned, and nothing

compare and copy them. SAMUEL BUTLER was born in the parish of Strensham in Worcestershire, according to his biographer, in 1612. This

account Dr. Nash finds confirmed by the register. christened, Feb. 14.

He was

His
tions

father's condition is variously represented.

Wood men.

but Mr. Longueville, the son of Butler's principal friend, says he was an honest farmer with some small estate, who made a shift to educate his son at the

him

as competently wealthy

grammar
*

school of Worcester, under

Mr. Henry Bright,* from

prefix-

These are the words'of the author of the short account of Butler,

ed to Hudibras, which Dr. Johnson, notwithstanding what he says above, seems to hare supposed was written by Mr. Longueville, the father but the contrary is to be inferred from a subsequent passage, wherein the author
;

laments that he had neither such an acquaintance nor interest with Mr^ remains of Butler there Longueville as to procure from him the golden
mentioned.
Brit. p. 1077, signifying that the son of this

was probably led into the mistake by a note in the Biog. gentleman was living in 1736. Of this friend and generous patron of Butler, Mr. William Longueville, I find an account, written by a person who was well acquainted with him, to this effect; viz. that he was a conveyancing lawyer, and a bencher of the
inner temple, and had raised himself from a low beginning to very great eminence in that profession that he was eloquent and learned, of spotless
;

He

integrity

that he supported an aged father

who had ruined

his fortunes

by

re-edified a ruined family ; extravagance, and by his industry and application that he supported Butler, who, but for him, must literally have starved ; and received from him as a recompense the papers called his remains. Life

of the lord keeper Guilford, p. 289. These have since been given to the Mr. Thyer of Manchester and the originals are now in the hands public

by

the Rev. Dr. Farmer, master of Emanncl college, Cambridge.

IJ.

128

LIFE OF BUTLEK.
;

\vhosc care he removed for a short time to Cambridge

-want of money,

but, for

was never made a member of any college. Wood leaves us rather doubtful whether he went to Cambridge or Oxford
;

but at

last

makes him pass

six or seven years at

Cambridge,

it can hardly be without knowing in what ; yet either in so that lived he university, but as belonglong imagined

hall or college

that he ing to one house or another ; and it is still less likely could have so long inhabited a pbcc of learning with so liuie Dr. Nash has distinction as to leave his residence uncertain. a little land, and house a of owner was his father that discovered

worth about eight pounds a year, still called Butler's tenement. Wood has his information from his brother, whose narrative
placed

him

at

Cambridge,
to

in opposition-to that of his neighbours,

which sent him

Oxford.

The

brother's

seems the best author-

his inability to tell his hall or college , he ity, till, by confessing that he was resolved to bestow on him reason to

gives

suspect

an academical education
of detection.

but durst not

name

a college for fear

He
to

was

for

some

time, according to the author of his

life,

clerk

Mr.

Jefferys of Earl's

Croomb

in

Worcestershire, an eminent

justice

In his service he had not only leisure for of the peace. his amusements were jnusic and paintrecreation for but ; study, of his pencil was the friendship of the celeing ; and the reward
brated Cooper.

Some

pictures, said to be his,

;

were shown

to

Dr. Nash

at Earl's

Croomb

some years afterward, and owns that they hardly deserved

when he inquired for them he found them destroyed to stop windows,

but
a better
fate.

was afterward admitted into the family of the countess of Kent, where he had the use of a library ; and so much recommended himself to Selden, that he was often employed by him
in literary business.

He

Selden, as

is

well known,

was steward

to

the countess, and

is

supposed

to

have gained

much

of his wealth

by managing her estate. In what character Butler was admitted into that lady's service, how long he continued in it, and why he left it, is, like the othe r
incidents of his
life,

utterly

unknown.

The

vicissitudes of his condition placed

family of sir

him afterward in the Samuel Luke, one of Cromwell's officers. Here he

of the character of the sectaries, that he
is

observed so

much

LIFE OF BUTLER.
said to

129

likely that such a design

have written or begun his poem at this time ; and it is would be formed in a place where he
rebels, audacious

saw the principles and practices of the

and un-

disguised in the confidence of success. At length the king returned, and the time
alty

came

in

which

loy-

hoped

for its reward.

Butler, however, was only made

secretary to the earl of Carbury, president to the principality of

Wales who conferred on him the stewardship when the court of the marches was revived.
;

of

Ludlow

castle,

man

In this part of his life, he married Mrs. Herbert, a gentlewoof a good family ; and lived, says Wood, upon her fortune,

forhaving studied the common law, but never practised it. tune she had, says his biographer, but it was lost by bad securities, In 1663 was published the first part, containing three cantos s

of the

poem of Hudibras, which, as Prior relates, was made known

by the taste and influence of the earl of Dorset.
it

at court
it

W hen
T

was known,

was necessarily admired

for the

the king quoted, the

courtiers studied, and the whole party of the royalists applauded

it.

Every eye watched

upon the author,

who

certainly

golden shower which was to fall was not without his part in the

general expectation. In 1664 the second part appeared ; the curiosity of the nation was rekindled, and the writer was again praised and elated. But

Clarendon, says Wood, gave him praise was his whole reward. reason to hope for " places and employments of value and credit ;" but no such advantages did he ever obtain. It is reported thai:
the king once gave

him three hundred guineas

he was secretary

but of this tem-

porary bounty I find no proof.

Wood

relates that

to Villiers
;

duke of Buck-

ingham, when he was chancellor of Cambridge this is doubted by the other writer, who yet allows the duke to have been his
frequent benefactor. That both these accounts are false there is reason to suspect, from a story told by Packe, in his accouiv. of the
life

of Wycherley

and from some verses which Mr. Thyei

has published in the author's remains. " Mr. " Wycherley," says Packe, had always laid hold of an opwhich of offered portunity representing to the duke of Bucking-

ham how

well

-yriting his inimitable

Mr. Butler hud deserved of the royal family, by Hudibras and that it was a reproach to.thp
;

130

j jIFE

OF BUTLER.

court, that a person of his loyalty and wit should suffer in obscurity,

and under the wants he

to

did.

The duke
;

hearken

him with
to in

attention

enough

and, after

always seemed to some time,

undertook
AVycherlcy,

recommend
hopes
to

his pretensions to his majesty.

Mr.

his grace to

keep him steady to his word, obtained of name a day, when he might introduce that modest

and unfortunate poet to his new patron. At last an appointment was made, and the place of meeting was agreed to be the RoebuckMr. Butler and his friend attended accordingly the duke joined
;

them

but as the d
;

would have

it,

the door of the

room where

they sat was open and his grace who had seated himself near it observing a pimp of his acquaintance, the creature too was a knight,
trip

to follow another kind of business, at

by with a brace of ladies, immediately quitted his engagement which he was more readvthan
*

in doing

good

offices to

men
in

of desert
to

qualified than he, both ing, to protect

regard

though no one was better his fortune and understand;

and, from that time to the day of his death, poor Butler never found the least effect of his promise 1" Such is the story. The verses are written with a degree of
;

them

acrimony, such as neglect and disappointment might naturally and such as it would be hard to imagine Butler capable excite
;

man who had any claim to his gratitudeNotwithstanding this discouragement and neglect, he still prosecuted his design ; and in 1678 published the third part, which
of expressing against a
still

leaves the

poem

imperfect and abrupt.

How much more he

originally intended, or with what events the action was to be concluded, it is vain to conjecture. Nor can it be thought strange that he should stop here, however unexpectedly. To write

without reward
at an

is sufficiently

age when he might

He had now arrived unpleasing. think it proper to be in jest no longer,

and perhaps his health might now begin to fail. He died in 1680 and Mr. Longueville, having unsuccessfully bolicited a subscription for his interment in Westminster Ab;

bey, buried

Garden.*
*

him at his own cost in the churchyard of Covent Dr. Simon Patrick read the service.
"

authority of the younger

Biographia Britannica," p. 1075, he is said, on the Mr. Longueville, to have lived for some j'ears in Hose street, Covent Garden, and also that he died there; the latter of these particulars is rendered highly probable, by his being interred in the

In a note in the

oemetry of that parish.

II.

LIFE OF BUTLER.

131

thority

Granger was informed by Dr. Pearce, who named for his auMr. Lowndes of the treasury, that Butler had a yearly

dition,

This is contradicted by all trapension of an hundred pounds. by the complaints of Oldham, and by the reproaches of Dryden ; and I am afraid will never be confirmed.

About

sixty years afterward,

Mr. Barber, a

printer,

mayor of

London, and a friend to Butler's principles, bestowed on him a monument in Westminster Abbey, thus inscribed
;

M.
Qui Strenshamise
obiit
in

S.

SAMUELIS BUTLERT,
agro Vigorn. nat. 1612,

Lond. 1680.
;

Vir doctus imprimis, acer, integer

Operibus Ingenii, non item praemiis, fcelix ; Satyrici apud nos Carmiuis Artifex egregius

Quo
Et

simulates Religionis Larvam detraxit, Perduellium scelera liberrime exagitavit

in suo genere,

Scriptorum

Primus

et

Postremus.

Ne,

cui vivo deerant fere omnia, Deesset etiam mortuo Tumulus,

Hoc tandem

JOHANNES BARBER,

posito marmore, curavit' Civis Londinensis, 1721.

posthumous works

After his death were published three small volumes of his I know not by whom collected, or by what ;

authority ascertained ;* and lately, two volumes more have been printed by Mr. Thyer of Manchester, indubitably genuine. From none of these pieces can his life be traced, or his character dis-

Some verses, in the last collection, show him to have been among those who ridiculed the institution of the royal society, of which the enemies were for some time very numerous
covered.

and very acrimonious, for what reason it is hard to conceive, since the philosophers professed not to advance doctrines, but to produce facts ; and the most zealous enemy of innovation must admit the gradual progress of experience, however he
hypothetical temerity. In this mist of obscurity passed the
life

may oppose
man whose

of Butler, a

name can

The mode and place only perish with his language. of his education are unknown ; the events of his life are vari*

They were
I.

collected into one, and published in 12nio. 1732.

VOL.

18

132
related
;

LIFE OF BUTLER.
and
all

that can be told with certainty

is,

that

he

was poor.
a nation

The poem of Hudibras may justly boast

is
;

one of those compositions of which

as the

images which

it

exhibits are

domestic, the sentiments unborrowed and unexpected, and the strain of diction must not, however, original and peculiar.

We

which we assume as the countrymen of Butier, to make any encroachment upon justice, nor appropriate those honours which others have a right to share. The poem of Husuffer the pride,

dibras

is not wholly English ; the original idea is to be found in the history of Don Quixote ; a book to which a mind of the greatest powers may be indebted without disgrace.

Cervantes shows a man,

of incredible
tales,

who

having, by the incessant perusal

subjected his understanding to his imagination, and familiarized his mind by "pertinacious meditation, to
trains of incredible

events, and scenes of impossible existence,

goes out in the pride of knighthood to redress wrongs, and defend virgins, to rescue captive princesses, and tumble usurpers from
their thrones
;

the suspicion of a generous mind, enables

attended by a squire, whose cunning, too low for him often to cheat his

master.

The hero of Butler is a presbyterian justice, who in the confidence of legal authority, and the rage of zealous ignorance, ranges the country to repress superstition and correct abuses,
accompanied by an independent clerk, disputatious and with whom he often debates, but never conquers him.
Cervantes had so
obstinate,

much

kindness for

Don

Quixote, that, how-

ever he embarrasses

much
he
is,

he gives him so preserve our esteem ; wherever or whatever he does, he is made by matchless dexterity
distresses,

him with absurd

sense and virtue as

may

commonly
But
for

ridiculous, but

poor

Hudibras, his poet

never contemptible. had no tenderness

he chooses

not that any pity should be shown or respect paid him ; he gives him up at once to laughter and contempt, without any quality
that can dignify or protect him.

In forming the character of Hudibras, and describing his person and habiliments, the author seems to labour with a tumultu-

ous confusion of dissimilar ideas.

the

He

had read the history of

mock

knights errant

he knew the notions and manners of a

LIFE OP BUTLER.

133

presbyterian magistrate, and tried to unite the absurdities of

both,

however

distant, in

one personage.

Thus he

gives

him

that

chivknowledge which has no relation to can add nothalry, and loads him with martial encumbrances that ing to his civil dignity. He sends him out a colondling, and yet

pedantic ostentation of

never brings him within sight of war. If Hudibras be considered as the representative of the presbyterians, it is not easy to say why his weapons should be represented as ridiculous or useless
;

for,

whatever judgment might

be passed upon their knowledge or their arguments, experience had sufficiently shown that their swords were not to be despised.

The

hero, thus

compounded of swaggerer and pedant, of

knight and justice, is led forth to action, with his squire Ralpho, an independent enthusiast.

Of

the contexture of events planned by the author, which

since
it is left

is

imperfect, no judgpoem, ment can be made. It is probable that the hero was to be led through many luckless adventures, which would give occasion,
called the action of the
like his attack
to expose the ridiculous with Sidrpphel and encounter ; Whacum, to make superstition and credulity contemptible ; or, like his recourse to the low retailer of the law, discover the

upon the bear andjiddlc^

like his

rigour of the sectaries

fraudulent practices of different professions. What series of events he would have formed, or in what

man-

ner he would have rewarded or punished his hero, it is now vain His work must have had, as it seems, the defect to conjecture.

which Dryden imputes to Spenser the action could not have been one there could only have been a succession of incidents, each of which might have happened without the rest, and which
; ;

could not

all

co-operate to any single conclusion.

discontinuity of the action might however have been I believe easily forgiven, if there had been action enough ; but reader the paucity of events, and complains, that in

The

every
the

poem

more

regrets of Hudibras, as in the history of Thucydides, there is said than done. The scenes are too seldom changed, and
is

the attention
It is

tired with long conversation.

adventures.

easy to form dialogues than to contrive Every position makes way for an argument, and When two disputants are every objection dictates an answer.

indeed

much more

134
engaged upon
is

LIFE OF BUTLER.

a complicated and extensive question, the diffinot to But whethcontinue, but to end the controversy. culty er it be that we comprehend but few of the possibilities of life,
life itself

or that

affords

little
it

variety, every

man who
a

has tried

knows how much labour

will cost to

form such

combination

of circumstances, as shall have

credibility,

at once the grace of novelty and and delight fancy without violence to reason.

Perhaps the dialogue of this poem is not perfect. Some power of engaging the attention might have been added to it, by quicker reciprocation, by seasonable interruptions, by sudden questions,
and by a nearer approach to dramatic sprightliness without which, fictitious speeches will always tire, however sparkling with sentences, and however variegated with allusions.
;

The
at last,

great source of pleasure

though

it

is variety. Uniformity must tire love to exbe uniformity of excellence.

We

pect ; and, when expectation is disappointed or gratified, we want to be again expecting. For this impatience of the present, whoever would please must make provision. The skilful writer, ir~
ritat) jmilcet,

makes a due
want of

distribution of the

still

and animated

parts.

It is for

this artful intertexture,

and those necestedious,

sary changes, that the whole of a book

all

may be

though

the parts are praised. If inexhaustible wit could give perpetual pleasure, no eye would ever leave half read, the work of Butler ; for what poet
?

has ever brought so many remote images so happily together

It is scarcely possible to

sociation of images paragraph the reader is amused, by the next he is delighted, and by a few more strained to astonishment but astonishment is a toilsome pleasure ; he is soon weary of wondering, and longs to
;

peruse a page without finding some asthat was never found before. By the first

be diverted.

Omnia

vult belle
die

Malho

dicerc, die aliquando

Et beue,

neutrum, die aliquando male.

;

nature gives in is useless without knowledge power of combination, unless study and observation supButler's treasures of knowledge ply materials to be combined.

Imagination

vain the

his appear proportioned to his expense whatever topic employs it with and illustrate to himself shows he expand qualified mind, all the accessaries that books can furnish j he is found not only
;

LIFE OF BUTLER.

135
;

to have travelled the beaten road, but the bypaths of literature

not only to have taken general surveys, but to have examined

particulars with minute inspection.

afraid of confronting

If the French boast the learning of Rabelais, them with Butler.

we need

not be

But the most valuable

which
ly

parts of his performance are those

retired study and native wit cannot supply.

He that merebe

makes a book from books may be

Butler had not suffered
life

useful, but can scarcely

to glide beside

great.

him unseen

or unobserved.

ations of human nature, and traced the effects of opinion,

interest,

had watched with great diligence the operhumour, and passion, From such remarks proceeded that great

He

number
tion,

of sententious distichs which have passed into conversaand are added as proverbial axioms to the general stock of

practical knowledge.

When

any work has been viewed and admired, the

is,

first

ques-

tion of intelligent curiosity

how was

it

performed

Hudibras

was not a hasty effusion ; it was not produced by a sudden tumult of imagination, or a short paroxysm of violent labour. To accumulate such a mass of sentiments at the call of accidental
desire, or of

sudden necessity,

is

beyond the reach and power of

the most active and comprehensive mind. I am informed by Mr. Thyer of Manchester, the excellent editor of this author's
relics, that

he could show something like Hudibras

in prose.

He

has in his possession the common place book, in which Butler readreposited, not such events or precepts as are gathered by
or ining, but such remarks, similitudes, allusions, assemblages,
those ferences, as occasion prompted, or meditation produced ; that were generated in his own mind, and might be

thoughts
those

usefully applied to

some

future purpose.

Such

is

the labour of

who write for immortality. But human works are not easily found without a perishable Of the ancient poets every reader feels the mythology tepart. Of Hudibras, the manners being founded dious and oppressive.
on opinions, are temporary and day less intelligible, and less
philosophy
is

local,

striking.

and therefore become every What Cicero says of

true likewise of wit and

humour,

that

"time

effaces the fictions of opinion, and confirms the determinations of Such manners as depend upon standing relations and nature."

136

Lil^E

OP BUTLER.

general passions, arc cocxtendcd with the race of man; but those modifications of life, and peculiarities of practice, which are

the progeny of error and perverscness, or

dental influence or transient persuasion,
parents.

at best of some must perish with

acci-

their

therefore of that humour which transported the last* with merriment, is lost to us, who do not know the sour century the sullen superstition, the gloomy moro.seness, and solemnity, the stubborn scruples of the ancient puritans ; or, if we knew

Much

them, derive our information only from books, or from tradition, have never had them before our eyes, and cannot but by recollection and study understand the lines in which they are satirized.

Our

grandfathers
life

knew

the picture from the

life

we

by contemplating the picture. It is scarcely possible, in the regularity and composure of the present time, to image the tumult of absurdity, and clamour
of contradiction, which perplexed doctrine, disordered practice, and disturbed both public and private quiet, in that a j;e, when
;

judge of the

subordination was broken, and

unsettled innovator,

when any who could hatch a half formed noiion, produced it to the public when every man might become a preach;

awe was hissed away

er,

and almost every preacher could collect a congregation.

in the parliament.

The wisdom of the nation is very reasonably supposed to reside What can be concluded of the lower classes of the people, when in one of the parliaments summoned by
Cromwell
it

was

seriously proposed, that

all

the records in the

tower should be burnt, that all memory of things past should be effaced, and that the whole system of life should commence

anew

We

use of mince pies and plum porridge rence those who could eat them at

have never been witnesses of animosities excited by the nor seen with what abhor;

all

other times of the year,

would shrink from them

was

alive in

An old puritan, who my childhood, being at one of the feasts of the church
in

December.

invited by a neighbour to partake his cheer, told him, that if

he

an alehouse with beer, brewed for all times and seasons, he should accept his kindness, but would have none

would

treat

him

at

of his superstitious meats or drinks.

*

The

Seventeenth.

K.

LIFE OP BUTLER.

One
chance

of the puritanical tenets was the illegality of all games of and he that reads Gataker upon Lots may see how ;
learning and reason one of the
to

thought necessary,

first scholars of his age prove that it was no crime to throw a die , or play at cards, or to hide a shilling for the reckoning. Astrology, however, against which so much of the satire is directed, was not more the folly of the puritans than of others.

much

It

had

in that

time a very extensive dominion.

Its predictions

raised hopes and fears in

minds which ought

to

have rejected

it

with contempt.

In hazardous undertakings, care was taken to begin under the influence" of a propitious planet ; and, when the

king was prisoner in Carisbrook castle, an astrologer was consulted what hour would be found most favourable to an escape.

What

effect this

poem had upon

the public, whether

it

shamed

imposture, or reclaimed credulity, is not easily determined. Cheats can seldom stand long against laughter. It is certain that the credit of planetary intelligence wore fast away ; though

some men of knowledge, and Dryden among them, continued

to

believe that conjunctions and oppositions had a great part in the distribution of good or evil, and in the government of sublunary
things.

Poetical action ought to be probable upon certain suppositions, and such probability as burlesque requires is here violated only by one incident. Nothing can show more plainly the* necessity

of doing something, and the difficulty of rinding something to do, than that Butler was reduced to transfer to his hero the flagellation of

Sancho; not the most agreeable

fiction of

Cervantes; very

suitable indeed to the

manners of

that age and nation,

which

ascribed wonderful efficacy to voluntary penances ; but so remote from the practice and opinions of the Hudibrastic time, that

judgment and imagination are

alike offended.

The

diction of this

poem

is

grossly familiar, and the

numbers

purposely neglected, except in a few places where the thoughts by their native excellence secure themselves from violation, being

such as

mean language

cannct express.

The mode

of versifi-

cation has been

blamed by Dryden, who regrets

that the heroic

measure was not rather chosen. To the critical sentence of Dryden the highest reverence would be due, were not his tied.
sions often precipitate, and his opinions

immature.

When

he

138
wished w illing
to

LIFE OF BUTLER.

change the measure, he probably would have been change more. If he intended that, when the numbers were heroic, the diction should still remain vulgar, he planned a If he preferred very heterogeneous and unnatural composition.
to

a general statclincss both of sound and words, he can be only understood to wish that Butler had undertaken a different work.
is quick, sprightly, and colloquial, suitable to the words and the levity of the sentiments. But of the vulgarity such numbers and such diction can gain regard only when they

The measure

are used by a writer

knowledge

entitle

him

whose vigour of fancy and copiousness of to contempt of ornaments, and who, in

confidence of the novelty and justness of his conceptions, can To another that aiVord to throw metaphors and epithets away.

conveys common thoughts in careless versification, be said, " Pauper vidcri Cinna vult, 8c est pauper."

it

will

only

The mean-

ing and diction will be worthy of each other, and criticism

justly

may

doom them to Nor even though

perish together. another Butler should arise, would another

Hudibras obtain the same regard. Burlesque consists in a disproportion between the style and the sentiments, or between the
adventitious sentiments and the fundamental subject. It therefore, like all bodies compounded of heterogeneous parts, contains
in
it

a principle of corruption.
is

and from what

unnatural

we

All disproportion is unnatural ; can derive only the pleasure

which novelty produces. We admire it awhile as a strange thing but, when it is no longer strange, we perceive its deformIt is a kind of artifice, which ity. by frequent repetition detects
;

itself

in time what he is to expect, lays book, as the spectator turns away from a second exhibition of those tricks, of which the only use is to show that they
;

and the reader, learning

down

iiis

can be played.

ROCHESTER.
JOHN' WILMOT,
Henry
afterward earl of Rochester, the son of

earl of Rochester, better

known by the

title

of lord Wilmot,

so often mentioned in Clarendon's history, was born April 10, 1 647, at Ditchley in Oxfordshire. After a grammatical education
at the school of Burford,

he entered a nobleman

into

Wadham

college in 1659, only twelve years old ; and in 1661, at fourteen, was, with some other persons of high rank, made master of arts

by lord Clarendon

in "person.

travelled afterward into France and Italy ; and at his return devoted himself to the court. In 1665 he went to sea with

He

Sandwich, and distinguished himself at Bergen -by uncommon and the next summer served again on board sir Edintrepidity
;

ward Spragge, who, in the heat of the engagement, having a message of reproof to send to one of his captains, could find no man ready to carry it but Wilmot, who, in an open boat, went
and returned amidst the storm of shot.

But

his reputation for bravery

was not

lasting

he was re-

proached with slinking away

and leaving his companions to shift as they could without him ; and Sheffield, duke of Buckingham, has left a story of his refusal to fight him.
in street quarrels,

had very early an inclination to intemperance, which he subdued in his travels ; but, when he became a courtier, he unhappily addicted himself to dissolute and vicious company, by which his principles were corrupted, and his manners detotally

He

praved. He lost all sense of religious restraint ; and, finding it not convenient to admit the authority of laws which he was resolved not to obey, sheltered his wickedness behind infidelity.

As he
wine

excelled in that noisy and licentious merriment which

companions eagerly encouraged him in excess, and he willingly indulged it till, as he confessed to Dr. Burnet, he was for five years together continually drunk, or so much inflamed by frequent ebriety, as in no interval to be master of
incites, his
;

himself.

VOL.

i.

19

LIFE OF ROCHESTER.
In this state he played many frolics, which it is not for his honour that we should remember, and which are not now disHe often pursued low amours in mean disguises, tinctly known.
ters

and always acted with great exactness and dexterity the characwhich he assumed.

He once erected a stage on Tower hill, and harangued the populace as a mountebank and, having made physic part of his study, is said to have practised it successfully.
;

He was
made one

so much in favour with king Charles, that he was of the gentlemen of the bed chamber, and comptroller

of Woodstock park. Having an active and inquisitive mind, he never, except in his paroxysms of intemperance, was wholly negligent of study he read what is considered as polite learning so much, that he is men;

tioned by Wood as the greatest scholar of all the nobility. Sometimes he retired into the country, and amused himself with writ-

ing

libels, in which he did not pretend to confine himself to truth. His favourite author in French was Boileau, and in English

Cowlcy.

Thus

in a

intervals of study perhaps

course of drunken gaiety, and gross sensuality, with yet more criminal, with an avow-

ed contempt of all decency and order, a total disregard to every moral, and a resolute denial of every religious obligation, he lived worthless and useless, and blazed out his youth and his health in
lavish voluptuousness
;

till,

at the

exhausted the fund of

life,

age of one and thirty, he had and reduced himself to a state of

weakness and decav. p

At
to
ions,

this

whom

he

time he was led to an acquaintance with Dr. Burnet, laid open with great freedom the tenor of his opinlife,

and the course of his

and from

whom

he received such

conviction of the reasonableness of moral duty, and the truth of Christianity, as produced a total change both of his manners and

The account of those salutary conferences is given by " Burnet, in a book, entitled, Some passages of the life and death of John earl of Rochester ;" which the critic ought to read for its elegance, the philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for iu
opinions.
piety.

He

It were an injury to the reader to ofier him an abridgment. died July 26, 1680, before he had completed his thirty
;

fourth year

and was so worn away by a long

illness, that

lif<r

went out without a struggle.

LIFE OF ROCHESTER.

Lord Rochester was eminent

wit,

for the vigour of his colloquial

sallies

and remarkable for many wild pranks and

of extrava-

gance.

The

his writings ; so often, were certain of attention, and from

itself upon glare of his general character diffused the compositions of a man whose name was heard

many

readers certain

of applause.

This blaze of reputation

is

not yet quite extinguish-

ed

and his poetry still retains some splendour beyond that which genius has bestowed.
;

Wood
imputed

and Burnet give us reason to believe, that much was I know not by whom to him which he did not write.

the original collection was made, or by what authority its genuThe first edition was published in the ineness was ascertained.

year of his death, with an air of concealment, professing in the title page to be printed at Antwerp. Of some of the pieces, however, there is no doubt. The imitation of

Horace's satire, the verses to lord Mulgrave, the satire the verses upon nothing, and perhaps some others, man, against are I believe genuine, and perhaps most of those which the late
collection exhibits.

As he

of continued study, his pieces are fit of resolution would produce.

cannot be supposed to have found leisure for any course commonly short, such as one

His songs have no particular character ; they tell, like other songs, in smooth and easy language, of scorn and khldness, dismission and desertion, absence and inconstancy, with the common
places of
artificial

courtship.

They

are

commonly smooth and

not inelegant, or un-

easy

but have

little

nature, and

little

sentiment.
is

His imitation of Horace on Lucilius

of Charles the second began that adaptation, happy. In the reign which has since been very frequent, of ancient poetry to present

times

and perhaps few

it is

will

better preserved than in this.

be found where the parallelism is The versification is indeed some-

times careless, but

sometimes vigorous and weighty.

The

He

is

strongest effort of his muse is his poem upon nothing. not the first who has chosen this barren topic for the boast
fertility.

of his
rat, a

There
critic

is

poem

called Nihil in Latin by Passe;

poet and

of the sixteenth century in France

who,
;

in his

own

epitaph, expresses his zeal for good poetry thus

Molliter ossa quiescent onerata malis.

Sint

modo carminibus non

u KK

OK norilESTER.
I shall

His works arc not common, and therefore

In examining this performance, nothing

subjoin his

must be considered

as having not only a negative, but a kind of positive Bonification ; lu-cd not frar thieves, I have nothing ; and nothing is a very as,
I

powerful protector.
negatively
;

In the

first

part of the sentence

it is

taken

in the

second
it

one of

JJoilcau's lines

taken positively, as an agent. In was a question, whether he should use a

it is

rictifctiffi
it

or a ncricn juirc
in

and the

first

gave rien a sense

its

some

sort positive.

was preferred because Nothing can be a subit

ject only in
first line
;

positive sense, ami such a sense is given

in the

Nothing,

tliou elder

brother ev'n to shade.

In this

line, I

know

not whether he does not allude to a curious

book

by Wowerus, which, having told the qualities of a poem in which are these lines ; with concludes ahade^

De Umbra,

Jam primum terram

validis

circumspice claustris

Suspcnsam totam, decus admirabile mundi Terrasque tractusque maris, camposque liquentes
Aeris et
vasti laqueata palatia coeli

Omnibus

UMBRA
is
;

prior.

The
through
si-

positive
thf)

sense

whole poem

generally preserved with great skill though sometimes, in a subordinate

is

use, the negative nothing confounds the two senses.

injudiciously mingled.

Passerat

Another of

his

most vigorous pieces

in a

is

his

lampoon on

sir

Car Scroop, who,

poem

called "

The

Praise of Satire," had

some

lines like these ;*

push into a midnight fray companion, and then run away, Leaving him to be murder'd in the street,
llisbravi-

lie \\lio can

Then
Him,

put it off with some buffoon conceit ; thus dishonour'*], for a wit you own,

And

court him as top tiddler of the town.

conceit was, I suppose, a saying often mentioned, that every man would be a coward i f he durst; and drew from him those furious verses;
*

This was meant of Rochester, whose buffoon

quote from

memory.

Dr. J.

LIFE OF ROCHESTER.
to

143

which Scroop made

;

in reply an epigram, ending with these

lines

Thou canst hurt no man's fame with thy ill word Thy pen is full as harmless as thy sword.

Of the

satire against man-,

all

mains when

Boileau's part

Rochester can only claim what reis taken away.

In all his works there is sprightliness and vigour, and every where may be found tokens of a mind which study might have carried to excellence. What more can be expected from a life
spent in ostentatious contempt of regularity, and ended before the of many other men began to be displayed ?*

abilities

POEMA

Cl.

V.

JOANNIS PASSERATII,

REGII IN ACADEMIA PARISIENSI PROFESSORIS.

AD ORNATISSIMUM VIRUM ERRICUM MEMMIUM.

Janus adest,
festse

poscunt sua dona Kalendse,

ahest festis quod possim offerre Kalendis. Siccine Oastalius nobis exaruit humor ?

Munus

Usque adeo ingenii nostri est exhausta facultas, Irnmunem ut videat redeuntis janitor anni
?

Quod nusquam
Invenit

est, potius

nova per vestigia quseram.

Ecce autem partes dum sese versat in omnes mea Musa NIHIL, ne despice munus.
j

Nam NIHIL est gemmis, NIHIL est pretiosius auro. Hue animum, hue igitur vultus adverte benignos
quse nulli audita priorum. Ausonii Sc Graii dixerunt ctetera vates,

Res nova narratur

Ausonise indictum

NIHIL

est Grsecseque Camcenae.

quacunque Ceres sua prospicit arva, Aut genitor liquidis orbem compleetitur ulnis
coslo

Oceanus, NIHIL interitus et originis expers. Immortale NIHIL, NIHIL omni parte beatum.

Quod Num.

si

hinc majestas & vis divina probatur, quid honore deiim, num quid dignabimur aris
lucis

Conspectu

NIHIL,

est jucundius almse,

Vere NIHIL, NIHIL

In bello sanctum
*

irriguo formosius horto, Florid ius pratis, Zephyri clernentius aura ;

NIHIL

est,

Martisque tumultu

The late George Steevens, Esq. made the selection of Rochester's poems which appears in Dr. Johnson's edition but Mr. Malone observes, that the same task had been performed in the early part of the last century by
;

Jacob Tonson.

C.

144
Justum
in

LIFE OF HOCHKSTKR.
pace NIHIL,

NIHIL

est in fojdere

tutum

lYlix cui

NIHIL

est,
;

Non

timet insidias

fuerant hiec votu Tibullo, furcs, incendia temnit;

Sollicitas scquitur nullo sub judice lites.

Hie ipsc invictis qui subjicit omnia

Zenoiiis siiniuis,

fatis
fcc

NIHIL ndmiratur

optat.

Socratici(|ue grcgis fuit ista scicntia quondam, Scirc NIHIL, studio cui mine incumbitur uni.

Nee

r|uic([iiaiu in

Ad magnas
Nosce Grano

ludo mavult didicisse juvcntug, quia ducit opes, & eulinen hoaorum. NIHIL, nosces fertur quod Pythagorese

hie re re fabce, cui

frcti

vox adjuucta negantis.

terrse

Multi VIcrcurio

dnce viscera

Pura liquet'aciunt simul, & patrimouia raiscent, Arcano instant es open, & carbonibus atris,
Qui
taridcni cxhuusti

damnls, fractique labore,

InviMiiunt atquc inventum JJIHIL usque requirunt. Hoc dimcliri non ulla dcccmpeda possit;

Ncc numerct Libyc niimerum qui callet aren Et Phcebo ig-notum NIHIL cat, NIHIL altius astris. Tuque, tibi licet cximium sit mentis acumen, Omnem in naturam pcnetrans, et in abdita rerum, Pace tua, Meinmi, NIHIL ignorare videris. Sole tamen NIHIL est, & puro clarius igne.
;

Tange NIHIL, dicesque NIHIL sine corpore tangi. Cerne NIHIL, cerni dices XIHIL absque colore.

Surdum

audit loquiturque

NIHIL

sine voce, volatque

Absque ope pennaruni, &t graditur sine cruribus ullis. Absque loco motuque NIHIL per inane vagatur.

Humano generi utilius NIHIL arte mcdendi. Ne rhombos igitur, neu Thessala murmura tentet
Idalia

Neu

vacuum trajectus arundine pectus, legal Idaeo Dictseum in verticc gramen.

Vulneribus s*vi

NIHIL

auxiliatur amoris.

Vexerit

Ad

qucmvis trans mcestas portitor undas, superos imo NIHIL hunc revocabit ab orco.

Inferni

NIHIL

inflectit

pracordia regis,

Parcarumque

colos,

inexorabile pensum.

Obruta Phlegrais campis Titania pubes Fulmineo scusit NIHIL esse potentius ictu
Porrigitur magni

NIHIL
Virtute
est;

extra mosnia

mundi

Diique

NIHIL metuuut.
?

Quid longo carmiue plura

Commemorem
Splendidius

NIHIL

NIHIL praestantius ipsa, NIHIL est Jove denique

;

majus.

Scd tempus finem argutis imponere nugis Ne tibi si multa laudem mea carmina charta,

De NIHILO NIHILJ

pariaut tastidia versus.

ROSCOMMON.

WENT WORTH DILLON,

Stratford,

earl of

Roscommon, was the soa

of James Dillon and Elizabeth Wentworth, sister to the earl of Strafford. He was born in Ireland* during the lieutenancy of
his

own sirname.

who, being both his uncle and his godfather, gave him His father, the third earl of Roscommon, had
to the protestant religion
;

been converted by Usher

and when

the popish rebellion broke out, Strafford thinking the family in great danger from the fury of the Irish, sent for his godson, and

placed

him
;

at his

own

seat in Yorkshire,

where he was instructed

it

which he learned so elegance, though he was never

in Latin

as to write

with purity and

able to retain the rules of

gram-

mar.

Such is the account given by Mr. Fenton, from whose notes on Waller, most of this account must be borrowed, though I know not whether all that he relates is certain. The instructor

whom
cannot

he assigns to Roscommon, is one Dr. /&//, by whom he mean the famous Hall, then an old man and a bishop.
the storm broke out upon Strafford, his house was and Dillon, by the advice of Usher, was sent ;
university, and con-

When
to Caen,

a shelter no longer

where the protestants had then an

Dillon,

tinued his studies under Bochart.

Young
is

who was

sent to study under Bochart, and

who
to

represented as having already

made

great proficiency in literStrafford

ature, could not fre

more than nine

years old.

went

govern Ireland in 1633, and was put to death eight years afterward. That he was sent to Caen, is certain ; that he was a great scholar, may be doubted.

At Caen he
*

is said to

have had some preternatural intelligence

of his father's death.

The

Blog. rJritan. says, probably about the year 1632; but this

is

inr.,

insistent, with the date of Stratford's viceroyalty in the following page,

14G
"

LIFE OF

HOSCOMMON.
a boy often years of age, at
it

The
i
i

lord

Roscommon, being

Cat-,,

\ormandy, one day was,

as

were, madly extravagant

in pitying, leaping, getting over the tables, boards, Jkc. wont '> be sober enough ; they said, God grant this bodes
>

He was
no
ill

i/nn

M
who

In the heat of this extravagant

./,;///,;

/.s

drad.

fortnight after,

he cries out, news came from Ireland

fit,

tlu-t liis
vvat,

father

was dead.
and

This account
witii

had from Mr. Knolles,

;

his governor,
;

and then
I

him

since secretary

to

the earl of Strufford

have heard his lordship's relations

confirm the same.'*

Aubrey's Miscellany.

present age is very little inclined to favour any accounts of this kind, nor will the name of Aubrey much recommend it
to credit
;

The

it

ought
fact

not,

however, to be omitted, because better

cannot easily be found than is here offered ; and it must be by preserving such relations that we may at last If we stay to examjudge how much they are to be regarded. here is ine this account, we shall sec difficulties on both sides
evidence of a
;

a relation of a fact given by a

man who had no interest to deceive,

is,

ami

who
is

could not be deceived himself; and here

;

on the

other hand, a miracle which produces no effect

nature
event, the knowledge of
revealed.

the order of

interrupted, to discover not a future, but only a distant

which

is

of no use to

him

to

whom

it is
?

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 Do not wholly slight them, because they or anticipations as this
;

muy

be true

but do not easily trust them, because they

may

be

The
that he

state

who was

both of England and Ireland was, at this time such, absent from either country had very little temp;

tation to return

travelled into Italy, and

and therefore Roscommon, amused himself with

when he
its

left

antiquities,

Caen, and
skill.

particularly with medals, in

which he acquired uncommon

At the

restoration, with the other friends of

monarchy, he

came

to England, was made captain of the band of pensioners, and learned so much of the dissoluteness of the court, that he addicted himself immoderately to gaming, by which he was en-

gaged

in

frequent quarrels, and which undoubtedly brought upon

him

its

usual concomitants, extravagance and distress.

UFE
Into Ireland,
tain

OF ROSCOMMON.
him

After some time, a dispute about part of his estate forced

where he was made, by the duke of Ormond, capof the guards, and met with an adventure thus related by

Fenton. " He was at Dublin as

much

as ever distempered with the

which engaged him in one advenAs he returned to his ture that well deserves to be related. in the dark by attacked he was lodgings from a gaming table,

same

fatal affection

for play,

three ruffians,

defended himself with so

who were employed to assassinate him. The earl much resolution, that he despatched
;

one of the aggressors, whilst a gentleman, accidentally passing the third secured that way, interposed, and disarmed another
himself by
cer, of a
flight.

This generous

assistant
;

was a disbanded
who, by what we

offi-

good family and

fair reputation

call

the 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 gen-

tleman enjoyed, and, upon his death, the duke returned the commission to his generous benefactor."

When

he had finished his business, he returned

to the dutchess of

to
;

was made master of the horse

York

London ; and mar-

ried the lady Frances, daughter of the earl of Burlington, and

widow of colonel Courteney. He now busied his mind with

literary projects,

and formed the

plan of a society for refining our language, and fixing its standard ; in imitation, says Fenton, of those learned and polite societies In this design his with which he had been acquainted abroad.
friend

Dry den

is

said to

have assisted him.

Dr. Swift design, it is well known, was revived by since been never has but it in the ministry of Oxford ; publicly

The same

mentioned, though

by some of

at that time great expectations were formed Such a society establishment and its effects. be collected ; but that might, perhaps, without much difficulty, what is expected from it, may be doubted. it would
its

produce

The
VOL.

Italian

academy seems
20

to

have obtained
it

its

end.

The
little.

language was
I.

refined, and so fixed that

has changed but

145

LT1

01-

I105CO.MMOX.

The French academy

they fixed
it
;

and doubtless thought rightly

for the

thought that they refined their language, but the event has not shown that
;

French of the present lime

century.

is

very differ-

ent from that of the

In this country an

last

If an academician's place
terest; if

academy could be expected to do but little. were profitable, it would be given by inattendance were gratuitous, it would be rarely paid,
the least disgust.

and no

man would endure

Unanimity

is

im-

and debute would separate the assembly. But suppose the philological decree made and promulgated, what would be its authority ? In absolute governments, there is
possible,

sometimes a general reverence paid

to all that has the sanction

of power, and the countenance of greatness. the state of our country needs not to be told.
in

How

little

this is

We
all

live in

an age

which

it is

a kind of public sport to refuse

respect that can-

not be enforced.

The

edicts of an English

ably be read by many, only that

academy would probthey might be sure to disobey

them.
is in perpetual danger of corruption canbut what prevention can be found ? The present manners of the nation would deride authority ; and therefore

That our language

;

not be denied

nothing is left but that every writer should criticise himself. All hopes of new literary institutions were quickly suppressed

by the contentious turbulence of king James's reign

and Ros-

common, foreseeing
at

that

some

violent concussion of the state

was

hand, purposed to retire to Rome, alleging, that it ii'cis best to sit near the chimney ivlicn the chantbcr smoked ; a sentence, of

which the application seems not very clear. His departure was delayed by the gout and he was so impatient cither of hinderance or of pain, that he submitted him;

self to a

French empiric, who

is

said to have repelled the disease

into his bowels.

At

the

moment

in

which he expired, he uttered, with an en-

ergy of voice that expressed the most fervent devotion, two lines of his own version of Dies Irce.

My
Do

Cod,

my

fjithcr, in

and

my

friend,

not forsake rue

;

my

end.

He

died in 1684

and was buried with great

pomp

in

West-

minster Abbey.

LIFE OF ROSCOMMON.
His

149

poetical character is given by Mr. Fentoii. " In his " we view the writings," says Fenton, image of a mind which was naturally serious and solid ; richly furnished and
all the ornaments of learning, unaffectedly disposed most regular and elegant order. His imagination might have probably been more fruitful and sprightly, if his judgment had been less severe. But thut severity, delivered in a mascu-

adorned with

in the

line, clear, succinct style, 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

fire to attain

writing his genius seems to have wanted of perfection but who can attain it ?"
;

the point

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 surprised to find that
all

the proofs of his genius,

and knowledge, and judgment, are not

sufficient to

form a single

book, or to appear otherwise than in conjunction with the works of some other writer of the same petty size ?* But thus it is that
characters are written
;

we know somewhat, and we imagine

would probably

the rest.

The

observation, that his imagination

fruitful

and sprightly if his judgment had been less severe, may be answered, by a remarker somewhat inclined to cavil, by a contrary supposition, that his judgment would probably have been less severe, if his imagination had been more It is ridiculous to oppose judgment to imagination ; for fruitful. it does not appear that men have necessarily less of one as they

have been more

have more of the other.

We
ed so
*

distinctly as

must allow of Roscommon, what Fenton has not mentionhe ought, and what is yet very much to his

urae, in 1717.

They were published, together with those of Duke, in an octavo vol. The editor, whoever he was, professes to have taken great

care to procure and insert all of his lordship's poems that are truly genuThe truth of this assertion is flatly denied hy the author of an account of Mr John Pomfret, prefixed to his remains who asserts, that the Prosine.
;

nect of Death was written by that person many years after lord Roscomraon's decease as also, that the paraphrase of the prayer of Jeremy AVSS written by a gentleman of the name of Southcourt, living in the year
;

1724,

H.

JO

LIFI-:

OF ROSCO.MMON.

honour, that he is perhaps the only correct writer in verse before and that, if there are not so many or so great beauties Acklison
;

in his compositions as in those of

at leant fewer faults.

Nor is him as the has celebrated Pope

reign.

this his highest praise

some contemporaries, there are for Mr.

;

only moral writer of king Charles's

Unhappy Drydcu Koscommon only

in all

Charles's days,

boasts unspotted lays.

;

His great work

is

his

Essay on Translated Verse

of which

Dryclen writes thus in the preface to his Miscellanies. " It was my lord Roscommon's Essay on Translated Verse,*' " which made me says Diyden, uneasy, till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the
speculation into practice.
like a

For many
in

seeming demonstration

a fair precept in poetry is mathematics, very specious in

I

the diagram, but failing in the mechanic operation. I am sure have generally observed his instructions
;

think I

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 Dryclen will, I am afraid, be found liule more than one of those cursory civilities which one author pays
;

to another
collected,

for

when the sum of lord Roscommon's precepts

be easy to discover

is

they can qualify their reader for a better performance of translation than might have
it

will not

how

been attained by
and confine
it

his

own
his

reflections.

the poetry, of the precepts, will find no other direction than that the author should be suitable to the translato the sense
tor's

He that can abstract

mind from the elegance of

tion

genius that he

that

who
;

understand him

he should be such as may deserve a translahim should endeavour to that perspicuity should be studied, and unusual
intends to translate
;

and uncouth names sparingly inserted and that the style of the original should be copied in its elevation and depression. These
are the rules that arc celebrated as so definite and important ; and for the delivery of which to mankind so much honour has

been paid. Roscommon has indeed deserved his praises, had they been given with discernment, and bestowed not on the rules

LIFE OF ROSCOMMON.

151

themselves, but the art with which they are introduced, and the decorations with which they are adorned The essay, though generally excellent, is not without its faults.
.
.

The

story of the quack,

;

borrowed from Boileau, was not worth

the importation
thology.

he has confounded the British and Saxon myfrom some mossy

I grant that

idol oak,

In double rhymes, our Thor and

Woden

spoke.

think Giklon has observed, belonged to the British druicls, and Thor and Woden were Saxon deities. Of the
I

The

oak, as

double rhymes, which he so had liberally supposes, he certainly no knowledge. His interposition of a long paragraph of blank verses is un-

warrantably licentious.

Latin poets might as well have introduc-

ed a series of iambics among- their heroics. His next work is the translation of the art of poetry
has received,
in
left

which

my

opinion, not less praise than

to
;

it

deserves.

Blank verse,

merely

its

numbers, has

little

operation

either on the ear or

mind

it

can hardly support

itself

without

A poem frigidly didactic, bold figures and striking images. without rhyme, is so near to prose, that the reader only scorns it
for pretending to be verse.

Having disentangled himself from the

difficulties

of rhyme, he

may

expected to give the sense of Horace with great exactness, and to suppress no subtility of sentiment for the diffiThis demand, however, his translation culty of expressing it.
justly be
will not satisfy
;

Avhat

he found obscure,

do not know that he and the Dten Dies

Ir<z
is

has ever cleared.

Among

his smaller works, the eclogue of Virgil

;

Ir<K are well translated

though the best

line in the

borrowed from Dryden. In return, succeeding poets have borrowed from Roscommon.
offensively confounded

In the verses on the lap dog, the pronouns thou and you are and the turn at the end is from Waller. ;

His versions of the two odes of Horace are made with great liberty, which is not recompensed by much elegance or vigour.

His

political verses are sprightly,

and when they v/ere written

must have been very popular.

UI-T.

UK KOSCOMMON.

Of

Philips, in
history.

the scene of Guarini, and the prologue to Poinftcy, Mrs. her letters to sir Charles Cottcrel, has given the
"
certainly one of the

" Lord

Roscommon,"

says she,

is

most

promising young noblemen in Ireland. He has paraphrased a psalm admirably and a scene of Paster Fido very finely, in
;

some

places

much

better than sir Richard Fanshaw.

This was

undertaken merely in compliment to me, who happened to say that it was the best scene in Italian, and the worst in EnglishHe was only two hours about it. It begins thus
;

" Dear happy groves, and you the dark retreat

Of silent

horror, rest's eternal seat."

From

these lines, which arc since

pears that he did not think a

somewhat mended, it apwork of two hours fit to endure the

eye of criticism without revisal. When Mrs. Philips was in Ireland, some ladies that had seen her translation of Pompey, resolved to bring
it

on the stage

at

Dublin

and, to

promote

their design, lord

Roscommon gave

a prologue, and sir Edward Bering an epilogue; "which," " are the best performances of those kinds I ever saw.'* says she, The thought of If this is not criticism, it is at least gratitude.

them

bringing Cesar and

Pompey

into Ireland,
is

the only country over

which Cesar never had any power,

be right.

lucky.

Of Roscommon's works, the judgment of the public seems to He is elegant, but not great he never labours after
;

His exquisite beauties, and he seldom falls into gross faults. versification is smooth, but rarely vigorous, and his rhymes arc remarkably exact. He improved taste, if he did not enlarge
knowledge, and may be numbered among the benefactors
English
This
literature.*
life

to

Magazine, tnr vilh tlu- K M.

was originally -written by Dr. Johnson, in the Gentleman's May 1748. It then had notes, which arc now incorporated
'

OTWAY.

THOMAS OTWAY,
drama,
little is

one of the
nor
is

first

names

in the

English

known
at

there any part of that

little

which

his biographer can take pleasure in relating.

He

was born

Trottin in Sussex,

March

3,

1651, the son of

Mr. Humphrey Otway, rector of Woolbecling. From Winchester school, where he was educated, he was entered, in 1669, a

commoner

of Christ church

but

left

the university without a

degree, whether for want of money, or from impatience of academical restraint, or mere eagerness to mingle with the world,
is

not known.
It

uous

likely that he was in hope of being busy and conspiche went to London, and commenced player but found himself unable to gain any reputation on the stage.* This kind of inability he shared with Shakespeare and Jonson,

seems
;

for

as he shared likewise

some

of their excellences.

It

seems

rea-

sonable to expect that a great dramatic poet should without difactor ; that he who can feel, could exficulty become a great can excite passion, should exhibit with great who he that press ; readiness its external modes ; but since experience has fully

whatever be their affinity, one may proved, that of those powers, be possessed in a great degree by him who has very little of the other ; it must be allowed that they depend upon different faculor on different use of the same faculty ; that the actor must have a pliancy of mien, a flexibility of countenance, and a variety or of tones, which the poet may be easily supposed to want differenthave been and the of the attention the that player poet the one has been considering thought, and the ly employed one has watched the heart, and the other contemother action
ties,
; ; ;

plated the face.

* In Roschts
it -was

Jnglicanns,ty Downes,the prompter,

p. 34, \\e learn, that

the character of the king, in Mrs. Behn's Forced Marriage, or the

ia.

Jealous Bridegroom, which Mr. Otway attempted to perform, and failed This event appears to have happened in the year 1672. R.

I34i

Lire OF
could not gain

OTWAY.
notice as a player,
for a

Though he
in 1675, his

much

he

felt
;

in

himself such powers us might qualify

dramatic author

and,

twenty fifth year, produced McibiadcX) a tragedy; whether from the Atdbiadc of Pulafirat, I have not means to in-

quire.

Langbair., the great detector of plagiarism, is silent. In 1677, he published Titus and Berenice, translated from Rapin, with the Cheats of Scafri;:, from Molicre ; and in 1678,
nihhiji in Faxhion, a

comedy, which, whatever might be

its

first

reception, was,

upu>i its revival at

Drury Lane,

in

1749,

oil' the stage for immorality and obscenity. "Want of morals, or of decency, did not in those days exclude any man from the company of the wealthy and the gay, if he

hissed

brought with him any powers of entertainment and Otway is said to have been at this time a favourite companion of the dis;

solute wits.

But as he who desires no virtue

in himself, these

in his

companion,

has no virtue

whom Otway
;

frequented had no

purpose of doing more for him than to pay his reckoning. They their fondness was without bedesired only to drink and laugh

Men of wit, nevolence, and their familiarity without friendship. received at that time no favour says one of Otway's biographers,
great, but to share their riots ; from which they were Thus they dismissed again to their own narrow circu?nstances. the su/ijwrt of eminence. without in fioverty, languished

from the

Some exception, however, must be made. The earl of Plymouth, one of king Charles's natural sons, procured for him a. cornet's commission in some troops then sent into Flanders. But
did not prosper in his military character for he soon left commission behind him, whatever was the reason, and came which Rochester menback to London in extreme indigence

Otway
his

tions with merciless insolence in the Session of the Poets.

Tom Otway <-amc next, Tom Shad well's dear '/any, Anil swears for heroirs he writes best of any ;
Don That
pockets so amply had fdl'd, quite curd, and his lice were Hut Apollo had seen his face on the stage,
<

':u-Ios Iiis

Iiis

mange Mas

all kill'd.

Ami prudi-nlh The scum of a

did not think

lit

to

engage

play house, for the prop of an age.

is

Don
so

Carlos,

from which he

much

benefit,

was played

in 1675.

represented as having received It appears, by the lam-

LIFE OF

OTWAY.

155

is said to have been played This, however, it is reasonable to cloufit, as so long a continuance of one play upon the stage is a very wide deviation from the practice of that time ; when the ardour

poon, to have had great success, and

thirty nights together.

for theatrical entertainments

was not yet diffused through the whole people, and the audience, consisting nearly of the same persons, could be drawn together only by variety. The Or/ihan was exhibited in 1680. This is one of the few
plays that keep possession of the stage, and has pleased for almost a century, through all the vicissitudes of dramatic fashion.

nothing new can easily be said. It is a domestic Its whole power is upon the tragedy drawn from middle life. affections ; for it is not written with much comprehension of
this play,

Of

thought, or elegance of expression.

But

if the

heart

is

interested,

many other beauties may be wanting, yet not be missed. The same year produced " The History and Fail of Caius Marius ;" much of which is borrowed from the " Romeo and
Juliet" of Shakespeare.

In 1683* was published the

" parts of

first,

The

Soldier's Fortune,"

and next yearf the second, two comedies now forgotten ;

and

in 1685 \ his last and greatest dramatic work, " Venice Preserved," a tragedy, which still continues to be one of the favourites of the public, notwithstanding the want of morality in the

original design, and the despicable scenes of vile comedy with which he has diversified his tragic action. By comparing this

with his Orfihan,

it

will

appear that his images were by time

become

stronger, and his language

more

energetic.

The

strik-

ing passages are in every mouth ; and the public seems to judge rightly of the faults and excellences of this play, that it is the

work of a man not

but of one

who

attentive to decency, nor zealous for virtue ; conceived forcibly, and drew originally, by con-

sulting nature in his

own

breast.

Together with those

of the Triumvirate.
for

plays,

he wrote the poems which are

in

the late collection, and translated from the French the History All this was performed before he was thirty four years old ; he died Apdl 14, 1685, in a manner which I am unwilling
* 1081.

t 1684.

t 1682.

TOL.J.

21

156
to mention.

Ul-'K

OF OTWAV.

tract debts, and hunted, as is supposed,

he retired

to

Having been compelled by his necessities to conby the terriers of the law, a public house on Tower hill, where he is said to
or, as is related

have died of want;

by one of his biogiaphers,

by swallowing, had supplied.

after a

He

a piece of bread which charity went out, as is reported, almost naked, in the

long

fast,

rage of hunger, and finding a gentleman in a neighbouring cofThe gentleman gave him a feehouse, asked him for a shilling. guinea ; and Otway going away bought a with the first mouthful. All this, I hope,
roll,

and was choaked

;

is

not true

and there

is this ground of better hope, that Pope, who lived near enough to be well informed, relates in Spence's Memorials, that he died

of a fever caught by violent pursuit of a thief that had robbed one of his friends.

But

that indigence,

and

its

concomitants, sorrow

and despondency, pressed hard upon him, has never been denied, whatever immediate cause might bring him to the grave.

Of the poems which

stand
;

the Poet's Comfilaint of his Muse, part of which

the late collection admits, the longest is I do not underis less

and in that which

obscure, I find

little

to

commend.

The language is often gross, and the numbers are harsh. Otway had not much cultivated versification, nor much replenished
his

mind with general knowledge. His principal power was in moving the passions, to which Dryden*in his latter years left an illustrious testimony. He appears, by some of his verses, to have been a zealous royalist, and had what was in those times the

common reward
*

of loyalty

he lived and died neglected.

Dr. J.

In his preface to Fresnoy's Jin of Painting.

WALLER.

EDMUND WALLER was born on the

at Coishill in Hertfordshire.

quire, of

Agmondesham,

in

third of March, 1605, His father was Robert Waller, esBuckinghamshire, whose family was
;

originally a branch of the Kentish

the daughter of John

ty,

and

sister

His father

Wallers and his mother was Hampden, of Hampden in the same counto Hampden, the zealot of rebellion. died while he was yet an infant, but left him a
;

yearly income of three thousand five hundred pounds rating together the value of money and the customs of

which

life,

we

reckon more than equivalent to ten thousand time.

may

at the

present

He

was educated, by the care of

to

removed afterward

his mother, at Eaton ; and King's college in Cambridge. He was

sent to parliament in his eighteenth, if not in his sixteenth year, and frequented the court of James the first, where he heard a

Very remarkable conversation, which the writer of the life prefixed to his works, who seems to have been well informed of
facts,

though he may sometimes err

in chronology, has delivered

as indubitably certain.

found Dr. Andrews, bishop of inchester, and Dr. behind his of Durham, standing majesty's chair ; Neale, bishop and there happened something extraordinary,'* continues this u in the conversation those had with the
writer,

"

He

prelates

king,

on which Mr. Waller did often

*

reflect.

His majesty asked the

bishops,

My

lords, cannot I take

all this

want

it,

without

my subjects' money when I ' formality of parliament ? The bishop of

<

Durham

readily answered,

God

forbid, sir, but

you should

you

are the breath of our

said to the bishop of

nostrils.*

Whereupon
*

the king turned, and

Winchester,
I

you

?*

<

Sir,'

replied the bishop,

Well, my lord, what say have no skill to judge of par<

liamentary cases.'

The king

answered,

No

put

qffs,

my lord.;

lo&
answer
for

Mn; OF \\ALLEK
me
'

presently.'

Then,

sir,'

said he,

'

think
for

it is

lawful
7

you to take my brother Neale's money ; Mr. Waller said, the company was pleased with
the wit of ing
in
it

he offers it. this answer, and

seemed

to affect the

king

for,
'

a certain lord

com-

Oh my lord, they say soon after, his majesty cried out, ' No, sir,' says his lordship in confusion ; you lig with my lady.' ' ' \\ hy but I like her company, because she has so much wit.'
then,' says the king,
'

do you not

lig

with

my

lord of

Winches-

ter there r"

Waller's

political

his eighteenth year

and poetical life began nearly together. In he wrote the poem that appears first in his

works, on "the prince's escape at St. Andero ;" a piece which

justifies the observation

made by one

of his editors, that he attainwill

od, by a felicity like instinct, a style

which perhaps

never be

obsolete

and

that,

" were

we

to at

could not

know what was wrote By

judge only by the wording, we twenty, and what at fourscore."

such as
it

His

versification was, in his first essay,

appears in

his last performance.

the perusal of Fairfax's translation of Tasso, to which, as Dryden* relates, he confessed himself indebted for the smoothness of his numbers, and by his own nicety of

observation, he had already formed such a system of metrical

harmony as he never afterward much needed, or much endeavoured to improve. Denham corrected his numbers by experience, and gained ground gradually upon the ruggedness of his age ; but what was acquired by Denham, was inherited by Waller. The next poem, of which the subject seems to fix the time,
is

supposed by Mr. Fenton to be the address to the queen, which he considers as congratulating her arrival, in Waller's twentieth
year.

He
she

is

apparently mistaken

for the

mention of the nation's

it

obligations to her frequent pregnancy, proves that

was written

when

had brought many children.

We

have therefore

no date of any other poetical production before that which the of the duke of Buckingham occasioned ; the steadiness with which the king received the news in the chapel, deserved

murder

indeed to be rescued from oblivion.

ooulcl

Neither of these pieces that seem to carry their own dates, have been the sudden effusion of fancy. In the verses OH
?lacc to his fables.

Dr.

J.

LIFE OF WALLEK.

159

ihe prince's escape, the prediction of his marriage with the princess of France, must have been written alter the event ; in the
other, the promises of the king's kindness to the descendants of

Buckingham, which could not be properly praised till it had appeared by its effects, show that time was taken for revision and improvement. It is not known that they were published till
they appeared long afterward with ociier poems. Waller was not one of those idolaters of praise
their

who

cultivate

Rich as he was the expense of their fortunes. to care took he early by inheritance, grow richer, by marrying Mrs. Banks, a great heiress in the city, whom the interest of the

minds

at

court was employed to obtain for Mr. Crofts. Having brought him a son, who died young, and a daughter, who was afterward

married

to

und

left

him

Mr. Dormer of Oxfordshire, she died in childbed, a widower of about five and twenty, gay and wealthy?

to please

Being too young

himself with another marriage. to resist beauty, and probably too vain to think

himself resistible, he fixed his heart, perhaps half fondly and half ambitiously, upon the lady Dorothea Sidney, eldest daughter of the earl of Leicester, whom he courted by all the poetry in

which Sacharissa

is

celebrated
,

the

name

is

derived from the

Latin appellation of sugar and implies, if it means any thing, a such as excites rather spiritless mildness, and dull good nature,
tenderness than esteem, and such as, though always treated with kindness, is never honoured or admired.

Yet he describes Sacharissa as a sublime predominating beauty, of lofty charms, and imperious influence, on whom he looks with amazement rather than fondness, whose chains he wishes, though
in vain, to break,

and whose presence

this

is

wine that inflames

to

madne&s.

His acquaintance with

high born

dame gave

wit no oppor-

she was not to be subdued by tunity of boasting its influence ; the powers of verse, but rejected his addresses, it is said, with disdain, and drove him away to solace his disappointment with

Amoret

or Phillis.

She married
in the

in

1639 the earl of Sunderland.

;

who

died at

Newberry

king's cause

and, in her old

somewhere with Waller, asked him when he age, meeting " When you are as would again write such verses upon her ; " were as then," handsome as said and he,. yon madam,"
Coving,

160

LIFE OF WALLER.

In this part of his life it was that he was known to Clarendoftj g the rest of the men who were eminent in that age for

and literature
they who

but

known

so

little

to his advantage, that

read his character will not

much condemn
to his

SacharUsa,

that she did not descend

from her rank

embraces, nor

think eve, y excellence comprised in wit. The lady was, indeed, inexorable ; but his

uncommon

qualifi-

cations, though they had no power upon her, recommended him and undoubtedly many beauties of to the scholars and statesmen
;

that time,

however they might receive

his praises.

Who

they were,

whom

his love, were proud of he dignifies with poetical

names, cannot now be known. Amoret, according to Mr. Fenton, was the lady Sophia Murray. Perhaps by traditions preserved
in families

more may be discovered.

it

From

the verses written at Penshurst,

has been collected

;

that he diverted his disappointment by a

voyage
it

and his biog-

raphers, from his

that he visited the

poem on

the whales, think

;

not improbable

that he should

Bermudas but it seems much more likely amuse himself with forming an imaginary scene,
visit to

than that so important an incident, as a

America, should
he wrote his

have been

left floating in

conjectural probability.

From

his twenty eighth to his thirty fifth year,

pieces on the reduction of Sallec ; on the reparation of St. Paul's ; to the king on his navy ; the panegyric on the queen mother ;
the two

poems

to the earl of

Northumberland

and perhaps

others, of

which the time cannot be discovered.

"When he had lost all hopes of Sacharissa, he looked round him for an easier conquest, and gained a lady of the family of
Bresse, or Breaux.

The time

of his marriage is not exactly

known.
poetry
;

It

has not been discovered that his wife was

is

won by

his

many

any thing told of her, but that she brought him children. He doubtless praised some whom he would

nor

have been afraid to marry, and perhaps married one

whom

he

would have been ashamed

to domestic

Many qualities contribute happiness, upon which poetry has no colours to

many
airs

to praise.

bestow

and

and

sallies

may

which he who

flatters

them never can approve.

distant

delight imagination, There are

charms made only

nobler than a bla/c.

for

admiration.

No

spectacle

is

LIFE OP WALLER.

161
gave him

Of this
five sons

wife, his biographers have recorded that she

and eight daughters.

interval of parliament,

During the long

living

he

is

among

those with

whom

it

was most honourable

represented as to con-

verse, and enjoying an exuberant fortune with that independence and liberty of speech and conduct which wealth ought always to produce. He was, however, considered as the kinsman of Hamp-

den, and

was therefore supposed by the courtiers not

the parliament was called, in 1640,
political character

to favour

them.

When
Waller's

it appeared that had not been mistaken. The king's

demand

ot a supply,

disaffection

produced one of those noisy speeches which and discontent regularly dictate ; a speech filled with

he,

hyperbolical complaints of imaginary grievances ; " They," says " who think themselves already undone, can never appre-

hend themselves

in

danger

and they

who have nothing

left

can

never give freely."

Political truth is equally in

danger from the

praises of courtiers, and the exclamations of patriots.

He
its

then proceeds

to rail at

of a favourable audience.

His topic

the clergy, being sure at that time is such as will always serve

purpose ; an accusation of acting and preaching only for preferment ; and he exhorts the commons carefully to provide for
their protection against pulpit law.

always gratifies curiosity to trace a sentiment. Waller has speech quoted Hooker in one passage ; and in another has " " copied him without quoting. Religion," says Waller, ought to be the first thing in our purpose and desires ; but that which
It

in this

is first in

dignity is not always to precede in order of time ; for well being supposes a being ; and the first impediment which

men

naturally endeavour to remove,

is

the want of those things

without which they cannot subsist. God first assigned unto Adam maintenance of life, and gave him a title to the rest of the creatures before he appointed a law to observe."

Adam," says Hooker, " maintenance of True it is, that life, and then appointed him a law to observe. the kingdom of God must be the first thing in our purpose and

"

God

first

assigned

desires

but inasmuch as a righteous

as to live virtuously
first
it

life

presupposeth

life,

in;

asmuch

therefore the

impossible, except we live which naturally we endeavour to impediment

is

1(32

LIFE OF
is JJ
t

V,

ALLfcli.

remove
live."

penury, and want of things without which

>ok
1.
ii

we

cannot

sect.

'..

The- spee<
it

is

vehement; but the great

position, that griev-

bu redressed before supplies are granted, is able enough to law mid reason ; nor was Waller, if his bito

ographer i.-uy be credited, such an enemy to the king, as not to wish his distresses lightened for he relates, " that the king sent
;

demand of some subsidies Henry Vane objecting against first voting a supply, because the king would not accept unless it came up to his ptoportion, Mr. Waller spoke earnestly to sir Thomas
particularly to Waller, to second his
to pay off the

army

and

sir

Jermin, comptroller of the household, to save his master from 1 ' 1 am but a counthe cttcctM of so bold a falsity for,' he said,
;

try gentleman, and cannot pretend to

know

the king's
;

mind

;*

but

sir

Thomas

durst not contradict the secretary

and his son,

the carl of St. Albans, afterward told

Mr. Waller,

that his father's

cowardice ruined the king."

In the long parliament, which, unhappily for the nation,

met

Nov.

3,

1640, Waller represented

and was considered

Agmondcsham the third time ; by the discontented party as a man sufficiently

trusty and acrimonious, to be employed in managing the prosecution of judge Crawley, for his opinion in favour of ship money ; and his speech shows that he did not disappoint their expecta-

He was probably the more ardent, as his uncle llamphad been particularly engaged in the dispute, and, by a sentence which seems generally to be thought unconstitutional, partions. clen

ticularly injured.

He was
opinions.

not,

however, a bigot

to his party,

nor adopted

all

their

the great question, whether episcopacy ought to be abolished, was debated, he spoke against the innovation so
coolly, so reasonably, and so firmly, that it is not without great injury to his name that his speech, which was as follows, has been hitherto omitted in his works. * " There is no doubt but the sense of what this nation hath suffered, from the present bishops, hath these com-

When

plaints
in

and the apprehensions

to

men

produced have of suffering the

like,

time

come, make so many desire the taking away of episrt-fi icv.-<],

This speech has been

the writers uf the parliamentary history.

from a paper printed Dr. J.

at that time,

br

LIFE OF WALLER.
not
;

165

tcpacy but I conceive it is possible that \ve may a right measure of the minds of the people by their petitions ; subscribed them, the bishops were armed with a for, when
they

now take

new dangerous commission of making new canons, imposing oaths, and the like but now we have disarmed them of that pow;

These petitioners lately armed with horns and claws

er.

did look
;

but

now

upon episcopacy as a beast that we have cut and

it

pared them, and may,

bounds,
it

if

we

see cause, yet reduce

into

narrower

be

still

in

may, perhaps, be more agreeable. Howsoever, if they the right use passion, it becomes us soberly to consider
to

and antiquity thereof; and not

desire, than

comply further with a general

may

stand with a general good.

have already showed, that episcopacy and the evils we have also, in part, thereof are mingled like water and oil severed them but I believe you will find, that our laws and the
; ;

"

We

present government of the church are mingled like wine and water ; so inseparable, that the abrogation of at least a hundred of our laws is desired in these petitions. I have often heard a
noble answer of the lords
sition of like nature,

commended in this house, to a propobut of less consequence they gave no other reason of their refusal but this, J\"olumus mutare Leges Anglix $ it was the bishops who so answered then ; and it would become
;

the dignity and wisdom of this house to answer the people now, with a Nolumus mutare. " I see some are moved with a number of hands against the

bishops ; which, I confess, rather inclines me to their defence for I look upon episcopacy as a counterscarp, or outwork

;
j

which,

be taken by this assault of the people, and withal this once revealed, That we must deny them nothing when mystery in troojis, we may, in the next place, have as hard tfiey ask it thus a task to defend our property, as we have lately had to recover
if it
it

from the prerogative.

prevail for

they

If, by multiplying hands and petitions, an equality in things ecclesiastical, the next de-

mand. perhaps, may be Lex Agraria^ the

temporal. " The Roman
story tells us

like equality in things

flock- about the senate,

That when the people began to and were more curious to direct and know
;

what was done, than

ruin
j

their
r.

commonwealth soon came to Legem rogare grew quickly to be a Lcgem fcrrr

to obey, that

VOL.

16-4

LIFE OF WALLER.
after,

and

when

dictator, they
in

their legions had found that they could make a never suffered the senate to have a voice any more

such

election.'
flat
;

" If these great innovations proceed, I shall expect a level in learning too, as well as in church preferments
alit

and

HJKOS

Artes.

And though

it

be true that grave and pious

men do

study for learning sake, and embrace virtue for itself; yet it is true that youth, which is the season when learning is gotten, is not without ambition ; nor will ever take pains to excel in any
thing,
\\lifii there is not some hope of excelling others in reward and dignity. " There are two reasons chicfiy alleged against our church

government.
First, scripture, which, as some men think, points out another form. " Second, the abuses of the present superiors. " For scripture, I will not dispute it in this place ; but I am confident that, whenever an equal division of lands and goods shall

"

be desired, there

\vill

be as

many

places in scripture found outj

which seem

now alleged against the prelacy 01 preferment of the church. And, as for abuses, where you are now in the remonstrance told what this and that poor
to favour that, as there are

man

hath suffered by the bishops, you may be presented with a thousand instances of poor men that have received hard measure from their landlords and of worldly goods abused, to the injury
;

of others, and disadvantage of the owners. " And therefore, Mr. Speaker, my humble motion

is,

that

we

may
It

settle

men's minds herein

is,

and, by a question, declare our

resolution, to reform, that

not to abolish, ejiiscofiacy."

cannot but be wished that he,

who

could speak in this man-?

ner, had been able to act with spirit and uniformity. the commons began to set the royal authority at

When

defiance,
to

Waller

is

said to have

open withdrawn from the house, and

set

have returned with the king's permission ; and, when the king up his standard, he sent him a thousand broad pieces. He

continued,

"

however, to sit in the rebellious conventicle ; but " with spoke," says Clarendon, great sharpness and freedom, now there was no which, danger of being out voted, was not ret

and therefore used as an argument against those who.

LIFE OP WALLER.

165

were gone, upon pretence that they were not suffered to deliver which could not be believed^ when all men knew what liberty Mr. Waller took, and spoke
their opinion freely in the house,

every day with impunity against the sense and proceedings of the house."

Waller, as he continued to sit, was one of the commissioners nominated by the parliament to treat with the king at Oxford ; and when they were presented, the king said to him, " Though

you are the

vour."

last, you are not the lowest nor the least in my faWhitlock, who, being another of the commissioners, was \vitness of this kindness, imputes it to the king's knowledge of

the plot, in which Waller appeared afterward to have been engaged against the parliament. Fenton, with equal probability, believes that his attempt to promote the royal cause arose from his sensibility of the king's tenderness. Whitlock says nothing* of his behaviour at Oxford ; he was sent with several others to add pomp to the commission, but was not one of those to whom

the trust of treating was imparted. The engagement, known by the

name of Waller's

plot,

was

soon afterward discovered.

kyns,

Waller had a brother

in law,

Tomsame

who was

clerk of the queen's council, and at the

time had a very numerous acquaintance, and great influence, in the city. Waller and he, conversing with great confidence, told
both their

own secrets and those of their friends ; and, surveying the wide extent of their conversation, imagined that they found in the majority of all ranks great disapprobation of the violence
of the commons, and unwillingness to continue the war. They knew that many favoured the king, whose fear concealed their
loyalty
;

the clamour for war

and many desired peace, though they durst not oppose and they imagined that, if those who had ;

these good intentions could be informed of their own strength, and enabled by intelligence to act together, they might overpower

the fury of sedition, by refusing to comply with the ordinance for the twentieth part, and the other taxes levied for the support of the rebel army, and by uniting great numbers in a petition for peace. They proceeded with great caution. Three
only
plot to

met in one place, and no man was allowed to impart the more than two others so that, if any should be suspect;

ed pr seized, more than three could not be endangered.

1C6

I/IIT,

or WALTER.
and, Clarendon imagines,

Lord Conway joined

in the design,

incidentally mingled, as he

was a

soldier,

some

martial hopes

or project^, -which, however, were only mentioned, the main desi -n being to bring the loyal inhabitants to the knowledge of each oiluT
;

for

which purpose

tlicre

was

to

be appointed one

in

every

district, to distinguish

the friends of the king, the adherents to

the parliament, and the neutrals. How far they proceeded does not appear the result of their inquiry, as Pym declared,* was>
;

that within the walls, for one that

was

for the royalists, there

were three against them ; but that without the walls, for one th..t was against them, there were five for them. Whether this
w..s said
It is

from knowledge or guess, was perhaps never inquired.

the opinion of Clarendon, that in Waller's plan no violence

or sanguinary resistance was comprised ; that he intended only to abate the confidence of the rebels by public declarations, and to weaken their powers by an opposition to new supplies. This,
in

calmer times, and more than

this, is clone

without fear

but

such was the acrimony of the commons, that no method of obstructing them was safe.

About
Crispc, a

this

man

time another design was formed by sir Nicholas of loyalty that deserves perpetual remembrance;
in the city,

when he was a merchant

he gave and procured the

king, in his exigencies, an hundred thousand pounds ; and he was driven from the exchange, raised a regiment, and

when
com-

manded

it.

ocation would so

some provexasperate, or some opportunity so much encourage, the king's friends in the city, that they would break
Sir Nicholas flattered himself with an opinion, that

much

out in open resistance, and then would want only a lawful standard, and an authorized commander ; and extorted from the king,

whose judgment too frequently yielded

:

to importunity, *a

com-

missior. ot array, directed to such as he thought proper to

i

nomi-

nate, \vhic \\ as sent to London by the lady Aubigney. She knew not what she carried, but was to deliver it on the communication

of a certain token which

sir

Nicholas imparted.
to lie ready till the have attempted to raise any forces-

This commission could be only intended

time should re uirc
*

it.

To

i'arliamciitarv History, Vol. XII.

Dr.

J*.

LIFE OP WALLER.
it could be of use ; only the forces should appear. This was, however, an act preparatory to martial hostility. Crispe would undoubtedly have put an end to the session of parliament, had his strength been

would have been certain destruction

when

and out of the design of Crispe, which involv; danger, and that of Waller, which was an act purely civil, they compounded a horrid and dreadful plot. The discovery of Waller's design is variously related. In
equal to his zeal

ed very

little

u Clarendon's

history"'

it is

told, that a

servant of

Tomkyns,

lurk-

ing behind the hangings when his master was in conference with Waller, heard enough to qualify him for an informer, and carri" Life ed his intelligence to Pym. manuscript, quoted in the " he was betrayed by his sister Price, of Waller," relates, that and her presbyterian chaplain Mr. Goode, who stole some of his

papers

and, if he had not strangely

dreamed the night

before,

that his sister had betrayed him, and thereupon burnt the rest

of his papers by the

tainly lost his
life

fire that

was

in his

chimney, he had cer-

question cannot be decided. It is not unreasonable to believe that the men in power, receiving intelligence from the sister, would employ the servant of Tom-

by

it."

The

kyns

to listen at the conference,

that they

might avoid an

act so

offensive as that of destroying the brother by the sister's testimony.

plot was published in the most terrific manner. the 31st. of May, 1643, at a solemn fast, when they were listening to the sermon, a messenger entered the church, and

The

On

that

communicated his errand to Pym, who whispered it to others were placed near him, and then went with them out of the

church, leaving the rest in solicitude and amazement.

They

immediately sent guards to proper places, and that night apprehended Tomkyns and Waller ; having yet traced nothing but that letters had been intercepted, from which it appeared that the
parliament and the city were soon to be delivered into the hands of the cavaliers,

They perhaps
eral

yet

knew

and

indistinct notices.

so confounded with fear,

said, thought, or

themselves, beyond some gen" But " Waller," says Clarendon, was that he confessed whatever he had heard,
little

seen

all

that

he knew of himself, and

all

that

he suspected of

others, without concealing any person, of

what

degree or quality soever, or any discourse which he had ever

LIFE OP WALLER.

upon any occasion entertained with them

ladies of great honour, to

what such and such

vvi;

whom, upon

the credit of his

to

and
in

great reputation,
their

lie

had been admitted, had spoke

him

chambers upon the proceedings in the houses, and how they had encouraged him to oppose them what correspondence and intercourse they had with some ministers of state at Ox;

ford, and

how they had conveyed

earl of Portland
;

all

intelligence thither."

He

accused the

and lord

Conway

as co-operating in

the transaction

and

testified that the

earl of

Northumberland
attempt that
reconcile

had declared himself

to the king.

disposed, in favour of any

might check the violence of the parliament, and

them

He

discovered, and perhaps

factions, to

undoubtedly confessed much, which they could never have somewhat which they would wish to

have been suppressed ; for it is inconvenient, in the conflict of have that disaffection known which cannot safely be
punished.

same night with Waller, and have partaken of his cowardice ; for he gave notice of Crispe's commission of array, of which Clarendon never knew how it was discovered. Tomkyns had been sent with the
seized on the

Tomkyns was

appears likewise

to

it from lady Aubigney, and had where, by his direction, it was dug up ; and thus the rebels obtained, what Clarendon confesses them to

token appointed, to demand

it

buried

in his garden,

have had, the original copy. It can raise no wonder that they formed one plot out of these two designs, however remote from each other, when they saw
the same agent employed in both, and found the commission of array in the hands of him who was employed in collecting the
opinions and affections of the people. Of the plot, thus combined, they took care to

make

the most.

They

sent

Pym among

the citizens, to

tell

them of

their

immi-

nent danger, and happy escape ; and inform them, that the design was "to seize the lord mayor and all the committee of militia, and

would not spare one of them."

nant, to be taken by every

They drew up

vow and cove-

member of either
all

declared his detestation of

house, by which he conspiracies against the parliament,

and

his resolution to detect

and oppose them.

They then

ap-

nointcd a day of thanksgiving for this wonderful deliverance ;

LIFE OF WALLER.
shut out, says Clarendon,
all

169

doubts whether there had been such

a deliverance, and whether the plot was real or fictitious. On June 1 1, the earl of Portland and lord Conway were committed, one to the custody of the mayor, and the other of the sheriff; but their lands and goods were not seized.

immerse himself deeper in ignominy. The Conway denied the charge and there was no evidence against them but the confession of Waller, of which undoubtedly niciny would be inclined to question the veracWaller was
still

to

earl of Portland and lord

ity.

With

these doubts he was so

much

terrified, that

he en-

deavoured to persuade Portland

to a declaration like his

a letter extant in Fenton'b edition.

had never known any thing of this for another ; and therefore I cannot imagine why you should hide it so far as to contract your own ruin by concealing it, and persisting unreasonably to hide that truth, which without you already
is,

own, by "But for me," says he, " you business, which was prepared

and

will

yourself bound

Can you imagine every day be made more manifest. in honour to keep that secret, which is already re-

vealed by another ? or possible it should still be a secret, which is known to one of the other sex ? If you persist to be cruel to yourself for their sakes

who deserve

it

not,

it

will nevertheless

be

made

appear, ere long, I fear, to your ruin. Surely, if I had the happiness to wait on you, I could move you to compassionate both
yourself and me, who, desperate as my case is, am desirous to die with the honour of being known to have declared the truth.

You have no
to

reason to contend to hide what

is

already revealed

inconsiderately to

throw away yourself,

for the interest of others,

whom you are less obliged than you are aware of." This persuasion seems to have had little effect. Portland " is in sent, June 29, a letter to the lords, to tell them that he
custody, as he conceives, without any charge

Mr. Waller had threatened him

he doth apprehend a very

with, since

and that, by what he was imprisoned,

;

cruel, long, and ruinous restraint ; he therefore prays, that he may not find the effects of Mr. Waller's threats, by a long and close imprisonment ; but may be speedily brought to a legal trial, and then he is confident the vanity and

falsehood of those informations which have been given again?*.

him

will appear."

trO

LIFE OF \VAU.KR.

In consequence of this letter, the lords ordered Portland and Waller to be confronted ; when the one repeated his charge,
and, the other his denial.
c

The examination

of the plot being;

Thinn, usher of the house of lords, deposed, that Mr. Waller having had a conference with the lord Portland
'.miimcd, July
1,

an upper room, lord Portland said, when he came down, " Do me the favour to tell my lord Northumberland, that Mr. Waller
in
lu;s extremely pressed me to save my own life and his, by throwing the blame upon the lord Conway and the earl of Northumberland." Waller, in his letter to Portland, tells him of the reasons which

he could urge with resistless efficacy in a personal conference ; but he overrated his own oratory ; his vehemence, whether of
persuasion or entreaty, was returned with contempt. One of his arguments with Portland is, that the plot
is

already

doubtless lady Aubigney, who, upon this occasion, was committed to custody but who, in reality, when she delivered the commission, knew not what it was.
;

known

to a

woman.

This

woman was

The
onei'

committed their

parliament then proceeded against the conspirators, and trial to a council of war. Tomkyns and Chal-

were handed near their own doors.

to die, said to
it

Tomkyns, when he

came
seems

was a

foolish business ; and indeed there

it

have been no hope that

more than three met at a time, extensive must, by necessity, be communicated

for though never

should escape discovery ; yet a design so

to

many, who

could not be expected to be all faithful, and all prudent. Chaloncr was attended at his execution by Hugh Peters. His crime

money for the king ; but appears not that the money was to be expended upon the advancement of cither Crispe's or Waller's plot.
it

was, that he had commission to raise

The carl of Northumberland, being too great was only once examined before the lords. The

for prosecution,

earl of Portland

and lord Conway, persisting to deny the charge, and no testimony but Waller's yet appearing against them, were, after a long im-

who

prisonment, admitted to bail. ITasscl, the king's* messenger, carried the letters to Oxford, died the night before his trial.

Hampden

but was kept

escaped death, perhaps by the interest of his family ; in prison to the end of his life. They whose names
in
it

were inserted
punished, as

the commission of array were not capitally could not be proved that they had consented to

LIFE OF WALLER.
Iheir

171

own nomination

but they were considered as malignants,

and their estates were seized. " Waller, " the most though confessedly," says Clarendon, guilty, with incredible dissimulation affected such a remorse of
conscience, that his
till

trial was put off, out of Christian compassion, he might recover his understanding." What use he made of this interval, with what liberality and success he distributed flattery and money, and how, when he was brought, July 4, before

the house, he confessed and lamented, and submitted and imThe plored, may be read in the history of the rebellion, B. vii.

bought
ever,

speech, to which Clarendon ascribes the preservation of his dear The great historian, howlife, is inserted in his works.

seems

to

have been mistaken in relating that he prevailed

in the principal part of his supplication, not to be tried by a council of war ; for, according to Whitlock, he was by "expulsion from the house abandoned to the tribunal which he so much dreaded,

and being tried and condemned, was reprieved by Essex but after a year's imprisonment,- in which time resentment grew less
;

acrimonious, paying a fine of ten thousand pounds, he was permitted to recollect himself in another country.

Of his behaviour in this part of his life, it is not necessary to " Let us direct the reader's opinion. not," says his last ingenious biographer,* " condemn him with untempered severity, because he was not a prodigy which the world hath seldom seen, because his character included not the poet, the orator, and the hero."

time

For the place of his exile he chose France, and stayed some at Roan, where his daughter Margaret was born, who was He then removed afterward his favourite, and his amanuensis.
to Paris,

where he
to

and from time

lived with great splendour and hospitality ; time amused himself with poetry, in which he
rebels,

sometimes speaks of the

and their usurpation,

in the

natural language of an honest

man.
for his support, to sell his wife's
said, at last to the

At
he
*

last
;

it

became necessary,

jewels

and being reduced, as he

rump

jewel,
it

solicited

from Cromwell permission

to return,

and obtained

Jby Percival Stockdale.

Life of Waller, prefixed to an edition of his C.

I.

Works, published

in 177.'.

VOL.

23

172

LIFE OF WALLKR.

riccl.
life

by the interest of colonel Scroop, to whom his sister was Upon the remains of a fortune, which the clanger of his

had very

much

diminished, he lived at Hallbarn, a house

built

by himself, very near to Baconsficld, where his His mother, though related to Cromwell and sided.
for the royal cause, and,
;

mother

re-

Humpden,
visited her,

wus zealous
used
to

when Cromwell

reproach him

he,

in return,

would throw a napkin

;

at

her, and say he

would not dispute with his aunt

but finding in

time that she acted for the king, as well as talked, he made her II he would a prisoner to her own daughter, in her own house.

do any thing, he could not do less. Cromwell, now protector, receiver! Waller, as his kinsman, to familiar conversation. Waller, as he used to relate, found him
versed in ancient history ; and when any of his enthucame to advise or consult him, could sometimes overhear him discoursing in the cant of the times ; but, when " Cousin I must talk to these lie he would
sufficiently
siastic

friends

returned,

say,

\Valler,

men

in their

own way

;"

and resumed the

common

style of

con-

versation.

He repaid the protector for his favours, 1654, by the famous panegyric, which has been always considered as the first of his His choice of encomiastic topics is very poetical productions.
judicious
;

for

he considers Cromwell
;

in his exaltation,

without

inquiring how he attained it of the rebel or the regicide.

life is

consequently no mention All the former part of his hero's

there
is

veiled with shades

and nothing

is

brought

to

view but

the chief, the governor, the defender of England's honour, and the enlarger of her dominion. The act of violence by which

he obtained the supreme power is lightly treated, and decently It was justified. certainly to be desired that the detestable band
the king, and

should be dissolved, which had destroyed the church, murdered filled the nation with tumult and oppression ; yet

belorc done could

right of dissolving them, for all that he had be justified only by supposing them invested But combinations of wickedness would with lawful authority.
licentious princi-

Cromwell had not the

overwhelm the world by the advantage which

ples afford, did not those faithless to each other.

who have

long practised perfidy, grov

LIFE OF WALLER.
In the

73
at

poem on

the

war with Spain arc some passages

;

least equal to the best parts of the panegyric

and in the conflattery,

clusion, the poet ventures yet a

higher flight of
the nation.

by

conversation, related by Whitlock, of adding the title to the power of monarchy, and is supposed to have been withheld from it partly by fear of the army, and partly by fear of the laws, which, when he should govern by

recommending royalty to Cromwell and was very desirous, as appears from his

Cromwell

the

name of king, would have restrained his authority. When therefore a deputation was solemnly sent to invite him to the crown, he, after a long conference, refused it; but is said to have
when he parted from them. the death of the protector seems to have been dictated by real veneration for his memory. Dryden and Sprat

fainted in his coach,

The poem on

wrote on the same occasion

gling into notice,
party.

but they were young men, strug-

and hoping for some favour from the ruling Waller had littie to expect he had received nothing but
;

his pardon

from Cromwell, and was not

likely to

ask any thing

from those who should succeed him. Soon afterward, the restoration supplied him with another
subject
;

melody, with equal

and he exerted his imagination, his elegance, and his It is not alacrity, for Charles the second.

possible to read, without some contempt and indignation, poems of the same author, ascribing the highest degree of power and

piety to Charles the piety to Oliver

then transferring the same power and now inviting Oliver to take the crown, and then congratulating Charles the second on his recovered right.
first,

Cromwell

Neither Cromwell nor Charles could value his testimony as the

effect of conviction, or receive his praises as effusions of rever-

ence

they could consider

them

but as the labour of invention,

and the tribute of dependence.

Poets, indeed, profess fiction; but the legitimate end of fiction the conveyance of truth ; and he that has flattery ready for all whom the vicissitudes of the world happen to exalt, must be
is

scorned as a prostituted mind, that but has lost the dignity of virtue.
to the panegyric

may

retain the glitter of wit,

The Congratulation was considered as

;

inferior in poetical merit

and

it is

reported, that,

when
sir,

Waller of the

disparity,

he answered, " Poets,

the king told succeed better

in fiction than in truth."

1T4

Lll
is

K OF WALLElt.

The

Congratulation

cither by decay of genius, or for want of diligence

indeed not inferior to the panegyric, but because ;

well wanted nothing to raise

Cromwell had done much, and Charles had done little. Cromhim to heroic excellence but virtue
;

thought himself at liberty to supply. Charles had yet only the merit of struggling without success, and sufferA life of escapes and indigence could suping without despair. with no splendid images. ply poetry

and virtue

his poet

In the

first

parliament

summoned by Charles

the second,

March

1661, Waller sat for Hastings in Sussex, and served In a for different places in all the parliaments of that reign.
8,

lime when fancy and gaiety were the most powerful recommendations to regard,
it is

not likely that Waller was forgotten.

He
rank

pa-sed
an-i wit,

hi.;

time

in the

company

that

was highest, both

in

from which even

his obstinate sobriety did not

exclude

water, he was enabled by his fertility of mi: id to heighten the mirth of bacchanalian assemblies ; and Mr. Suville that " no man in should

him.

Though he drank
said,

England

keep him com-

pany without drinking but

Ned Waller."
St.

The
utation

praise given
;

him by

Evrcmoncl

is

a proof of his rep-

was only by his reputation that he could be known, as a writer, to a man who, though he lived a great part of a longlife upon an English pension, never condescended to understand
for
it

the language of the nation that maintained him.

In

parliament,

" he was," says Burnet, " the delight of the

liveliest things

hou >e,and though old, said the

Tnis, however,
is said in

of any among them." account of the year seventy five, when Waller was only seventy. His name as a speaker occurs often in Grey's collections ; but I have found no extracts that
his

can be more quoted as exhibiting sallies of gaiety than cogency of argument. He was of such consideration, that his remarks were circulatthe duke of York's influence was hitrh, O ' both in Scotland and England, it drew, says Burnet, a lively reHe said, " the house flection from Waller, the celebrated wit.

ed and recorded.

When

of commons had resolved that the duke should not reign after the king's death ; but the king, in opposition to them, had resolved
that he should reign even in his life."

If there appear no extraits

ordinary liveliness

ill

this

remark, yet

reception proves the

LIFE OF WALLER.
speaker to have been a celebrated wit, to have had a

175

name which

men

of wit were proud of mentioning. He did not suffer his reputation to die gradually away, which may easily happen in a long life ; but renewed his claim to poetical distinction

from time

to time, as occasions

were

offered,

either by public events or private incidents ; and, contenting himself with the influence of his muse, or loving quiet better than
influence,

He
for

he never accepted any office of magistracy. not, however, without some attention to his fortune he asked from the king, in 1665, the provostship of Eton
was
;

college, and obtained

it

to the grant, alleging that

It is

but Clarendon refused to put the seal it could be held only by a clergyman.
qualified himself for
it

known

that sir

Henry Wotton

by

deacon's orders.

To this opposition, the Biografihia imputes the violence and acrimony with which Waller joined Buckingham's faction in the prosecution of Clarendon. The motive was illiberal and
dishonest, and

able to teach

showed that more than sixty years had not been him morality. His accusation is such as conscience

can hardly be supposed to dictate without the help of malice. " were to be governed by janizaries instead of parliaments, and are in danger from a worse plot than that of the fifth of November; then, if the lords and commons had been destroyed,

We

there had been a succession

for ever."

This

is

the language of a

but here both had been destroyed man who is glad of an op-

portunity to

rail, and ready to sacrifice truth to interest at one time, and to anger at another. year after the chancellor's banishment, another vacancy gave

him encouragement
to the council,

for another petition,

which the king referred

office

who,

after hearing the question

yers for three days,

determined that the

argued by lawcould be held only

since the by a clergyman, according to the act of uniformity, for a as had received institution, parsonage, from always provosts The king then said, he could not break the bishops of Lincoln.

the law which he had

for a single

made

sermon,

at

most

and Dr. Zachary Cradock, famous for two sermons, was chosen by
certain thaito the court

the fellows.

That he asked any thing more is not known it is he obtained nothing, though he continued obsequious
;

through the rest of Charles's reign,

176

urn or WALLER.
the accession of king James, in 1685, he was chosen for

At

parliament, being then fourscore, at Saltash in Cornwall ; and wrote a J'rr-c^r <;f ilic (hiunfalt of the Turkish ILwjiirc, which he

presented to the king on his birthday.

commentator
to the

I'enton, that in reading

It is remarked, by his Tasso he had early imbibed

a veneration for the heroes of the holy Avar, and a zealous enmity

Turks, which never left him. Jarncs, however, having soon after begun what he thought a holy war at home, made haste to put all molestation of the Turks out of his power. James treated him with kindness and familiarity, of which
instances are given by the writer of his life. One day, taking him into the closet, the king asked him how he liked one of the " * are dim, and I do not know pictures ; eyes," said Waller, it." The king said it was the princess of Orange. " She is," said Waller, "like the The greatest woman in the world."

My

;king asked

who was that ; and was answered, queen Elizabeth. but i must wonder," said the king, "you should think so " confess she had a wise council." And, sir." said Waller," did
I
;

you ever know a fool choose a wise one which I once heard of some other man.
acute replies, ively to those
fly

f"

Such

is

the story,

Pointed axioms, and

loose about the world, and are assigned successit may be the fashion to celebrate. knew that he was about to marry his daughter

whom

When
to

the king

Dr. Birch, a clergyman, he ordered a French gentleman to tell him, that " the king wondered he could think of marrying his " The daughter to a falling church." king," said Waller, "does

me

great honour, in taking notice of

my

domestic

affairs

but I

have lived long enough to observe that this

falling

church has
and

got a trick of rising again." He took notice to his friends of the king's conduct that " he would be left like a whale upon the strand."
lie

said,

Whether

was privy
not

to

lution, is

known
life

any of the transactions which ended in the revoHis heir joined the prince of Orange.

Having now
seldom suiVer
state,

attained an age
to

beyond which the laws of nature

be extended, otherwise than by a future he seems to have turned his mind upon preparation for

the decisive hour, and therefore consecrated his poetry to devoIt is pleasing to discover that his piety was without weaktion.

ness

that his intellectual

powers continued vigorous

and that

LIFE OF WALLEfc.
the lines which he composed, when/i^/or age, could neither read nor write, are not inferior to the effusions of his youth. Toward the decline of life, he bought a small house with a
little

land at Colshill

and

stud,

" he should be glad to

die,

like

the stag, where he was roused."

This, however, did not happen.

When

he was
to

at Beixonsfiekl,
sir

he found his legs grow tumid

Charles Scarborough then attended the king, and requested him, as both a friend and physician, " to tell him, wliat that swelling meant. Sir," answered Scarbo" rough, your blood will run no longer." Waller repeated some lines of Virgil, and went home to die.

he went

Windsor, where

As

his departure

the disease increased upon him, he composed himself for and calling upon Dr. Birch to give him the hcly ;

sacrament, he desired his children to take it with him, and made an earnest declaration of his faith in Christianity. It now ap-

peared what part of his conversation with the great could be

remembered
the duke of

with delight.

Buckingham talked

he

said to him, "

My

being present when profanely before king Charles*, lord, I am a great deal older than your
related, that

He

grace, and have, I believe, heard more arguments for atheism than ever your grace did ; but I have lived long enough to see

there

is

He
with a

nothing in them ; and so I hope your grace will." died October 21, 1687, and was buried at Beaccnsfield,

mer
from

monument erected by his son's executors, for which Rywrote the inscription, and which I hope is now rescued
dilapidation.
left

He

several children by his second wife

of

whom

his

Benjamin, the eldest son, daughter was married to Dr. Birch. was disinherited, and sent to New Jersey as wanting common
understanding.

Edmund,

the second son, inherited the estate,

and represented Agrnonclesham in parliament, but at last turned William, the third son, was a merchant in London. quaker. Stephen, the fourth, was an eminent doctor of laws, and one of
the commissioners for the union.
fifth,

There

is said to

have been a

of

whom

no account has descended.

The

character of Waller, both moral and intellectual, has been

drawn by Clarendon, to whom he was familiarly known, with nicety, which certainly none to whom he was not known can

presume

to emulate.

Tt is

therefore inserted hero, with

ITS

LIFL OF WALLER.
;

remarks as others have supplied

after

which, nothing remains

but a critical examination of his poetry. " " Kdimind Waller," says Clarendon, was born to a very fair

and mother parsimony or frugality of a wise father an and he thought it so commendable advantage, that he resolved to improve it with his utmost care, upon which in his
estate, by the
;

much intent and, in order to that, he was so reserved and retired, that he was scarcely ever heard of, till by his address and dexterity he had gotten a very rich wife in the and city, against all the recommendation and countenance
nature he was too
;

much

authority of the court, which

was thoroughly engaged on the

behalf of Mr. Crofts, and which used to be successful in that age, He had the good fortune to have an alliagainst any opposition.

ance and friendship with Dr. Morley,

structed

who had

assisted and in-

many good books, to which his natural parts and promptitude inclined him, especially the poets ; and ai the a^o when c-iher men used to give over writing verses,
him
in

the reading

for lie

was near

thirty years

that exercise, at least that

when he first engaged himself in he was known to do so, he surprised

;

the town with t\vo or three pieces of that kind

as if a tenth

muse

had been newly born to cherish drooping poetry. The doctor at that time brought him into that company which was most celebrated for good conversation where he w as received and esteemed with great applause and respect. He was a very pleasant discourser in earnest and in jest, and therefore very grateful to
r

all

kind of company, where he was not the less esteemed for

being very rich. He had been even nursed

in parliaments,

where he

sat

when
again,

he was very young

^rcat

and

so,

when they were resumed

after a long intermission,

;

he appeared

in those assemblies

with

way of speaking, and by advantage which his temper and commuch on several thinking arguments, plexion, that had much of melancholic, inclined him to, he seemhaving a graceful
ed often to speak upon the sudden, when the occasion had only administered the opportunity of saying what he had thoroughly
conside cd, which gave a threat lustre to all he said ; which yet was rather of delight than weight. There needs no more be
said to extol the excellence

and power of his wit, and pleasantit

ness of his conversation, than that

was of magnitude enough

to

LIFE OF WALLER,
vover a world of very great faults ; that is, so to cover them, were not taken notice of to his reproach, viz. a narrowness in his nature to the lowest degree ; an abjectness and want
that they

of courage to support
\iation

him

in

any virtuous undertaking

that
it

an insin-

and

servile

flattery to the height,

the vainest and most

;

imperious nature could be contented with

won

his

life

from those who were most resolved to take

preserved and it, and in

an occasion in which he ought to have been ambitious to have lost it and then preserved him again from the reproach and contempt that was due to him for so preserving it, and for vin;

dicating it at such a price ; that it had power to reconcile him to those whom he had most offended and provoked ; and continued to his age with that rare felicity, that his company was acceptable

where

his spirit

was odious

and he was

at least pitied,

where
not be

he was most detested."

Such

is

the account of Clarendon

on which

it

may

improper to make some remarks. " He was very little known till he had obtained a rich wife hi
the city."

He

age, before which few

obtained a rich wife about the age of three and twenty ; an men are conspicuous much to their ad-

vantage.

He

was known, however,

in parliament

and

at court

and, if he spent part of his time in privacy, it is not unreasonable to suppose that he endeavoured the improvement of his mind as well as of his fortune.

is

That Clarendon might misjudge the motive of his retirement the more probable, because he has evidently mistaken the commencement of his poetry, which he supposes him not to have
attempted before
Clarendon,
thirty.

As

his first pieces

printed, the succession of his compositions

were perhaps not was not known and

;

cannot be imagined to have been very studious of poetry, did not rectify his first opinion by consulting Waller's book.

who

Clarendon observes, that he was introduced to the wits of the age by Dr. Morley but the writer of his life relates that he was inalready among them, when, hearing a noise in the street, and
;

quiring the cause, they found a son of

Ben Jonson under an

arrest.

This was Morley, whom Waller set free at the expense of one hundred pounds, took him into the country as director of his
VOL.
i.

24

LIFE OF WALLER.
studies, and then procured

him admission
fact
is

into the

company of the
to be credited.

friends of lilciaturc.

Of this

Clarendon had a nearer knowltherefore

edge than the biographer, and

more

adds,

account of Waller's parliamentary eloquence is seconded u by Jiiinict, who, though he calls him the delight of the house," that " he was that which should'makc to concerned
only
say

The

him be applauded, he never

laid the business of the

house to

heart, being a vain and empty, though a witty, man." Of his insinuation and flattery it is not unreasonable to believe
that the truth is told,

Ascham, in

his elegant description of those

wits, says, that they are often
little

whom in modern language we term

flatterers^

and jirivy mockers.

Waller showed a

of both*

when, upon sight of the dutchess of Newcastle's verses on the death of a stag, he declared that he would give all his own compositions to have written

them, and being charged with the ex-

orbitance of his adulation, answered, that "nothing was too much to be given, that a lady might be saved from the disgrace of such

vile performance." This, however, was no very mischievous or very unusual deviation from truth ; had his hypocrisy been confined to such transactions, he might have been forgiven, though

not praised ; for who forbears to flatter an author or a lady ? Of the laxity of his political principles, and the weakness of
his resolution,

he experienced the natural

effect,

by losing the

esteem of every party. From Cromwell he had only his recal ; and from Charles the second, who delighted in his company, he
obtained only the pardon of his relation of Hampden's son.

Hampden, and

the safety

As far

as conjecture can be

made from

the whole of his writ-

ing, and his conduct, he was habitually and deliberately a friend His deviation toward democracy proceeded from to monarchy.

Hampden, for whose sake he prosecuted Crawley with great bitterness and the invective which he pronounced on that occasion was so popular, that twenty thousand copies are said by his biographer to have been sold in one day.
his connexion with
;

It is

confessed that his faults

still left

him many friends,

is

at least

many companions.
sally
ly,

His convivial power of pleasing

univer-

acknowledged; but those who conversed with him intimate-

found

him
;

resentful

not only passionate, especially in his old age, but so that the interposition of friends was sometimes

necessary.

LIFE OF WALLER.

181

His wit and his poetry naturally connected him with the polite writers of his time ; he was joined with lord Buckhurst in the translation of Corneille's Pompey ; and is said to have added his
help to that of Cowley in the original draught of the rehearsal. The care of his fortune, which Clarendon imputes to him in a

degree

little
;

less than criminal,

for,

was either not constant or not

having inherited a patrimony of three thousand five hundred pounds a year in the time of James the first, and
it at least by one wealthy marriage, he left, about the time of the revolution, an income of not more than twelve or thirteen hundred ; which, when the different value of money is

successful

augmented

reckoned, will be found perhaps not more than a fourth part of what he once possessed.

Of

this diminution, part

which he was forced

to scatter,

was the consequence of the gifts and the fine which he was con;

demned

to

pay

at the detection of his plot

and

if his estate,

as

was sequestered, he had probably contracted debts when he lived in exile ; for we are told, that at Paris he lived in splendour, and was the only Englishman, except the lord
is related in his life,

St.

Albans, that kept a table.

plot

compelled him to sell a thousand a year ; of is no account, except that he is confessed by his biographer to have been a bad economist. He seems to have deviated from the common practice ; to have been a hoarder in his first years, and a squanderer in his last.

His unlucky

the waste of the rest there

Of his

more than

course of studies, or choice of books, nothing is known that he professed himself unable to read Chapman's

translation of

Homer
is

the duty of a poet

blot

without rapture. His opinion concerning contained in his declaration, that " he would
line that did not contain

from

his

works any

some motive

to

virtue."

THE characters, by which Waller intended to distinguish

writing," are sprightliness

his

and dignity

in his smaller pieces,

he

endeavours to be gay

in the larger to be great.

Of

his airy

and

light productions, the chief source is gallantry, that attentive

reverence of female excellence which has descended to us from

the gothic ages,

As

his

poems

are

commonly occasional, and

his

182

i.in:

or WALLER.

tviih soft

addresses personal, he was not so liberally supplied with grand a images ; for beauty is more easily found than magnanimity.

The delicacy, which he cultivated, restrains him to a certain nicely ..ml caution, even when he writes upon the slightest matlie has, therefore, in his whole volume, nothing burlesque, and seldom any thing ludicrous or familiar. He seems always to do his best ; though his subjects are often unworthy of his care.
ter,

some contempt on an author, own opinion by verses, at one time, " To a lady who can do any thing but sleep when she pleases ;" at another, " To a lady who can sleep when she pleases ;"
It is not
is

easy to think, without

who

growing

illustrious in his

now, "
then,

"

"

On a

To a lady, on her passing through a crowd of people ;" On a braid of divers colours woven by four fair ladies ;" tree cut in paper ;" or, " To a lady, from whom he remany

ceived the copy of verses on the paper tree, which for

years had been missing."

Genius now and then produces a lucky trifle. still read Sparrow of Catullus ; and a writer naturally pleases himself with a performance, which owes noththe D:JV? of Anacreon, and

We

o the subject.

But compositions merely pretty have the

and are quitted in time for something

fate of other pretty things,

they are flowers fragrant and fair, but of short duration ; or they are blossoms to be valued only as they foretell fruits. Among Waller's little poems are some, which their excellenuseful
;

cy ought to secure from oblivion ; as, To Amoret, comparing the different modes of regard with which he looks on her and Sacfiarinaa
;

and the verses On Lovc^ that begin, Anger in hasty words

or blows.

In others he is not equally successful ; sometimes his thoughts are deficient, and sometimes his expression.

The numbers
l';iir

are not always musical

Venus,
in

as,

thy soft

arm^

Tin* god of rage confine;

For thy whispers are the chavrns

"Wl.H'li only

ran divert his fierce design.

to

Whai though he frown, and Thou the flame

Kindled
in his

tumult do incline

lnvast canst tame,

lies

ith that

snow which unmelted

on

tLine,

LIFE OF WALLER.

133

He

seldom indeed fetches an amorous sentiment from the

;

depths of science
derstood, and his

his thoughts are for the

most part

easily un-

supplies

images such as the superfices of nature readily he has a just claim to popularity, because he writes to
;

common

degrees of knowledge

and

is

free at least from philo-

sophical pedantry, unless, perhaps, the end of a song to the sun may oe excepted, in which he is too much a copernican. To

which may be added, the simile of the Palm, in the verses on her passing through a crowd ; and a line in a more serious poem on the restoration, about vipers and treacle, which can only be understood by those
Theriaca.

who happen

to

know

the composition of the

his

His thoughts are sometimes hyperbolical, and

natural.

images un-

The plants admire, than those of old did Orpheus' lyre; If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd They round about her into arbours crowd

No

less

Or

if she walks, in even ranks they stand, Like some well marshall'd and obsequious band.

In another place
While
Attend

in the

my

park I sing, the listening deer passion, and forget to fear ;

When
To To

to the beeches I report

my

flame,

They bow
With

their heads, as if they felt the same. gods appealing, when I reach their bowers,

loud complaints they answer me thee a wild and cruel soul is given,

in

showers.

More

deaf than trees, and prouder than the Heaven!

;

OnAhe head
O

of a stag
fertile

which every year Could such a crop of wonder bear! The teeming earth did never bring So soon, so hard, so huge a thing Which might it never have been casit, Each year's growth added to the last, These lofty branches had supply'd
head
!

The

earth's bold son's prodigious pride

Heaven with

these engines had been seal'd,

fail'd.

When

mountains heap'd OH mountains

18-t

LIFE OF WALLER.
in the first part, he In the song of " Sacharissa's and

Sometimes, having succeeded

feeble conclusion.

makes

Amorct's

Friendship," the two last stanzas ought (.0 have been omitted. His images of gallantry are not always in the highest degree
delicate.

Then shall my love this doulit displace, And ~uin MK-!I Inist, hnt may come And l):ui(|iict sometimes on thy face, But make m\ ronsUint meals at home.
I
t

Some
qucnli.il

applications
;

may

be thought too remote and unconse-

as in the verses

on the Lady Dancing

sun in figures such as these, .ln\s with the moon to play

;

The

the sweet strains they advance, \\ liii-li do result from their own spheres

To

As this nymph's dance Moves with the numbers which

she hears.

Sometimes a thought, which might perhaps fill a distich, is expanded and attenuated till it grows weak and almost evanescent.
Chloris
!

since first our

calm of peace

Was
Your

frighted hence, this good we find, favours with your fears increase,

And growing
So the
fair tree,

mischiefs

make you

kind.

which
state,

Her

fruit,

and

preserves while no wind blow?,

;

still

In storms from that uprightness swerves And the glad earth about her strows

With

treasure from her yielding boughs.

His images are not always distinct ; as, in the following passage, he confounds love as a person with love as a passion.
Some other nymphs, with colours faint, And pencil slow, may cupid paint, And a weak heart in time destroy
;

She has
Can,

\\ith

stamp, and prints the boy a single look, inflame

The
His
sallies

coldest breast, the rudest tame.

of casual flattery are sometimes elegant and happy,

;

us that in return for the silver Jien

trifling, as that u/ion the

card lorn by the queen.

and sometimes empty and There are a few

is

lines written in

the.

dufchcss's Tasso^

which he

said

by Fentoji

LIFE OF WALLER.
?.o

185
It

have kept a

summer under

correction.

happened

to

Walto-

ler, as to others, that his

success was not always in proportion

his labour.

Of these petty compositions, neither the beauties nor the faults much attention. The amorous verses have this to recommend them, that they are less hyperbolical than those of some
deserve
other poets.

Waller

is

not always at the last gasp

he does not

die of a frown, nor live

upon a smile.
trifles.

There

is,

however, too

much

love,
;

and too many

Little things are

made

too

important and the empire of beauty is represented as exerting its influence farther than can be allowed by the multiplicity of

human

therefore,

Such books, passions, and the variety of human wants. may be considered as showing the world under a false

appearance, and, so far as they obtain credit from the young and inexperienced, as misleading expectation, and misguiding practice.

Of his
part
is

nobler and
;

more weighty performances,

for of praise

the greater

panegyrical served by his imitator, lord Lansdown

he was very
;

lavish, as is ob-

No

satyr stalks within the hallow'd ground,

But queens and

Glory and arras and love are

heroines, kings and gods abound, all the sound.

In the

first

poem, on the danger of the prince on the

coast of

a puerile and ridiculous mention of Arion at the beginning ; and the last paragraph, on the cable, is in part ridicThe poem, howulously mean, and in part, ridiculously tumid.
Spain, there
is

ever,

is

such as

may be

justly praised, without

much

allowance

for the state of

The

our poetry and language at that time. two next poems are upon the king's behaviour at the death
witii

of Buckingham, and upon his na-uy. He has, in the first, used the pagan deities
priety
;

great pro-

'Twas want of such a precedent

as this

Made
In the

the old heathens frame their gods amiss.

poem on the navy, those lines are very noble, which supthe power secure against a second deluge ; so noble, king's pose that it were almost criminal to remark the mistake of centre for
surface, or to say that the
if it

empire of the sea would be worth littlo

were not

that the waters terminate in land.

186

Lin-:

OF \VALLElt.
;

The poem upon

clusion
is

Bailee has forcible sentiments

but the con-

That on the repairs of St. Paul's, has somesuch as the mention of Amphion ; and obvious; thing Millar
feeble.
luul

something violent and harsh

as,

So Jill our minds with liis conspire to grace The- gentiles' great apostle, and deface Tlio-i- Mate obscuring sheds, that like a chain

Seem'd

to confine,

and letter him again

"Which the glad saint shakes oflf at his command, As once the viper from his sacred hand.

So

joys the aged oak,

cri-cpiiii;-

when we

d>v;,!e

Tin-

ivy

l'r(/in

his injur'd side.

Of the two
ond mean.

last couplets;,

the

first is

extravagant, and the sec

His praise of Lie queen

is

too

much exaggerated

and the

" saves lovers, by cutting oft" hope, as gangrenes thought, that she are cured by lopping the limb," presents nothing to the mind but disgust and horror.

Of the
whether
ning
is

Battle of the
it is

Summer Islands,

it

seems not easy

to say

intended to raise terror or merriment.

The begin-

too 'splendid for jest, and the conclusion too light for seri-

ousness.

The

versification is studied, the scenes are diligently

artfully amplified
will scarcely
;

displayed, and the images neither in joy nor sorrow, it

but, as

it

ends

be read a second time.

The jiancgyric upon Cromwell

has obtained from the public a

very liberal dividend of praise, which however cannot be said to have been unjustly lavished ; for such a series of verses had rarely

appeared before in the English language.

Of

the lines

are grand, some arc graceful, and all are musical. and then a feeble verse, or a trifling thought ; but
is

some There is now

great fault

its

the choice of

its

hero.

The poem

of the

war with

Sjiain^
is

begins with lines

to

more

vig-

orous and striking than Waller

The produce. arc with better and worse. parts succeeding passages variegated There is something too far fetched in the comparison of the
accustomed
cannon,
Spaniards drawing the English on, by saluting St. Lucar with to lambs awakening t/ie lion by The fate of the bleating.

marquis and his lady, who were burnt in their ship, would have moved move, had the poet not made him die like the phoenix,

LIFE OP WALLER.
because he had spices about him, nor expressed their affection and their end by a conceit at once false and vulgar.
Alive, in equal flames of love they burn'd, And now together are to ashes turn'd.

The

to counterbalance the panegyric

verses to Charles, on his return, were doubtless intended on Cromwell. If it has been

thought inferior to that with which it is naturally compared, the cause of its deficience has been already remarked.

The remaining pieces They must be supposed

kind with the rest.
ticular regard
;

it is

to

have

not necessary to examine singly. faults and beauties of the same

The Sacred Poems,

however, deserve par-

they were the work of Waller's declining life, of those hours in which he looked upon the fame and the folly of
the time past with the sentiments which his great predecessor, Petrarch bequeathed to posterity, upon his review of that love

and poetry which have given him immortality. That natural jealousy which makes every man unwilling to allow much excellence in another, always produces a disposition
to believe that the

mind grows

old with the body

and that he,

whom we
ing,

forced to confess superior, is hastening daily to a level with ourselves. By delighting to think this of the liv-

are

now

we

learn to think

it

of the dead

kindness for Waller, has the luck to

his genius passed the zenith,

mark

and Fenton, with all his the exact time when

at his
fiity

which he places
but
it

fifth

year.

This is
is

to allot the

mind but
;

a small portion.

Intellectual
to be uni*

decay
versal.

doubtless not

uncommon

seems not

Newton was

in his eighty

fifth
;

not, in
etical

Chronology, a few days before his death my opinion, to have lost at eighty two any part of his popower.
like

year improving his and Waller appears

His Sacred Poems do not please

but before the
fatal fifty five,

some of his other works

better.

had he written on the same sub*

jects, his success

would hardly have been

been the frequent lamentation of good men, that verse has been too little applied to the purposes of worship, and many
It has

J)attempts

have been made

to

animate devotion by pious poetry.

That they have very seldom attained their end is sufficiently known, and it may not be improper to inquire why they have
miscarried.
VOL.- r.
.2*5

188

UFK OF WALLER.
if I

Let no pious ear be offended

trines of religion

advance, in opposition to

authorities, that poetical devotion cannot often please.

many The docpoem

;

may

indeed be defended in a didactic

and he, who has the happy power of arguing in verse, will not his subject is sacred. it because poet may describe the the flowers of the spring, and of and the nature, grandeur beauty

the h.irvcsts of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide, and the revolutions of the sky, and praise the

which no reader
is

shall lay aside.

Maker for his works, in lines The subject of the disputation

;

not piety, but the motives to piety

that of the description is

not God, but the works of God.

human
mercy

Contemplative piety, or the intercourse between God and the Man, admitted to implore the soul, cannot be poetical.
of his Creator, and plead the merits of his
state

Redeemer,

is

already in a

The as, by producing something unexpected, surprises and delights. The topics of devotion are few, and being few are universally known ;
but, few
as they are, they can be made no more ; they can receive no grace from novelty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of expression.

than poetry can confer. higher essence of poetry is invention ; such invention

Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to the mind This effect proceeds from the than things themselves afford. display of those parts of nature which attract, and the conceal-

ment of

be shown as

those which repel, the imagination but religion must it is ; suppression and addition equally corrupt it ;
;

and such as

it is, it is known already. poetry the reader justly expects, and from good poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his comprehension and elevation of his fancy but this is rarely to be hoped by christians from

From

metrical devotion.
is

Whatever is

great, desirable, or

tremendous,

comprised

in the
;

name

of the

Supreme Being.
;

Omnipotence
perfection can-

cannot be exalted
not be improved.

infinity

cannot be amplified

The employments of pious meditation are faith, thanksgiving, repentance, and supplication. Faith, invariably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with decorations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is confined to a few modes, and is to be felt rather than

LIFE OP WALLER,

189

is

expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of the judge, not at leisure for cadences and epithets. Supplication of man

to

man may diffuse itself through many topics of persuasion ; but supplication to God can only cry for mercy. Of sentiments purely religious, it will be found that the most
simple expression is the most sublime. Poetry loses its lustre someits power, because it is applied to the decoration of All that pious verse can do is thing more excellent than itself.
to help the

and

memory, and
useful
;

it

may be very

but

delight the ear, and for these purposes it supplies nothing to the mind. The

ideas of Christian theology are too simple for eloquence, too sacred for fiction, and too majestic for ornament ; to recommend

them by tropes and figures, is to magnify by a concave mirror the sidereal hemisphere. As much of Waller's reputation was owing to the softness and
smoothness of his numbers
particulars to
;

it is

proper to consider those minute

attend.

which a

versifier

must

He

certainly very

much

excelled in smoothness most of the

his poetry

writers

who were

living

when

commenced.

The

po-

ets of Elizabeth

had attained an

art of modulation*

which was

afterward neglected or forgotten.

him
the

as his

model

Fairfax was acknowledged by and he might have studied with advantage

poem of Davies,* which, though merely philosophical, yet seldom leaves the ear ungratified. But he was rather smooth than strong of the full resounding
;

line,

which Pope

attributes to

Dryden, he has given very few expraise of strength

amples.
to

The critical decision has given the Denham, and of sweetness to Waller. His excellence of versification has some

abatements.

He

uses the expletive do very frequently ; and, though he lived to see it almost universally ejected, was not more careful to avoid
it

in

him
self.

his last compositions than in his first. Praise had given confidence ; and finding the world satisfied, he satisfied him-

His rhymes are sometimes weak words

the

so is found to

make

rhyme twice

in

ten lines, and occurs often as a

rhyme

through his book.

Sir John Davies, entitled, "Nosce teipsum. This oracle expounded I. Of Humane two elegies Knowledge; II. Of the Soule of Man and
*
;

in

the Immortalitic thereof, 1:>99."

R.

190
I

LIFE OF WALLER.
double rhymes, in heroic verse, have been censured by who was his rival in the translation of Corneille's
;

[is

Mrs.

Phillips,

Pompey

and more

faults

might be found, were not the inquiry

belov. attention.

He sometimes
ct/i,

uses the obsolete termination of verbs, as waxfinal

affect ct h

and sometimes retains the

./////

the syllable of
it is

preterite, as anu.

asrr/,

of which

know

not whether

not to the detriment of our language that

we have

totally reject-

ed them.

Of triplets he is sparing ; but he did not wholly forbear of an Alexandrine he has given no example.
The
i^

them

>

general character of his poetry is elegance and gaiety, never pathetic, c-nd very rarely sublime. He seems neither to have h <( a mind much elevated by nature, nor amplified bv '(;: ning. His thoughts are such as a liberal conversation
lie

and large acquaintance with life would easily supply. They had, hi ever then, perhaps, that grace of novelty, which they are now often supposed to want by those who, having already found them
>

in later books,

do not know or inquire

is

is

treatment

unjust.

who produced them first. Let not the original author lose by
it is

his imitators.
Pi-ai.
(

-,

however, should be due before

life

given.

The

author

of Waller's

verse

knack whatever be
thai

the same letter. But this was so frequent among early writers? Gascoigne, a writer of the sixteenth century, warns the young
its

nd some many words beginning with

value,

practice of what Erythlate critics call alliteration, of using in the same

ascribes to

him

the

first

poet against affecting

Dr-ai.;', is

it

supposed

to ridicule

Shakespeare, in the Midsummer Nighfs it ; and in another play the sonnet

of Holofernes fully displays it. IK- borrows too many of his sentiments and illustrations from
the oid mythology, for which

ancient poets

the deities

it is vain to plead the example of which they introduced so frequently,

agiiu-tif.n,
!

considered as realities, so far as to be received by the irnwhatever sober reason might even then determine. But of t icM- inK.-cs time has tarnished the fiction, splendour. not only detected bn< despised, can never afford a solid basis to
i-c

we

any position, though sometimes it may furnish a transient allusion, or s .nt i! MS; ration. No modern monarch can be much exalted
i

by

hi

aring that, as Hercules has had his dud, he has his navy.

LIFE OP WALLER.

But of the

praise of Waller,
it

much

will remain-; for

though much may be taken away, cannot be denied, that he added some-

thing to our elegance of diction, and something to our propriety of thought ; and to him may be applied what Tasso said, with equal spirit and justice, of himself and Guarini, when, having

perused the Pastor Fido^ he cried out, "If he had not read Aininta, he had not excelled it."

fication

Waller professed himself to have learned the art of versifrom Fairfax, it has been thought proper to subjoin a specimen of his work, which, after Mr. Hoole's translation, will
perhaps not be soon reprinted. By knowing the state Waller found our poetry, the reader may judge how
in

AS

which

much he

improved

it.
I.

Erminia's steed, this -while, his mistresse bore

Through forrests thicke among the shadie treene, Her feeble hand the bridle raines forlore, Halfe in a swoune she was for feare I weene But her flit courser spared nere the more,
;

To

beare her through the desart woods unseene strong foes, that chas'd her through the plaiue. And still pursu'd, but still pursu'd in vaine.

Of her

II.

Like

hounds at last retire, Windlesse, displeased, from the fruitlesse chace, When the slie beast Tapisht in bush and brire,
as the wearie

No

The

art nor pains can rouse out of his place ; Christian knights so full of shame and ire
!

Returned backe, with fainte and wearie pace Yet still the fearfull dame fled, swift as winde,

Nor euer

staid,

nor euer lookt behinde.

III.

Through thicke and

thinne,

all

night,

all

day, she driued,

Withouten comfort, companie, or guide,

Her

plaints

and teares with euery thought reuiued,

She heard and saw her greefes, but naught beside. But when the sunne his burning chariot diued In Thetis waue, and wearie teame vntide,

On
At

last,

lordans sandie banks her course she staid, there downe she light, and downe she

laid.

IV.

Her teares, her drinke ; her food, her sorrowings This was her diet that vnhappie night ;

192
But

LIFE OF WALLER.
and quiet brings, slecpe, that sweet repose case the greefes of discontented wight,
f<><

To

Sj.ivrl

ii-th

his tender, soft,

and nimble wing",

In his dull urines fouldingthe virgin bright; And loue his mother, and the graces kept

Stron- u atch and warde, while this faire ladie

V.

slept.

birds awakte her with their morning song, Their warbling musicke pearst her tender eare, The murmuring brookes and whistling windes among The ratling boughes, and leaues, their parts did beare

The

Her

cies vnclos'd beheld the groues along

Of swaines and shepherd groomes,

that dwellings weare

And

that sweet noise, birds, winds,

and waters

sent,

Prouokte again the virgin

to lament.

VI.

Her

plaints

were interrupted with a sound,

thickest bushes to proceed,

That seem'd from

Some iolly shepherd sung a lustie round, And to his voice had tun'd his oaten reed Thither she -went, an old man there she found,
;

At whose
That

right hand his

little

flock did feed,

Sat making baskets, his three sonnes

among

learn'd their father's art, and learn' d his song.

VII.

Beholding one

in

The

seelie

man

shining armes appeare and his were sore dismaid;

But sweet Erminia comforted their feare, Her ventall vp, her visage open laid, You happie folke, of heau'n beloued deare,

Work

on, quoth she,

These

dreadfull

vpon your harmlesse traid, armes I beare no warfare bring

nor those s\veet tunes you
VIII.
sing.

To your
But

sweet

toile,

father, since this land, these townes

fire

and towres,

Dcstroied are with sword, with

and spoile, How may it be, unhurt that you and yours In safetie thus, applie your harmlesse toile ?

My
Is

sonne, quoth he, this pore estate of ours euer safe from storme of warlike broile
;

This wildernene doth vs

No

keepe, thundering drum, no trumpet breakes our slcepe. IX.

in safetie

Haply iust heau'ns defence and shield of right, Doth loue the innocence of simple swains.

The

thunderbolts on highest mountains light, scld or neuer strike the lower plaiaes ;

LIFE OF WALLER;
So kings haue cause to feare Bellonaes might, Not they whose sweat and toile their dinner gaincs, Nor ever greedie soldier was entised By pouertie, neglected and despised.
X.
pouertie, chefe of the heau'nly brood, Dearer to me than wealth or kingly crowne

193

wish for honour, thirst of others good, Can moue my heart, contented with mine owne

No

We

quench our

thirst with

water of

this flood,
;

Nor

fear \ve poison should therein be throwne

flocks of sheepe

These little Giue milke

and tender goates

coates.

for food,

and wooll to make us

XI.

We little wish, we need but little wealth,

From
cold and hunger vs to clothe and feed;

These are

my

Their fathers

flocks,

sonnes, their care preserues from stealth nor servants moe I need ;

Amid these groues I walke oft for my health, And to the fishes, birds, and beastes giue heed,

How
And
Time

they are fed, in forrest, spring and lake,

their contentment for ensample take.

XII.
was, for each one hath his doating time, These siluer locks were golden tresses than,
life I

That countrie

hated as a crime,

And from the forrests sweet contentment ran, To Memphis' stately pallace would I clime, And there became the mightie Caliphes man, And though I but a simple gardner weare,
Yet could
I

marke

abuses, see and heare.

XIII.

Entised on with hope of future gaine,

1 suffered long

what did

But when my youth was

I felt

my soule displease spent, my hope was

;
;

vaine ?

my native strength at last decrease gan my losse of lustie yeeres complaine,

I

And

wisht I had enjoyed the countries peace bod the court farewell, and with content My later age here have I quiet spent.

XIV. While thus he spake Erminia husht and

His wise

still

discoui-ses heard, with great attention,

His speeches graue those idle fancies kill, Which in her troubled soule bred suchdissentinn

-,

LIFE OF \\ALLER.
At let much thought reformed was her will, AVithin those woods to dwell was her intention,
Till forlimc .should occasion
'I'o

new

afford,

turne her

home

to

her desired lord.

XV.
shepherd fortunate! That troubles some didst whilom feele and proue, Yet liuest now in this contented state,

Shf

said therefore,

Let

my

mishap thy thoughts

to pitie

moue,

To

entertainc

me

as a willing

mate

la shepherds life, -which I admire and loue; "Within these pleasant groues perchance my heart, Ot~ her discomforts, may vnload some part.

XVI.
or wealth of most esteemed deare, If iewels rich, thou diddest hold in prise,
If gold

Such

store thereof, such plcntic

a gi-eedie

As to With

bane I seen, minde might well suffice

;

thai

downe

trickled
fell

many

a siluer teare,
cies
;

Two

christall

strcames

from her watrie

Part of hcr-sad misfortune than she told, And wept, and with her wept that shepherd

old.

XVII.

With speeches kinde, he gan the virgin deare Toward his cottage gently home to guide His aged wife there made her homely chearc,
;

Yet welcomdc her and plast her by her side. The princesse dond a poore pastoraes geare,

kerchiefe course vpon her head she tide

But yet her gestures and her

lookcs,

gesse.

Were
Not

such, as

ill

beseem'd a shepherdesse.

XVIII.
those rude garments could obscure and hide The heau'nly beautie of her angels face,

Nor was her princely offspring damnifide, Or ought disparag'de, by those labours bace Her little Hocks to pasture would she guide, And milke her goates, and in their folds them
;

place,

Both cheese and butter could she make, and frame Her selfe to please the shepherd and his dame.

POMFRET.
Mr. JOHN POMFRET nothing
is

known

but from a slight

and confused account prefixed to his poems by a nameless friend; who relates, that he was the son of the Rev. Mr. Pomfret, rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire
;

that

he was bred

at

Cambridge

;*

entered into orders and was rector of Maiden in Bedfordshire, and might have risen in the church but that, when he applied
;

to Dr.

Compton, bishop of London, for institution to a living of considerable value, to which lie had been presented, he found a
troublesome obstruction raised by a malicious interpretation of

some passage in his Choice ; from which it was inferred, that he considered happiness as more likely to be found in the company of a mistress than of a wife.
This reproach was
easily obliterated
;

for

it

had happened to
life
;

Pomfret

as to almost all other

men who

plan schemes of

he had departed from

The

malice of his

was then married. enemies had however a very fatal consehis purpose, and
in

quence ; the delay constrained his attendance he caught the small pox, and died in 1703,
year of his age.

London, where

in the thirty sixth

He

published his

poems

in 1699

and has been always the

favourite of that class of readers, who, without vanity or criti-

cism, seek only their own amusement. His Choice exhibits a system of life adapted to
;

common

notions,

and equal to common expectations such a state as affords plenty and tranquillity, without exclusion of intellectual pleasures.

Perhaps no composition in our language has been oftener perused than Pomfret's Choice.
In his other poems there
of smooth metre
is is an easy volubility ; the pleasure afforded to the ear, and the mind is not op-

pressed with ponderous or entangled with intricate sentiment. He pleases many ; an?! he who pleases many must have some
species of merit.
*

He was

to

have taken

of Queen's college there, and, by the university register, appears Jlr his bachelor's degree in 1684, and his master's 1698. H

father -was of Trinity.

C.

VOL.

f.

26

DORSET.

the earl of Dorset, the character has been drawn so largely and so elegantly by Prior, to whom he was familiarly known, that nothing can be added by a casual hand and, as its author is so generally read, it would be useless officiousness to trans;

Op

cribe

it.

CHARLES SACKVILLE was

returned a
first
little

born, January 24, 1637.

tutor,

Having
Italy,

been educated under a private

he travelled into

and

before the restoration.

He was

chosen into the

parliament that was called, for east Grinstead in Sussex, and soon became a favourite of Charles the second ; but undertook

no public employment, being too eager of the riotous and licentious pleasures which young men of high rank, who aspired to
be thought
wits, at that

time imagined themselves entitled to

indulge. One of these frolicks has, by the industry of

to posterity. Sackville,
sir

Charles Sedley and

Wood, come down who was then lord Buckhurst, with sir Thomas Ogle, got drunk at the Cock in

by Covent Garden, and going into the balcony, exposed themselves to the populace in very indecent postures. At last, as they grew warmer, Sedley stood forth naked, and hastreet,

Bow

rangued the populace in such profane language, that the public the crowd attempted to force the indignation was awakened
;

door, and being repulsed, drove in the performers with stones, and broke the windows of the house.

For
is

this

fined five hundred pounds

misdemeanour they were indicted, and Sedley was what was the sentence of the others
;

to proSedley employed Killigrew and another cure a remission from the king ; but, mark the friendship of the and exacted it to dissolute they begged the fine for themselves,

not known.

the last groat.

108

LIFE OF DORSET.

unteer in the Dutch war

In 1665, lord Buckhurst attended the duke of York as a voland was in the battle of June 3d. when ;

deeighteen great Dutch ships were taken, fourteen others were was the who and the duke, admiral, engaged stroyed, Opclam blown up beside him, with all his crew.

On

the day before the battle, he

is

said to have

composed the

celebrated song, To all ijou ladies now at land, with equal tranSeldom any splendid quillity of mind and promptitude of wit.
I have heard, from the late earl of Orrery, have good hereditary intelligence, that lord Buckhurst had been a week employed upon it, and only retouched

story is wholly true.

likely to

who was

or finished

it

on the memorable evening.

But even

this,

what-

ever

it

may

subtract
after

from

his facility, leaves

him his courage.

He

nas soon

made

gentleman of the bedchamber, and

sent on short embassies to France.

In 1674, the estate of his uncle, James Cranfield, carl of Middlesex,

ferred on

came to him by its owner's death, and the title was conhim the year after. In 1677, he became, by the death

of his father, carl of Dorset, and inherited the estate of his family. In 1684, having buried his first wife, of the family of Bagot,

who

left

him no

child,

he married a daughter of the earl of

Northampton, celebrated both fov beauty and understanding. He received some favourable notice from king James ; but
soon found it necessary to oppose the violence of his innovations, und with some other lords appeared in Westminster hall, to coun-

tenance the bishops at their trial. As enormities grew every day less supportable, he found it He was one of those lords necessary to concur in the revolution.

who

sat

every day

in council to
;

the king's departure

and, what
to

preserve the public peace, after is not the most illustrious action

of his

life,

was employed

tingham with a guard, such

as

conduct the princess Anne to Notmight alarm the populace, as they

Whatever end passed, with false apprehensions of her danger. may be designed, there is always something despicable in a trick*

He became, us may be easily supposed, a favourite of king William, who, the day after his accession, made him lord chamberlain of the household, and gave him afterward the garter. He
happened to be among those that were tossed with the king :m open boat sixteen hours, in very rough and cold weather,
in

LIFE OF DORSET.
the coast of Holland.
January,
9, 1705-6,

199
;

His health afterward declined

at

and on

he died

Bath.

He
erally

confessed, and

was a man whose elegance and judgment were univei sallywhose bounty to the learned and witty was genknown. To the indulgent affection of the public, lord
;

it is,

Rochester bore ample testimony in this remark I know not how but lord Buckhurst may do what he will, yet is never in the
wrong. If such a

man

attempted poetry,

we

cannot wonder that his

Dryden, whom, if Prior tells truth, he distinguished by his beneficence, and who lavished his blandishments on those who are not known to have so well deserved them, undertaking to produce authors of our own country superior to those of antiquity* says, / would instance your lordship, in satire, and Shakespeare in tragedy. Would it be imagined that, of this rival
to antiquity,
all

works were praised.

the satires were

little

personal invectives, and that

?

his longest composition

was a song of eleven stanzas

blame, however, of this exaggerated praise falls on the encomiast, not upon the author ; whose performances are, what
they pretend to be, the effusions of a

The

man of wit

and

airy.

His verses

to

Howard show

; gay, vigorous, great fertility of mind ;

and his Dorinda has been imitated by Pope.

STEPNEY.

STEPNEY, descended from the Stepneys of Pendegrast in Pembrokeshire, was born at Westminster in 1663. O^ his father's condition or fortune I have no account.* Having
received the first part of his education at Westminster, where he passed six years in the college, he went at nineteen to Cambridge,! where he continued a friendship begun at school with

GEORGE

Mr. Montague, afterward earl of Halifax. They came to London together, and are said to have been invited into public life by
the duke of Dorset.

His qualifications recommended him to many foreign employments, so that his time seems to have been spent in negotiations. In 1692, he was sent envoy to the elector of Brandenburgh ; in 1693, to the Imperial Court ; in 1694, to the elector of Saxony ; in 1696, to the electors of Mentz and Cologne, and the congress
at Francfort
;

in 1698, a
;

second time to Brandenburgh

in 1699,
;

to the king of Poland

in 1701, again to the

emperor

and in

In 1697, he was made one of the 1706, to the states general. commissioners of trade. His life was busy, and not long. He died in 1707 ; and is buried in Westminster Abbey, with this
epitaph,

which Jacob transcribed.

H.
S. E.

GEORGIUS STEPNEIUS,
Vir

Armiger,

Ob Ingenii acumen, Literarum Scientiam,

Morum

Suavitatem,

Rerum Usum,
Virorum Amplissimorum Consuetudiuem,
Linguse, Styli, ac Vitce Elegantiam, Prseclara Officia cum Britannia turn Europse prsestita,

Sua

setate

multum

celebratus,

* It has been or grandson ef conjectured that our poet was either son See Charles, third son of sir John Stepney, the first baronet of that family. Cole says, the poet's Granger's History, vol II. p. 396, edit. 8vo. 1775. father was a grocer. Cole's MSS. in Brit. Mus. C.

Mr

He was
H,

entered, of Trinity college, and. took his master's degree

1689.

202
Apud

LIFE OF STEPNEY.
posteros

semper celebrandoi
obiit
Jic

Plurimas Legationes
E:i Fide, Diligentia,

Felicitate,

Ut Augustissimorum Principum
(iuliclnii

&

Annie

Spem

in illo

repositam
f'et'ellerit,

Nunqurun

llaud raro superaverit. Post longmn honorum Cursum

Rix-vi

Cum
Animnm

Tempoi-is Spatio confcctum, Naturie parum, Famte satis vixerat,

ad nltiora aspirantem placklc efflavit

On
Ex

the

left
S.

hand

G.

Equcstri Familia Stcpneiorura,

De

Pcndegrast,

in

Comitatu

Pembrochiensi oriundus, NVcstmonasterii natus est, A. D. 1663.

Elcctus
in

Collegium

buncti Pctri Westmonast. A. 1676.

Sancti Trinitatis Cantab. 1682.

Cousiliariorum quibus Commercii

Cura commissa

est 1697.

Chelseitc mortuus, k, comitante

Magna Procerum
Frequentia, hue elatus, 1707.
It is reported that the juvenile compositions of Stepney made grey authors blusli. I know not whether his poems will appear such wonders to the present age. One cannot always easily find the reason for which the world has sometimes conspired to

squander praise.

It is

as well as he ever wrote

not very unlikely that he wrote very early and the performances of youth have
;

many

favourers, because the authors yet lay no claim to public honours, and are therefore not considered as rivals by the distrib-

utors of fame.

He

apparently professed himself a poet, and added his

;

name
is

to those of the other wits in the version of Juvenal

but he

very licentious translator, and does not recompense his neglect of the author by beauties of his own. In his original poems,

now and

then, a

happy

line

then a short composition

the whole,
ture.
little

may perhaps be found, and now and may give pleasure. But there is, in

cither of the grace of wit, or the vigour of na-

J.

PHILIPS.

3 OHN PHILIPS was

Hampton
in

Oxfordshire

born on the 30th. of December, 1676, at of which place his father, Dr. Stephen
;

Philips, archdeacon of Salop, was minister. his education was domestic ; after which he

The

first

part of
to

was sent

Win-

chester, where, as

was

are told by Dr. Sewel, his biographer, he soon distinguished by the superiority' of his exercises ; and,
is less easily to

we

what

his schoolfellows, by his civility

be credited, so much endeared himself to and good nature, that they, withIt is related, that

out

murmur

or

ill

will,

particular immunities.

saw him indulged by the master with when he was at school,

he seldom mingled in play with the other boys, but retired to his chamber where his sovereign pleasure was to sit, hour after hour, while his hair was combed by somebody, whose service he
;

found means to procure.* At school he became acquainted with the poets, ancient and modern, and fixed his attention particularly on Milton.
In 1694 he entered himself at Christ church, a college at that time in the highest reputation, by the transmission of Busby's Here scholars to the care first of Fell, and afterward of Aldrich.

he was distinguished as a genius eminent among the eminent, and for friendship particularly intimate with Mr. Smith, the author of Phadra and Hipjiolijtus. The profession which he intended
*

when he
is

Isaac Vossius relates, that he also delighted in having his hair combed could have it done by barbers or other persons skilled in the rules of

prosody.

Of the passage
"
;

that contains this ridiculous fancy, the following

people take delight in the rubbing of their limbs* and the combing of their hair but these exercises would delight much more,
a translation

Many

i~i

the servants at the baths, and of the barbers, were so skilful in this apt, that they could express any measures with their fingers. I remember that

more than once

have

fallen into the

hands of

men

of this sort,

who

could

imitate any measure of songs in combing the hair, so as sometimes to ex-

&c. from whence there press very intelligibly iambics, trochees, dactyls, arose to me no small delight." Sec his Treatise de Poetnatuin cantu &
viribus

Rythmi. O\on. 1673,

T,

p. 62.

H,

VOL.

204

LIFE OF
;

J.

PHILIPS

to follow was that of physic

ural history, of which botany

and he took

much
and

delight in nat-

was
to

his favourite part.

his friends
it

His reputation was confined

sity
;

to the univer-

till

about 1703 he extended

X/ilt'iidid Xhillinir,

which

a wider circle by the struck the public attention with a mode

to

of writing

new and unexpected. This performance raised him

so high, that,

when Europe

re-

sounded with the victory of Blenheim, he was, probably with an occult opposition to Addison, employed to deliver the acclamation of the tories.
It is said that

ed the

task, but that his friends

that he wrote this

Blcnlicini

poem

at

he would willingly have declinurged it upon him. It appears the house of Mr. St. John.
1705.

was published

in

The next

year produced
;

his greatest work, the

poem upon

Cider, in

two books

which was

received with loud praises, and continued long to be read, as an imitation ot Virgil's Georgic, which needed not shun the pres-

ence of the original. lie then grew probably more confident of his

own
;

abilities,

and began to meditate a poem on the Last Day which no mind can hope to equal expectation.

a subject on

This work he did not

15, 1708, at the

live to finish

his diseases, a slow con;

sumption and an asthma, put a stop

his
life.

to his studies

and on Feb.

beginning of his thirty third year, put an end ta

in the cathedral of

He

was buried

Hereford

and

sir

Simon
in

Harcourt, afterward lord chancellor, gave him a

monument

Westminster Abbey.
ten, as I
'o

The

inscription at

Westminster was

writ-

have heard, by Dr. Atterbury, though commonly given

Dr. Freind.
1I1S

EPITAPH AT HEREFORD.

JOHANNES PHILIPS
iv la cue reb.
i

\ Anno

CDom.
,

170S.
,5-J

C-fEtat. sine

Cujus
Ossa
Si
si

rcquiras, luuic
Si

Urnam

inspicc

Ingenium

nescias, ipsiiis

Opera

consttle

Tumulum

dcsideras,

LIFE OF

J.

PHILIPS.

Templum

adi

Wcstmonasteriense ;

Qualis quantusque Vir fuerit,

Dicat elegans ilia & prseclara, Quse eenotaphium ibi decorat,

Inscriptio.

Quam

interim erga Cognatos pins Testetur hoc saxum

&

officiosus,

A MARIA PHILIPS
Dilccti Filii

Matre ipsius pientissima, Memorise -non sine Lacrymis dicatum.

HIS EPITAPH

AT WESTMINSTER

Herefordise conduntur Ossa,

Hoc

in

Delubro statuitur Imago,

Britanniam

omnem

pervagatur Fama,
;

JOHANNIS PHILIPS

Qui Viris bonis doctisque juxta charus, Immortale suum Ingenium,

Eruditione multiplici excultum,

Miro
Exiraia

aninii candore,

morum

simplicitate,

Honestavit.

Quam
Inter

Litterarum Amceniorum sitim, Wintonite Puer sentire cceperat,

Christi

^dis
In

Alumnos jugiter
Domicilio

explevit.

illo

Musarum

Praeclaris

JEmulorum

studiis excitatus,

Optimis scribendi Magistris semper intentus, Carmina sermone Patrio composuit A Grsecis Latinisque fontibus feliciter deducta s
Atticis

Romanisque auribus omnino digna,

Versuum quippe Harmoniam. Rythmo didicerat.

Antique
illo,

libero,

multiformi

Ad

res ipsas apto prorsus, attemperato, numeris in eundem fere orbem redeuntibusj

&

Non

Clausularum
laxidis

si

milker cadentium sono

;

Metiri

Uniin hoc

genere Miltono secundus,

Primoque pcene par. Res seu Tenues, sen Grandes, seu Mediocres
Ornandas sumserat,

Nusquam, non quod decuit, Et videt, & assecutus est,

Egregius, quocunque Stylum verteret,

FanUi author,

& Modorum

artifex.

-OS

LIFE OF
Fas
AMS') licrt
;t

J.

PHILIPS.

sit

Huic,
ilisocdcrc,

ti;i

Mctrorum Legc

Pocsis Anglican* Pater, atque Couditor, Chaucci

Alti-niiH tihi latus clauderc,

Vatiim ccrlc rinrres, luos undiqiie stipnntium Non dedecebit Chorum.

SIMON HARCOURT,

Miles,

Viri ben6 dc se, de Littcris meriti

Quoad viveret Fautor, Post Obitum pie memor,

Hoc
J.

illi

Saxum

PHILIPS, STEPHANI,

poni voluit. S. T. P. Archidiaconi

Salop. Filins, natus est Bamptoniae In agro Oxon. Dec. 50, 1076.
Obiit Hereford!*, Feb. 15. 1708.

man

as a Philips has been always praised, without contradiction, modest, blameless, and pious ; who bore narrowness of for-

tune without discontent, and tedious and painful maladies without impatience ; beloved by those that knew him, but not ambitious to be known. He was probably not formed for a wide circle.

His conversation
to

is

commended

for its innocent

gaiety,
;

which seems
I

have been

told,

have flowed only among his intimates for that he was in company silent and barren, and

tobacco

employed only upon the pleasures of his pipe. His addiction to is mentioned by one of his biographers, who remarks that in all his writings, except Blenheim, he has found an op-

In common life he portunity of celebrating the fragrant fume. was probably one of those who please by not offending, and whose person was loved because his writings were admired.

He
tion

died honoured and lamented, before any part of his reputa-

had withered, and before his patron

St.

John had disgraced

him.
Splendid Shilling" has the unmerit of an original design, unless it may be thought precluded by the ancient Centos. To degrade the sounding

His works arc few.

The "

common

words and

stately construction of Milton,

trivial things, gratifies

lowest and most

tary

the

by an application to the mind with a momen-

in admiration

triumph over that grandeur which hitherto held its captives the words and things are presented with a new
;

appearance, and novelty

pain.

is

always grateful where

it

gives no

LIFE OF

J.

PHILIPS.
\vith

207
the

But the merit of such performances begins and ends

first

author.

He

that should again adapt Milton's phrase to the

gross incidents of common life, and even adapt it with more art, which would not be difficult, must yet expect but a small part of the praise which Philips has obtained ; he can only hope to be

considered as the repeater of a jest. " The " is the parody on Milton," says Gildon, only tolerable production of its author." This is a censure too dogmatical and violent. The of " Blenheim" was never denied to be tol-

poem

erable, even by those

It is

who do

not allow
all

its

supreme excellence.
;

indeed the

poem

of a scholar,

inexpert of war

of a

man

who

He

writes books from books, and studies the world in a college. seems to have formed his ideas of the field of Blenheim from

the battles of the heroic ages, or the tales of chivalry, with very little comprehension, of the qualities necessary to the composi-

modern hero, which Addison has displayed with so much He makes Marlborough behold at a distance the slaughter made by Tallard, then haste to encounter and restrain him, and mow his way through ranks made headless by his sword. He imitates Milton's numbers indeed, but imitates them very
tion of a

propriety.

Deformity is easily copied ; and whatever there Milton which the reader wishes away, all that is obsolete, with great care by Philips. peculiar, or licentious, is accumulated
injudiciously.
is in

of our metre in Milton's age

Milton's verse was harmonious, in proportion to the general state and, if he had written after the im;

is reasonable to believe that he provements made by Dryden, it would have admitted a more pleasing modulation of numbers into his work ; but Philips sits down with a resolution to make no more

music than he found to want all that his master wanted, though he is very far from having what his master had. Those asper;

ities,

therefore, that are venerable in the Paradise Losf, are con-

temptible in the Blenheim. There is a Latin ode written to his patron St. John, in return for a present of wine and tobacco, which cannot be passed with'

out notice.

It is

gay and elegant, and exhibits several

artful

-08
accommodations

LIFE OF
ol classic

J.

PHILIPS.

expressions to

new

purposes. It

seems

better turned than the ode of Hannes.*

To
may
it is

the

poem on

Cider, written in imitation of the Georgics,

be given

this peculiar praise, that it is

grounded

in truth

that the precepts

contains are exact and just ; and that therefore, at once, a book of entertainment and of science.

which

it

I was told by Miller, the great gardener and botanist, whose expression was, that there were many books 'written on the same subject in /irose, which do not contain so much truth as that jwem.

This

In the disposition of his matter, so as to intersperse precepts relating to the culture of trees with sentiments more generally
alluring,

and in easy and graceful transitions from one subject to another, he has very diligently imitated his master ; but he unhappily pleased himself with blank verse, and supposed that the

numbers of Milton, which impress the mind with veneration, combined as they are with subjects of inconceivable grandeur,
could be sustained by images which at most can rise only to elegance. Contending angels may shake the regions of heaven in blank verse ; but the flow of equal measures, and the embellish-

ment

of rhyme, must

recommend

to

our attention the art of

of the redstreak ingrafting, and decide the merit

and fiearmain.

study could confer, Philips had obtained ; but natural dencicnce cannot be supplied. He seems not born to greatness and elevation. He is never lofty, nor does he often surprise

What

with unexpected excellence ; but perhaps to his last poem may be applied what Tully said of the work of Lucretius, that it is
written with

much
am

art,

though with few blazes of genius.

*This ode
in
all
;

the printed copies, which

willing to mention, because there seems to be an error is, I find, retained iu the last. They all

read

Quam
O! O!

Gratiarum cura decentium

labellis cui

Venus

inside).

The

author probably wrote,

Quam
Oruat;

Gratiarum cura decentium

labcllis cui

Venus

insidet.

Dr. J.

LIFE OF

J.

PHILIPS.

209

THE FOLLOWING FRAGMENT, WRITTEN BY EDMUND SMITH, UPON THE WORKS OF PHILIPS, HAS BEEN TRANSCRIBED FROM THE BODLEIAN MANUSCRIPTS.

"A
"

prefatory discourse to the

poem on Mr.
his writings.

Philips, with

a character of

It is

altogether as equitable

some account should be given

who have distinguished themselves by their writings, as of those who are renowned for great actions. It is but reasonable that they who contribute so much to the immortality of others
of those

should have some share in

is

it

themselves
is

and since their genius

just that their virtues

discovered by their works, it only should be recorded by their friends.

For no modest men, as

the person I write of was in perfection, will write their own panegyrics ; and it is "very hard that they should go without repThe end of utation, only because they the more deserve itIt will be in writing lives is for the imitation of the readers. the power of very few to imitate the duke of Marlborough ; we must be content with admiring his great qualities and actions,

without hopes of following them.

are

more
it is

easily transcribed.

tive, as

well as

more

fine,

The private and social virtues The life of Cowley is more instructhan any we have in our language.

Mr. Philips had so many of the I had some of the abilities of his that of that poet, good qualities

And

to be wished, since

historian.

The Grecian

philosophers have had their lives written, their

morals commended, and their sayings recorded. Mr. Philips had all the virtues to which most of them only pretended, and
all

their integrity without any of their affectation.

;

The French are very just to eminent men in this point not a learned man nor a pcet can die, but all Europe must be acquainted with his accomplishments. They give praise and expect it in their turns they commend their Patrus and Molieres as well as their
;

Condes and Turennes

their Pellisons

and Racines have their

;

elogies, as well as the prince

whom

they celebrate

and their

poems, their mercuries, and

filled

orations,

nay their very gazettes, are

with the praises of the learned.

satisfied that,

am

known how

to value
all

had they had a Philips among them, and him had they had one of his learning,his tem;

per, but above

of that particular turn of humour, that altogether

210

J.I1E

OF

J.

PHILIPS.

new genius, he had been an example to their poets, and a subject of their panegyrics, and perhaps set in competition with the ancients, to whom only he ought to submit.
I

sluill

therefore endeavour to do justice to his

it.

memory,

since

nobody else undertakes

And

indeed

can assign no cause

why
able
(

many of his acquaintance, that are as willing and more than myself to give an account of him, should forbear to Ubratc the memory of one so dear to them, but only that they
so
it

look upon
1 shall

as a

work

entirely belonging to

me.

content myself with giving only a character of the person and his writings, without meddling with the transactions of

which was altogether private ; I shall only make this observation of his family, that there was scarcely so many I have been acquainted with five extraordinary men in any one.
his
life,

known

of his brothers, of
parts, yet
all

whom

three arc

still

living, all

men

of fine

of a very unlike temper and genius. So that their fruitful mother, like the mother of the gods, seems to have produced a numerous offspring, all of different though uncommon

faculties.

Of the

living, neither their

modesty, nor the humour

;

of the present age, permits

say something.

me

to

speak

of the dead, I

may

the greatest progress in the study of and nations of any one I know. He had perfectly mastered, and even improved, the notions of Grotius, and the more refined ones of Puftendorf. He could refute Hobbes with

One

of

them had made

the law of nature

as
as

much much

solidity as

wit as Echard.

some of greater name, and expose him with That noble study, which requires the

greatest reach of reason and nicety of distinction, was not at all 'Twas a national loss to be deprived of one who difficult to him.

understood a science so necessary, and yet so unknown in EngI shall add only, that he had the same honesty and sincerity as the person I write of, but more heat ; the former was more inland.

clined to argue, the latter to divert ; one employed his reason more, the other his imagination ; the former had been well qualified for those posts, Avhich the

refuse.

modesty of the latter made him His other dead brother would have been an ornament

to the college of

which he was a member.

;

He

had a genius

either for poetry or oratory

and, though very young,

composed

several very agreeable pieces.

In

all

probabDity he would have

LIFE OF

J.

PHILIPS.

He might have been written as finely as his brother did nobly. The one his time. of Milton was the other the Waller, as the
might celebrate Marlborough, the other his beautiful offspring. This had not been so fit to describe the actions of heroes as the virtues of private men. In a word, he had been fitter for my
place
;

and while his brother was writing upon the greatest

men

that any age ever produced, in a style equal to them,

he might
pro-

have served as a panegyrist on him. This is all I think necessary to say of his family. ceed to himself and his writings which I shall
;

I shall
first

treat of

because

I know they are censured by out of ignorance.

some out of envy, and more

the least considerable, has

The
the

Splendid Shilling, which

is far

more general

reputation, and perhaps hinders the character

of the rest.

The style agreed so well with the burlesque, that the ignorant thought it could become nothing else. Every body is pleased with that work. But to judge rightly of the other requires a perfect mastery of poetry and criticism, a just contempt of the little turns and witticisms now in vogue, and above all, a
perfect understanding of poetical diction and description. All that have any taste for poetry will agree, that the great burlesque is much to be preferred to the low. It is much easier

make a great thing appear little, than a little one great ; Cotton and others of a very low genius have done the former ; but Garth, and Boileau, only the latter.
to

Philips,

A picture in miniature is every painter's talent

a cupola, where
all

but a piece

the figures are enlarged, yet proportioned for to the eye, requires a master's hand. It must still be more acceptable than the low burlesque, be-

cause the images of the

latter are

mean and

filthy,

and the lan-

guage

itself entirely

unknown

to all

men of good

breeding.

The

would not make a very agreeable figure at style of Billingsgate little pleasure in lanSt. James's. gentleman would take but which he would think it hard to be accosted in, or in read-

could not pronounce without blushing. The ing words which he the more to be admired, because, to write it, is lofty burlesque talents in the author must be master of two of the most different is is what ridiculous, talent to find out and expose nature. 28 VOL. i.

guage

j,iFi;

OF

J.

PHILIPS.

must very diflcivnt from that which is to raise and elevate. read Virgil and Milton for the one, and Horace and Hudibras for
the other.

We

\Ve know that the authors of excellent comedies

failed in the

grave style, and the tragedian as often in and Admiration 1-omedy. laughter are of such opposite natures, The man of that they arc seldom created by the same person. mirth is always observing the follies and weaknesses, the serious
have often
writer the virtues or crimes of

mankind

one

is

pleased with

contemplating a beau, the other a hero ; even from the same subject they would draw different ideas ; Achilles would appear
in

very different lights to Thersites and Alexander

the one

would admire the courage and greatness of his soul ; the other would ridicule the vanity and rashness of his temper. As the
satyrist says to

Hannibal

Ut

curre per Alpes, pueris placeas, be declamatio

1,

fias.

contrariety of style to the subject pleases the more strongly, because it is more surprising ; the expectation of the
is pleasantly deceived, who expects an humble style from the subject, or a great subject from the style. It pleases the more universally, because it is agreeable to the taste both of the

The

reader

grave and the merry ; but more particularly so to those who have a relish of the best writers, and the noblest sort of poetry,
I shall produce only one passage out of this poet, which misfortune of his Galligaskins.
is

the

My
The
By

Galligaskins, uliicii have long -withstood winter's fury and encroaching frosts,
will not

time subdu'd, what

time subdue

This is admirably pathetical, and shows very well the vicissitudes of sublunary things. The rest goes on to a prodigious height j
and a

man

in

Greenland could hardly have made a more pathetic

and terrible complaint. Is it not surprising that the subject should be so mean, and the verse so pompous that the least
;

things in his poetry, as in a microscope, should grow great and formidable to the eye ? especially considering that, not under-

Bunding French, he had no model for his style ? that he should have no writer to imitate, and himself be inimitable ? that he should do all this before he was twenty ? at an age, which is
,

LIFE OF

J.

PHILIPS.
little

213
turns, and

usually pleased with a glare of false thoughts, natural fustian

?

un-

which Cowley, Dryden, and I had almost said Virgil, were inconsiderable ? so soon was his imagination at its full strength, his judgment ripe, and his humour
at

an age,

at

complete.

This poem was written for his own diversion, without any deIt was communicated but to me ; but soon It was put out, vilely spread, and fell into the hands of pirates.
sign of publication.

mangled, by Ben Bragge and impudently said to be corrected by the author. This grievance is now grown more epidemical and no man now has a right to his own thoughts, or a title to his own
; ;

writings.

arms,
if

"

We have nothing now

the one,

Xenophon answered

the Persian,
left

who demanded

his
;

but our arms and our valour

we surrender

how

shall

we make

use of the other ?"

Poets have nothing but their wits and their writings ; and if they are plundered of the latter, I do not see what good the former

can do them.

To

pirate,

names
lieve,

to the

works they

steal, to

and publicly own it, to prefix their own and avow the theft, I bein

was never yet heard of but

England.

It will

sound oddly

to posterity, that, in a polite nation, in an enlightened age, under the direction of the most wise, most learned, and most generous

encouragers of knowledge in the world, the property of a mechanic should be better secured than that of a scholar that the
!

poorest manual operations should be more valued than the noblest products of the brain 1 that it should be felony to rob a
cobler of a pair of shoes, and no crime to deprive the best author of his whole subsistence ; that nothing should make a man a sure
title to

his

own writings but the

stupidity of

them

that the

works

of Dryden should meet with less encouragement than those of his own Flecknoe, or Blackmore that Tillotson and St. George,
!

Tom Thumb
is

and Temple, should be set on an equal foot ! This the reason why this very paper has been so long delayed ; and,

while the most impudent and scandalous libels are publicly vended by the pirates, this innocent work is forced to steal abroad as
if it

were a

libel.

Our
same
estate.

condition Virgil was,

present writers are, by these wretches, reduced to the when the centurion seized on his

But

do not doubt but

can fix upon the Maecenas of

it.

the present age, that will retrieve them from

But, whatever

214
effect this piracy

Ml'I-rOI-' J. 1'HILIPS.

may have upon us, it contributed very much advantage of Mr. Philips ; it helped him to a reputation Avhich he neither desired nor expected, and to the honour of being put upon a work of which he did not think himself capato the

ble

to hope, that he,

still

but the event showed his modesty. And it was reasonable who could raise mean subjects so high, should be more elevated on greater themes ; that he, that could

ideas from a shilling, could not fail upon such a subject as the duke of Marlborough, which is cafiuble of heightening even the most low and trifling genius. And, indeed, most

draw such noble

of the great works which have been produced in the world have been owing less to the poet than the Men of the greatpatron.
est genius are sometimes often modest, lazy, and want a spur and dare not venture in public they certainly know their faults
; ;

in the worst things

of,

and even their best things they are not fond

because the idea of what they ought to be is far above what This induced me to believe that Virgil desired his they are. works might be burnt, had not the same Augustus, that desired
scribthem, preserved them from destruction. a poet may be induced to write, by the vciy pleasure he finds in writing but that is seldom, when peoto write

him

bling beau

may imagine

I have known men row, and use ple are necessitated to it. very hard labour for diversion, which, if they had been tied to, they

would have thought themselves very unhappy. But to return to Blenheim^ that work so much admired by Some, and censured by others. I have often wished he had wrote it in Latin, that he might be out of the reach of the empty critics,

who could have

as

little

understood his meaning

in that

language

as they do his beauties in his own.

False critics have been the plague of all ages ; Milton himself, in a very polite court, has been compared to the rumbling

of a wheelbarrow

he had been on the wrong

side,

and therefore
be

could not bo a good poet.

ips' s case.

And

f/iis, fier/iajis, tiunj

Mr.

Phil-

But I take generally the ignorance of his readers to be the occasion of their dislike. People that have formed their taste

upon the French

writers, can have

no

relish for Philips

they

admire points and turns, and consequently have no judgment of what is great and majestic ; he must look little in their eyes.

LIFE OP

J.

PHILIPS.

215
I can-

when he

soars so high as to be almost out of their view.

not therefore allow any admirer of the French to be a judge of Blenheim, nor any who takes Bouhours for a complete critic.

He

moderns by the

ancients by the moderns, and not the generally judges of the ancients ; he takes those passages of their own

authors to be really sublime which

come

the nearest to

it

he

often calls that a noble and a great thought which is only a pretty and a fine one ; and has more instances of the sublime out of

Ovid de Tristibus, than he has out of all

I shall allow, therefore, only those to

Virgil.

be judges of Philips, who

is

make

the ancients, and particularly Virgil, their standard. But, before I enter on this subject, I shall consider what
Philips,
;

particular in the style of

be the

style of heroic poetry

and examine what ought and next inquire how far he

to
is

come up
His

to that style.

because he lays aside rhyme, and writes and uses old words, and frequently postpones the and the substantive to the verb ; and adjective to the substantive, leaves out little particles, aj and the ; her, and his ; and uses frestyle is particular,

in blank verse,

whether these alteraquent appositions. Now let us examine tions of style be conformable to the true sublime.
# # #

WALSH.

WlLLIAM WALSH, the son of Joseph Walsh,Esq. of Ab*

berley in Worcestershire, was born in 1663, as appears from the account of Wood, who relates, that at the age of fifteen he be-

came,

in 1678, a
left

gentleman commoner of Wadham college.

at

He
ies in
is

the university without a degree, and pursued his stud-

London and

home

that

apparent from the

effect, for

he studied, in whatever place, he became, in Mr. Dryden's

critic

opinion, the best critic in the nation.

He

was

not,

however, merely a

or a scholar, but a

man

of fashion, and, as Dennis remarks, ostentatiously splendid in his dress. He was likewise a member of parliament and a courtier,

knight of the shire for his native county in several parliaments j in another the representative of Richmond in Yorkshire ; and

gentleman of the horse

erset.

to

queen Anne, under the duke of Som-

Some

of his verses show

;

him

to

have been a zealous friend to

but his political ardour did not abate his reverence or kindness for Dryden, to whom he gave a dissertation on Virgil's Pastorals, in which, however studied, he discovers some

the revolution

ignorance of the laws of French versification. In 1705, he began to correspond with Mr. Pope, in whom he discovered very early the power of poetry. Their letters are
written
torals

upon the pastoral comedy of the Italians, and those paswhich Pope was then preparing to publish.
kindnesses which are
first

The
gotten.
notice,

Pope always retained a

and mentioned him
in

grateful

experienced are seldom for-' memory of Walsh's

latter pieces

one of his

among

those that had encouraged his juvenile studies.

'Granville the polite,

And knowing Walsh, would

tell

me

could write.

In his Essay on Criticism he had given him more splendid

praise
ficed a
;

little

and, in the opinion of his learned commentator, sacriof his judgment to his gratitude,

218

LIFE OF WALSH.

The time of his death I have not learned. It must have happened between 1707, \vhcn he wrote to Pope; and 1721)
when Pope
forty six years old

He

is

him in his essay. The epitaph makes him if Wood's account be right, he died in 1709. known more by his familiarity with greater men, than
praised
;

by any thing done or written by himself. His works are not numerous. In prose he wrote Eugenia, a Defence of Women ; which Dryden honoured with a preface.
Escidafiius, or the llosjdtal of Fools, published after his death.

Collection of letters

and Poems, amorous and

gallant,

was

published in the volumes called Dryden's Miscellany, and other occasional pieces.

some

To
upon

his

poems and

letters is prefixed

a very judicious preface

amorous poetry. In his (i olden age restored, there was something of humour, but it now strikes no longer. In while the facts were recent
epistolary composition and
;

his imitation of Horace, the first stanzas are happily turned

in all his writings there are pleasing passages.

and

He

has,

how-

ever,
to

more elegance than vigour, and seldom rises higher than be pretty.

DRYDEN.

the great poet whose life I am about to delineate, the curiosity which his reputation must excite, will require a display more ample than can now be given. His contemporaries, how-

V/F

ever they reverenced his genius, left his life unwritten and nothing therefore can be known beyond what casual mention and uncertain tradition have supplied.
;

JOHN DRYDEN was born August 9, 1631,* at Aldwinkle, near Oundle, the son of Erasmus Dry den of Titchmersh who was
;

the third son of

baronet, of Canons Ashby. All these places are in Northamptonshire ; but the original stock
sir

Erasmus Dryden,

of the family was in the county of Huntingdon.!

He
ited

is

from

reported by his last biographer, Derrick, to have inherhis father an estate of two hundred a year, and to have

ticulars

been bred, as was said, an anabaptist. For either of these parno authority is given. Such a fortune ought to have
secured him from that poverty which seems always to have oppressed him ; or if he had wasted it, to have made him ashamed of publishing his necessities. But though he had many

enemies,

who undoubtedly examined his life with a scrutiny he is ever charged sufficiently malicious, I do not remember that
for his first religion.
I

with waste of his patrimony.

proached

He was indeed sometimes ream therefore inclined to believe

no satisfactory evidence for

that Derrick's intelligence

*

was

partly true and partly erroneous.^

is

Mr. Malone has

lately

proved that there

this date.

The

inscription on

See Malone's

life

Prose Works,"

p. 5, note.

of Dryden, prefixed C.
Ibid. p. 10.

Dry den's monument says only natus 1632. to his " Critical and Miscellaneous

f Of Cumberland.

C.
to a very beautiful and correct Tonsons in 1760, 4 vols.

Mr. Derrick's
8vo.

life

of

Dryden was prefixed

edition of Dryden's Miscellanies, published by the

Derrick's

pai-t,

however, was poorly executed, and the edition nevev

.39

fcecame popular.

C.

VOL.

I.

M1E OF DRYDEA.
From Westminster
school,

where he was instructed

as

one of

the kind's scholars by Dr. Busby, whom he long after continued to reverence, he was in 1650 elected to one of the Westminster
scholarships
at

Cambridge.*

performances has appeared only a poem on the death of lord Hasitngs, composed with great ambition of such conceits as, notwithstanding the reformation begun by Waller
his school

Of

and Denham, the example of Cowley still kept in reputation. Lord Hastings died of the smallpox ; and his poet has made of
the pustules
into stars
;

first

rosebuds, and then

gems

at last

exalts

them

and says,
comet need
foretell his

No
At the

change drew on,

Whose

corpse might seem a constellation.

university he does not appear to have been eager of

poetical distinction, or to

have lavished his early wit cither on

fictitious subjects or public occasions.

He

probably considered,

that he

He

obtained, whatever

lege.

vain to

first to be a student. was the reason, no fellowship in the colWhy he was excluded cannot now be known, and it is guess had he thought himself injured, he knew how to

who purposed

to

be an author, ought

complain.
these lines

In the

life

of Plutarch he mentions his education in

;

the college, with gratitude

;

but in a prologue at Oxford, he has

he

Oxford to him a dearer name

shall
;

Than

his

own mother

university

Thebes

did his rude

unknowing youth engage

lie chooses Athens in his riper age.

It

was not

till

the death of Cromwell, in 1658, that he

became

a public candidate for fame, by publishing heroic stanzas on the late lord protector ; which, compared with the verses of Sprat

and Waller on the same occasion, were sufficient to raise great

expectations of the rising poet. When the king was restored,
rists

Dry den,

like the other

panegy-

of usurpation, changed his opinion, or his profession, and published ASTREA REDUX, a poem on the happy restoration and return of his most sacred majesty king Charles the second.
*
:

He went off to

>i

Jan. 1653-4, and iu 1657 was

Trinity college, and was admitted to a bachelor's degree made master of aits. C.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

The reproach of inconstancy was, on this occasion, shared with such numbers, that it produced neither hatred nor disgrace 5
he changed, he changed with the nation. It was, however, not totally forgotten when his reputation raised him enemies. The same year, he praised the new king in a second poem on
if

his restoration.

In the ASTIIEA was the

horrid stillness
in that silence
first

line,

An

And
for

we

invades the ear, a tempest fear ;

which he was persecuted with perpetual ridicule, perhaps with more than was deserved. Silence is indeed mere privation ;
and, so considered, cannot invade
tainly is darkness,
;
;

and probably cold

but privation likewise ceryet poetry has never been

itive

refused the right of ascribing effects or agency to them as to pospowers. No man scruples to say that darkness hinders him
his

from

work
;

or that cold has killed the plants.

Death

is also

privation

yet

who

has

made any

difficulty of

assigning to death

a dart and the power of striking ? In settling the order of his works there

is

some

difficulty

for,

even when they are important enough to be formally offered to a patron, he does not commonly date his dedication the time of
;

writing and publishing

is

not always the

editions be easily found, if

same nor can the first even from them could be obtained the
;

necessary information.* The time at which his

first

play

known, because

it

was not printed

till

was exhibited is not certainly it was, some years after-

ward, altered and revived ; but since the plays are said to be printed in the order in which they were written, from the dates
of some, those of others
collected, that in

may be

inferred

and thus

it

may be
life,

1663, in the thirty second year of his

;

he

commenced

a writer for the stage

necessity, for

he appears never to much pleased himself with his own dramas. have or to genius, Of the stage, when he had once invaded it, he kept possession
for

compelled undoubtedly by have loved that exercise of his

many years who sometimes

not indeed without the competition of rivals prevailed, or the censure of critics, which was
;

often poignant and often just

*

but with such a degree of repu-

The
f.

order of his plays has been accurately ascertained by Mr.

Ma-

lone,

222
tation us

.LIFE

OF DllYDKN.

made him

at least

secure of being heard, whatever might

called
for his

be the

final
first

determination of the public.

piece was a

His

comedy
;

The Wild Gallant.

He

performance was so much to rccal it, and change it was he that compelled disapproved, from its imperfect state to the form in which it now appears, and
bewail with no happy auguries

which
I

is

yet sufficiently defective to vindicate the critics.

wish that there were no necessity of following the progress

of his theatrical fame, or tracing the meanders of his through the whole scries of his dramatic performances;

mind
it

will

be

fit,

however,

to

enumerate them, and

to take especial notice

of those that are distinguished by any peculiarity, intrinsic or concomitant ; for the composition and fate of eight and twenty dramas include too much of a poetical life to be omitted.
to the earl of Orrery, a

In 1664 he published The Rival Ladi's, which lie dedicated man of high reputation, both as a writer

and a statesman.

In this play he

made

his essay of dramatic

rhyme, which he defends,

tainty of a favourable

in his dedication,
;

with sufficient cer-

hearing
sir

for

Orrery was himself a writer

in

of

rhyming

tragedies.

He

then joined with

Robert Howard

The Indian Queen,

a tragedy in rhyme.

The

parts which either of them wrote aie

not distinguished. The Indian Em/ieror was published in 1667.

in

It is

a tragedy

rhyme, intended

for a sequel to

Howard's Indian Queen.

Of

this connection notice

was given
;

distributed at the door

in

audience by printed bills, an expedient supposed to be ridiculed

to the

The Rehearsal, where Bayes

In this play
is

printed, to instil into the audience

famous by preferring

the description it to those of

how many reams he has some conception of his plot. of night, which Rymer has made
tells
all

other poets.

The

practice of

fioon after the

making tragedies in rhyme was introduced restoration, as it seems by the carl of Orrery, in com;

his taste by the

pliance with the opinion of Charles the second, French theatre and Dry den,

who had formed who wrote, and

made no difficulty of declaring that he wrote, only to please, and who perhaps knew that by his dexterity of versification he was more likely to excel others in rhyme than without it, very readily He therefore made rhyming' adopted his master's preference.

LIFE OF DRYDEX.
tragedies,

223

seems

To

the prevalence of manifest propriety, he till, by have grown ashamed of making them any longer. this play is prefixed a very vehement defence of dramatic
to

rhyme, in confutation of the preface to The Duke of Lerma, in which sir Robert Howard had censured it. In 1667 he published Annus Mirabilis, the Year of Wonders^

which may be esteemed one of his most elaborate works. It is addressed to sir Robert Howard by a letter, which
properly a dedication
;

is

not

and, writing to a poet, he has interspersed

many
now,

critical observations,

of which

some

are

common, and some

He began, even domination of conscious genius, by recom" mending his own performance ; I am satisfied that as the prince and general [Rupert and Monk] are incomparably the best subperhaps ventured without
to exercise the

much

consideration.

jects I ever had, so

what

have written on them

is

much

better

have performed on any other. As I have endeavoured to adorn my poem with noble thoughts, so much more to
than what
I

express those thoughts with elocution."

It is

written in quatrains, or heroic stanzas of four lines

measure which he had learned from the Gondibert of Davenant, and which he then thought the most majestic that the English language affords. Of this stanza he mentions the incumbrances, increased as they were by the exactness which the age required.
It

was, throughout his

life,

very

much his custom

to

recommend

works by representation of the difficulties that he had encountered, without appearing to have sufficiently considered, that
his

where there is no difficulty there is no praise. There seems to be, in the conduct of sir Robert Howard and

Dryden toward each other, something that is not now easily to be explained. Dryden, in his dedication to the earl of Orrery, had defended dramatic rhyme and Howard, in the preface to a
;

his opinion. Dryden vindicated on Dramatic himself in his Dialogue Poetry ; Howard, in his on the vindication ; The Duke animadverted to of Lerma, preface and Dryden, in a preface to The Indian Emperor, replied to the

collection of plays,

had censured

animadversions with great asperity, and almost with contumely. The dedication to this play is dated the year in which the Annus

was published. Here appears a strange inconsistency ; but Langbaine affords some help, by relating: that the answer to
Mirabilis

LIFE OF BRYDEN.

Howard was
added when

it

not published in the first edition of the play, but was was afterward reprinted ; and as The Duke r,f

Lcrtna did not appear till 1GG8, the same year in which the diawas time enough for enmity to grow logue was published, there

up between authors, who, writing both

urally rivals.

for the theatre,

were nat-

now so much distinguished, that in 1668* he succeedThe salary of the \Yillium Ddvenant as poet laureat. laurcat had been raised in favour of Jonson, by Charles the first,
lie was
sir

ed

from an hundred marks

tierce

to

one hundred pounds a year, and a

of wine

a revenue in those days not inadequate to the

life.

conveniences of

The same

year,

elegant and instructive dialogue

that the principal character is

he published his essay on dramatic poetry, an in which we are toid by Prior,

;

meant

to represent the

duke of

Dorset.

Thib work seems

to have given

Addison a model for

upon medals. Maiden Queen, 1668, is a tragicomedy. In the preface he discusses a curious question, whether a poet can judge well of his own productions ; and determines very justly,
his dialogues

Secret Love, or the

that, of the plan

and disposition, and

all

that can be reduced to

principles of science, the author

ion
;

may

may depend upon his own opinbut that, in those parts where fancy predominates, self love Me might have observed, that what is good easily deceive.
it

only because

pleases, cannot be

pronounced good

till

it

has

been found
Sir

to please.

Mar (in

JMarall, 1668, is a
first

face or dedication, and at

comedy, published without prewithout the name of the author.

Langbaine charges it, like most of the rest, with plagiarism ; and observes, that the song is translated from Yoiture, allowing however that both the sense and measure arc exactly observed.

The Tan/text, 1670,

is

made by Dryden
he,

in conjunction

an alteration of Shakespeare's play, with Davcnant ; " whom," says

"

found of so quick a fancy, that nothing was proposed to

him

in

which he could not suddenly produce a thought extremeand surprising

;

ly pleasant
k

and those

first

thoughts of
;

his,

con-

He

did not obtain the laurel

;'>nns us, tlnit the patent

the

midsummer

at'icr

till August 18, 1G70 but, Mr. Malone iahad a retrospect, and the salary commenced from D'Avenanl's death. C.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
ifary to the Latin proverb,
;

225

were not always the least happy and was quick, so likewise were the products of it remote and new. He borrowed not of any other and his imaginations were such as could not easily enter into any other man." The effect produced by the conjunction of these two powerful
as his fancy
;

to Shakespeare's monster, Caliban, is added a monster, Sycorax ; and a woman, who, in the original play, had never seen a man, is in this brought acquainted with a man that had never seen a woman.
sister

minds was, that

About

this time, in 1673,

the.

much

disturbed by tragedy written in

Dryden seems to have had his quiet success of The Empress of Morocco^ a rhyme by Eikanah Settle ; which was so

much

applauded, as to

tation in

some danger.

the stage, but, in Here was one play, with sculptures and 'a preface of defiance. offence added to another and, for the last blast of inflammation>
;

think his supremacy of repuhad not only been prosperous on the confidence of success, had published his
Settle

make him

it

was acted

at

Whitehall by the court

ladies.

Dryden could not now repress those emotions, which he

called

indignation, and others jealousy ; but wrote upon the play and the dedication such criticism as malignant impatience could pour

out in haste. " He 's an animal of a most gives this character ; deplored understanding, without reading and conversation. His being is in a twilight of sense, and some glimmering of thought,

Of Settle he

which he can never fashion

into wit or English.

His

style is

boisterous and rough hewn, his

rhyme

incorrigibly lewd, and his

numbers perpetually harsh and ill sounding. The little talent which he has, is fancy. He sometimes labours with a thought ; but, with the pudder he makes to bring it into the world, 'tis

commonly
he
will
justly.'*

stillborn

so that, for want of learning and elocution,

never be able to express any thing either naturally or

is

This

not very decent

yet this

is

one of the pages

in

which

criticism prevails

most over brutal

fury.

He

a heavy hand at fools, and a great felicity them. Fools they will be in spite of him. His king, his two empresses, his villain, and his subvillain, nay his hero, have all a certain natural cast of the father
"bred in
;

" He has proceeds ; in writing nonsense for

their folly
will

was born and

be
visible.'*

them, and something of the Eikanah

iJi'K

or

JJKVUJi'N.

I will not withhold This is Dryden's general declamation from the reader a particular remark. Having gone through the first act, he says, "to conclude this act with the most rumbling
;

piece of nonsense spoken yet;

To

Which, back'd with thunder, do but

Cor/form a smile to lightning,
fluttering lightning
this lightning
;

nattering lightning our feign'd smiles conform, gild a storm.

make

a smile imitate lightning, and

is

must

lightning sure gild a storm.

a threatening thing.
if I

And

Now

must conform

my

smiles to lightning, then my smiles must gild a storm too ; to And gild a storm gild with smiles is a new invention of gilding.

by being backed with thunder. Thunder is part of the storm ; so one part of the storm must help to gild another part, and help
; as if a man would gild a thing the better for being So that here is gilding backed, or having a load upon his back.

by backing

by conforming, smiling, lightning, backing, and thundering. The whole is as if I should say thus I will make my counterfeit
;

smiles look like a flattering stone horse, which, being backed with a trooper, does but gild the battle. I am mistaken if nonsense
is

not here pretty thick sown.

Sure the poet writ these

storm, and, being seasick,

two

lines aboard

some smack

in a

spewed up a good lump of

liere
is

clotted nonsense at once "

;

perhaps a sufficient specimen

not easily to be found,
it

but as the pamphlet,

has never been thought worthy of republicat hough Dryden's,

tion,
it

and

is

may

gratify curiosity to quote

more

largely.

When'er she
lie

bleeds,

no severer a damnation needs,

the infection that attends that breath.

That dares pronounce the sentence of her death,

Than

That attend* that breath. The poet is at breath again ; breath can never 'scape him ; and here he brings in a breath that must be infectious with fironouncing a sentence ; and this sentence is
not to be pronounced
till

the

condemned

party bleeds

that is,

she must be executed

first,

ing of this sentence will

and sentenced after ; and the pronouncbe infectious that is, others will catch
;

the disease of that sentence, and this infecting of others will tor"

mcnt

man's

self.

The whole

is

thus

when

she bleeds, thou

LIFE OF DRYDEX.
needest no greater hell or torment
ers by pronouncing a sentence
to thyself,

227
than infecting of oth-

upon

her.

What hodge podge does

j

he make here
shall have a

digestible stuff.

Never was Dutch great such clogging, thick, inBut this is buta taste to stay the stomach we more plentiful mess presently.
!

"

Now

to dish

up the

poet's broth, that I promised.

For when we're dead, and our freed souls enlarg'd, Of nature's grosser burden we're diseharg'd,

Then

gently, as a happy lover's sigh, Like wand'ring meteors through the air And in our airy walk, as subtle guests,

we'll fly,

We'll

steal into

our cruel fathers' breasts,

There read
See how

their souls, and track each passion's sphere? revenge moves there, ambition here.

And

in their orbs

view the dark characters

murders, blood and wars. We'll blot out all those hideous draughts, and write
ruins,

Of sieges,

Pure and white forms then with a radiant Their breasts encircle, till their passions be
;

light

Gentle as nature in
Till, softened

its

infancy

by our charms, their furies cease,

And

their revenge resolves into a peace.

Thus by our death their quarrel ends, Whom living we made foes, dead we'll make

friends.

a If

this be not a very liberal mess, I will refer myself to tho stomach of any moderate guest. And a rare mess it is, far exIt is a kind of giblet celling any Westminster white broth.

full

porridge, made of the giblets of a couple of young geese, stodged of meteors, orbs, spheres, track, hideous draughts, dark characters-t

petite,

whiteforms, and radiant lights, designed not only to please apand indulge luxury ; but it is also physical, being an approvto

ed medicine

purge choler

for it is

propounded by Morena,

as a receipt to cure their fathers of their choleric

humours

and,

were

it

written in characters as barbarous

as the words,

might

very well pass for a doctor's bill. To conclude ; it is porridge, 'tis a receipt 'tis a pig with a pudding in the belly, 'tis I know

not what

for certainly,

never any one that pretended to write

sense, had the

impudence before to put such stuff as this, into the mouths of those that were to speak it before an audience, whom
he did not take to be
VOL.
r.

all fools

and after that to print

it

too,

and

30

228
expose
\vc can
it

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
to the

examination of the world.

stiiff;

But

let

us see what

make

of this

For when we're dead, and our freed " Here he

tells

souls enlarg'd
;
it is

us what

it is

to

be dead

to

tout* set free.

Now
Then

if to

have a soul set

is

free,

is

have our freed to be dead ;

then to have a freed soul set free,

gently, as a

to

have a dead

man

die.

happy

lover's sigh

"

They two

like

one sigh, and that one sigh like two wandering

meteors,
Shall fly through the air

" That
and

is, they shall

mount above

like falling stars, or else they

shall skip like

two Jacks with lanthorns, or Will with a whisp,

their cruel fathers' breasts, like

Madge with a candle." And in their airy walk steal into

subtle guests.

" that So, thcirya///e?V breasts must be in an airy walk, an airy walk of a flier. And there, they will read their souls, and track the sjiheres of their passions. That is, these walking

fliers,
fall

Jack with a lanthorn, kc. will put on his spectacles, and

a reading souls ; and put on his pumps, and fall a tracking of spheres ; so that he will read and run, walk and fly, at the same
!

time

Oh

Nimble Jack
there.

Then he

will see,

how revenge

here,

how ambition

The

birds will

hop about.
forms
!

And

then view

the dark characters of sieges, ruins, murders, blood,

their orbs ; track the characters to their

and wars, in
!

Oh

rare sport
!

for

Jack

Never was place

stir,

so full of

game

as these breasts

You

cannot
1"

but flush a sphere, start a character, or unkennel

to

an orb

Settle's is said

have been the

first

play embellished with

sculptures

those ornaments

great disturbance.

He

tries

seem to have given poor Dryden however to ease his pain, by venting

his malice in a parody.

"

The

stuff,

poet has not only been so impudent as to expose all this but so arrogant as to defend it with an epistle ; like a saucy

booth keeper,

that, when he had put a cheat upon the people, would wrangle and fight with any that would not like it, or would offer to discover it ; for which arrogance our poet receives

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
this correction
;

229

transpose his verse, but

and, to jerk him a little the sharper, I will not by the help of his own words transnon-

sense sense,
his
is.

that,

by

my

stuff,

people

may judge

the better what

" Great

From
And,

boy, thy tragedy and sculptures done, press and plates, in fleets do homeward run in ridiculous and humble pride,
in balladsingers' baskets guide,

Their course

Whose greasy twigs do all new beauties take, From the gay shows thy dainty sculptures make. Thy lines a mess of rhyming nonsense yield,

senseless tale, with flattering fustian

fill'd.

No

grain of sense does in one line appear, Thy words big bulks of boisterous bombast bear.

With

When
By
As

noise they move, and from players' mouths rebound. their tongues dance to thy words' empty sound,

if that

thee inspir'd the rumbling verses roll, rhyme and bombast lent a soul ;
;

And with that soul they seem taught duty too To huffing words does humble nonsense bow, As if it would thy worthless worth enhance, To th' lowest rank of fops thy praise advance, To whom, by instinct, all thy stuff is dear
;

Their loud claps echo

to the theatre.

From Fame
With

breaths of fools thy commendation spreads, sings thy praise with mouths of loggerheads.
noise and laughing each thy fustian greets,

'Tis clapt by choirs of empty headed cits, have their tribute sent, and homage given, As men in whispers send loud noise to heaven.

Who
" Thus
are
I

have daubed him with his own puddle

and now we

aboard his dancing, masking, rebounding, breathing fleet; and, as if we had landed at Gotham, we meet nothing but fools and nonsense."

come from

Such was the criticism to which the genius of Dryden could'be reduced, between rage and terror ; rage with little provocation, and terror with little danger. To see the highest minds thus levelled with the meanest,

may produce some

solace to the con-

some mortification to the pride of wisdom. But let it be remembered that minds are not levelled in their powers but when they are first levelled in their desires.
sciousness of weakness, and

Dryden and

Settle

had both placed their happiness

in the cla

of multitudes.

330

LIFE OF DRYDEN'.
Love, or The

An Evening a
is

Mock

Astrologer, a

comedy, 167U

dedicated to the illustrious duke of Newcastle,

to his praises

whom he courts

by adding

a partner of his studies.

those of his lady, not only as a lover but It is unpleasing to think how many

names, once celebrated, are since forgotten. Of Newcastle's works nothing is now known but his treatise on Horsemanship. The preface seems very elaborately written, and contains many just remarks on the fathers of the English drama, Shakespeare's plots, he says, are in the hundred novels of Cinthio
;

those

of Beaumont and Fletcher in Spanish stories

Jonson only

made

them

for himself.

His criticisms upon tragedy, comedy, and

and profound. He endeavours to defend the immorality of some of his comedies by the example of former writers which is only to say, that he was not the first nor perhaps the greatest offender. Against those that accused him of plafarce, are judicious
;

" He giarism he alleges a favourable expression of the king ; only desired that they, who accuse me of thefts, would steal him

plays like

how much labour he spends what he borrows from others. English stage Tyrannic Love, or the Virgin Martyr, 1672, was another tragedy in rhyme, conspicuous for many passages of strength and elegance, and many of empty noise and ridiculous turbulence.
mine
;"

and then relates

in fitting for the

The

rants of
at

and were

Maximin have been always the sport of criticism length, if his own confession may be trusted, the
;

shame of the

writer.

Of

this play

he has taken care to

in seven

let

the reader know, that

it

was contrived and written

weeks.

Want

of time was
his private

often his excuse, or perhaps shortness of time boast in the form of an apology.
It

was

was written before The Conquest of Granada, but published

it.

after

The

design

is

to

recommend

piety,
;

"

considered

that pleasure

was not the only end of poesy and that even the instructions of morality were not so wholly the business of a poet,

as that the precepts and examples of piety were to be omitted ; for to leave that employment altogether to the clergy, were to forget that religion was first taught in verse, which the laziness or dulness of

succeeding

priesthood

turned

afterward

into

prose."

Thus

foolishly could

Dryden

write, rather than not

show

his malice to the parsons.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

231

The two parts of The Conquest of Granada, 1672, are written with a seeming determination to glut the public with dramatic
wonders
;

to exhibit in its highest elevation a theatrical

meteor of

incredible love and impossible valour, and to leave no room for a All the rays of wilder flight to the extravagance of posterity.

romantic heat, whether amorous or warlike, glow in Almanzor by a kind of concentration. He is above all laws ; he is exempt from all restraints ; he ranges the world at will, and governs

wherever he appears. He fights without inquiring the cause, and loves in spite of the obligations of justice, of rejection by
his mistress, and of prohibition
are, for the

from the dead.

;

Yet the scenes

most

part, delightful

they exhibit a kind of illus-

and majestic madness, such as, if it is sometimes despised, is often reverenced, and in which the ridiculous
trious depravity,
is

mingled with the astonishing.

In the epilogue to the second part of The Conquest of Granada^
his favourite pleasure of discrediting his prede-

Dryden indulges
cessors
;

he has defended by a long postscript. had promised a second dialogue, in which he should more and faults of the English poets, who fully treat of the virtues
and
this epilogue

He

have written

in

was never formally performed

ic writers,

the dramatic, epic, or lyric way. This promise ; but, with respect to the dramatin his prefaces,

he has given us

and

in this postscript,

something equivalent ; but his purpose being to exalt himself by the comparison, he shows faults distinctly, and only praises
excellence in general terms. play thus written, in professed defiance of probability, nat One of the itself the vultures of the theatre. urally drew upon

critics that attacked it

dressed the

was Martin Clifford, to whom Sprat adof Cowley, with such veneration of his critical powers as might naturally excite great expectations of instrucBut let honest credulity beware of retion from his remarks.
life

Clifford's receiving characters from contemporary writers. marks, by the favour of Dr. Percy, were at last obtained and,
;

that

no man may ever want them more,

all

I will

extract

enough
"

to

satisfy

reasonable desire.
first letter

In the

his observation is only general.

You do

" in as live," says he,

in the

womb

ignorance and darkness as you did your writings are like a Jack of oil trades' shop
-,

much

LIFE OF DRYDEX.
they have a variety, but nothing of value ; and if thou art not the dullest plant animal that ever the earth produced, all that I have conversed with are strangely mistaken in thec."
In the second, he
tells

him

that

from Achilles than from ancient

"
strangely mistaken
in
if

Pistol.

Almanzor is not more copied " But I am," says he,

yours other name.

the Indian
Mu.i-iimx ?

some

have not seen this very Mmanzor of about this town, and passing under andisguise Pr'ythee tell me true, was not this lluffcap once
I

Emperor

and

at

another time did he not

call

himself
I

Was

not Lyndaraxa, once called Almtira ?

I protest

mean,

under Montezwna the Indian Emperor.

and vow they

are cither the same, or so alike, that I cannot, for

my

heart, dis-

You are therefore a strange untinguish one from the other. conscionable thief ; thou art not content to steal from others, but
dost rob thy poor wretched self too." was Settle's time to take his revenge.

Now

He

wrote a vin-

dication of his

own

lines

and, if he

is

forced to yield any thin g,

imhcs

enemy. To say that his answer is no censure, high commendation. To expose his of method expressions, he tries the same analyzing Dryden's the ships in The Indian Emof the description upon experiment
reprisals

upon

his
is

equal to the

ficror,

of which however he

docs not deny the excellence

but intends to show, that by studied misconstruction every thing may be equally represented as ridiculous. After so much of

Dryden's elegant animadversions, justice requires that someThe following observathing of Settle's should be exhibited. tions are therefore extracted from a quarto pamphlet of ninety
five

pages. " Fate

after

him below

-with pain did

And
kv

victory could scarce

move, keep pace above.

These two lines, if he can show me any sense or thought in, or any thing but bombast and noise, he shall make me believe every word in his observations on JMorocco sense.
In the EmJircKS of Morocco were these lines
"
I'll tivivcl
;

Till I

then to sonic remoter sphere, find out new worlds, and crown you there."
this

'

which Dryden made

remark

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

233

" I believe our learned author takes a sphere for a country ; the sphere of Morocco ; as if Morocco were the globe of earth and water; but a globe is no sphere neither, by his leave," &c, " So sphere must not be sense, unless it relate to a circular

motion about a globe, in which sense the astronomers use I would desire him to expound those lines in Granada ;
t( I'll

it,

to the turrets of the palace go,

And

add new

fire to

those that fight below.

Thence, hero like, with torches by my side, Far be the omen tho', my love I'll guide. No, like his better fortune I'll appear,

With open arms, loose veil, and flowing hair, Just flying forward from my rowling sphere.
" I wonder, if he be so sphere himself,
strict,

how he
critical

dares

make

so bold with

Fortune

is

other men's writings. fancied standing on a globe, not on a sphere, as he told

and be so

on

us in the first act. " Because Elkanaffs similes are the most unlike things to what they are compared in the world, I'll venture to start a simile in
his

Annus

Mirahilis

he gives
;

this poetical description of the

ship called

The London

" The goodly London in her The Phoenix daughter of the

gallant trim,

vanquish.! old,

Like a rich bride does on the ocean swim, And on her shadow rides in floating gold.

Her

flag aloft

spread ruffling

in

the wind,
;

And sanguine streamers seem'd the flood to fire The weaver, charm'd with what his loom design'd,
Goes on
to sea,

and knows not to

retire.

With roomy

Whose
Deep
"
in

decks, her guns of mighty strength, low laid mouths each mounting billow laves,

She seems

her draught, and warlike in her length, a sea wasp flying on the waves.

What

a wonderful pother is here, to

;

make

all

these poetical
stanza, and

beautifications of a ship

that

is,

a phoenix in the
his

first

but a wasp in the

humble comparison of a wasp more ridiculous, he does not say it flies upon the waves But our as nimbly as a wasp, or the like, but. it seemed a wasp.
last
;

nay, to

make

author at the writing of this was not in his altitudes, to compare was a ships to floating palaces ; a comparison to the purpose,

234
perfection

LIFE OF DRYDEN

lie did not arrive at, till his Indian Emperor's days. But perhaps his similitude has more in it than we imagine this ship had a great many guns in her, and they, put ail together,
;

the sting in the wasp's tail ; for this is v ^y it seemed a wasji. But, because guess,
all

made

all

the reason
will

can

we

allow

him

we

ty of such

can to help out, an animal

let it

be ^phcenix sea was/i, and the rariheightening the

may do much toward

to his purpose, if
little,

fancy.

"
to

It

had been

much more

he had designed
for,

render the senseless play such pedantry as this ;

"

to

have searched

some

Two

ifs

scarce

make one
all, is

possibility.

If justice will take

and nothing give,

not distributive.

Justice, methinks,

you, is the alternative, Rather than take your life, I will not
kill

To

die or

live.

"

Observe how

prettily

our author chops logic in heroic

verse.
native,

Three such

fustian canting

words as

distributive^ alter-

and two {/, no man but himself would have come within the noise of. But he 's a man of general learning, and all comes
into his play.

" 'Twould have done well too

if
;

he could have met with a

such
as,

rant or two, worth the observation

'*

Move

swiftly, sun,

and

fly a lover's

pace

Leave months and weeks behind thee

in thy race.

lover's pace, leaves

" But surely the sun, whether he flies a lover's or not a weeks and months, nay years too, behind
in his race.

him

" Poor Robin, or any other of the philomathematics, would have given him satisfaction in the point.
"
If I could kill thee

now, thy

fate's so low.

That I must stoop, ere I can give the blow. But mine is fixt so far above thy crown, That all thy men,
Piled on thy back, can never pull
it

down.

"

Now where it is that

it is,

Almanzor's

fate is fixt, I cannot

all

but wherever

I believe

Almanzor, and think that

guess ; Abdal-

?a's subjects, piled

upon one another, might not pull down his

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
fate so well as without piling;

235

beside, I think Abclalla so wise a

man,

that if

Almanzor had

told

him

piling his

men upon

his

feat, he would scarcely bear such a weight, for the pleasure of the exploit but it is a huff, and let Abdalla do it if he dare.
;

back might do the

" The people like a headlong torrent go, And every dam they break or overflow.
But, unoppos'd, they either lose their force, Or wind in volumes to their former course
;

a very pretty allusion, contrary to all sense or reason. Torrents, I take it, let them wind never so much, can never return to their

ward, which
tells

former course, unless he can suppose that fountains can go upis impossible nay more, in the foregoing page he
;

us so too

a trick of a very unfaithful

fountains

memory,
flow,

" But can no more than

upward

which signifies a rapid stream, is much more Beside, if he goes to quibble, and say that it is possible by art, water may be made return, and the same water run twice in one and the same channel ; then he quite confutes
which of a
torrent,

impossible.

what he says

for
;

it

is

former course

for al!

by being opposed, that it runs into its engines that make water so return, do it

by compulsion and opposition. Or, if he means a headlong torrent for a tide, which would be ridiculous, yet they do not wind
in volumes, but to their

come

fore right back, if their upright lies straight

former course, and that by opposition of the sea water, that drives them back again.
" der

And
if it

for fancy,

when he

lights of

be not borrowed.

As

any thing like it, 'tis a wonhere, for example of, I find this

fanciful

thought in his Ann. Mirab.

" Old Father Thames But
rais'd

up

his

reverend head
;

fear'd the fate of Simoeis would return

in his

Deep

And
" This
is

shrunk

ooze he sought his sedgy bed his waters back into his urn.

stolen

from Cowley's Davideis,

p. 9.
fled,

"

Swift Jordan started, and straight backward Hiding among thick reeds his aged head.

And when the Spaniards their assault begin, At ouce beat those without and those within.
VOL.
I.

31

236

L1FK 01 UHYDEX.

" This Almanxor to speaks of himself; and sure for one man at without the another and the within city, an city, army conquer
once,
\ve
is

meet with

something difficult but this flight is pardonable in Granada ; Osmin, speaking of Almanzor,
;

to

some

" Who, like a tempest Made a just battle, ere

4

that outrides the wind,

the bodies join'd.

outrides the

mean by a tem/iest tliat Pray, what docs this honourable person wind ! a tempest that outrides itself ? To suppose
is

a tempest without wind,

as bad as supposing a
to

man

to

walk

without feet
distinct

for if

he supposes the tempest

yet, as
is

be something

from the wind,

come
it

before the cause

little

to being the effect of wind only, if he takes so that, preposterous

;

one way, or if he takes it the other, those two make one possibility" Enough of Settle.

ifs will

scarcely

Marriage alamode, 1673, is a comedy dedicated to the earl of Rochester whom he acknowledges not only as the defender of
;

his poetry, but the

this play in 1673.

promoter of his fortune.

The
is

earl of Rochester, therefore,

Langbaine places was the fa-

mous Wilmot, whom yet

to

tradition always represents as an

enemy

Dryden, and

who

mentioned by him with some disrespect

in the preface to Juvenal.

The Assignation^ or Love in a Nunnery, a comedy, 1673, driven off the stage, against the ojtinion^ as the author says, of the best judges. It is dedicated, in a very elegant address, to sir
;

was

Charles Sedlcy in which he finds an opportunity for his usual complaint of hard treatment and unreasonable censure. Amboyna, 1673, is a tissue of mingled dialogue in verse and

Marprose, and was perhaps written in less time than The Virgin or <ijr ; though the author thought not fit either ostentatiously
mournfully to tell how little labour it cost him, or at how short It was a temporary performance, a warning he produced it. written in the time of the Dutch war, to inflame the nation
against their enemies
;

to

whom

he hopes, as he declares

in his

epilogue, to

make

his poetry not less

destructive than that by

which Tyrtaeus of old animated the Spartans. written in the second Dutch war, in 1673.

This play was

Troilus and Cressida, \ 679, is a play altered from Shakespeare ; " the last scene but so altered, that, even in Langbaine's opinion, in the third act is a masterpiece." is introduced It by a discourse

LIFE OF DRYDEX.
oil

" the Grounds of Criticism in I Tragedy," to which suspect

that

Rymer's book had given occasion. The Spanish Fryar, 1681, is a tragicomedy, eminent

for the

happy coincidence and coalition of the two plots. As it was written against the papists, it would naturally at that time have friends and enemies ; and by the popularity which it obpartly

tained at

first,

and
It

risible

and partly by the real power both of the serious of the public. part, it continued long a favourite
at least for

was Dry den's opinion,

it

tains

in the dedication of this play, that the

some time, and he maindrama required an

comic and tragic scenes ; and that it is necessary to mitigate, by alleviations of merriment the pressure of ponderous " Whoever," says events, and the fatigue of toilsome passions.
alteration of

he,

cannot perform both parts, is but half a writerfor the stage" The Duke of Guise, a. tragedy, 1683, written in conjunction with Lee, as Oedipus had been before, seems to deserve notice
only for the offence which
it

"

nanters, and in general

to the

gave to the remnant of the coveenemies of the court, who attacked

him with
last

great violence, and were answered by him ; though at to withdraw from the conflict, by transferring the It happened greater part of the blame or merit to his partner. that a contract had been made between them, by which they were " he " to join in writing a play ; and happened," says Dryden, to claim the promise just upon the finishing of a poem, when I

he seems

would have been glad of a

longed
fifth."

little

respite.
first

Two

thirds of

it

be-

to

him

and to

me

only the

whole fourth

act,

and the

first half,

scene of the play, the or somewhat more of the

This was a play written professedly for the party of the duke of York, whose succession was then opposed. A parallel is intended between the leaguers of France and the covenanters of

England
ten like

and

this intention

produced the controversy.

is

Albion and Albanius, 1685,

a musical drama or opera, writ-

The Duke of Guise, against the republicans. success it was performed, I have not found.*

With what

* Dowries ou on a very unlucky day, viz. says, it was performed which the duke of Monraouth landed in the West and he intimates, that event was a the consternation into which the kingdom was thrown by this ill receivreason why it was performed hut six times, and was in general
that
;

ed.

H.

238

LirE OF

DRYUEK

The SliHc (jf Inwccnccand Fallof Man, 1 675, is termed by an opera it is rather a tragedy in heroic rhyme, but of which the personages are such as cannot decently be exhibited on the
;

stage.

Some

such production was foreseen by Marvel,

;

who

writes thus to Milton

" Or
Such

if a
1

work
was

so infinite be spann'tl,

Jealous

lest

some

less skilful
is

hand,

as disquiet

always Avhat

well,

And

by

ill

imitating would excel,

Might hence presume the whole creation's day, To change in scenes, and show it in a play."
It is

another of his hasty productions

it

for the heat of his

im-

agination raised

in a
is

month.
addressed to the princess of Modcna, then

This composition
and which
of his
it

clutchess of York, in a strain of flattery

which disgraces genius,

that

was wonderful

that any

man

knew

the

meaning
an
at-

own words, could use without

to

self detestation.

It is

tempt
in the

mingle earth and heaven, by praising human excellence

language of religion.
preface contains an apology for heroic verse and poetic by which is meant not any liberty taken in contracting

The
license

or extending words, but the use of bold fictions and

figures.

ambitious

The

cannot be overpassed

reason which he gives for printing what was never acted, u I was induced to it in ; my own defence,
copies of
;

many hundred
became
at

it

knowledge or consent
faults,

being dispersed abroad without my and every one gathering new faults, it

length a libel against

me."

These

copies, as they

were apparently manuscript, and he lived in an gathered age very unlike ours, if many hundred copies of fourteen hundred lines were likely to be transcribed. An author has a right
to print

hood

his own works, and need not seek an apology in false. but he that could bear to write the dedication felt no pain

in writing the preface.

Aurcng Zcbe, 1676, is a tragedy founded on the actions of a great prince then reigning, but over nations not likely to emIf ploy their critics upon the transactions of the English stage.
he had known and disliked
in those

his

own

character, our trade

was not
is

times secure from his resentment.

His country

at

LIFE OF DRYDEX.

-39

the incidents feigned; by Racine, to afford the

such a distance, that the manners might be saiely falsified, and for remoteness of place is remarked same conveniences to a poet as length

of time.

This play is written in rhyme, and has the appearance of being the most elaborate of all the dramas. The personages are imperial
;

tible of

but the dialogue is often domestic, and therefore suscepsentiments accommodated to familiar incidents. The

complaint of life is celebrated, and there are many other passages that may be read with pleasure. This play is addressed to the earl of Mulgrave, afterward duke
a
of Buckingham, himself, if not a poet, yet a writer of verses, and In this address Dryden gave the first hints of his intencritic.

tion to write an epic

so obscure, that he
ed, as he says,

poem. He mentions his design in terms seems afraid lest his plan should be purloinhappened to him when he told it more plainly in
" "

his preface to Juvenal.

The design," says he, you know is neither too near the present times? and the story English, great, nor too distant from them."
All for Love, or the World well Lost, 1678, a tragedy founded

" upon the story of Antony and Cleopatra, he tells us, is the only for himself ;" the rest were given to thehe wrote which play
It is by universal consent accounted the work in which people. he has admitted the fewest improprieties of style or character but it has one fault equal to many, though rather moral than
;

by admitting the romantic omnipotence of love, he has recommended, as laudable and worthy of imitation, that conduct which, through all ages, the good have censured as vicious,
critical, that,

and the bad despised as

foolish.

Of

this play the

upon the common

prologue and the epilogue, though written topics of malicious and ignorant criticism?

and without any particular relation to the characters or incidents of the drama, are deservedly celebrated for their elegance and
sprightliness.

Limberham, or

the kind Keeper,

ter the third night,

What gave offence, ov omitted. Dryden confesses that

to; but Lnngbaino.

680, is a comedy, which, afwas prohibited as too indecent for the stage. was in the printing, as the author says, altered
1

its

who yet seldom

favours

indecency was objected him* imputes, its

LIFE OF DHVDEN.
expulsion to resentment, because ing part of the town."
it

" so

much exposed

the keep-

Ocdi/tus, 1679, is a tragedy formed by Dryden and Lee, in and Corneille. conjunction, from the works of Sophocles, Seneca, Dryden planned the scenes, and composed the first and third
acts.

Don

Sebastian^

1690,

is

commonly esteemed
many

either the

first
all

or second of his dramatic performances.

acted, and has
it is

It is too

long to be
;

many

characters and

incidents

and though

not without sallies of frantic dignity, and more noise than meaning, yet as it makes approaches to the possibilities of real
life,
it

and has some sentiments which leave a strong impression, continued long to attract attention. Amidst the distresses of princes, and the vicissitudes of empire, are inserted several
scenes which the writer intended for comic
pose, that age did not
;

much commend, and this would

but which, I supnot endure.

There
edged

are, however, passages of excellence universally

;

acknowl-

the dispute and the reconciliation of

Dorax and Sebasfor

tian has

always been admired.

first

This play was

acted in 1690, after

Dryden had

some

years discontinued dramatic poetry. Amfihytrion is a comedy derived from Plautus and Moliere.

The

dedication

is

dated Oct. 1690.

This play seems

I think,

to

have

appearance ; ered as a very diverting entertainment. Clcomenes, 1692, is a tragedy, only remarkable as

succeeded

at its first

and was,

long considoccasioned

it

an incident related

in the

Dryden
tion,
left

in his

preface.

Guardian, and illusively mentioned by As he came out from the representa-

he was accosted thus by some airy stripling ; " Had I been alone with a young beauty, I would not have spent my time
your Spartan."
;

like

" That
tell

sir,"

said

true

but give

me

leave to
is

you

that

Dryden, perhaps you are no hero."

It

"

is

King Arthur,
that
it

1691,

another opera.

was the

last

work

Dryden performed
;

for

king Charles,

who

did not live to see

exhibited

and

it

does not seem to have been ever brought up-

on the stage.*
is

In the dedication to the marquis of Halifax, there a very elegant character of Charles, and a pleasing account of
This
is

a mistake.

It

was

set to

music by Parcel!, and well received,

II.

and

is

yet a favourite entertainment.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
his latter
life.

241

news

that the
;

theatre

When this was first brought upon the stage, duke of Monmonth had landed was told in the upon which the company departed, and Arthur was ex-

hibited no more.

His last drama was Love Triumphant, a tragicomedy. In his dedication to the earl of Salisbury he mentions " the lowness of fortune to which he has voluntarily reduced himself, and of

which he has no reason to be ashamed." This play appeared in 1694. It is said

cessful.

to

have been unsuc-

mind, is and ended his dramatic labours with ill success. From such a number of theatrical pieces, it will be supposed, by most readers, that he must have improved his fortune ; at least, that such diligence with such abilities must have set penury at defiance.

a change of catastrophe, proceeding merely from Thus he began confessed by the author to be defective.

The

But

in

from

that universal approbation

Dryden's time the drama was very far which it has now obtained. The

who

playhouse was abhorred by the puritans, and avoided by those desired the character of seriousness or decency. grave

lawyer would have debased his dignity, and a young trader would have impaired his credit, by appearing in those mansions of dissolute licentiousness.

The

profits

of the theatre,

when

so

many

classes of the people

were deducted from the au-

dience, were not great

and the poet had, for a long time, but ; a single night. The first that had two nights was Southern ; and the first that had three was Rowe. There were, however,
in those days, arts

of improving a poet's profit, which Dtyden forbore to practise ; and a play therefore seldom produced him more than a hundred pounds, by the accumulated gain of the
third night, the dedication, and the copy.

Almost every piece had a

dedication, written with such ele-

gance and luxuriance of praise, as neither haughtiness nor avarice could be imagined able to resist. But he seems to have

made

flattery too

cheap.

That praise

is

worth nothing of which

the price is known. To increase the value of his copies, he often accompanied his work with a preface of criticism ; a kind of learning then almost

new

in the English language, and which he, who had considered with great accuracy the principles of writing, was able to distri-

i242

UFE

01

UUVDL.V

butc copiously ua occasions arose. By these dissertations the much been have must improved ; and Swift, public judgment

who conversed cess of his own

ly too skilful to

with

Dry den,

relates, that

he regretted the suc-

instructions,

and found his readers made sudden-

be easily

satisfied.

His prologues had such reputation, that for some time a play was considered as less likely to be well received, if some of his The price of a prologue, was two verses did not introduce it.
guineas,

manded
to

three.

you

being asked to write one for Mr. Southern, he de" " Not," said he, young man, out of disrespect but the players have had my goods too cheap."
till,

Though he

declares that in his

own

opinion his genius was

not dramatic, he had great confidence in his own fertility ; for he is said to have engaged, by contract, to furnish four plays a
year.
It is certain that in one year, 1678,* he published Allfor Love, Assignation, two parts of the Conquest of Granada, Sir Martin Marall, and the Stale of Innocence^ six complete plays ; with a

celerity of performance, which, though all Langbaine's charges of plagiarism should be allowed, shows such facility of composition, such readiness of language, and such copiousness of sentiment as, since the time of Lopez de Vega, perhaps no other

author has possessed.

He did not enjoy his

reputation,

however

great, nor his profits,

however small, without molestation. He had critics to endure, and rivals to oppose. The two most distinguished wits of the
nobility, the

duke of Buckingham and

earl of Rochester, declar-

ed themselves his enemies,

Buckingham characterized him,

JBayes in The Rehearsal
;

in

1671, by the
is

name
;

of

a farce which he

said to

have writ-

ten with the assistance of Butler, the author of Hudibras

tin Clifford, of

Mar-

the charter house

Cowley, then his chaplain.

the length of time, and the
this

and Dr. Sprat, the friend of Dryclen and his friends laughed at
;

number

performance

in

which, though by some

of hands employed upon artifice of action it

* Dr. Johnson iu this assertion was misledfby Langbaine. Only one of these plays appeared in 1G78. Nor were there more than three in any one The dales are now added from Unoriginal editions. R. year.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

243

now to find yet keeps possession of the stage, it is not possible so long without written not have been that any thing might
delay, or a confederacy so

numerous.

is tedious and adjust the minute events of literary history, troublesome ; it requires indeed no great force of understanding,

To

of making, or ways at hand.

but often depends upon inquiries which there is no opportunity is to be fetched from books and pamphlets not al-

The Rehearsal was played in 1671,* and yet Is represented as ridiculing passages in The Conquest of Granada f and ds&ignation,

published in
It is suid

which were nut published till 1678 ; in Marriage alamode^ 1673; and in Tyrannic Love, in 1677. These
that this farce

contradictions

show how rashly satire is applied4 was originally intended against Davenant, who, in the first draught was characterized by the name Davenant had been a soldier and an adventurer. of Bilboa. There is one passage in The Rehearsal still remaining, which

seems

nose, and

to Davenant. Bayes hurts his brown paper applied to the bruise ; how this affected Dryden does not appear. Davenant's nose had suffered such diminution by mishaps among the women, that a to

have related originally

comes

in with

patch upon that part evidently denoted him.

It is said

likewise that

sir

Robert Howard was once meant.

The

design was probably to ridicule the reigning poet, whoever

of the personal satire, to which it might owe its first is now lost or obscured. JBaycs probably imitated the and mimicked the manner of Dryden ; the cant words

he might be.

Much
clress,

reception,

which are so often

in his mouth may be supposed to have been. ayes, Dryden's habitual phrases, or customary exclamations. when he is to write, is blooded and purged this, as Lamotte
;

relates himself to have heard,

* It

was the

real practice of the poet.

was published

in 1672.

R.
;

1673

f The Conquest of Granada was published in 1672 The Assignation, in Marriage alamock in the same year; and Tyrannic Love, in 1C7C.
;

t There is no contradiction, according to Mr. Malone, but what arises from Dr. Johnson's having copied the erroneous dates assigned to these

plays by Langbaine.

C.

VOL.

I.

244

LIKK OK DRYDEK.

There were other strokes in The Rehearsal by which malice was gratified the debate between love and honour, which keeps
;

prince Volatile in a single boot, is said to have alluded to the misconduct of the duke of Ormond, who lost Dublin to the rebels while

he was toying with a mistress.

The

earl of Rochester, to suppress the reputation of

Dryden

took Settle into his protection, and endeavoured to persuade the

public that
Settle
its

approbation had been to that time misplaced.

in

was awhile

high reputation

his Emfiress of Morocco,

having first delighted the town, was carried in triumph to WhiteNow was the poethall, and played by the ladies of the court. ical meteor at the highest the next moment began its fall.
;

Rochester withdrew his patronage ; seemingly resolved, says one of his biographers, " to have a judgment contrary to that of the

town

;"

certain height, even

perhaps being unable to endure any reputation beyond a when he had himself contributed to raise it.
critics

Neither

nor rivals did Dryden

much

mischief, unless

the power of vexing him, which his frequent bursts of resentment gave reason to suspect. He is a; ways angry at some past, or afraid of some future cen-

they gained from his

own temper

but he lessens the smart of his wounds by the balm of his approbation, and endeavours to repel the shafts of criticism by opposing a shield of adamantine confidence.
sure
;

own

injuriously sured, he would, by denying part of the charge, have confessed the rest and, as his adversaries had the proof in their own
;

The perpetual accusation produced against him, was that of plagiarism, against which he never attempted any vigorous defence ; for though he was perhaps sometimes cen-

hands, he,
left,

who knew that

wit had
it

little

in that perplexity
it

which

power against facts, wisely generally produces, a question

and which, unless provoked

which

was

his interest to suppress,

by vindication,

few were
life

likely to

examine.

Though

the

of a writer, from about thirty five to sixty three,

may

be supposed to have been sufficiently busied by the composition of eight and twenty pieces for the stage, Dryden found
in the

room
ed of
Jts&ay

But,

same space for many other undertakings. how much soever he wrote, he was at least once suspectfor, in 1679, a paper of verses, called An writing more on Satire, was shown about in manuscript by which the
; ;

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
carl of Rochester, the dutchess of

245

Portsmouth, and others, were

for the actors

so

much

provoked,

that, as

was supposed,

were

never discovered, they procured Dryden, whom they suspected as This incident is mentioned the author, to be waylaid and beaten.

by the duke of Buckinghamshire,* the true writer, in his Art of Poetry ; where he says of Dryden,
Though prais'd and beaten for another's rhymes, His own deserve as great applause sometimes.

His reputation

in

time was such, that his

to contribute

name was thought

necessary to the success of every poetical or literary performance,

and therefore he was engaged

it

something, whatever

might

be, to

many

publications.
sir

bius to the translation of

Henry

prefixed the life of PolySheers and those of Lucian

;

He

and Plutarch, to versions of their works by different hands. Of the English Tacitus he translated the first book ; and, if Gordon

be credited, translated it from the French. Such a charge can hardly be mentioned without some degree of indignation ; but it is not, I suppose, so much to be inferred, that Dryden wanted
the literature necessary to the perusal of Tacitus, as that, considering himself as hidden in a crowd, he had no awe of the public

and, writing merely for money, was contented to get it by ; the nearest way. In 1680, the Epistles of Ovid being translated by the poets of the time, among which one was the work of Dryden, and another

of Dryden and lord Mulgrave, it was necessary to introduce them by a preface ; and Dryden, who on such occasions was regularly

summoned, prefixed a discourse upon translation, which was then it should struggling for the liberty that it now enjoys. find any difficulty in breaking the shackles of verbal interpreta-

Why

tion,

for ever debar it from elegance, it would be conjecture, were not the power of prejudice every day observed. The authority of Jon son, Sandys and Holiday, had fixed the judgment of the nation ; and it was not easily be-

which must

difficult to

lieved that a better

way could be found than they had

taken,

though Fanshaw, Denham, Waller, and Cowley, had

a give examples of different practice.

tried to

In 1681, Dryden became yet more conspicuous by uniting with poetry, in the memorable satire called Absalom and politics
*

.Mentioned by A.

Wood, Afhcn. Oxon.

Vol.

II. p.

804. 2d. cd.

f.

246

LI Ft:

OF

UllViJFA.

Acldtofihd, written against the faction which, by lord Shaftesbury's incitement, set the duke of Monmouth at its head.

Of this poem, in which personal satire was applied to the support of public principles, and in which therefore every mind was interested, the reception was eager, and the sale so large,
that

my

father, an old bookseller, told

me

he had not known

it

equalled but by Sacheverell'a Trial, The reason of this general perusal Addison has attempted to derive from the delight which the mind feels in the investigation

of secrets

procured readers

and thinks that curiosity to dccypher the names to the poem. There is no i.eed to inquire why
all

those verses were read, which, to

the attractions of wit, ele-

gance, and harmony, added the co-operation of all the factious passions, and filled every mind with triumph or resentment.
It could not be supposed that all the provocation given by Dryden would be endured without resistance or reply. Both his

person and his party were exposed in their turns to the shafts of satire, which, though neither so well pointed, nor perhaps so well

aimed, undoubtedly drew blood.

poems is called Dryden's Satire on his Muse ; asPope says, falsely, to Somers, who was afterward chancellor. The poem, whose soever it was, has much virThe writer tells all the ill that ulence, and some sprightliness.
of these
cribed, though, as

One

he can

collect,

The poem
both forgotten

both of Dryclen and his friends. of Absalom and Achitofihd had two answers,
;

now

one called Azaria and Hushed ;* the other Absathese hostile compositions,

lom

senior.

Of

Dryden apparently
says

imputes Absalom senior to Settle, by quoting in his verses against him the second line. Azaria and Hushai was, as Wood

imputed

him, though it is somewhat unlikely that he should write twice on the same occasion. This is a which I
to
difficulty

cannot remove, fcr want of a minuter knowledge of poetical

transactions.

year he published The Medal, of which the subject medal struck on lord Shaftesbury's escape from a prosecution, by the ignoramus (* grand jury of Londoners.
is

The same

"

Azaria and Huchai was AvriUcn by Samuel Tordacre, adramatie vri

C.

of that time.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
In both

247
saw them

poems he maintains

the

same

principles, and

both attacked by the same antagonist. Elkanah Settle, who had answered Absalom^ appeared with equal courage in opposition to

The Medal ; and published an answer

with so

called

The Medal reversed^

left

much

success in both .encounters, that he

the

palm

Such are the doubtful, and divided the suffrages of the nation. revolutions of fame, or such is the prevalence of fashion, that the

man, whose works have not yet been thought

of collecting them,
latter years

to

deserve the care

who

died forgotten in an 'hospital, and

in contriving

whose

and carrying an elegy or epithalamium, of which the beginning and end were occasionally varied, but the intermediate parts were always

were spent

shows

for fairs,

the same, to every house where there was a funeral or a wedding, might with truth have had inscribed upon his stone,

Here

lies

the rival and antagonist of Dryden.

Settle was, for his rebellion, severely chastised by

Dryden unthe city

der the

name

of Doeg, in the second part of Absalom and Achifor his factious audacity

tophel ; and

was perhaps

made

poet, whose annual

mayor's day. Of much to have deserved even

to his political opinions
;

describe the glories of the these bards he was the last, and seems not
office

was

to

for

this degree of regard, if it was paid he afterward wrote a panegyric on

the virtues of judge Jefferies ; and what more could have been done by the meanest zealot for prerogative ? Of translated fragments, or occasional poems, to enumerate the
titles,

or settle the dates, would be tedious, with

little

use. It

may be observed, that, as Dryden's genius was commonly excited by some personal regard, he rarely writes upon a general topic.
Soon
after the accession of

king James, when the design of

reconciling the nation to the church of Rome became apparent, and the religion of the court gave the only efficacious title to its
favours,

Dryden declared himself

;

a convert to popery.

This

at

any other time might have passed with little censure. Sir Kenelm Digby embraced popery the two Reynolds's reciprocally converted one another ;* and Chillingworth himself was awhile
*

Dr. John Reynolds,

his brother

who

lived

temp. Jac.

I.

and
X.

William

as earnest a protestant

was at first a zealous papist, but, by mutual disputa;

tion,

each converted the other.

See Fuller's Chnrch History,

p. 47,

book

H.

248

LIFE OP DRYDEX.

so entangled in the wilds of controversy, as to retire for quiet te an infallible church. If men of argument and study can find

such

cliflicuitics,

or such motives, as or detain

may

either unite

them

to

the church of

Rome,

them

in uncertainty, there can be

no wonder

that a

man, who perhaps never inquired why he was

a protestant, should by an artful and experienced disputant be made a papist, overborne by the sudden violence of new and unexpected arguments, or deceived by a representation which

shows only the doubts on one

other.

part,

and only the evidence on the

That conversion
curs with interest.

will

He

always be suspected that apparently conthat never finds his error till it hinders

his progress toward

wealth or honour, will not be thought to

love truth only for herself.

Yet

it

may

easily
;

happen

that infor-

mation

may come

at

commodious time

and, as truth and in-

terest are not

by any

fatal

necessity at variance, that one

may by

accident introduce the other.

popularity, the

When opinions are struggling into

ed become more known

arguments by which they arc opposed or defendand he that changes his profession ;

would perhaps have changed it before, with the like opportuniThis was the then state of popery ; every ties of instruction. artifice was used to show it in its fairest form ; and it must be

owned

to

be a religion of external appearance

sufficiently at-

tractive.
It is natural to

hope that a comprehensive

is

is

likewise an ele1

vated soul, and that whoever

wise

is

also honest.

am

will-

ing to believe that Dryden, having employed his mind, active as it was, upon different studies, and filled it, capacious as it was,
with other materials,

came unprovided

to the

controversy, and

wanted rather
it.

discover the right, than virtue to maintain But inquiries into the heart are not for man ; we must now
skill to

leave

him

to his

The

priests,

Judge. having strengthened their cause by so powerful

an adherent, were not long before they brought him into action. They engaged him to defend the controversial papers found in the strong box of Charles the second ; and, what yet was harder,
to

defend them against

Stillingficct.

With hopes
late

of promoting popery, he was employed to trans;

Maimbourg's History of the League

which he published

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
with a large introduction. His English life of Francis Xavier

249

name
;

is

likewise prefixed to the

but

know

not that he ever

owned himself the

a pious fraud
fect
; ;

Perhaps the use of his name was which however seems not to have had much eftranslator.

for neither of the books, I believe,

was ever popular.

in

The

version of Xavier's Life

to flatter
;

is

commended by Brown,
is

pamphlet not written

to

and the occasion of it

said to

have been, that the queen, when she solicited a son, him as her tutelary saint.

made vows
His-

He was supposed to
tory of Heresies
to
;

have undertaken

to translate VarillaJs

have written

when Burnet published remarks upon it, an Answer ;* upon which Burnet makes the foland,

lowing observation. " I have been informed from England, that a gentleman, who is famous both for poetry and several other things, had spent three

months

my

in translating M. Varillas's History ; but that, as soon as Reflections appeared, he discontinued his labour, finding the credit of his author was gone. Now, if he thinks it is recovered
will

by his Answer, he
this

may

be, for aught I

perhaps go on with his translation ; and know, as good an entertainment for him

as the conversation that he had set on between the hinds and

panthers, and all the rest of animals, for whom M. Varillas may serve well enough as an author ; and this history and that

poem are such extraordinary things of their kind, that it will be but suitable to see the author of the worst poem become likewise
the translator of the worst history that the age has produced. If his grace and his wit improve, both proportionably, he will hardly find that he has gained much by the change he has made, from

having no religion, to choose one of the worst. It is true, he had somewhat to sink from in matter of wit but, as for his mor;

als, it is

was.

scarcely possible for him to grow a worse man than he He has lately wreaked his malice on me for spoiling his
;

three months labour

that any

but

in it

he has done

me

all

the honour

man
I

can receive from him, which

ill

is to

him.

If

had

bad wish for him,

translation.

By

nature enough to prompt me should be, that he would go on and finish his that it will appear, whether the English nation,
it

be railed at by to wish a very

which

is

the most competent judge in this matter, has, upon the

*

This

is

a mistake.

See Malone,

p. 194, Scr.

<"'.

25O

L1J-E

OF DRYDEN.

seeing our debate, pronounced in

It is true,

M.

Vavillas's favour, or in mine,

Mr.

L). will

suffer a

little

by

it

but at least
;

it

will

serve to keep
little

him

in

honour by

this
last

from other extravagances work, yet he cannot lose so

and

if

much

he gains by it as he

employment." Having probably felt his own inferiority in theological controversy, he was desirous of trying whether, by bringing poetry to
aid his arguments, he

Ins done by his

might become a more

efficacious defender

of his
his

new

profession.
;

To

reason in verse was, indeed, one of

still

powers

but subtility and harmony, united, are

to truth.
for

feeble,

when opposed
lished The

Actuated therefore by zeal

Rome, or hope of fame, he pubin

Hind and Panther, a poem

which the church of

figured by the milk white hind, defends her tenets against the church of England, represented by the panther, a beast beau-

Rome,
tiful,

but spotted.
fable,
full

A
once
City

of absurdity

which exhibits two beasts talking theology, appears at and it was accordingly ridiculed in the
;

a parody, written by Montague, afterward earl of Halifax, and Prior, who then gave the first spec-

Mouse and Country Mouse,

his abilities.

imen of

conversion of such a man, at such a time, was not likely Three dialogues were published by the to pass unccnsured. facetious Thomas Brown, of which the two first were called

The

Reasons of Mr. Baycs'is changing his Religion ; and the third, The Reasons of Mr. Mains, the Player's Con-version and Reconversion The first was printed in 1688, the second not till 1690, the third
in 1691.

The clamour seems

to

have been long continued, and

the subject to have strongly fixed the public attention. In the two first dialogues Bayes is brought into the

company

of Crites and Eugenius, with

whom

he had formerly debated on

third are

dramatic poetry. and Mr. Hains.

The two

talkers in the

Mr. Bayes

Brown was
;

man

not deficient in literature, nor destitute of

but he seems to have thought it the pinnacle of excelfancy lence to be a merry fellow ; and therefore laid out his powers upon small jests or gross buffoonery ; so that his performances

have

little

intrinsic value,

recommended by the

and were read only while they were novelty of the event that occasioned them.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

25.1

These dialogues
edge they contain
ited.

are like his other works

what sense or knowl-

One

Ajax, who cowhides upon his shield as would have furnished half the king's army with shoe leather,"
Crites answers

disgraced by the garb in which it is exhibgreat source of pleasure is to call Dryden little Bayes. " he that wore as many happens to be mentioned, is
is

Being asked whether he had seen the Hind and Panther, " Seen it Mr. Bayes, why I can stir no where
;
!

but

it haunts me worse than a pursues me pewter buttoned sergeant does a decayed cit. Sometimes I meet it in a bandbox,

it

when my

laundress brings
it

home my linen
at a
;

sometimes, whether
;

I will or no,

lights

my pipe

coffeehouse

sometimes

it

sur-

trunkmaker's shop and sometimes it refreshes prises my memory for me on the backside of a Chancery lane parcel. For your comfort too, Mr. Bayes, I have not only seen it, as you
in a

me

may

it too, and can quote it as freely can quote that noble treatise occasion as a tradesman upon frugal The Worth of a Penny to his extravagant apprentice, that revels

perceive, but I have read

stewed apples, and penny custards." animation of these compositions arises from a pro" To secure one's fusion of ludicrous and affected comparisons.
in

The whole

little more is necessary than to leave off a correspondence with the other sex, which, to a wise man, is no greater a punishment than it would be to a fanatic person to be

chastity," says Bayes,

<;

forbid seeing

The Cheats and The Committee

to

or for my lord

mayor

and aldermen

This

is

be interdicted the sight of The London Cuckold." the general strain, and therefore I shall be easily excused

the labour of more transcription. Brown does not wholly forget past transactions ; " You began," " says Crites to Bayes, with a very indifferent religion, and have not mended the matter in your last choice. It was but reason that

your Muse, which appeared first in a tyrant's quarrel, should employ her last efforts to justify the usurpations of the Hind"

Next year the nation was summoned to celebrate the birth of Now was the time for Dryden to rouse his imaginthe prince. ation, and strain his voice. Happy days were at hand, and he
was willing
published a
to enjoy

poem,

filled

and diffuse the anticipated blessings. He with predictions of greatness and pros.
S'3

VOL.

T.

252
perity
;

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
predictions of which
verified.
it is

not necessary to

tell

how they

have been

few months passed after these joyful notes, and every blosof popish hope was blasted for ever by the revolution. The revenue, which he papist now could be no longer laureat.

som

had enjoyed with so

to Shadwcll, an

much

pride and praise, was transferred

he had formerly stigmatized enemy, by the name of Og. Dryclen could not decently complain that he was deposed but seemed very angry that Shadwell succeeded him, and has therefore celebrated the intruder's inauguration
old
;

whom

in a poem exquisitely satirical, called Mac Flecknoe ;* of which the Dunciad, as Pope himself declares, is an imitation, though

more extended
It is related

in its plan,

and more diversified in

its

incidents.

by Prior, that lord Dorset, when as chamberlain he was constrained to eject Dry den from his office, gave him from his own purse an allowance equal to the salary. This is no an hundred a year is romantic or incredible act of generosity enough given to claims less cogent, by men less famed for Yet Dryden always represented himself as suffering liberality.
;

often

under a public
tune.

infliction

and once particularly demands respect

loss of his little for-

for the patience with

which he endured the

His patron might, indeed, enjoin him to suppress his bounty but, if he suffered nothing, he should not have com;

plained.

for the stage,! being, in his opinion,

During the short reign of king James, he had written nothing more profitably employed in
flattery.

controversy and

Of praise he might perhaps have been

;

less lavish without

inconvenience, for James was never said to

for poetry

have

much

regard

he was to be

flattered only

by

adopting his religion.

; Dryden was no longer the court and was to look for back and poet, support to his former trade having waited about two years, either considering himself as discountenanced by the public, or perhaps expecting a second
;

Times were now changed

* All jone's

more accurate researches prove

C.

Dryden's biographers have misdated this poem, -which Mr Mato have been published on the 4th. of

October, 1682.

f Albion and Jllbunius must however be excepted.

R.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

253

revolution, he produced Don Sebastian in 1 690 ; and in the next four years four dramas more. In 1693 appeared a new version of Juvenal and Persius. Of Juvenal he translated the first, third, sixth, tenth, and sixteenth
satires
;

and of Persius the whole work.

On

this

occasion he

introduced his two sons to the public, as nurselings of the muses. The fourteenth of Juvenal was the work of John, and the

seventh of Charles Dryden.

in the

He

form

of.a dedication, to

lord Dorset

prefixed a very ample preface, and there gives an ;

epic

account of the design which he had once formed to write an poem on the actions either of Arthur or the black prince.

considered the epic as necessarily including some kind of supernatural agency, and had imagined a new kind of contest between the guardian angels of kingdoms, of whom he conceived that each might be represented zealous for his charge, without any intended opposition to the purposes of the Supreme Being, of which all created minds must in part be ignorant.

He

This

is

that ever

the most reasonable scheme of celestial interposition was formed. The surprises and terrors of enchant-

ments, which have succeeded to the intrigues and oppositions of pagan deities, afford very striking scenes, and open a vast extent to the imagination but, as Boileau observes, and Boileau
;

be seldom found mistaken, with this incurable defect, that, in a contest between heaven and hell, we know at the beginning which is to prevail ; for this reason we follow Rinaldo to the en\vill

chanted wood with more curiosity than terror. In the scheme of Dryden there is one great

difficulty,

which

had address enough to surmount. yet he would perhaps have In a war justice can be but on one side ; and, to entitle the hero to the protection of angels, he must fight in the defence of indubitable right.
to

Yet some of the celestial beings, thus opposed each other, must have been represented as defending guilt. That this poem was never written, is reasonably to be lamentand enlarged. It would doubtless have improved our numbers, ed our language
;

and might perhaps have contributed by pleas-

to rectify our opinions, and purify our manners. ing instructions What he required as the indispensable condition of such an

was not likely in those times lobe undertaking, a public stipend,

254
obtained.

LIFE OF DllYDF.N.
Riches were not become familiar
to

us

nor had the

nation yet learned to be liberal.

This plan he charged Blackmore with stealing " only," says " the he, guardian angels of kingdoms were machines too ponderous for him to manage."
;

In 1694, he began the most laborious and

difficult

of

all

his

works, the translation of Virgil ; from which he borrowed two months, that he might turn " Fresnoy's Art of Painting" into English prose. The preface, which he boasts to have written
in twelve mornings, exhibits a parallel of poetry and painting, with a miscellaneous collection of critical remarks, such as cost a

mind

stored like his no labour to produce them.

In 1697, he published his version of the works of Virgil ; and, that no opportunity of profit might be lost, dedicated the Pastorals
to the lord Clifford, the

Gcorgics to the earl of Chesterfield, and

the JEncid to the earl of Mulgrave. This economy of flattery, at once lavish and discreet, did not pass without observation.

This
styled,

translation

was censured by Milbourne, a clergyman,

by Pope,

" the fairest of critics," because he exhibited

his

own
is

version to be

compared with

that

which he condemned!
hands of Mr. Tonson

His
as

last

work was

his Fables, published in 1699, in consequence,

supposed, of a contract

now

in the

by which he obliged himself,

in consideration of three

hundred

pounds, to finish for the press ten thousand verses. In this volume is comprised the well known ode on St. Cecilia's day,

which, as appeared by a letter communicated to Dr.

But Birch, he spent a fortnight in composing and correcting. what is this to the patience and diligence of Boileau, whose
Equivoque, a took from his
revise
it ?

poem
life

of only three hundred and forty six lines, eleven months to write it, and three years to
the
Iliad in English, intend-

Part of this book of Fables

is

first

ed as a specimen of a version of the whole. Considering into what hands Homer was to fall, the reader cannot but rejoice
that this project

went no
at

further.

The

time was now

labours.

hand which was

the
first

schemes and

On

to put an end to all his of May, 1701, having been

as he tells us, a cripple in his limbs, he died, in Gerard street, of a mortification in his leg.

some time,

LIFE OP DRYDEN.

255

There
that

is

extant a wild story relating to

at

some vexatious events

end of Congreve's

happened

his funeral, which, at the

I

Life, by a writer of

know

not what credit, are thus related, as

I find the account transferred to a biographical dictionary. " Mr. Dryden dying on the Wednesday moining, Dr. Thomas
Sprat, then bishop of Rochester and dean of Westminster, sent the next day to the lady Elizabeth Howard, Mr. Dryden's widow, that he would make a present of the ground, which was forty

pounds, with all the other Abbey fees. The lord Halifax likewise sent to the lady Elizabeth, and Mr. Charles Dryden her son,
that, if

inter
five

they would give him leave to bury Mr. Dryden, he would him with a gentleman's private funeral, and afterward bestow hundred pounds on a monument in the Abbey which, as
;

the Saturday following the company came ; the corpse was put into a velvet hearse ; and eighteen mourning coaches, filled with company, attended. When they were just ready to move, the lord JefTeries,

they had no reason to refuse, they accepted.

On

son of the lord chancellor Jefieries, with some of his rakish

companions coming by, asked whose funeral it was ; and being told Mr. Dryden's, he said, What, shall Dryden, the greatest
'

honour and ornament of the

nation, be buried after this private

loved Mr. Dryden, and honour his memory, alight and join with me in gaining my lady's consent to let me have the honour of his interment, which shall be after another manner than this and I will bestow a thousand

manner

No, gentlemen,

let all that

pounds on a monument
in the coaches not

The gentlemen for him.' knowing of the bishop of Rochester's favour?

in the

Abbey

nor of the lord Halifax's generous design, they both having, out of respect to the family, enjoined the lady Elizabeth, and her son,
to

keep

their favour concealed

readily

from the world, and

let it

pass for

their

own expense,

came

out of the coaches, and attend-

ed lord Jefferies up

to the lady's bedside,

who was

then sick.

He

repeated the purport of what he had before said ; but she absolutely refusing, he fell on his knees, vowing never to rise till
his request

was granted.
;

kneeled also

ed away.
no.
?ays,

As

The rest of the company by his desire and the lady, being under a sudden surprise, faintsoon as she recovered her speech, she cried, wo,
;

Enough, gentlemen, replied he my lady is very good, she She repeated her former words with all her g-0, go.

256
strength, but in vain
;

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
for

her feeble voice was

lost in their

ac-

clamations of joy

and the lord Jefferies ordered the hcarsemen

to carry the corpse to

side,

Mr.
till

Russel's, an undertaker in

Cheap-

and leave

it

there

he should send orders for the embalm-

ment, which, he added, should be after the royal manner. His directions were obeyed, the company dispersed, and lady Eliza-

The next day Mr. Charles Dryden waited on the lord Halifax and the bishop, to excuse his mother and himself, by relating the real truth. But neither his lordship nor the bishop would admit of any plea ;
beth and her son remained inconsolable.
especially the latter,

who had

the

Abbey

lighted, the

ground

opened, the choir attending, an anthem ready set, and himself waiting for some time without any corpse to bury. The undertaker, after three days expectance of orders for embalmment without receiving any, waited on the lord Jefferies ; who, pretending ignorance of the matter, turned it off with an ill natured jest,
saying, that those

who
;

observed the orders of a drunken

frolic

deserved no better

that he

remembered nothing

at

all

of

it ;

and that he might do what he pleased with the corpse.

this,

Upon

son,

fore
ed.

upon the lady Elizabeth and her and threatened to bring the corpse home, and set it bethe door. They desired a day's respite, which was grantthe undertaker waited

Mr

Jefferies,

who returned

Charles Dryden wrote a handsome it with this cool answer

letter to
l ;

the lord

That he knew

nothing of the matter, and would be troubled no more about it/ He then addressed the lord Halifax and the bishop of Rochester,

who absolutely
Dr. Garth sent

refused to do any thing in it. In this distress for the corpse to the college of physicians, and

proposed a funeral by subscription, to which himself set a most noble example. At last a day, about three weeks after Mr. Dryden's decease, was appointed for the interment. Dr. Garth pronounced a fine Latin oration, at the college, over the corpse ;
es.

Abbey by a numerous train of coachwas over, Mr. Charles Dryden sent a challenge to the lord Jefferies, who refusing to answer it, he sent several others, and went often himself but could neither

which was attended

to the

When

the

funeral

get a letter delivered, nor admittance to speak to him ; which so incensed him, that he resolved, since his lordship refused to
ansvrer

him

like

a gentleman, that he would watch an opportu-

LIFE OP DRYDEN.
nity to

257
all

meet and
which
his

fight off hand,

though with

the rules of hon-

lordship hearing, left the town ; and Mr. Charles Dryden could never have the satisfaction of meeting him, though he sought it till his death with the utmost applica;

our

tion."

This story
evidence
;

nor have
;

once intended to omit, as it appears with no great I met with any confiimation, but in a letter

of Farquhar

and he only relates that the funeral of Dryden was

tumultuary and confused.*

Supposing the story true, we may remark, that the gradual change of manners, though imperceptible in the process, appears great when different times, and those not very distant, are

compared.
rupt the

If at this time a

young drunken lord should

a magnificent funeral,

inter-

what would be the event, but that he would be justled out of the way, and compelled to be quiet ? If he should thrust himself into an house, he would be sent roughly away ; and, what is yet more to the honour of the present time, I believe that those, who had

pompous

regularity of

subscribed to the funeral of a man like Dryden, would such an accident, have withdrawn their contributions, f

not, for

* An earlier account of Dryden's funeral than that above cited, though without the circumstances that preceded it, is given by Edward Ward, who in his London Spy, published in 1706, relates, that on the occasion there

sion,

was a performance of solemn music at the college, and that at the proceswhich himself saw, standing at the end of Chancery lane, Fleet street,

there was a concert of hautboys and trumpets. The day of Dryden's interment, he says, was Monday the 13th. of May, which, according to Johnson, was twelve days after his decease, and shows how long his funeral was in suspense. Ward knew not that the expense of it was defrayed by
subscription
;

He

also says, that the cause of

but compliments lord Jefferies for so pious an undertaking, Dryden's death was an inflammation in his
nail,

toe, occasioned

by the fiesh growing over the produced a mortification in his leg. II.
}

which being neglected,

*'

May

In the register of the college of physicians, is the following entry ; Coraitiis Censoriis ordinariis. At the request of several 3, 1700.

persona of quality, tha.t Mr. Dryden might be carried from the college of physicians to be interred at Westminster, it was unanimously granted by the president and censors."

This entry
ng lord

is

not calculated to

afford,

any credit to the nan-alive

Jefferies.

R.

258
lie

LIFE OF DRYDRX.
was buried among the poets
in

Westminster Abbey,

where, though the duke of Newcastle had, in a general dedication prefixed by Congreve to his dramatic works, accepted thanks ibr his intention of erecting him a monument, he lay
long without distinction,
till

the

duke of Buckinghamshire gave

him

a tablet, inscribed only with the

name

of

DRYDEN.
imputby her

He

married the lady Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the earl

ot Berkshire, with circumstances, according to the satire ed to lord Somers, not honourable to either ;

very

party

he had three sons, Charles, John, and Henry. Charles was usher of the palace to pope Clement the Xlth. and, visiting-

England

iii

704, was drowned in an attempt to

swim

across the

Thames
Cuck'Ad.
into

at

Windsor.
his

John was author of a comedy called The Hu, band

oiim

He

is

said

to

have died

at

Rome.

Henry entered

some

ity in his

It is some proof of Dryden's sincerreligious order. second religion, that he taught it to his sons. A man,

convert others

conscious of hypocritical profession in himself, is not likely to and, as his sons were qualified in 1693 to appear
;

among
some

the translators of Juvenal, they must have been taught religion before their father's change.
;

Of the person of Dryden I know not any account of his mind, the portrait which has been left by Congreve, who knew him with great familiarity, is such as adds our love of his manners to our admiration of his genius. " He was," we are told, <; of a nature exceedingly humane and compassionate, ready to forgive injuries, and capable of a sincere reconciliation with
those

who had
went

offended him.

ed

it,

beyond

his professions.

His friendship, where he professHe was of a very easy, of

very pleasing access ; but somewhat slow, and, as it were, dim' dent in his advances to others ; he had that in his nature which

less
to

abhorred intrusion into any society whatever. He was therefore known, and consequently his character became more liable

est,

misapprehensions and misrepresentations ; he was very modand very easily to be discountenanced in his approaches to As his reading had been very extenhis equals or superiors.
sive, so

that

was he very happy in a memory tenacious of every thing he had read, He was not more possessed of knowledge

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
than he was communicative of
;

259

but then his communication it was by no means pedantic, or imposed upon the conversation} but just such, and went so far as, by the natural turn of the conversation in which he was engaged, it was necessarily promot-

ed or required.

He was extremely ready and gentle in his correction of the errors of any writer who thought fit to consult him, and full as ready and patient to admit of the reprehensions

of others, in respect of his own oversights or mistakes." To this account of Congreve nothing can be objected but the
fondness of friendship and to have excited that fondness in such a mind is no small degree of praise. The disposition of Dry;

den, however,
itself in

is

shown

in this character, rather as

it

exhibited

cursory conversation, than as it operated on the more important parts of life. His placability and his friendship indeed

were

solid virtues
little

found with

real worth.

but courtesy and good humour are often Since Congreve, who knew him

well, has told us no more, the rest must be collected as it can from other testimonies, and particularly from those notices which

Dryden has very liberally given us of himself. The modesty which made him so slow to advance, and so easy to be repulsed, was certainly no suspicion of deficient merit,
or unconsciousness of his
in its
set

own value ; he appears to have known, whole extent, the dignity of his character, and to have a very high value on his own powers and performances.

He
it

to

probably did not offer his conversation, because he expected be solicited ; and he retired from a cold reception, not sub-

missive but indignant, with such reverence of his own greatness as made him unwilling to expose it to neglect or violation.

ness

His modesty was by no means inconsistent with ostentatioushe is diligent enough to remind the world of his merit, and expresses with very little scruple his high opinion of his
;

own powers

but his self commendations are read without scorn

;

or indignation

we

allow his claims, and love his frankness.

Tradition, however, has not allowed that his confidence in

himself exempted him from jealousy of others. He is accused and is particularly charged with inof envy and insidiousness
;

citing

Horace, that he might lose the reputation which Lucretius had given him. 34 VOL. i.

Creech

to translate

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
charge we immediately discover that it is merely conthe purpose was such as no man would confess ; and a crime that admits no proof, why should we believe ?
jectural
;

Of this

He

has been described as magisterially presiding over the

younger writers, and assuming the distribution of poetical fame ; but he who excels has a right to teach, and he whose judg-

ment
cide.

is

incontestable may, without usurpation,

examine and de-

Congrcve represents him

but there
is

as ready to advise and instruct ; reason to believe that his communication was rath-

er useful than entertaining.

He

declares of himself that he was

saturnine, and not one of those

whose sprightly sayings diverted

company

and one of his censurers makes him say,

Nor wiae nor love could ever see me To -writing bred, I knew not -what to

gay;
say.

There are men whose powers operate only at leisure and in retirement, and whose intellectual vigour deserts them in conversation

whom merriment confuses, and objection disconcerts ; whose bashfulness restrains their exertion, and suffers them not
;

to

speak

till

the time of speaking

is

past

or

whose

attention to

their

own

character

makes them unwilling

to utter at

hazard

what has not been considered, and cannot be

recalled.

Of Dryden's sluggishness in conversation it is vain to search or to guess the cause. He certainly wanted neither sentiments
nor language his intellectual treasures were great, though they were locked up from his own use. " His thoughts," when " flowed in he him so that his care was
;

wrote,

which

to choose,

upon and which

fast,

only

to reject."

position naturally promises a flow of talk

tent to believe

says

it

of himself.
it

panion,

what an enemy says of But, whatever was his character as a comappears that he lived in familiarity with the highest
It is

comwe must be conyet him, when he likewise

Such
rapidity of
;

persons of his time.

related by Carte of the

duke of Or-

mond,
with
Void
;

that

he used often

to pass a night
;

whom Dryden

consorted

who

with Dryden, and those they were, Carte has not

but certainly the convivial table at which Ormond sat was not surrounded with a plebeian society. He was indeed

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
reproached with boasting of his familiarity with the great
;

261
and

Horace
is

will

support him

in the opinion, that to please superiors

not the lowest kind of merit.

The
means.

merit of pleasing must, however, be estimated by the Favour is not always gained by good actions or lauda-

ble qualities Caresses and preferments are often bestowed on the auxiliaries of vice, the procurers of pleasure, or the flatterers

of vanity.

Dryden has never been charged with any personal

;

agency unworthy of a good character

he abetted vice and

vanity-

One of his enemies has accused him of lewdonly with his pen. ness in his conversation ; but, if accusation without proof be
credited,

who

shall

be innocent

His works

afford too

many examples
;

of dissolute licentious-

ness, and abject adulation

riment,
itation,

artificial

but they were probably, like his merand constrained ; the effects of study and med-

and his trade rather than his pleasure. Of the mind that can trade in corruption, and can deliberately pollute itself with ideal wickedness for the sake of spreading the
contagion in society,
ity. I

Such degradation of the

wish not to conceal or excuse the depravdignity of genius, such abuse of

superlative abilities, cannot be contemplated but with grief and

indignation.

What

consolation can be had,

testify his

Dryden has afforded,

by

living to repent,

and to

repentance.

Of dramatic

immorality he did not want examples

among

his

predecessors, or companions among his contemporaries ; but, in the meanness and servility of hyperbolical adulation, I know not

whether, since the days in which the Roman emperors were Afra Behn in an deified, he has been ever equalled, except by
address to Eleanor

Gwyn.

When

once he has undertaken the

task of praise, he no longer retains shame in himself, nor supbodies are observed poses it in his patron. As many odoriferous sensible diminuwithout to from to diffuse year,

perfumes

year

tion of bulk or weight,

he appears never to have impoverished He had all his mint of flattery by his expenses, however lavish. in his the forms of excellence, intellectual and moral, combined
mind, with endless variation
;

and when he had scattered on the

he had hero of the day the golden shower of wit and virtue, the morrow, newfor him, whom he wished to court on
ready wit and virtue with another stamp.

Of

this

kind of

262

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

he never seems to decline the practice, or lament the necessity ; he considers the great as entitled to encomiastic homage, and than a gift, more delighted with brings praise rather as a tribute
the
fertility

of his invention, than mortified by the prostitution of

It is

his judgment. his judgment

indeed not certain, that on these occasions

rebelled against his interest.

much

There are
on grandeur

minds which
there

easily sink into submission, that look

with undistinguishing reverence, and discover no delect where is elevation of rank and affluence of riches.

With

his praises of others

and of himself

is

always intermin-

gled a strain of discontent and lamentation, a sullen growl of re-

sentment, or a querulous murmur of distress. His works are " he has few thanks undervalued, his merit is unrewarded, and To his to pay his stars that he was born among Englishmen."
critics

he

is

sometimes contemptuous, sometimes

resentful, and

who thinks his works formed for duration, mistakes his interest when he mentions his enemies. He degrades his own dignity by showing that he was
sometimes submissive.
writer
affected by their censures,

The

which,

left

to

and gives lasting importance to names, themselves, would vanish from remembrance.

From

this principle Dry den did not often depart ; his complaints are for the greater part general ; he seldom pollutes his page with an adverse name. He condescended indeed to a controver-

sy with Settle, in which he perhaps may be considered rather as assaulting than repelling ; and since Settle is sunk into oblivion? his libel remains injurious only to himself.

Among

answers to
;

critics,

no poetical attacks, or

altercations,

they are, like other poems, effusions of genius, produced as much to obtain praise as to obviate censure. These Dry den practised, and in these he excelled.

are to be included

Of Collier, Blackmore,

in the preface to his Fables.

and Milbourne, he has made mention To the censure of Collier, whose

criticisms,

remarks may be rather termed admonitions than

he

being, at the age of sixty eight, attentive to better things than the claps of a playhouse. He complains of Collier's rudeness, and the " horse play of his raillery ;" and as" in serts, that many places he has perverted by his glosses the meaning" of what he censures ; but in other things he confesses
little

makes

reply

that

he

is justly

taxed

and says, with great calmness and can-

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
dour,

263

mine

I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts or expressions of that can be truly accused of obscenity, immorality, or proIf

"

faneness, and retract them.

he be
will

my

enemy,

let

him

tri-

be glad of my repentance." Yet as our best dispositions are imperfect, he left standing in the same book a reflection on Collier of great asperity, and indeed
;

umph

if

he be

my

friend,

he

of

more

asperity than wit.

Blackmore he represents as made his enemy by the poem of Absalom and Achitofihel, which " he thinks a little hard upon his
fanatic patrons ;"

his Arthur

from the preface

and charges him with borrowing the plan of to Juvenal, " though he had," says

" the baseness not to acknowledge his benefactor, but instead of it to traduce me in a libel."
he,

The
Wit
;

libel in

which Blackmore traduced him was

a Satire ufion

which, having lamented the exuberance of false wit and the deficiency of true, he proposes that all wit should be recoined before it is current, and appoints masters of assay, who shall
in

reject

all

that is light or debased.

'Tis true, that
Is

when

the coarse and worthless dross

loss
;

purg'd away, there will be mighty

E'en Congreve, Southern, manly

Wy cherry,
1

When

thus refin'd, will grievous sufferers be. Into the melting pot when Dryden comes, What horrid stench will rise, what noisome fumes

How
And

he shrink, when all his lewd allay, wicked mixture, shall be purg'd away
will
!

Thus

stands the passage in the last edition

but in the original

;

there was an abatement of the censure, beginning thus

But what remains will be so pure, 'twill bear Th' examination of the most severe.

Blackmore, finding the censure resented, and the

civility dis-

Such variations regarded, ungenerously omitted the softer part. discover a writer who consults his passions more than his virtue
his

and it may be reasonably supposed that Dryden imputes enmity to its true cause. Of Milbourne he wrote only in general terms, such as are al;

ways ready
have

at

tract will be sufficient.

fallen foul

the call of anger, whether just or not ; a short ex" He pretends a quarrel to nae, that I

upon priesthood

if I

have,

am

only to ask

264
pardon of good
will

L i|.'ii oi DRYDK.V
priests,

and

am

come

to

little.

Let him be
upon

afraid his share of the reparation satisfied that he shall never be

able to force himself

me

for

too

much

to enter into competition with

an adversary him.

contemn him

" As for the rest of those who have written against me, they are such scoundrels that they deserve not the least notice to be taken of them. Blackmorc and Milbourne are only distinguished from the crowd by being remembered to their infamy."

Dry den indeed

discovered, in
to priests

many of

his writings, an affected

and absurd malignity

and priesthood, which naturally raised him many enemies, and which was sometimes as unseasonably resented as it was exerted. Trapp is angry that he calls
the sacrifice!* in the
lation
is

" the Gcorgics holy butcher ;" the transindeed ridiculous ; but Trapp's anger arises from his

zeal, not for the author, but the priest

follies

as if any reproach of the ; of paganism could be extended to the preachers of truth. Dryden's dislike of the priesthood is imputed by Langbainc,
I

think by Brown, to a repulse which he suffered when he but he denies, in the preface to his Fables? ; that he ever designed to enter into the church ; and such a denial
solicited ordination

and

he would not have hazarded,

falsehood.

if

he could have been convicted of

Malevolence to the clergy is seldom at a great distance from irreverence of religion, and Dry den affords no exception to this His writings exhibit many passages, which, with observation. all the allowance that can be made for characters and occasions,
are such as piety
vitiate light

would not have admitted, and such as

may

and unprincipled minds. But there is no reason for supposing that he disbelieved the religion which he disobeyed. He forgot his duty rather than disowned it. His tendency to
profaneness is the effect of levity? negligence, and loose conversation, with a desire of accommodating himself to the corruption

of the times, by venturing to be wicked as far as he durst. When lie professed himself a convert to popery, he did not pretend to

have received any new conviction of the fundamental doctrines

of Christianity.

The

persecution of critics was not the worst of his vexations

he was much more disturbed by the importunities of want. His

complaints of poverty are so frequently repeated, either with the

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

265

dejection of weakness sinking in helpless misery, or the indignation of merit claiming its tribute from mankind, that it is impossible not to detest the age

which could impose on such a man

the necessity of such solicitations, or not to despise the man who could submit to such solicitations without necessity. Whether by the world's neglect, or his own imprudence, I

am

afraid that the greatest part of his

life

was passed

in

exigen-

cies.

Such

outcries

pain.

Except the salary of the laureat, to which king James added the office of historiographer, perhaps with some additional emoluments, his whole revenue seems to have been casual and it is well known that he seldom lives frugally who
;

Of his now be made.

were surely never uttered but in severe supplies or his expenses no probable estimate can

'

lives

by chance.

Hope
little

promises

make

and they that trust her scruple of revelling today on the profits of
is

always liberal

the morrow.

Of his
his other

plays the profit was not great

and of the produce of

By discoursintelligence can be had. ing with the late amiable Mr. Tonson, I could not find that any
little

works very

memorials of the transactions between his predecessor and Dryden had been preserved, except the following papers.
"
I

do hereby promise

to

the 25th. of March, 1699, the

pay John Dryden, Esq. or order, on sum of two hundred and fifty

which the said guineas, in consideration of ten thousand verses, Jacob to deliver to me is John Dryden, Esq. Tonson, when finished,

whereof seven thousand

five

hundred verses, more or

less, I

are already in the said Jacob Tonson's possession. hereby farther promise, and engage myself to make

And
up the

do
said

sum

of two hundred and

sterling, to the said

trators,

fifty guineas, three hundred pounds John Dryden, Esq. his executors, adminisor assigns, at the beginning of the second impression of

the said ten thousand verses. " In witness whereof I have hereunto set
this 20th.

my

hand and

seal.

day of March, 169|.

" JACOB

" Sealed and delivered, being first duly stampt, the acts of parliament for tha': pursuant to in the presence of purpose, " BEN. PORTLOCK,
WIT.T,.

CONGUEVF."

266

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
"

March,

24, 1698.

" Received then of Mr. Jacob Tonson, the

sum

of two hun-

dred sixty eight pounds fifteen shillings, in pursuance of an agreement for ten thousand verses, to be delivered by me to the said to him about Jacob Tonson, whereof I have already delivered he the said Jacob seven thousand five hundred, more or less
;

Tonson being obliged

to

make up

the aforesaid

sum

of two hun-

dred sixty eight pounds fifteen shillings, three hundred pounds, of the foresaid ten at the beginning of the second impression

thousand verses

" I me say, received by " JOHN " Witness,

DRYDEN.

CHARLES DRYDEN."

hundred and fifty guineas, at \L Is. 6d. is 268/. 15s. to manifest, from the dates of this contract, that it relates thousand twelve about the volume of Fables, which contains

Two

It is

verses, and for

which therefore the payment must have been

af-

terward enlarged. I have been told of another letter yet remaining, in which he
desires

Tonson

to bring

him money,

he had

ordered for his son,

to pay for a watch which and which the maker would not leave

without the price.

The inevitable consequence of poverty is dependence. Dryden had probably no recourse in his exigencies but to his bookThe particular character of Tonson I do not know but seller.
;

the general conduct of traders was much less liberal in those times than in our own ; their views were narrower, and their

manners

grosser.

To

the mercantile ruggedness of that race,

Lord Bolingthe delicacy of the poet was sometimes exposed. to Dr. King related cultivated had his broke, who in poetry, youth

when he visited Dryden, they heard, as another person entering the house. were conversing, they " is Tonson. " This," said You will take care not to Dryden, depart before he goes away for I have not completed the sheet which I promised him and if you leave me unprotected, I must suffer all the rudeness to which his resentment can prompt his
of Oxford, that one day
; ;

tongue."

What
sulted

of the bookseller, cannot be known.

rewards he obtained for his poems, beside the payment Mr. Derrick, who conhis relations

some of

was informed

that his fables obtained

I.TFE
five

OF DRYDEX.
;

267
a present not and he ;

hundred pounds from the dutchess of Ormond

unsuitable to the magnificence of that splendid family

quotes Moyle, as relating that forty pounds were paid by a musical society for the use of Alexander's Feast.
In those days the economy of government was yet unsettled. and the payments of the exchequer were dilatory and uncertain of this disorder there is reason to believe that the laurcat some;

times

felt the effects for, in one of his prefaces he complains of those, who, being intrusted with the distribution of the prince's bounty, suffer those that depend upon it to languish in penury. Of his petty habits, or slight amusements, tradition has retain;

little. Of the only two men whom I have found to whom he was personally known, one told me, that at the house which he frequented, called Will's coffeehouse, the appeal upon any literary and the other related, that his armed dispute was made to him chair, which in the winter had a settled and prescriptive place by the fire, was in the summer placed in the balcony, .aid that he

ed

called the two places his winter and his

all

summer

seat.

This

is

the intelligence which his two survivors afforded me. One of his opinions will do him no honour in the present age, though in his own time, at least in the beginning of it, he was

He put great confidence it confined to himself. In the appendix prognostications of judicial astrology. to the life of Con gr eve is a narrative of some of his predictions
far

from having

in the

wonderfully

fulfilled

but

know

not the writer's

means of

in-

formation, or character of veracity.

That he had the configura-

tions of the horoscope in his mind, and considered

them

as in-

fluencing the affairs of men, he does not forbear to hint.

The utmost

malice of the stars

is

past.

Now
And

frequent trines the happier lights among, high raised Jove, from his dark prison freed,
off that

Those weights took

Will gloriously the new

laid

on his planet hung, works succeed.

He has
justify

elsewhere shown his attention to the planetary powers ; and in the preface to his Fables has endeavoured obliquely to
his superstition by attributing the

same

to

some of the
no doubt of

ancients.

The

latter,

added

to this narrative, leaves

his notions or practice.

VOL.

j.

UFJ: OF DRtfDEN

So

slight

and bo scanty

is

the knowledge which

life

have beet?

able to collect concerning the private

and domestic manners

of a man,

whom

reverence as a

critic

every English generation must mention with and a poet.

DRYDEN

may be

lish criticism, as the writer

properly considered as the father of Engwho first taught us to determine up-

on principles the merit of composition. Of cur former poets, the greatest dramatist wrote without rules, conducted through
life

him.

and nature by a genius that rarely misled, and rarely deserted Of the rest, those who knew the laws of propriety had

something might be learned, and a few hints had been given by Jonson and Cowbut Dryden's Essay on Dramatic Poetry was the first ley
;

neglected to teach them. Two Arts of English Poetry were written in the days of Elizabeth by Webb and Puttenham, from which

reg-

ular and valuable treatise on the art of writing. He, who, having formed his opinions in the present age of English literature, turns back to peruse this dialogue, will not

perhaps

find
;

much
but he

increase of knowledge, or
is to

much

novelty of

instruction

then in the hands of a

ancients, and partly

remember that critical principles were few, who had gathered them partly from the
Italians

from the

and French.

The

structure

of dramatic

poems was not then

;

ences applauded by instinct chance.

Audiand poets perhaps often pleased by

generally understood.

A writer who
own
lustre.

obtains his full purpose loses himself in his

opinion which is no longer doubted, the evidence ceases to be examined. Of an art universally practised,

Of an

the first teacher is forgotten. Learning once made popular is no longer learning it has the appearance of something which we have bestowed upon ourselves, as the dew appears to rise from the field which it refreshes.
;

To judge rightly of an author, we must transport ourselves to his time, and examine what were the wants of his
ries,
is

contemporaand what were his means of supplying them. That which easy at one time was difficult at another. Dryden at least rrn

LIFE OF DRYDEX.

269

ported his science, and gave his country what it wanted before ; or rather, he imported only the materials, and manufactured

them by

his

own

skill.

dialogue on the drama was one of his first essays of criticism, written when he was yet a timorous candidate for reputation, and therefore laboured with that diligence

The

which he might
sanction

allow himself

somewhat

to remit,

when

his

name gave

and his awe of the public was abated, partly by and It will not be easy to find, in all custom, partly by success. the opulence of our language, a treatise so artfully variegated
to his positions,

with successive representations of opposite probabilities, so enHis porlivened with imagery, so brightened with illustrations. traits of the English dramatists are wrought with great spirit

and diligence.

The

perpetual model of encomiastic criticism nuteness, and lofty without exaggeration.

account of Shakespeare may stand as a exact without mi;

The

praise lavish-

ed by Longinus, on the attestation of the heroes of Marathon, by Demosthenes, fades away before it. In a few lines is exhibited
a character, so extensive in
its

comprehension, and so curious

in its limitations, that nothing can be added, diminished, or re-

formed

their emulation of reverence, boast of

nor can the editors and admirers of Shakespeare, in all much more than of having
for baser metal, of

diffused and paraphrased this epitome of excellence, of having

changed Dryden's gold

of greater bulk. In this, and in
criticism of
all

lower value, though

subject, the

his other essays

on the same

the criticism of a poet ; not a dull collection of theorems, nor a rude detection of faults, which perhaps

Dryden

is

the censor was not able to have committed

rous dissertation, where delight

is

but a gay and vigomingled with instruction, and

;

where the author proves

performance.

his right of

judgment, by his power of

The

different

manner and

effect with

which

critical

knowl-

edge maybe conveyed, was perhaps never more clearly exempliIt was said fied than in the performances of Rymer and Dryden. " malim cum Scaliof a dispute between two mathematicians,
gero errare,
eligible to

quam cum

go wrong

Clavio recte sapere ;" that " it was with one, than right with the other."

more

A ten-

dency of the same kind every mind must feel at the perusal of Drvden's prefaces and Rymcr's discourses. With Dryden \vc

LIFE OF

DRYDLV

are wandering in quest of truth ; whom we find, it we lind her ac all, drest in the graces of elegance ; and, if we miss her, the la^

bour of the pursuit rewards itself we are led only through fra Rymer, without taking a nearer, takes a grancc and flowers.
;

rougher way every step is to be made through thorns and and truth, if we meet her, appears repulsive by her brambles
;

mien, and ungraceful by her habit. Dry den's criticism has the majesty of a queen Rymer's has the ferocity of a tyrant.
;

As he had

studied with great diligence the art of poetry, and

enlarged or rectified his notions, by experience perpetually increasing, he had his mind stored with principles and observations
;

he poured out his knowledge with

r

little

labour

for of

labour, notwithstanding the multiplicity of his productions, there

To write suspect that he w as not a lover. nmore, with fondness for the employment, with perpetual touches, and retouches, with unwillingness to take leave of his
is

sufficient reason to

co'/

own
was,

idea,
I

think,

and an unwearied pursuit of unattainable perfection, no part of his character.

His criticism

may

his general precepts,

be considered as general or occasional. In which depend upon the nature of things,

and the structure of the human mind, he

ly

may

doubtless be safe;

recommended

to the confidence of the reader

but his occa-

and particular positions were sometimes interested, sometimes negligent, and sometimes capricious. It is not without
sional

reason that Trapp, speaking of the praises which he bestows on Palamon and Arcite, says, u Novimus judicium Drydeni de

poemate quodam Chauccri^ pulchro sane illo, Sc admodum laudando, nimirum quod non modo verc epicum sit, sed Iliacla etiam
atque jEneada sequet, imo superet.

Sed novimus codem

tern-

pore viri iiiius maximi non semper accuratissimascsse censuras, nee ad severissimam critices nor main cxactas illo id
;

judice,
Sc

plerum JUG optimum est, quod mine quo mine occupatur."

prse

manibus habct,

in

He is therefore by no means constant to himself. His defence and desertion of dramatic rhyme is generally known. $fin:cc, in his remarks on Pope's Odyssey, produces what he thinks an
uncon .:uerable quotation from Dryden's preface
in favour of translating

to the ^Eneid,

forgets that

when

an epic poem into blank verse ; but he his author attempted the Iliad, some years

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
afterward, he departed from his
into

271
and translated

own

decision,

rhyme. When he has any objection

is

fend, he

cautious, if
self in
his

to obviate, or any license to denot very scrupulous about what-he asserts, nor very the present purpose be served, not to entangle him-

own

sophistries.

But,

when

all arts

are exhausted,
;

like other

hunted animals, he sometimes stands at bay when he cannot disown the grossness of one of his plays, he declares

that he

knows not any law

that prescribes morality to a

comic

poet.

trusted.

His remarks on ancient or modern writers are not always to be His parallel of the versification of Ovid with that of

Claudian has been very justly censured by SeiveL* His comparison of the first line of Virgil with the first of Statins is not happier. Virgil, he says, is soft and gentle, and would have thought Statius

mad,

if

he had heard him thundering out

Quse superimposito moles geminnta colosso.

Statius perhaps heats himself, as

somewhat hyperbolical
been too hasty,
ing
line.
if

he proceeds, to exaggerations but undoubtedly Virgil would have he had condemned him to straw for one sound;

Dryden wanted an
into the service.

instance,

and the

first

that occurred

was imprest

What he wishes to say, he says at hazard he cited Gorbuduc^ which he had never seen gives a false account of Chapman 9 s and discovers, in the preface to his Fables, that he versification translated the first book of the Iliad, without knowing what was
;
; ;

in the second.
It will

be

difficult to

prove that Dryden ever

made any

great

advances in literature.

having distinguished himself at Westminster under the tuition of Busby, who advanced hi*

As

scholars to a height of knowledge very rarely attained in grammar schools, he resided afterward at Cambridge ; it is not to be-

supposed, that his skill in the ancient languages was deficient, compared with that of common students ; but his scholastic acquisitions

seem not proportionate to his opportunities and abilities. could He not, like Milton or Cowley, have made his name illusHe mentions but few books, and trious merely by his learning.
*

TVefare to Ovid's Metamorphosis.

Dr. J

272
those such as
lie

UFE OF DRYDLN.
in

which,

if

ever he departs, he
regions.

the beaten track of regular study ; from is in danger of losing himself in

unknown

In his dialogue on the drama,

fidence that the Latin tragedy of

is

he pronounces with great conMedea is not Ovid's because it

not sufficiently interesting and pathetic.

;

He might

have de-

for it is quoted by termined the question upon surer evidence and the only line which reQuintilian as the work of Seneca mains of Ovid's play, for one line is left us, is not there to be
;

found.

There was therefore no need of the

gravity of conjec-

ture, or the discussion of plot or sentiment, to find

what was

already known upon higher authority than such discussions can ever reach.

His literature, though not always free from ostentation, will be commonly found either obvious, and made his own by the art of dressing it or superficial, which, by what he gives, shows
;

what he wanted
ly scattered.

or erroneous, hastily collected, and negligent-

Yet
ter,

it

cannot be said that his genius

is

ever unprovided of mat-

His works fancy languishes in penury of ideas. abound with knowledge, and sparkle with illustrations. There
or that
is scarcely any science or faculty that does not supply him with occasional images and lucky similitudes every page discovers a mind very widely acquainted both with art and nature, and in full
;

Ms

Of him that possession of great stores of intellectual wealth. knows much, it is natural to suppose that he has read with diligence yet I rather believe that the knowledge of Dryden was
;

gleaned from accidental intelligence and various conversation, by a quick apprehension, a judicious selection, and a happy memory,
a keen appetite of knowledge, and a powerful digestion by vigilance that permitted nothing to pass without notice, and a habit of reflection that su fierce! nothing useful to be lost. mind like
;

Drydeivs, always curious, always active, to which every understanding was proud to be associated, and of which every one solicited the regard, by an ambitious display of himself, had a more

perhaps a nearer way to knowledge than by the silent I do not of solitary reading. progress suppose that he despised hooks, or intentionally neglected them ; but that he was carried
pleasant,

oat,

!>v

the impetuosity of his genius, to morevivid and speedy

LIFE OF DRYDEX.
instructors; and that his studies
tuitous than constant

273
for-

were rather desultory and

and systematical. It must be confessed that he scarcely ever appears to want book learning but when he mentions books ; and to him may be transferred the praise which he gives his master Charles.
His conversation, wit and parts,

His knowledge

in

the noblest useful aria,

Were
But

such, dead authors could not give. Latitudes of those that live
; ;

Who, lighting him, did greater lights receive He drain'd from all, and ail they knew,
His apprehension quick, his judgment true That the most learn'd, with shame confess,
;

His knowledge more,

his reading only less.

Of all this, however, if the proof be demanded, I will not undertake to give it ; the atoms of probability, of which my opinion has been formed, lie scattered over ail his works ; and by him
who
thinks the question worth his notice, his works

must be
all

perused with very close attention.

Criticism, either didactic or defensive, occupies almost
his

prose, except those pages which he has devoted to his patrons ; but none of his prefaces were ever thought tedious. They have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first half of the

sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the periods modelled ; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid ;
the whole
is airy,

animated, and vigorous

what

is great, is

splendid.
;

self too frequently

what is little, is gay ; be thought to mention himbut, while he forces himself upon our esteem,
;

He may

we

to stand high in his oAvn. Every thing is excused by the play of images, and the sprightliness of expres-

cannot refuse

him
is

; though all seems and though, since his earlier works, more than a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete.

sion.

Though

all

easy, nothing is feeble

;

careless, there is nothing harsh

He who

writes

much

will not easily

escape a manner

such

a recurrence of particular modes as may be easily noted. Dryden is always another and ths same ; he does not exhibit a second

time the same elegances

in the same form, nor appears to havr anv other art than that of expressing with clearness what he

|,n

E OF DUYDEN.

thinks with vigour. His style could not easily be imitated, cither seriously or ludicrously ; for, being always equable and always The varied, it has no prominent or discriminative characters.

beauty which is totally free from disproportion of parts and ieatures, cannot be ridiculed by an overcharged resemblance.

From his prose, however, Dryden derives only his accidental and secondary praise the veneration with which his name is
;

pronounced by every cultivator of English literature, is paid to him as he refined the language, improved the sentiments, and
tuned the numbers of English poetry. After about half a century of forced thoughts, and rugged metre, some advances toward nature and harmony had been already

made by Waller and Denham ; they had shown that long discourses in rhyme grew more pleasing when they were broken into couplets, and that verse consisted not only in the number but
the arrangement of syllables. But though they did much,
to

do

who can deny that they left much Their works were not many, nor were their minds of

very ample comprehension. More examples of more modes of composition were necessary for the establishment of regularity, and the introduction of propriety in word and thought.

Every language of a learned nation necessarily divides

into diction, scholastic

itself

and popular, grave and familiar, elegant

But,
if

and gross

and from a nice distinction of these different parts

arises a great part of the beauty of style.

we except

few minds, the favourites of nature, to whom their own original rectitude was in the place of rules, this delicacy of selection was
little

known

to

our authors
;

our speech lay before them in a

for

heap of confusion and every man took chance might offer him.
diction,

every purpose what

There was therefore before the time of Dryden no

poetical

no system of words at once refined from the grossness of domestic use, and free from the harshness of terms appropriated to particular arts. Words too familiar, or too remote, defeat the purpose of a poet. From those sounds which we hear

on small or on coarse occasions,

we do
;

not easily receive strong

impressions, or delightful images

and words to which

we

arc

nearly strangers, whenever they occur, draw that themselves which they should transmit to things,

attention on

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

27 S
distinguish poetry

Those happy combinations of words which

from prose, had been rarely attempted ; we had few elegances or flowers of speech ; the roses had not yet been plucked from
the bramble, or different colours had not been joined to enliven

one another.
It

may be

doubted whether Waller and

Denham

could have

overborne the prejudices which had long prevailed, and which even then were sheltered by the protection of Cowley. The new versification, as it was called, may be considered as owing its
establishment to Dryden
;

from whose time

it is

English poetry has had no tendency to relapse

ageness.

to its

apparent that former sav-

The

affluence and comprehension of our language

is

very

il-

lustriously displayed in our poetical translations of ancient writers ; a work which the French seem to relinquish in despair,

and which we were long unable to perform with dexterity. Ben Jonson thought it necessary to copy Horace almost word by word ;
Feltham, his contemporary and adversary, considers
pensably requisite in a translation to give line for
that Sandys,
it

as indisIt is said

line.

whom Dryden

calls .the best versifier of the last age,

has struggled hard to comprise every book of his English Metamorphosis in the same number of verses with the original.

Holiday had nothing

author, with so
little

in

view but

to

show

that

he understood his

regard to the t grandeur of his diction, or the volubility of his numbers, that his metres can hardly be called verses ; they cannot be read without reluctance, nor will the lathat such copiers

bour always be rewarded by understanding them. Cowley saw were a servile race he asserted his liberty,
;

and spread

his

wings so boldly that he

left his

authors.
liberty,

It

was

reserved for Dryden to fix the limits of poetical us just rules and examples of translation.

and gi\\
it

When

languages are formed upon different 'principles,

i*

impossible that the same

modes of expression should always be

lation

While they run on together, the closest transelegant in both. may be considered as the best ; but when they divaricate,

Where correspondence cauits natural course. not be obtained, it is necessary to be content with something " c not &c " Translation, therefore," says Dryden, equivalent.
each must take
i

loose as paraphrase, nor so close as metaphrase.'

VOL.

i.

36

;>r(J

J.IMi

OF

JJltYDK

diffuse, the lolly,

All polished languages have different styles ; the concise, the and the humble. In the proper choice of style

consists the resemblance

i

which Dryden principally exacts from

thoughts in such a

he translator.

He

is

to exhibit his author's

dress of diction as the author would have given them, had his language been English ; rugged magnificence is not to be soft'

rued ; hyperbolical ostentation is not to be repressed ; nor sententious affectation to have its points blunted. translator is to be like his author ; it is not his business to excel him.

The

reasonableness of these rules seems sufficient for their

;

vindication

happy, that
sir

and the effects produced by observing them were so "know not whether they were ever opposed but by Edward Sherburnc, a man whose learning was greater than
I
;

his

powers of poetry and who, being better qualified to give the meaning than the spirit of Seneca, has introduced his version o*

three tragedies by a defence of close translation. The authority of Horace, which the new translators cited in defence of their
practice, he has, by a judicious explanation, taken fairly

from

them

but reason wants not Horace to support it. It seldom happens that all the necessary causes concur to any great effect ; will is wanting to power, or power to will, or both
;
.

are impeded by external obstructions,

The exigences in which

Dryden was condemned

to

supposed have blasted his genius, to have driven out his works in a state of immaturity, and to have intercepted the full blown elegance which longer growth would have supplied.
Poverty, like other rigid powers, is sometimes too hastily acIf the excellence of Dryden's works was lessened by his indigence, their number was increased ; and I know not how it

to pass his life, are reasonably

cused.

will

better

be proved, that if he had written less he would have written or that indeed he would have undergone the toil of an
;

author,

if

he had not been solicited by something more pressing

is

than the love of praise.

But, as

said by his Sebastian,

What

had been,

is

unknown

-what

is,

appears.

We

know

that Dryden's several productions

were

so

many

suc-

cessive expedients for his support ; his plays were therefore often borrowed ; and his poems were almost all occasional.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
In an occasional performance no height of excellence can be expected from any mind, however fertile in itself, and however stored with acquisitions. He whose work is general and arbitrary has the choice of his matter, and takes that which his inclination and his studies have best qualified him to display and decorate.

He

is at liberty to

delay his publication,

till

till

he has
first

satis-

fied his friends

and himself;

he has reformed his

thoughts

by subsequent examination, and polished away those faults which the precipitance of ardent composition is likely to leave behind it. Virgil is related to have poured out a great number of lines
in the morning, and to have passed the day in reducing

them

to

fewer.

The
that

occasional poet

is

subject.
little
;

Whatever can happen

circumscribed by the narrowness of his to man has happened so often,

remains for fancy or invention. have been ail of us been married ; and so many have died before us, that our deaths can supply but few materials for a
born

We

we have most

poet.

In the fate of princes the public has an interest ; and what to them of good or evil, the poets have always considered as business for the muse. But after so many inauguratory

happens

gratulutions, nuptial

hymns, and funeral dirges, he must be high-

ly favoured by nature, or by fortune,

who

says any thing not said

before.

Even war and conquest, however

;

new images

splendid, suggest no the triumphal chariot of a victorious monarch

can be decked only with those ornaments that have graced his
predecessors.

The poem must not be only matter but time is wanting. The till the occasion is forgotten. lucky moments of delayed animated imagination cannot be attended ; elegances and illusNot
trations cannot

be multiplied by gradual accumulation the comis yet busy, and must be despatched, while conversation position and haste is to be made, lest some other event admiration fresh
;

should lay hold upon mankind. Occasional compositions may however secure to a writer the of learning and facility ; for they cannot be the effect praise both of long study, and nwst be furnished immediately from the trcas nres of the mind. The death of Cromwell was
the
first

public event

which
have

called forth Dryden's poetical powers.

His heroic

star,/.:is

278
beauties and delects
;

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

the thoughts are vigorous, and, though not the numbers always proper, show a mind replete with ideas arc smooth ; and the diction, if not altogether correct, is elegant
;

and easy.

Davcnant was perhaps at this time his favourite author, though Goodibeit never appears to have been popular ; and from Davenant he learned to please his ear with the stanza of four lines
alternately

rhymed.
early

Dry den very

formed

his versification

there are in this

early production no traces of Donne's or Jonson's ruggedness ; but he did not so soon free his mind from the ambition of

forced conceits.
king's exile,

In his verses on the restoration, he says of the

He, toss'cl by fate, Could taste no sweets of youth's desired age, But found his life too true a pilgrimage.

And

afterward, to

show how
this

virtue and
;

wisdom are increased by

adversity, he makes

remark

Well might the ancient poets then confer, On night the honour'd name of counsellor,
Since, struck with rays of prosperous fortune blind,

We

light alone in

dark

afflictions find.

His praise of Monk's dexterity comprises such a cluster of thoughts unallied to one another, as will not elsewhere be easily
found.

'Twas Monk, whom Providence designed to Those real bonds fabe freedom did impose.

loose

The

Did from

blessed saints that watch'd this turning scene, their stars with joyful wonder lean,

To

see small clues

draw

vastest weights along,

Not in their bulk, but in Thus pencils can by one

their order strong.

slight

touch restore

Smiles to that changed face that wept before. With ease such fond chimeras we pursue,

As

fancy frames, for fancy to subdue

But, when ourselves to action we betake, It shuns the mint like gold that chymisto make

How hard was then his task, at once What in the body natural AVC see
!

to be

Man's architect

distinctly did ordain

The

charge of muscles, nerves, and of the brain

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
Through
viewless conduits spirits to dispense springs of motion from the seat of sense. 'Twas not the hasty product of a day, But the well ripen'd fruit of wise delay.

The

He,

like a patient angler, ere

he strook,

Would let them play awhile upon the hook. Our healthful food the stomach labours thus, At first embracing what it straight cloth crush. Wise leeches will not vain receipts obtrude,
While growing pains pronounce the humours crude Deaf to complaints, they wait upon the ill, Till some safe crisis authorize their skill.
;

He

bear the improper use of mythology. the heathen deities for their care,

had not yet learned, indeed he never learned well to forAfter having rewarded

With Alga

-who the sacred altar strows

To

A A ram to you,

the sea gods Charles an offering owes bull to thee, Portunus, shall be slain ;
all

ye tempests of the main.

He

tells us, in

the language of religion,

Pray'r storm'd the skies, and ravish'd Charles from thence, As heav'n itself is took by violence.

And

afterward mentions one of the most awful passages of sacto

red history.

Other conceits there are, too curious

be quite omitted
bore.

as,

For by example most we sinn'd before, And, glass like, clearness mix'd with frailty

How far he was yet from thinking it necessary to found his sentiments on nature, appears from the extravagance of his fictions and hyperboles.

The winds, that never moderation knew, Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew Or, out of breath with joy, could not enlarge
;

Their
It
is

straiten'd lungs.
;

no longer motion cheats your view As j'ou meet it, the land approacheth you; The land returns, and in the white it wears

The marks
I

of penitence and sorrow bears.

know

not whether this fancy,

however
to

little

be

its

value,

was

not borrowed.

French poet read

Malherbe some

verses,.

280

LIFE OF

DHYDEX

in which he represents France as moving out of its place to re" " ceive the king-. Though this," said Malherbe, was in my time, I do not remember it."

His

poem

on the Coronation has a more even tenor of thought

Some

lines deserve to

be quoted.
qucnchM
sedition's

You have

already

brand

And zeal, that burnt it, only warms the land The jealous sects that durst not trust their cause So tar from their own will as to the laws, Him for their umpire and their synod take, And their appeal alone to Cesar make.
;

Here may be found one

which,
I believe, in all his

of particle of that old versification,

is

works, there

not another.

Nor

is it

duty, or our hope alone,

full

Creates that joy, but

fruition.

In the verses to the lord chancellor Clarendon, two years after-

ward, is a conceit so hopeless at the first view, that few would have attempted it ; and so successfully laboured, that though at last it gives the reader more perplexity than pleasure, and seems
a hardly worth the study that it costs, yet it must be valued as of a at and mind once subtle proof comprehensive ;
In open prospect nothing bounds our eye, Until the earth seems join'd unto the sky ;
Is only

hemisphere our utmost view bounded by our king and you Our sight is limited where you are join'd, And beyond that no farther heaven can find. So well your virtues do with his agree,
in this
;

So

That tliough your orbs of

Yet both are
for

different greatness

li-.

each other's use dispos'd, His to enclose, and yours to be cnclos'd. Nor could another in your room have been.
,

Except an emptiness had come between.

The comparison of the chancellor semblance too far behind it.

And The
as the Indies

to the Indies leaves all re-

were not found before

Those

rich perfumes which from the happy shore winds upon their balmy wings convey'd,
;

AVhose guilty sweetness first their world betray 'd So by your counsels we are brought to \iew

A new

nr.'l

uudiscover'd world in you.

LIFE OF DRYDEX.

281
else in the

There

is

another comparison, for there

is little

poem,

of which, though perhaps it cannot be explained into plain prosaic meaning, the mind perceives enough to be delighted, and
readily forgives
its

obscurity, for

its

magnificence.

strangely active are the arts of peace, Whose restless motions less than wars do cease

How

Peace is not freed from labour, hut from noise And war more force, but not more pains employs. Such is the mighty swiftness of your mind,
;

That,

like the earth's,

it

leaves our sense behind

"While you so smoothly turn and roll our sphere, That rapid motion does but rest appear. For as in nature's swiftness, with the throng

Of flying

orbs while ours

is

borne along,

All seems at rest to the deluded eye, Mov'd by the soul of the same harmony

So carry'd on by your unwearied

care,

We rest in peace, and

To
this

yet in motion share.

succeed four
at

lines,

which perhaps

afford

Dryden's

those penetrating remarks on human nature; for which he seems to have been peculiarly formed.
first. attempt

Let envy then those crimes within you see, the happy never roust be free Envy, that does with misery reside,

From which

The joy and

Into this

the revenge of ruin'd pride.

to have collected all his powers ; he did not often bring upon his anvil such stubborn and unmalleable thoughts but, as a specimen of his abilities to

poem he seems
;

and

after this

unite the most unsociable matter, he has concluded with lines of

which

I think not

myself obliged

to tell the

meaning

Yet unimpair'd with labours, or with time, Your age but seems to a new youth to climb. Thus heavenly bodies do our time beget, And measure change, but share no part of it

And
For
It

without a weight increase, Like this new year whose motions never cease.
still it

shall

Is led

since the glorious course you have begun by Charles, as that is by the sun,

must both weightless and immortal prove, Because the centre of it is above.

from

In the Annus Mirabilia he returned to the quatrain, which that time he totally quitted, perhaps from this experience

28:3

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

of its inconvenience, for he complains of its difficulty. This is one of his greatest attempts. He had subjects equal to his abilBattles have ities, a great naval war, and the fire of London.

always been described

in

heroic poetry

artillery had yet something of novelty. the world before poets describe them ;

New

but a sea fight and arts are long in

for they borrow every thing from their predecessors, and commonly derive very little from nature or from life. Boileau was the first French writer

that

had ever hazarded

in verse the

mention of modern war, or

the effects of gunpowder. We, who are less afraid of novelty had already possession of those dreadful images. Waller had

Milton had not yet transferred the invendescribed a sea fight. tion of firearms to the rebellious angels.

This poem

is

written with great diligence, yet does not fully

answer the expectation raised by such subjects and such a writer. With the stanza of Davcnant he has sometimes his vein of parenthesis,
\vise

and incidental

disquisition,

and stops his narrative

affords

for a

remark.
general fault
is,

The

that

he

more sentiment than

fan-

much impress scenes upon the cy, as deduce consequences and make comparisons. The initial stanzas have rather too much resemblance to
description, and does not so
first lines

the

with Spain ; perhaps such a beginning is natural, and could not be avoided without affectation. Both Waller and Dryden might take their hint from the poem on the civil war of Rome, " Orbem jam totum," &c.
the

of Waller's

poem on

War

Of the king
It

collecting his navy, he says,

as every ship their sovereign knows, His awful summons they so soon obey ; So hear the scaly herd 3 when Proteus blows,

seems

And
It

so to pasture follow through the sea.

would not be hard

first

to believe that

Dryden had

written the

and that some wag had added the two Who would expect the lines that immedilatter in burlesque. ately follow, which are indeed perhaps indecently hyperbolical?

two

lines seriously,

but certainly in a

mode

totally different

To

see this fleet upon the ocean move,

jVnsrels

drew wide the curtains of the skies;

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

283

And

heaven, as

if

there wanted lights above,

glaring comets rise.

For tapers made two

The description of the attempt at Bergen will afford a very Complete specimen of the descriptions in this poem.
And now approach'd their fleet from India, fraught With all the riches of the rising sun And precious sand from southern climates brought, The fatal regions where the war begun.
;

Like hunted castors, conscious of their store, Their waylaid wealth to Norway's coast they bring Then first the north's cold bosom spices bore, And winter brooded on the eastern spring.

By

the rich scent

we found our perfum'd

pray,
;

Which,

flank'd with rocks, did close in covert lie

And round about their murd'ring cannon lay, At once to threaten and invite the eye.
Fiercer than cannon, and than rocks more hard, The English undertake th' unequal war ; Seven ships alone, by which the port is barr'd,

Besiege the Indies, and

all

Denmark dare.
;

These fight like husbands, but like lovers those These fain would keep, and those more fain enjoy

And

to such height their frantic passion grows, That what both love, both hazard to destroy.

Amidst whole heaps of

spices lights a ball,

fly
;

And now their odours arm'd against them Some preciously by sbatter'd porcelain fall, And some by aromatic splinters die.
And, though by tempests of the prize bereft, In heaven's inclemency some ease we find Our foes we vanquish'd by our valour left,

And
In this
ridiculous.

only yielded to the seas and wind.

manner is the sublime too often mingled with the The Dutch seek a shelter for a wealthy fleet this
;

surely needed no illustration ; yet they must fly, not like all the rest of mankind on the same occasion, but " like hunted castors ;" and they

might with strict propriety be hunted for we winded them by our noses their perfumes betrayed them. The husband and the /oxer, though of more dignity than the castor,
; ;

\var.

are images too domestic to mingle properly with the horrors of The two quatrains that follow are worthy of the author,

vot.

r.

37

-i84

LIFE OF DRYDEW.
account
ol'

The

the different sensations with which the two the night parted them,
is

fleets retired,

when

one of the

fairest

flowers of English poetry.

The night comes on, we eager to pursue The combat still, and they asham'd to
Till the last streaks of

leave

And
In
tli'

dying day withdrew, doubtful moonlight did our rage deceive.

English fleet each ship resounds with joy, loud applause of their great leader's fame In fiery dreams the Dutch they still destroy,

And

And, slumhering, smile

at the imagiri'd flame.

Not

so the Holland fleet,

who,

tir*d

and done,

Stretch'd on their decks, like weary oxen lie ; Faint sweats all down their mighty members run,

Vast bulks, which

little

souls but

ill

supply.

In dreams they fearful precipices tread, Or,- shipwreck'd, labour to some distant shore
;

Or, in dark churches, walk among the dead They wake with horror, and dare sleep no more.
It is a general rule in poetry, that all appropriated terms of art should be sunk in general expressions, because poetry This rule is still stronger is to speak an universal language.

with regard to arts not

fore far

liberal,

or confined to few, and there-

removed from common knowledge ; and of this kind, Yet Dryden was of opinion? certainly, is technical navigation.
ought to be described in the nautical language ; and certainly," says he, " as those, who in a logical disputation keep to general terms, would hide a fallacy, so those who
that a sea fight
*'

do

it

in

any poetical description would

;

veil their

ignorance."

Let us then appeal to experience for by experience at last we learn as well what will please as what will profit. In the battle, his terms seem to have been blown away ; but he deals

them

liberally in the dock.

So here some pick out

bullets

from the

side,
rift

Some
Their

drive old

oakum

thro' each

seam and
lift.

left

hand does the calking iron guide,

The

rattling mallet with the right they

With boiling pitch another near at hand From friendly Sweden brought, the seams
Which,
well laid o'er, the salt sea

in stops

waves withstand, And shake them from the rising beak in drops.

LIFE OP DRYDEN.
Some
Or
the gall'd ropes with dauby marling bind,

28;>

To

searcloth masts with strong tarpa-^ling coats; try new shrouds one mounts into the wind,

And one

below, their ease or

stiffness notes.

I suppose here is not one term which every reader does not wish away. His digression to the original and progress of navigation, with

his prospect of the

advancement which

it

shall receive

from the

royal society, then newly instituted,

may be

considered as an exartful return.

that,

ample seldom equalled of seasonable excursion and

One

line,

however, leaves

me

discontented

he says,

by

the help of the philosophers,

Instructed ships shall
sail to quick commerce, remotest regions are allied.

By which

Which he

constrained to explain in a note, " by a more exact measure of longitude." It had better become Dryden's learning and genius to have laboured science into poetry, and
is

have shown, by explaining longitude, that verse did not refuse

the ideas of philosophy. His description of the of a
fire is painted by resolute meditation, out The conflagrabetter formed to reason than to feel.

mind

tion of a city, with all its tumults of concomitant distress, is one

of the most dreadful spectacles which this world can offer to human eyes ; yet it seems to raise little emotion in the breast of
the poet ; he watches the flame coolly from street to street, with now a reflection, and now a simile, till at last he meets the king,
for

whom
;

he makes a speech, rather tedious

however,
in this part
;

in a
fire.

time so

busy

and then follows again the progress of the

are,
;

There
.attention

some passages

that deserve

as in the beginning

The diligence of trades and noiseful gain, And luxury, more late, asleep were laid

'

All was the night's, and in her silent reign, No sound the rest of nature did invade

In this deep quiet

The expression All was the who remarks on Virgil's line,

Omnia
that he might have conclude Omnia noctis erant-

"

night's," is taken

from Seneca,

noctis erant, placida composta cjuiete,

better,

286
-

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
following quatrain
is

The

vigorous and animated

bridge descend
rejoice
;

The ghosts of traitors from the With bold fanatic spectres to

About the
fire into

And

a dance they bend, voice. sing their sabbath notes with feeble

His prediction of the improvements which

shall

be made

in

the new city, is elegant and poetical, and with an event which The poem poets cannot always boast, has been happily verified.

concludes with a simile that might have better' been omitted. to have Dryden, when he wrote this poem, seems not yet fully

system of propriety. he addicted himself almost wholly to the stage, " " to which," my genius never much inclined me," says he, as most the By writing merely profitable market for poetry. in rhyme he continued to improve his diction and his

formed

his versification, or settled his

this time,

From

tragedies

According to the opinion of Harte, who had studied works with great attention, he settled his principles of versification in 1676, when he produced the play of Aureng Zebc ; and, according to his own account of the short time in which he

numbers.

his

tained the

wrote Tyrannic Love, and The State of Innocence, he soon obfull effect of diligence, and added facility to exactness.

Rhyme
know
not

its effects

has been so long banished from the theatre, that we upon the passions of an audience ; but it has

this convenience, that sentences stand

more independent on each

other, and striking passages are therefore easily selected and

retained.

Thus
and

the description of night in The Indian Emjieror,

fall

and the

rise

more

frequently repeated than any lines in All for

of empire in The Conquest of Granada, are Love f or Don

Sebastian.
his playsTor vigorous sallies, and sententious eleganfix the dates of any little pieces which he wrote by or to ces, chance, or by solicitation, were labour too tedious and minute.

To search

His dramatic labours did not so wholly absorb his thoughts, but that he promulgated the laws of translation in a preface to the English epistles of Ovid ; one of which he translated himself,
and another
in conjunction with the carl of
is

Mulgrave.

Absalom and Achitojihel

ular criticism
ical
is

work
If
it

so well known, that partic-

superfluous.
it

be considered as a

poem

polit-

and controversial,

will

be found to comprise
susceptible
;

all

the excel-

lences of which the subject

is

acrimony of censure,

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

287

elegance of praise, artful delineation of character, variety and vigour of sentiment, happy turns of language, and pleasing harmony of numbers; and all these raised to such a height as can
scarcely be found in any other English composition.
It is not, however, without faults ; some lines are inelegant or improper, and too many are irreligiously licentious. The origi-

nal structure of the

poem was
;

defective

allegories

drawn

to

great length will always break parallel with David.

Charles could not run continually

admitted
senti-

The
little

subject had likewise another inconvenience

;

it

imagery or description ments easily becomes tedious

and a long
;

poem

of

mere

and every line kindles new the interposition of something that soothes the fancy, grows weaiy of admiration, and defers the rest.

the parts are forcible, though rapture, the reader, if not relieved by
all

As an approach to historical truth was necessary, the action and catastrophe were not in the poet's power ; there is therefore an unpieasing disproportion between the beginning and the
end.

We

are alarmed by a faction formed out of

many

sects,

various in their principles, but agreeing in their purpose of mischief; formidable for their numbers, and strong by their supports ; The chiefs on. either while the king's friends are few and weak.
part are set forth to view
;

but,

when

expectation

is at

the height,

the king

makes

a speech,

and

Henceforth a series of new times began.

Who

moat and lofty battlements, which vanishes at once into

his horn before
it ?

can forbear to think of an enchanted castle, with a wide walls of marble and gates of brass,
air,

when

the destined knight blows

In the second part, written by Tate, there is a long insertion, which, for poignancy of satire, exceeds any part of the former. Personal resentment, though no laudable motive to satire, can add
great force to general principles. The Medal, written upon the

Self love

is

a busy prompter.

same

principles with Absalom

but upon a narrower plan, gives less pleasure* The superstrucdiscovers equal abilities in the writer. though ture cannot extend beyond the foundation ; a single character or

and

Achitofihel,
it

incident cannot furnish as

multiplicity of agents.

many

ideas, as a series of events, or

lias

This poem, therefore, since time

288
left
it
;

LIFE
to itself, is not

01'

DRYDEN.

stood

yet

it

ous

picture are such that his best actions are but inability of wickedness,

satire.

much read, nor perhaps generally underabounds with touches both of humorous and seriof a man whose propcnsions to mischief The
is

very skilfully

delineated and strongly coloured.

his aim; but,

Power was

thrown from that pretence,

his

The wretch turn'd loyal in And malice reconciled him

own

defence,

to his prince.
;

Him, in the anguish of his soul, he served Rewarded faster still than he deserv'd Behold him now exalted into trust;
;

His counsels

oft convenient, seldom just; E'en in the most sincere advice he gave, He had a grudging still to be a knave. The frauds, he learnt in his fanatic years,

Made him
At
And,
like

least as little

uneasy in his lawful gears honest as he cou'd,

white witches, mischievously good.

;

To this first bias, longingly, he leans And rather would be great by wicked

means.

Thrcnodici) which, by a term I am afraid neither authorized nor analogical, he calls AugustaHs^ is not among his happiest

The

productions.

Its first

and obvious defect

is

the irregularity of

its

metre, to which the cars of that age, however, were accustomed. What is worse, it has neither tenderness nor dignity; it is neither
magnificent nor pathetic. He seems to look round him for images which he cannot find, and what he has he distorts by endeav" He " is," he says, petrified with ouring to enlarge them. grief ;" bat the marble sometimes relents, and trickles in a joke-

The sons of art all med'cines try'd, And every noble remedy apply'd
;

With emulation each

His utmost
;

essay'd
,-

Was

skill nay, more, they pray 'd never losing game with better conduct play

d.

He

had been a

little

inclined to

; prayers of a nation for their enough to keep heathen fables out of his religion. With him the innumerable crowd of armed prayers Knock'd at the gates of heaven, and knock'd aloud The frst well meaning rude petitioners,

merriment before, upon the dying sovereign nor was he serious

All for his life assaiFd the throne, All would have brib'd the skies by offering up their ownSo great a throng not heaven itself could bar
;

!'

K*

almost borne by force as in the gianfs ivar.

LIFE OF DRYDEV.
The
pray'rs, at least for his reprieve,

289
were heard

His death, like Hezekiah's, was deferred.

There is throughout the composition a desire of splendour without wealth. In the conclusion he seems too much pleased
with the prospect of the new reign to have lamented his old master with much sincerity.

He
grew

lyric or elegiac poetry.

did not miscarry in this attempt for want of skill either in His poem on the death of Mrs. Kille-

is undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language ever has produced. The first part flows with a torrent of enthusiasm. u Fervet immensusque ruit." All the stanzas indeed are not

equal.

An

the

gems must be

imperial crown cannot be one continued diamond held together by some less valuable matter.

*,

In his first ode for Cecilia's day, which is lost in the splendour of the second, there are passages which would have dignified any other poet. The first stanza is vigorous and elegant, though
the word diafiason
is

too technical, and the

rhymes are too remote

from one another.

heavenly harmony, This universal frame began j When nature underneath a heap of jarring atoms And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye

From harmony, from

lay

more than dead.

and moist and dry,

Then

cold and hot,

In order to their stations leap,

And music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began
;

From harmony
Through
all

to

harmony
it

the compass of the notes

full in

ran,

The

diapason closing
is

man.
;

The

conclusion

likewise striking
it

but

it

includes an
;

image
could

so awful in itself, that

can owe

little

to poetry

and

wish the antithesis of music untuning had found

some other place

As from

the

power of sacred

lays

The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise

To
So,

all

the bless'd above.

tke last and dreadful hour iur, This crumbling pageant shall devour The trumpet shall be heard on hi gh, The dead shall live, the living die '

when

1 J

And

music

shall untune, the sky.

-;

Ol DKYDEN.
1

Of his

skill in

elegy he has given a specimen in his Eleonora,

of which the following lines discover their author.

Though

all

these rare

endowments of the mind

Were in u narrow space of life confin'd, The figure was with full perfection crown'd,
Though not so large an orb, as truly round As when in glory, through the public place,
;

The And The And

That

spoils of
but.

conquer'd nations were to pass, one day for triumph was allow'd, consul was conslraiu'd his pomp to crOAvd
so the swift procession hurry'd on,
all,

though not

distinctly,

might be shown
life

So, in the straiten'd bounds of

confin'd,
;

She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind

multitudes of virtues pass'd along; Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng,

And

Ambitious to be seen, and then make room For greater multitudes that were to come. Yet unemploy'd no minute slipp'd away Moments were precious in so short a stay. The haste of Heaven to have her was so great, That some were single acts, though each complete
;

And

every act stood ready to repeat.

faults
;

This piece, however, is not without its

likeness in the
initial

there

is

so

much

As

comparison, that there is no illustration. a king would be lamented, Eleonora was lamented.
As, when some great and gracious monarch dies, Soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs, rise

Among

the sad attendants

then the sound

Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around, Through town and country, till the dreadful blast Is blown to distant colonies at last
;

Who

then, perhaps, were offering vows in vain,

i

For his long life, and for his happy reign So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim,
Till public as the loss the

news became.

}
it

This

is little

better than to say in praise of a shrub, that

;

is

as green as a tree

or of a brook, that

it

waters a garden, as a

river waters a country.

that he did not know the lady whom he celthe praise being therefore inevitably general, fixes no impression upon the reader, nor excites any tendency to love.

Dryden confesses
;

ebrates

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
nor much desire of imitation. Knowledge of the subject the poet, what durable materials are to the architect.

291
is

to

The

Religio Laici^
is

which borrows

its

title

from the Rcligio

it

Medici of Browne, be considered as a

be hoped, that the

almost the only work of Dry den which can

;

voluntary effusion
full

in this, therefore,

might

effulgence of his genius would be found. But unhappily the subject is rather argumentative than poetical he intended only a specimen of metrical disputation.

-,

And
As

this unpolish'd

rugged verse

chose,

fittest for

discourse, and nearest prose.

in

This, however, is a composition of great excellence in its kind, which the familiar is very properly diversified with the solemn,

and the grave with the humorous ; in which metre has neither weakened the force, nor clouded the perspicuity of argument ;
.nor will
it be easy to find another example equally happy of this middle kind of writing, which, though prosaic in some parts, rises to high poetry in others, and neither towers to the skies, nor

creeps along the ground.

Of the same

kind, or not far distant from

it,

is

The Hind and

Panther, the longest of all Dryden's original poems ; an allegory intended to comprise and to decide the controversy between the

Romanists and protestants.

cious and

The scheme
for

of the work

is

injudi-

incommodious

what can be more absurd than that

one beast should counsel another

and council
?

He seems

well

of argument, endeavours to

to rest her faith upon a pope enough skilled in the usual topics show the necessity of an infallible

judge, and reproaches the reformers with want of unity ; but is weak enough to ask, why, since we see without knowing how,

we may not have an infallible judge without knowing where ? The hind at one time is afraid to drink at the common brook, because she may be worried but walking home with the pan;

ther > talks by the

way of the Nicene Fathers^ and

at last

declares

herself to be the catholic church.

This absurdity was very properly ridiculed in the City Mouse and Country Mouse of Montague and Prior ; and in the detection and censure of the incongruity of the fiction, chiefly consists

the value of their performance, which, whatever reputation 3P VOL. i.

it

292

LIFE OF DKYDEX.
passions,

might obtain by the help of temporary

seems

to readers

almost a century distant, not very forcible or animated.

ject,

Pope, whose judgment was perhaps a little bribed by the subused to mention this poem as the most correct specimen of

pletely

Drydcn's versification. It was indeed written when he had comformed his manner, and may be supposed to exhibit>

negligence excepted, his deliberate and ultimate scheme of metre. may therefore reasonably infer, that he did not approve

We

the perpetual uniformity which confines the sense to couplets ?

nnce he has broken his

lines in the initial paragraph.

milk white hind, immortal and unchang'd,

;

Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang'd Without unspotted, innocent within, She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin. Yet had she oft been chas'd with horns and hounds, And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds
Aiia'd at her heart
;

was often forc'd

to fly,
to die.

And doom'd

to death,

though fated not

These lines are lofty, elegant, and musical, notwithstanding the interruption of the pause, of which the effect is rather increase of pleasure by variety, than offence by ruggedness.
" to give the majestic turn of heroic poesy ;" and perhaps he might have executed his design not unsuccessfully, had not an opportunity of

To

the

first

part

it

was

his intention,

he

says,

satire,

which he cannot

forbear, fallen

sometimes

in his

way.
is

The

character of a presbyterian, whose

emblem

is

the wo//J

not very heroically majestic.

More haughty

than the rest, the wolfish race

;

Appear with belly gaunt and famish'd face Never was so deform M a beast of grace. His ragged tail betwixt his legs he wears, Close clapp'd for shame but his rough crest he
;

rears,

And

pricks up his predestinating ears.

His general character of the other

go
to

sorts of beasts that

never

church, though sprightly and keen, has, however, not

much

of heroic poesy.
These are the
chief; to

number

o'er the rest,

And stand like Adam naming every beast, Were weary work nor will the muse describe
;

slimy born, and sun begotten tribe

LIFE OF DRY DEN.

Who,
In

far

from steeples and their sacred sound,

conventicles found.
I leave
;

fields their sullen

These

gross, half

animated lumps

can I think what thoughts they can conceive But, if they think at all, 'tis sure no higher

Nor

Than

matter, put in motion, may aspire ; Souls that can scarce ferment their mass of clay, So drossy, so divisible are they,

As would
Such

As

but serve pure bodies for allay ; souls as shards produce, such beetle things only buzz to heaven with evening wings;
;

Strike in the dark, offending but by chance Such are the blindfold blows of ignorance.

They know

not beings, and but hate a

name

To them

the hind and panther are the same.

One more
where
style

instance, and that taken

was more

in his choice, will

from the narrative par^ show how steadily he

kept his resolution of heroic dignity.

For when the herd,
suffic'd, did late repair.

To

ferny heaths, and to their forest lair, She made a mannerly excuse to stay,
Proffering the hind to wait her half the way ; That, since the sky was clear, an hour of talk

Might help her

"With

much good

to beguile the tedious walk. will the motion was embrac'd.

;

To

chat awhile on their adventures past

Nor had the grateful hind so soon forgot Her friend and fellow sufferer in the plot. Yet, wondering how of late she grew estrang'd, Her forehead cloudy and her eount'nance chang'd,
She thought
this

hour

th' occasion

w ould present
r

To

learn her secret cause of discontent,

Which well she hop'd might be with ease redress'd, Considering her a well bred civil beast, And more a gentleM'Oman than the rest.
After some

common

talk

what rumours ran,

The

lady of the spotted muff began.

The
diction
tion
first
;

second and third parts he professes to have reduced to more familiar and more suitable to dispute and conversa;

the difference is not, however, very easily perceived has familiar, and the 'two others have sonorous lines.

the

the king is original incongruity runs through the whole ; Cesar, and now the lion ; and the name Pan is given to the

The now

Supremo Being.

Ul'E OF

But when this constilutional absurdity is forgiven, the poem must be confessed to be written with great smoothness of metre,
a wide extent of knowledge, and an abundant multiplicity of images ; the controversy is embellished with pointed sentences,
diversified by illustrations,

and enlivened by

sallies

of invective.

Some

of the facts to which allusions arc made, arc

now become
little

obscure, and perhaps there understood.

may be many

satirical

passages

As

it

was by

its

nature a work of defiance, a composition

which would naturally be examined with the utmost acrimony of criticism, it was probably laboured with uncommon attention ;
and there are, indeed, few negligences in the subordinate parts. The original impropriety, and the subsequent unpopularity of
the subject, added to the ridiculousness of its first elements, has sunk it into neglect but it may be usefully studied, as an ex;

ample of poetical ratiocination, little from the metre.

In the

in

which the argument suffers

poem on the birth of the prince of JTa/fs, nothing is remarkable but the exorbitant adulation, and that insensivery bility of the precipice on which the king was then standing,
which the laureat apparently shared with the rest of the courtA few months cured him of controversy, dismissed him from court, and made him again a playwright and translator.
iers.

Of Juvenal there had been a translation by Stapylton, and another by Holiday ; neither of them is very poetical. Stapylton is more smooth ; and Holiday's is more esteemed for the learning of his notes.

A new

version was proposed to the poets of

that time, and .undertaken

by them

in

conjunction.

The main

design was conducted by Drydcn, whose reputation was such that no man was unwilling to serve the muses under him.

The
it is

general character of this translation will

lx %l ';j;iven,

when

said to preserve the wit, but to

inal.

The

statcliness,

want the dignity of the origpeculiarity of Juvenal is a mixture of gaiety and of pointed sentences, and declamatory i\.ndeur. His
;

points have not been neglected

but his grandeur none of the

band seemed

to consider as

necessary to be imitated, except

satire.
It is

Creech, who undertook the thirteenth

therefore

perhaps possible to give a better representation of that great satirist, even in those parts which Drydcn himself has translated,

some passages excepted, which

will

never be excelled.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
Juvenal was published Persius, translated -wholly by Dryden. This work, though like all the other productions of Dryden,
it

With

may have

shining parts, seems to have been written

merely for wages, in an uniform mediocrity, without any eager endeavour after excellence, or laborious effort of the mind.
one of these satires

There wanders an opinion among the readers of poetry, that is an exercise of the school. Dryden says,

that he once translated it at school ; but not that he preserved or published the juvenile performance. Not long afterward he undertook perhaps the most arduous work of its kind, a translation of Virgil, for which he had shown

how

well he was qualified by his version of the Pollio, and two

episodes, one of Nisus and Euryalus, the other of Mezentius and

Lausus.

Homer and Virgil, the discriminative Homer is elevation and comprehension of thought, and that of Virgil is grace and splendour of diction. The beauties of Homer are therefore difficult to be lost, and those of VirThe massy trunk of sentiment is gil difficult to be retained.
In the comparison of
excellence of
safe by its solidity
;

but the blossoms of elocution easily drop away.

The

author, having the choice of his

;

own images,

selects those
all

which he can best adorn

not have chosen.

the translator must, at

hazards,

follow his original, and express thoughts

which perhaps he would

difficulty is

When

to this

primary

added the

inconvenience of a language so much inferior in harmony to the Latin, it cannot be expected that they who read the Georgics and

much delighted with any version. Ail these obstacles Dryden saw, and all these he determined to The expectation of his work was undoubtedly great encounter.
the JEneid should be the nation considered
its

honour as interested

in the event.

One

gave him the different editions of his author, and another helped

him

in

the subordinate parts.

The arguments

of the several

books were given him by Addison.

hopes of the public were not disappointed. He produced, " the most noble and spirited translation that I know says Pope, It certainly excelled whatever had appeared in any language."

The

in English,

most

part, to

and appears to have satisfied his friends, and, for the have silenced his enemies. Milbourne, indeed, a
it
;

clergyman, attacked

but his outrages

seem

to

be

tlie

ebullitions

296
of a

LIFE OF DRYDEX.

mind agitated by stronger resentment than bad poetry can excite, and previously resolved not to be pleased.
;

His criticism cxtendsonly to the Preface, Pastorals, and Gcorand, as he professes to give his antagonist an opportunity of reprisal, he has added his own version of the first and fourth
gics
Pastorals, and the first Georgic.

The

world has forgotten his

book
his

but, since his attempt has given

him

a place in literary

history, I will preserve a

specimen of

his criticism,
first

remarks on the invocation before the

Georgic

by inserting of ; and

his poetry, by annexing his

own

version.

Ver. I. "What makes a plenteous harvest, when to turn The fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn.

"

It's unlucky, they say, to stumble at the threshold ; but what has a plenteous harvest to do here ? Virgil would not pretend to prescribe rules for that which depends not on the husbandman'* care,

but the disposition of heaven altogether. Indeed, the pit n teous crop depends somewhat on the good mt hod of tillage ; and where
the land's
indifferent
;
ill

but the harvest

manur'd, the corn, without a miracle, can be but may be good, which is its firoperest

epithet,

The
gil's

next sentence

though the husbandman's skill were never so indifferent. is too literal, and when to plough had been Virintelligible

meaning, and

to every

body

and ivhtn

to

sow

the corn is a needless addition."

Ver.
3.

"The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine, And when to geld the lambs, and shear the
<*

swine,

would as well have fallenmnder the cura

pecori, as

bourn, qui cultus habendo

sit

Mr. D's deduction of

Ver.

particulars."
5.

" The birth and genius of the

I sing,

Maecenas, and

frugal bee sing to thee.

u But where did

cx/ierienlia ever signify birth

and genius ? or what

?

ground was there for such a Jigure more manly is Mr. Ogylby's version
" What makes rich grounds,
in

in this place
!

How much

what

celestial signs,
;

'Tis good to plough, and marry elms with vines What best fits cattle, what with sheep agrees,

And

several arts improving frugal

bee;

I sing,

Msecenas.

LIFE OF

DRYDEN

297

Which

four lines, though faulty enough, are

much more

to

the purpose than

Mr. D's

six."

Ver. 22.
'

From

fields

and mountains to

my

song repair.
;

'

For patrium linquens nemns, saltusque Lycxi

Ver. 23, 24.

very well ex-

plained !"

" Inventor Pallas, of the fattening oil, Thou founder of the plough, and ploughman's
" Written as
if these

toil

had been Pallas's invention.

Ver. 25.

The plough-

man's

toil is

impertinent."
-

"
"

The

shroudlike cypress

Why

shroudlike ? Is a cypress, pulled

last eclogue fills

up by the

roots,

which

the sculpture in the

like a

shroud? Or did not Mr. D.

Sylvanus's hand with, so very think of that kind of cypress

at funerals formerly, or for
1

us'd often for scarves

and hatbands

widows'

-veils, Sec. if so,

'twas a deep good thought?'

Ver. 26.

ft

That wear
royal honours, and increase the year.

The

" What's meant by increasing the year ? Did the gods or goddesses add more months, or days, or hours to it ? Or how can
arva
tueri, signify to

wear rural honours ?

next couplet
is

Is this to translate or
I

abuse an author ?

The

borrowed from Ogylby,

suppose? because

less to the

purpose than ordinary."

Ver. 33.

" The patron of the world, and Rome's

peculiar guard.

"

Idle,

dent couplet

and none of Virgil's, no more than the sense of the prece; so again, he interpolates Virgil with that and the
of the year
;

round

circle

to

guide powerful of blessings, which thou

streiu'st

around

a ridiculous Lalinism, and an impertinent addi-

tion ;

indeed the whole period is but one piece of absurdity and " find. nonsense, as those who lay it with the original must
Ver. 42, 43.
<e

And Neptune

shall resijrn the fasces of fhe se*.

Was

he consul or

dictator there

2 J8
(

LIFE OF DKYDEN.
" And watry
\ir^ins for thy

bed

shall strive.

" Both absurd inter/iofationa*'

Vcr. 47, 48.

" Where

in

Ah, happy

the void of heaven a place is free. that place/or //ice / :i, 'were

" But where

it
?

is that

void ? Or, what does our translator

says

mean by

He knows what Ovid

;

God

did to prevent such a void in

;

heaven

perhaps this was then forgotten

but Virgil talks more

sensibly."

Vcr. 49.

" The scorpion ready

*'

to receive thy lavs.

No, he would not then have gotten

Ver.
56.

out of his

way

so fast."

"

Though Proserpine

aftects

her

silent seat.

What made
?

her return

She was now mus'd

her then so angry with Ascalajihus, for preventing to patience under the determi-

nations offate, rather thanybrcd of her residence"

Ver. 61, 69,
63.

Pity the poet's and the ploughman's cares, Interest thy greatness in our mean affairs,

"

And
u

use thyself betimes to hear our prayers.

Which

is

as Vicars would have blush'd

such a wretched perversion of Virgil's noble thought at ; but Mr. Ogylby makes us some
lines.
art,

amends, by his better

"

wheresoe'er thou

from thence

incline,
!

And

grant assistance to my bold design Pity, with me, poor husbandmen's affairs,

And now,
" This
is sense,

as if translated,

hear our prayers.

;

and

to

the

purpose

the other, poor mistaken

Such were the

tors,

strictures of Milbourne,
it

who

found few abet'

and of

whom

may

be reasonably imagined, that

many who
more cool-

favoured his design were ashamed of his insolence. When admiration had subsided, the translation was
ly

ous,

examined, and and sometimes

found, like all others, to

licentious.

be sometimes erronefind faults, in

Those who could

;

thought they could avoid

them

and Dr. Brady attempted

LIFE OF DRYDBN.

299

blank verse a translation of the JBIneid, which, when dragged into the world, did not live long- enough to cry. I have never seen
it
;

but that such a version there

is,

or has been, perhaps

some

old catalogue informed

me.

better success, Trapp, when his tragedy and had prelections given him reputation, attempted another blank version of the jEneid to which, notwithstanding the slight regard with which it was treated, he had afterward perseverance enough to add the Eclogues and Georgics. His book may con-

With

not

much

his

tinue
boys.

its

existence as long as

it is

the clandestine refuge of school-

Since the English ear has been accustomed to the mellifluence of Pope's numbers, and the diction of poetry has become more splendid, new attempts have been made to translate Virgil ; and
all his

works have been attempted by

I will

men better qualified to

con-

tend with Dryden.

not engage myself in an invidious comparison, by opposing one passage to another ; a work of which there would be no end, and which might be often offensive

without use.

by comparing lino with line that the merit of great be estimated, but by their general effects and ultimate result. It is easy to note a weak line, and write one more
It is not

works

is to

vigorous in
original,

its

place

to find a happiness of expression in the

;

but what is it by force into the version given to the parts may be subducted from the whole, and the reader may be weary, though the critic may commend. Works

and transplant

of imagination excel by their allurement and delight ; by their power of attracting and detaining the attention. That book is

good in vain which the reader throws away. He only is the master who keeps the mind in pleasing captivity ; whose pages are perused with eagerness, and in hope of new pleasure are perused again ; and whose conclusion is perceived with an eye of sorrow, such as the traveller casts upon departing day.

By

his proportion of this predomination

will

consent that

Dryden should be tried ; of this, which, in opposition to reason, makes Ariosto the darling and the pride of Italy ; of this, which,
in defiance of criticism, continues Shakespeare the sovereign
'the

drama.

LI

IK OF

DKYDFA
which he gave us the
first

His

last

work was

his Fables, in

example of a mode of writing which the Italians call rtjaccimentu, a renovation of ancient writers, by modernizing their language. Thus the old poem of Uoiardo has been new dressed by Domenic/d

and Bcrui.

The works

of Chaucer, upon which this kind

of rejuvenescence has been bestowed by Dryden, require little criticism. The tale of the cock seems hardly worth revival ; and the story of Palamon and Arcite, containing an action unsuitable to the times in

which it is placed, can hardly be suffered to pass without censure of the hyperbolical commendation which Dry den has given it in the general preface, and in a poetical dedication, a piece where his original londness of remote conceits

seems

to

have revived.
three pieces borrowed from Boccace, Stigitsmunda
story.

Of the
though
it

may

be defended by the celebrity of the

contains not

Thcjdon and Honcria,

striking description.

much moral, yet afforded opportunities of And Cymon was formerly a tale of such
it

reputation, that, at the revival of letters,

was translated

into Latin

by one of the Beroalds.

subjects employed his pen, he was still improving our measures, and embellishing our language. In this volume are interspersed some short original poems, which, with his prologues, epilogues, and songs, may be com. prised in Congreve's remark, that even those, if he had wiitten

Whatever

nothing else, would have entitled him to the praise of excellence

in his kind.

One composition must however be distinguished. The Ode for St. Cecilia's Day, perhaps the last effort of his poetry, has been always considered as exhibiting the highest flight of fancy, and the exactest nicety of art. This is allowed to stand without
a rival. If indeed there is any excellence beyond it, in some Comother of Dryden's works that excellence must be found. pared with the Ode on Killegrew, it may be pronounced perhaps

superior on the whole, but without any single part equal to the first stanza of the other.
It is said to

not

\\

ant

its

negligences
;

have cost Dryden a fortnight's labour ; but it does some of the lines are without corres;
a defect,

pondent rhymes

which

never detected but

after an

LIFE OP DIIYDEK.
Acquaintance of many years, and which the enthusiasm of the writer might hinder him from perceiving.

His
sic

last

stanza has less emotion than the former

but
;

is

not

less elegant in the diction.

The

conclusion
to

is

vicious

the

mu-

of Timotheus, which raised a mortal

;

the sldes^

had only a

metaphorical power

that of Cecilia^

which drew an angel down,

had a real
divided.

effect

the crown^therefore, could not reasonably be

mind very comprehensive by

In a general survey of Dryden's labours, he appears to have a nature, and much enriched with

acquired knowledge. His compositions are the effects of a vigorous genius operating upon large materials.

The power that predominated in was rather strong reason than quick

his

intellectual operations,

sensibility.

Upon
felt,

all

occa-

sions that were presented, he studied rather than

and pro-

duced sentiments not such as nature enforces, but meditation

supplies.

With the simple and elemental passions, as

they spring

separate in the mind, he seems not much acquainted ; and seldom describes them but as they are complicated by the various relations of society, and confused in the tumults and agitations

of

life.

What

he says of love ma.y contribute to the explanation of

his

character.

Love various minds does

It stirs in gentle

variously inspire

bosoms gentle fire, Like that of incense on the altar laid

Eut

rsgir.g flames

tempestuous souls invade

it

fire

which every windy passion blows,

pride
it

With

mounts, or with revenge

glows.

in itself, with

bosoms ; love, as it subsists Dryden's was not one of the gentle no tendency but to the person ioved, and wishing

such love as shuts out all other only for correspondent kindness ; to love of the the interest golden age, was too soft and subtle He hardly conceived it but in its his faculties in motion.
;

put

turbulent effervescence with

inflaisiccl

some other
by

desires
;

by

rivalry, or obstructed

difficulties

when when it
;

it

was

invig-

orated ambition, or exasperated revenge. He is therefore, with all his variety of excellence, not often
pathetic
;

and had so

little

sensibility of the

power of dlusion*

<3O2

LI1

,<

ft

OF DltYDEN.

purely natural, that he did not esteem them in others ; simpliche ity gave him no pleasure ; and for the first part of his life

looked on Otway with contempt, though at last, indeed very late, he confessed that in his play there was nature, which is the chief
beauty.

We

do not always
it

know our own

motives.

am

not certain
in exhib-

whether

was not rather the

difficulty

which he found

the heart, than a servile submisiting the genuine operations of

sion to an injudicious audience, that filled his plays with false magnificence. It was necessary to fix attention ; and the mind

can be captivated only by recollection, or by curiosity

by reviv-

ing natural sentiments, or impressing new appearances of things j sentences were readier at his call than images ; he could more
easiiy fill the ear with some splendid novelty, than ideas that slumber in the heart.

awaken those
and,

The
that

favourite exercise of his

mind was

ratiocination

argument might not be too soon at an end, he delighted to talk of liberty and necessity, destiny and contingence ; these he
discusses in the language of the school with so much profundity, It is that the terms which he uses are not always understood.

indeed learning, but learning out of place. When once he had engaged himself in disputation, thoughts flowed in on either side ; he was now no longer at a loss ; he had always objections and solutions at command ; " verbaque provisam rem ;" gave him matter for his verse, and he finds

without

difficulty

verse for his matter.

In comedy, for which he professes himself not naturally qualified, the mirth which he excites will perhaps not be found so

much to arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of character nicely distinguished and diligently pursued, as from inciaction rather than of sentiment.

dents and circumstances, artifices and surprises ; from jests of What he had of humorous or

poets

had not from nature, but from other passionate, he seems to have if not always as a plagiary, at least as an imitator. ;

Next to argument, his delight was in wild and daring sallies of sentiment, in the irregular and eccentric violence of wit. He delighted to tread upon the brink of meaning, where light and
darkness begin to mingle ; to approach the precipice of absurThis inclinadity, and hover over the abyss of unideal vacancy.
tion

sometimes produced nonsense, which he knew

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
Move
swiftly, sun,

303

and

fly

a lover's pace,
in

Leave weeks and months behind thee

thy race.
flies
;

Amamel

To

guard thee from the demons of the air My flaming sword above them to display,

All keen, and ground upon the edge of day.

And sometimes
not conscious.

it

issued in absurdities, of which perhaps he was

Then we upon our orb's last verge shall go, And see the ocean leaning on the sky From thence our rolling neighbours we shall know,
;

And

on the lunar world securely pry.

These
tion of

lines have no meaning Cowley on another book,

but

may we

not say, in imita-

'Tis so like sense, 'twill serve the turn as well

This endeavour after the grand and the new, produced many sentiments either great or bulky, and many images either just or splendid.
I

am as free as Nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
They
Let
I'll

'Tis but because the living death ne'er knew, fear to prove it as a thing that's new ;

me th' experiment before you try, show you first how easy 'tis to die.
forest of their darts

There with a

he strove,

And

stood like Capaneus defying Jove ; With his broad sword the boldest beating down, While Fate grew pale lest he should win the town,

And
I

turn'd the iron leaves of his dark book

To make new
For

dooms, or mend what

it

mistook.

beg no pity for this mouldering clay ; if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth ; If burnt, and scattered in the air, the winds

That strew

my
me

dust diffuse

my

And

spread

o'er your clime

royalty, for where one ;

atom

Of mine

shall light,

know there
first

Sebastian reigns.

Of these
two

quotations the two

may be

allowed to be great, the

latter only tumid.

S04

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
selection there is

Of such
passages
has
;

of which the

clear in prose, is
it

add only a lew more not may though perhaps be ouite not too obscure for poetry, as the meaning that

no end.

I will

first,

it

is noble.

No, there

Why
He
And
True,

still

is a necessity in fate, the brave bold man is fortunate

;

keeps
'tis

his object ever full in sic,hl

that assurance holds a

him firm and right;

to bliss,
;

narrow way that leads

But right before there is no precipice Fear makes men look aside, and so their

footing miss.

Of the images which

first is

the two following citations afford, the the second elegant, magnificent ; whether either be just,

let

the reader judge.

What
Which

silently

precious drops are these, each other's track pursue,

r

Bright as young diamonds in their infant dew

Resign your
Enter, brave
sir
;

castle-

for,

when you speak

the word,
;

The gates shall open of their own accord The genius of the place its lord shall meet, And bow his towery forehead at your feet.

the theatre

These bursts of extravagance Dryden calls the " Dalilahs" of and owns that many noisy lines of Maorimin and
;

Almanzor
he,

out for vengeance upon him ; but I knew," says " that they were bad enough to please, even when I wrote them." There is surely reason to suspect that he pleased himcall

"

self as well as his audience

and that these, like the harlots of

other men, had his love, though not his approbation. He had sometimes faults of a less generous and splendid kind. He makes, like almost all other poets, very frequent use of mythology, and sometimes connects religion and fable too closely

without distinction.

He
tion
;

descends
as

board ;" " virtue

to display his knowledge with pedantic ostentawhen, in translating Virgil, he says, " tack to the larand " veer starboard ;" and talks, in another work, of

spooming before the wind."

His vanity now and then

betrays his ignorance.

nature's king through nature's optics view'd Revers'd they view'd him lessen'd to their eyes.

They

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

30 J

He

had heard of reversing a telescope, and unluckily reverses

is

the object. j

He
the

sometimes unexpectedly mean.

as

When

he describes
Lon-

Supreme Being
is

moved by prayer
?

to stop the fire of

don, what

his expression

crystal pyramid he takes, In firmamental waters dhpp'd above,

hollow

Of this

And

a broad extinguisher he makes, hoods the flames that to their quarry strove.

When

he describes the

last
;

day, and the decisive tribunal, he

intermingles this image

When
From
It
jest.

rattling bones together fly, the four quarters of the sky.

was indeed never

in his

power
;

to resist the temptation of a

In his elegy on Cromwell

No

Than

sooner was the Frenchman's cause embrac'd, the light Monsieur the grore Don outweigh'd

His fortune turn'd the scale

He

had a

vanity,

unworthy of his

abilities, to

show, as

may be

suspected, the rank of the company with whom he lived, by the use of French words, which had then crept into conversation ;

such as fraicheur for coolness, foitgue for turbulence, and a few more, none of which the language has incorporated or retained.

They

continue only where they stood

his

first,

perpetual warnings

to future innovators.

These are faults of affectation ; his faults of negligence are beyond recital. Such is the unevenness of his compositions, that ten lines are seldom found together without something of
which the reader
is

ashamed.

own pages

he seldom struggled ; snatched in haste what was within

Dryden was no rigid judge of his after supreme excellence, but and when he could his reach
;

content others, was himself contented.

to his
;

He

did not

keep present

mind an idea of pure perfection nor compare his works, such as they were, with what they might be made. He knew He had more music than Wul*o whom he should be opposed. ler, more vigour than Dcnhani, and more nature than Cowlcy and from his contemporaries he was in no danger. Standing;

therefore in the highest plaec, he had no care to rise by contend-

306
ing with himself
;

LIFE OF DRYDE.V
but, while there

was no name above

his

own,

was

willing to enjoy

fame on the
better

easiest terms.

He

was no lover of labour.

did not stop to

make

What he thought sufficient, he and allowed himself to leave many

parts unfinished, in confidence that the good lines would overbal-

ance the bad.

his thoughts
;

What he
and

I believe

had once written, he dismissed from there is no example to be found of

The

any correction or improvement made by him after publication. hastiness of his productions might be the effect of necessity ;
but his subsequent neglect could hardly have any other cause than impatience of study.

What

can be said of his versification, will be

little

more than

dilatation of the praise

given
;

it

by Pope.
Dryden taught
to join

Waller was smooth

but

The The

resounding line, long majestic march, and energy divine.

varying verse, the

full

Some improvements had been

bers
;

but the

full

verse that was

already made in English numforce of our language was not yet felt ; the smooth was commonly feeble. If Cowley had
line,

sometimes a finished

how

to choose the flowing

he had it by chance. Dryden knew and the sonorous words ; to vary the

pauses, and adjust the accents ; to diversify the cadence, and yet preserve the smoothness of his metre.

Of triplets and

use, he established

alexandrines, though he did not introduce the it. The triplet has long subsisted among us.
to
to

Dryden seems not

have traced

Homer

but

it

is

be found

in

it higher than to Chapman's Phaer's Virgil, written in the

reign of Mary ; and in Hall's Satires, published five years before the death of Elizabeth.

The alexandrine was, I believe, first used by Spenser, for the had a longer sake of closing his stanza with a fuller sound. measure of fourteen syllables, into which the jEneid was trans-

We

lated by Phaer, and other

works of the ancients by other writers

of which Chapman's

Iliad was, I believe, the last.

The two
measure.

first lines

of Phaer's third JEneid will exemplify this

When

Asia's state

All guiltless, by the

was overthrown, and Priam's kingdom power of gods above was rooted out.

stotn.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

307

As

these lines had their break, or casura, always at the eighth

it

syllable,

was thought,

in time,

commodious

to divide

them

and quatrains of lines, alternately, consisting of eight and six syllar bles, make the most soft and pleasing of our lyric measures ; as,
Relentless time, destroying power, Which stone and bi-ass obey,

Who

giv'stto ev'ry flying

hour

To work some new

In the alexandrine,

decay.

felt, some poems, were wholly written and sometimes the measures of twelve and fourteen syllables were interchanged

when its power was once

as

Dray ton's Polyolbion^

with one another.

andrine at pleasure

Cowley was the

first

that inserted the alex-

among

the heroic lines of ten syllables, and

from him Dryden professes

to have adopted it. and are not universally approved. alexandrine triplet Swift always censured them, and wrote some lines to ridicule

The

them.

the essence of verse

In examining their propriety, it is to be considered that is variety. is regularity, and its ornament
is

To

write verse,

to dispose syllables
;

and sounds harmonically

by some known and settled vale

a rule

however lax enough

it.

to

substitute similitude for identity, to admit

change without breach

of order, and to relieve the ear without disappointing

Thus
differ-

a Latin hexameter
ently

is

formed from dactyls and spondees

combined

syllables variously disposed.

feet, or

the English heroic admits of acute or grave The Latin never deviates into seven
;

English reader with two syllables more than he expected. The effect of the triplet is the same ; the ear has been accus-

exceeds the number of seventeen syllables but the alexandrine breaks the lawful bounds, and surprises the

tomed

to expect a new rhyme in every couplet ; but is on a sudden surprised with three rhymes together, to which the reader could not accommodate his voice, did he not obtain notice ot

the change from the braces of the margins. Surely there is something unskilful in the necessity of such mechanical direction* Considering the metrical art simply as a science, and conseall casualty, we must allow that triplets and quently excluding alexandrines, inserted by caprice, are interruptions of that conAnd though th^ variety whiHi stancy to which science aspires.
.

I,

LIKi:

OK DRYDEX.
be desired, yet, to make our poetry stated mode of admitting them.

they produce

may very justly

exact, there ought to be

some

to

till some such regulation can be formed, I wish them still be retained in their present state. They are sometimes grateful to the reader, and sometimes convenient to the poet.

But

Fen ton was of opinion

sparing in their use.

that

Dryden was

too liberal, and

Pope

too

The rhymes
himself

of

for his readiness in finding

Dryden are commonly just, and he valued them but he is sometimes

j

open

to objection.

It is the

common

practice of our poets to end the second line

syllable.
fly,

with a weak or grave

Together o'er the Alps methinks we

Fill'd

with ideas of

fair Italy.

Dryden sometimes puts the weak rhyme

Laugh,
all

in the first.

And

all

the standing

the powers that favour tyranny, army of the sky..

line of a couplet,

Sometimes he concludes a period or paragraph with the first which, though the French seem to do it with-

in English poetry. alexandrine, though much his favourite, is not always very diligently fabricated by him. It invariably requires a break at the sixth syllable ; a rule which the modern French poets

out irregularity, always displeases

The

never

violate,

but which Dryden sometimes neglected.

with paternal thunder vindicates his throne.

And

Of Dryden's works it was said by Pope, that " he could select from them better specimens of every mode of poetry than anyother English writer could supply." Perhaps no nation ever
produced a writer that enriched his language with such a variety

To him we owe the improvement, perhaps the completion of our metre, the refinement of our language, and much of the correctness of our sentiments. By him we were " taught sapere and fari," to think naturally and express forcibly. Though Davies has reasoned in rhyme before him, it may be
of models.

perhaps maintained that he was the first who joined argument with poetry. He showed us the true bounds of a translator's liberty.

What was said of Rome, adorned by

metaphor
to

plied by an easy

Augustus, may be apEnglish poetry embellished by

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
ryden,
it

309
reliquit."

lateritiam invenit,
it

marmoream

He

found

brick, and he left

marble.
is

THE
Verses

invocation before the Georgics

that,

here inserted from Mr.

Miibourne's version,

may

according to his own proposal, his be compared with those which he censures.

What makes the richest tilth, beneath what signs To plough, and when to match your elms and vines ; What care with flocks, and what with herds agrees, And all the management of frugal bees ;
I sing, Maecenas Vast orbs of light,
!

Ye immensely

clear,

which guide the rolling year! Bacchus, and mother Ceres, if by you We fatt'ning corn for hungry mast pursue,
If,

And

taught by you, we first the clutter prest, thin cold streams with sprightly juice refresht

the present numens of the field, Wood nymphs and fawns, your kind assistance yield Your gifts I sing; and thou, at whose fear'd stroke

\e /(lions,

From

rending earth the fiery courser broke,

!

Great JVeptwie, O assist my artful song And thou to whom the woods and groves belong, Whose snowy heifers on her flow'ry plains
In mighty herds the

dean
if

Isle maintains

thy cares divine, E'er to improve thy J\Lenalus incline, Leave thy Lyc<xan ivood and native grove,

Pan, happy shepherd,

And with thy lucky smites our work approve Be Pallas too, sweet oil's inventor, kind And he who first the crooked plough design'd
;

Sylvanus, god of all the woods, appear, Whose hands a new drawn tender cypress bear Ye. gods and go ddesses, who e'er with love

Would guard our pastures, and our fields improve Ye, who new plants from unsown lands supply, And with condensing clouds obscure the sky,

And drop them

Assist

softly

thence

in fruitful

showers

my

enterprise, ye gentler powers!

.'

And thou, great Cesar Among what gods thou'lt

though

v.

know
;

not yet

fix

thy lofty seat

Whether thou'lt be the kind tu'-'j'ur god Of thy own J'o/ric, or v/ith thy awful nod
Guide the
vast world, while thy great

hand

feliall

1>.

The fruits and seasons of the lurnii,!;- year, And thy bright brows thy mother's n. tks v ear Whether tuou'lt. all the boundless ,,-eun sv. ay,
-Snd

seamen only

to tb vst -If shall

]>r

LIFE OF DRYDEX.
Tiiutc,

Ue
\\

furthest island, kneel to the e,

And, that
Tcthtis

tliou
ill

may'st her sou by marriage be,

happy purchase yield dowry of her wat'ry field Whether thou'lt add to heaven a brighter s> And o'er the summer months serenely shine Where between Cancer and JErigonc, There yet remains a spacious room for thec

for the

To make

Where the hot Scorpion too his arm declines, And more to thee than half his arch resigns
;

Whate'er

thou'lt be

for sure the realms below

;

No just pretence to thy command can show No such ambition sways thy vast desires,
Though Greece her own Elysian

Fields admires.

And now,

at last, contented Proserpine,

Can all her mother's earnest prayers decline. Whate'er thou'lt be, O guide our gentle course,

And

With me

with thy smiles our bold attempts enforce th' unknowing rustics' wants relieve,
earth, our sacred

And, though on

vows receive
his

Mr. Dryden, having received from Rymer

Tragedies of the
last

Remarks on

the
;

dgc, Avrote observations on the blank leaves

which, having been in the possession of Mr. Garrick, are by bis favour communicated to the public, that no particle of Dryden may be lost.
" That

we may

the less

wonder why pity and

terror are not

now

the only springs on which our tragedies move, and that Shakespeare may be more excused, Rapin confesses that the French tragedies now all run on the tendrc ; and gives the reason, be-

cause love is the passion which most predominates in our souls, and that therefore the passions represented become insipid, unless But it is they are conformable to the thoughts of the audience.
to

be concluded, that

this passion

works not now amongst the

French so strongly

as the

other two did

among

the ancients.

a stronger genius for writing, the operations from the writing are much stronger ; for the raising of Shakespeare's passions is more from the excellency of the words
us,

Among

who have

been able

and thoughts, than the justness of the occasion and, if he has to pick single occasions, he has never founded the
; ; yet, by the genius of poetry in writing, he has succeeded. " Rapin attributes more to the dictio, that is, to the words and

whole reasonably

discourse of a tragedy, than Aristotle has done,

who

places

LIFE OP BRYDEN.

311

them

in the last rank of beauties

last

because they are the

; perhaps, only last in order, product of the design, of the dis-

position or connection of

its

parts

of the characters, of the

manners of those characters, and of the thoughts proceeding 'Tis not from those manners. Rapin's words are remarkable
* ;

incidents, that

the admirable intrigue, the surprising events, and extraordinary make the beauty of a tragedy ; 'tis the discourses,
;

when they are natural and passionate so are Shakespeare's.' " The parts of a poem, tragic or heroic, are, 1. The fable itself. " 2. The order or manner of its contrivance, in relation of the
parts to the whole.

"

3.

The manners,
is

or acting what
poet.

or decency of the characters, in speaking proper for them, and proper to be shown by the

" "

4.
5.

" In

The thoughts which express the manners. The words which express those thoughts. the last of these Homer excels Virgil Virgil
;

all

other

ancient poets ; and Shakespeare all modern poets. " For the second of these, the order ; the meaning
fable

is,

that a

ought
;

to have a beginning, middle,

e.

and an end,

all

just

and

natural

so that that part,

g.

which

is

the middle, could not

naturally be the beginning or end, and so of the rest ; all depend on one another, like the links of a curious chain. If terror and
pity are only to be raised, certainly this author follows Aristotle's

and Sophocles' and Euripides' example ; but joy may be raised too, and that doubly, either by seeing a wicked man punished, 01; a good man at last fortunate ; or perhaps indignation,
rules,

to see

these

may
;

wickedness prosperous, and goodness depressed both be profitable to the end of tragedy, reformation of
;

manners
audience

but the

last

improperly, only as

it

begets pity

in

the

though

Aristotle, I confess, places tragedies of this

kind in the second form. " He who undertakes to answer this excellent

critic

of Mr.

Rymer,
to do

in behalf of our English poets against the

;

Greek, ought

either by yielding to him the greatest it in this manner he contends what of for, which consists in this, that the part i. e. the design and conduct of it, is more conducing in the /Ku'0oc,

Greeks

to those

ends of tragedy, which Aristotle and he propose.

312
namely,
set the

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
;

to cause terror and pity yet the granting this does not Greeks above the English poets. " But the answerer ought to prove two things first, that the
;

fable is not the greatest

masterpiece of a tragedy, though

it

be

the foundation of it. u Secondly, that other ends as suitable to the nature of tragedy may be found in the English, which were not in the Greek.

" Aristotle not quoad dignitatem, sed places the fable first quoad fundament um ; for a fable, never so movingly contrived to those ends of his, pity and terror, will operate nothing on our
;

affections,

except the characters, manners, thoughts, and words

are suitable. " So that it remains for Mr.

Rymer

to prove, that in all those,

or the greatest part of them, we are inferior to Sophocles and Euripides ; and this he has offered at, in some measure ; but, I
think, a
little

partially to the ancients.

itself, 'tis in

" For the fable

the English

more adorned with

episodes, and larger than in the Greek poets ; consequently more For, if the action be but one, and that plain, without diverting.
e. any counterturn of design or episode, underplot, how can it be so pleasing as the English, which have both underplot and a turned design, which keeps the audience in expectation of the
z".

? whereas in the Greek poets we see through the whole design at first. " For the characters, they are neither so many nor so various in Sophocles and Euripides, as in Shakespeare and Fletcher

catastrophe

only they are

istotle

more adapted to those ends commends to us, pity and terror.

of tragedy which Ar-

"

The manners

flow from the characters, and consequently

must partake
"
ties

The

of their advantages and disadvantages. thoughts and words, which are the fourth and

fifth

beau-

of tragedy, are certainly more noble and more poetical in the English than in the Greek, which must be proved by com-

paring them somewhat more equitably than Mr. Rymer has done. " After all, we need not yield that the English way is less conducing to move pity and terror, because they often show virtue

oppressed and vice punished they are not to be defended.

where they do not

both, or either,

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
"
ter,

313

And

if

we
it

perhaps

may admit

should grant that the Greeks performed this betof dispute, whether pity and terror are

either the prime, or at least the only ends of tragedy. " 'Tis not enough that Aristotle has said so ; for Aristotle

drew
if

his models of tragedy from Sophocles and Euripides and he had seen ours, might have changed his mind. And chiefly we have to say, what I hinted on pity and terror, in the last par;

agraph save one, that the punishment of vice and reward of virtue are the most adequate ends of tragedy, because most conducing to good example of life. Now pity is not so easily raised for a criminal, and the ancient tragedy always represents its chief person such, as it is for an innocent man ; and the suffering of
innocence, and punishment of the offender, is of the nature of English tragedy contrariiy, in the Greek, innocence is unhappy
;

often,

and the offender escapes.

Then we

are not touched with

the sufferings of any sort of men so much as of lovers ; and this was almost unknown to the ancients so that they neither ad;

ministered poetical justice, of which Mr. Rymer boasts, so well as we ; neither knew they the best common place of pity, which
is

love.

"

He

ancients
ses, that

therefore unjustly blames us for not building on what the left us ; for it seems, upon consideration of the premi-

we have

wholly finished what they began.

this piece
it is

"

My

judgment on
;

is

this

that

it is

extremely

learned, but that the author of

in the

better read in the

Greek than
this critic,
;

English poets
I

as the best account

that all writers ought to study have ever seen of the ancients

that the

model of tragedy, he has here

correct
it is
;

given,

is

excellent, and extremely

all

but that

it is

not the only model of

tragedy, because

too

much

circumscribed in

plot, characters, Sec.

and

lastly,

that

taught here justly to admire and imitate the ancients, without giving them the preference with this author, in prejudice to our own country.

we may be

"

Want of method in

this excellent treatise

makes

the thought-

of the author sometimes obscure.

ti " His meaning, that pity and terror are to be moved, is, ends of the *o the means conducing: they are to be moved as

are pleasure and instruction. tragedy, which

J14<

1,1 1

K OI
thus distinguished.

"

And

these two ends

may be
;

The

chief

end of the poet is to please pends on it. " The end of the
great

for his

immediate reputation de-

poem is

to instruct,

which

is

performed

instruction ; for poesy is by niiiking pleasure the vehicle of that an art, and all arts are made to profit. liajdn " The is for the criminal^ pity, which the poet is to labour lor, not for those or him whom he has murdered, or who have been

The terror is likewise in the punthe occasion of the tragedy. ishment ol the same criminal ; who, if he be represented too
great an offender, will not be pitied
;

if

altogether innocent, his

punishment will be unjust. 44 Another obscurity is, where he

says, Sophocles perfected he meant three tragedy by introducing the third actor ; that is, kinds of action ; one company singing, or speaking ; another

playing on the music ; a third dancing. 44 To make a true judgment in this competition betwixt the

Greek poets and the English, in tragedy ; 44 Consider, first, how Aristotle has defined a tragedy.
ondly, what he assigns the end of
it

Sec-

thinks the beauties of

it.

Thirdly, what he the means to attain the end Fourthly,

to be.

proposed.

Compare the Greek and English tragic poets justly, and without partiality, according to those rules. 44 Then, secondly, consider whether Aristotle has made a just definition of tragedy ; of its parts, of its ends, and of its beauties ;
44

and whether he, having not seen any others but those of Sophocles, Euripides, Sic. had or truly could determine what all the
excellences of tragedy are, and wherein they consist.

try

Next, show in what ancient tragedy was deficient ; for exfewness of persons ; and ample, in the narrowness of its plots, and whether that be not a fault in the Greek poets ; and whether
44

'their

Uttle

excellency was so great, when the variety was visibly so or whether what they did was not very easy to do. 44 Then make a judgment on what the English have added to their beauties ; as, for example, not only more plot, but also new
;

passions

as,

namely, that of love, scarcely touched on by the

ancients, except in this one

Rymer

and in that

how

short they

example of Phaedra, cited by Mr, were of Fletcher

!

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

315

" Prove also that love, being an heroic passion, is fit for tragedy, which cannot be denied, because of the example alleged of

Phaedra

and how

far

Shakespeare has outdone them

in friend-

ship, &c.

To

return to the beginning of this inquiry

for tragedy to
it

consider
I

if pity

and terror be enough

farther,

move

and

believe,

a true definition of tragedy,

will

be found that

its

upon work extends

If

and that

it is

to

reform manners, by a delightful repregreat persons, by way of dialogue.

sentation of

human

life in

this be true, then not only pity and terror are to be moved, as the only means to bring us to virtue, but love to virtue, and

generally

hatred to vice

by showing the rewards of the one, and punish;

ments of the other

at least,

though it be shown unfortunate be shown triumphant.

*

by rendering- virtue always amiable, and vice detestable, though it ;

If,

then, the

encouragement of virtue and discouragement of

vice be the proper ends of poetry in tragedy, pity and terror,

though good means, are not the only.

their turns, are to be set in a ferment
;

For

all

the passions, in

as joy, anger, love, fear,

;

are to be used as the poet's

common

places

and a general con-

be raised, by making them appear such in their characters, their words and actions, as will interest the audience in their fortunes.

cernment

for the principal actors is to

'

And

if,

after

all,

in a

concernment

for the good,

larger sense, pity comprehends this and terror includes detestation for the

bad, then let us consider whether the English have not answered
as the ancients, or perhaps better. here Mr. Rymer's objections against these plays are to be impartially weighed, that we may see whether they are of
this

end of tragedy as well

"

And

weight enough

to turn the balance against our countrymen. " 'Tis evident that those have moved plays, which he arraigns,

both those passions in a high degree upon the stage. " To and to place h give the glory of this away from the poet,

upon the
"

actors,

seems
is,

unjust.

because whatever actors they have found, the that is, the same passions have been event has been the same

One

reason

there is something of force always moved ; which shows that and merit in the plays themselves, conducing to the design of

VOL.

r.

4)

LIFE OF DKYOEN.
raising these

two passions

and suppose them ever

to

have been

excellently acted, yet action only adds grace, vigour, and

life

more

upon the stage

first.

them

but cannot give it wholly where it is not But, secondly, I dare appeal to those who have never seem acted, if they have not found these two passions moved
;

within

them ; and if the general voice will carry it, Mr. Rymer's prejudice will take oft* his single testimony. " This, being mutter of fact, is reasonably to be established by this appeal ; as, if one man says it is night, when the rest of the
world conclude
it

to

be day, there needs no farther argument

so.

against " If he urge, that the general taste

to

him

that

it is

is depraved, his arguments but evince that our poets took not the best way to raise those passions ; but experience proves against him, that those means which they have used, have been success-

prove

this

can

at best

ful,

"

and have produced them. And one reason of that success

is,

in

my

opinion, this

that

Shakespeare and Fletcher have written to the genius of the age and nation in which they lived ; for though nature, as he objects, is the same in all places, and reason too the same ; yet the cliwrites,

mate, the age, the disposition of the people, to whom a poet may be so different, that what pleased the Greeks would
not satisfy an English audience.

"

And

if

they proceeded upon a foundation of truer reason to

please the Athenians, than Shakespeare and Fletcher to please the English, it only shows that the Athenians were a more judicious people ; but the poet's business is certainly to please the audience. " Whether our English audience have been pleased hitherto with acorns, as he calls it, or with bread, is the next question ;
that
is,

whether the me^ins which Shakespeare and Fletcher have

in their plays, to raise

used,

those passions before named, be

better applied to the ends by^the

And perhaps we
ed that a writer

shall not grant

is

not to

Greek poets than by them. him this wholly ; let it be grantrun down with the stream, or to please

the people by their

judgments,
rotal

it still

own usual methods, but rather to reform their remains to prove that our theatre needs this

reformation.

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
"

317

faults, which he has found in their designs are rather aggravated in many places than reasonably urged ; and as much may be returned on the Greeks by one who were as

The

wittily

witty as himself.

"

They
;

destroy not, if they are granted, the foundation of the

fabric

only take away from the beauty of the

symmetry

for ex-

ample, the

faults in the character of the king, in

King and No-king,

detestable, but only

are not, as he calls them, such as render

him

imperfections which accompany human nature, and are for the most part excused by the violence of his love ; so that they destroy not our pity o?

concernment

for

him

this

answer may be
is

applied to most of his objections of that kind. "And Rollo committing many murders, when he

answerable
adds to our
is

but for one,

is

too severely arraigned by

;

him

for

it

horror and detestation of the criminal

and poetic justice

not

neglected neither
the audience,
is

for
;

we

stab

him

in our

minds

for every offence

is

which he commits

and the point, which the poet

to*gain on

not so

much

in the death of an offender as the

raising an horror of his crimes. " That the criminal should neither be wholly guilty, nor wholly

terror, is certainly a

innocent, but so participating of both as to move both pity and good rule, but not perpetually to be observed; all tragedies too much alike ; which obto make were for, that
jection

he foresaw, but has not

therefore
;

fully

answered.

"

To conclude,

if

the plays of the ancients are

more

written. And, if we correctly plotted, ours are more beautifully it shows our worse on as foundations, can raise passions high"

genius in tragedy is greater ; for, lish have manifest! v excelled them."

in all other parts of

it,

the

Po-

318

LIFE OF DRYDEN.
original of the following- letter is preserved in the library
to the public by the rev-

THE
at

Lambeth, and was kindly imparted

erend Dr. Vyse.

Copy

in Italy,

of an original letter from John Dryden, Esq. to his sons from a MS. in the Lambeth library, marked No.
p. 56.

933,

(Superscribed}

Al illustrissimo Sig " Carlo Dryden Camariere

"

re

"d'Honore A.
" Franca per Mantoua.

S. S.

" In "

Roma.

Sept. the 3d. our style.

DEAR SONS, "Being now at sir William Bowyer's

"

in the country, I cannot

write at large, because I find myself somewhat indisposed with # a cold, and am thick of hearing, rather worse than 1 was in town. I am glad to find, by your letter of July 26th. your style, that you

are both in health

gent as to forget to give

but wonder you should think me so negliyou an account of the ship in which

is to come. I have written to you two or three letters concerning it, which I have sent by safe hands, as I told you, and doubt not but you have them before this can arrive to you. Be-

your parcel

ing out of town,

mother

will

inquire, and put

have forgotten the ship's name, which your it into her letter, which is joined
I

with mine.

But the master's name

;

remember

he

is

called

Mr. Ralph Thorp the ship is bound to Leghorn, consigned to Mr. Peter and Mr. Thomas Ball, merchants. I am of your opinion, that by Tonson's means almost all our letters have
But, however, he has missed of though he had prepared the book for it ; for in every figure of jEneas he has caused him to be drawn like king William, with a hooked nose. After my re-

miscarried for this

last year.

his design in the dedication,

turn to town,

intend to alter a play of

sir

written long since, and lately put into my hands ; It will cost Conquest of China by the Tartars.
study, with the probable benefit of an

Robert Howard's, 'tis called The

me

six

weeks
In the

hundred pounds.

mean time
know,
is

I am writing a song for St. Cecilia's feast, who, you the patroness of music. This is troublesome, and n.e

LIFE OF DRYDEN.

319

way

beneficial
in a

who came

but I could not deny the stewards of the feast, body to me to desire that kindness, one of them

being Mr. Bridgeman, whose parents are your mother's friends. I hope to send you thirty guineas between Michaelmas and Christmas, of which I will give you an account when I come to
the counsel you give me in your letter but yet, dissembling, though lawful in some cases, is not my talent for your sake, I will struggle with the plain openness of my na-

town.

remember

ture, and

keep

in

my

that degenerate just resentment against

order.

I flatter not myself with any manner of hopes, but do my duty, and suffer for God's sake being assured, before hand, never to be rewarded, though the times

In the

mean

time,

Toward the latter end of this month, September. begin to recover his perfect health, according to his is true, and all things nativity, which, casting it myself, I am sure hitherto have happened accordingly to the very time that I predictshould
alter.

Charles

will

ed them
ing to

hope

at the

same time

to

recover more health, accord-

my

age.

I earnestly desire.

desert or

my
;

poor Harry, whose prayers in the world beyond its succeeds My Virgil know the You profits might have expectation.
to

Remember me

been more
suffer

since

but neither my conscience nor my honour would me to take them but I never can repent of my constancy! I am thoroughly persuaded of the justice of the cause for
;

which

I suffer.

It

has pleased

God

to raise

up many

friends to

me among my enemies, though they who ought to have been my friends are negligent of me. I am called to dinner, and cannot go on with this
letter,

which
"

desire you to excuse

and

am

Your most

affectionate father,

"

JOHN DRYDEN."

SMITH.

EDMUND SMITH
without

is

much

labour,

attained

one of those lucky writers who have, high reputation, and who are

mentioned with reverence rather for the possession than the

exertion of

uncommon

abilities.
;

Of his

life little is

known

and that

little

claims no praise but

what can be given

to intellectual excellence

seldom employed

to

any virtuous purpose. His character, as given by Mr. Oldisworth with all the partiality of friendship, which is said by Dr. " what fine Burton, to show things one man of parts can say of another," and which, however, comprises great part of what can be known of Mr. Smith,
it

is

better to transcribe at once, than to

little

I shall subjoin such take by pieces. has enabled me to collect.

memorials as accident

chant, one

Mr. EDMUND SMITH was the only son of an eminent merMr. Neale, by a daughter of the famous baron Lech-

mere.

Some

misfortunes of his father, which were soon follow-

ed by his death, were the occaf^ion of the son's being left very young in the hands of a near relation, one who married Mr.
Neale's
sister,

whose name was Smith.

This gentleman and his lady treated him as their own child, and put him to Westminster school under the care of Dr. Busby

whence, after the loss of his faithful and generous guardian, whose name he assumed and retained, he was removed to Christ;

till

church, in Oxford, and there by his aunt handsomely maintained her death after which he continued a member of that learn;

ed and ingenious society till within five years of his own though, some time before his leaving Christchurch, he was sent for by
;

his

mother

to

legitimate son

Worcester, and owned and acknowledged as her which had not been mentioned, but to wipe off the;

It cast by some on his birth. aspersions that were ignorantly is to be remembered, for our author's honour, that, when at West-

minster election he stood a candidate for one of the universities.

LII.-K

or SMITH.

he so signally distinguished himself by his conspicuous performances, that there arose no small contention, between the representative electors of Trinity college

church

him

as

in Cambridge and ChristOxon, which of those two royal societies should adopt But the electors of Trinity college having their own. in

the preference of choice that year, they resolutely elected him ; who yet, being invited at the same time to Christchurch, chose
to accept of a studentship there.

Mr. Smith's

perfections, as

well natural
ace's plan,

as acquired,

seem

to

who
"

" says, in his

Art of Poetry,

have been formed upon Hor"

Nee

Ego nee studium sine divite vena, rude quid prosit video ingenium alterius
;

sic

Altcra poscit opera res,

&

coujurat amice."
all

He

was endowed by nature with

those excellent and neces-

sary qualifications which are previous to the accomplishment of

His memory was large and tenacious, yet by a curious felicity chiefly susceptible of the finest impressions it received from the best authors he read, which it always preserved
a great man.
in their primitive strength

and amiable order.

had a quickness of apprehension, and vivacity of understanding, which easily took in and surmounted the most subtle

He

and knotty parts of mathematics and metaphysics. His wit was prompt and flowing, yet solid and piercing ; his taste delicate, his

head clear, and his way of expressing

engaging.
I shall

his thoughts perspicuous

and

say nothing of his person, which yet was so well no that turned, neglect of himself in his dress could render it disa-

greeable

insomuch

that the fair sex,

who observed and esteemed

him, at once commended and reproved him by the name of the handsome sloven. An eager but generous and noble emulation grew up with him ; which, as it were a rational sort of instinct, pushed him upon striving to excel in every art and science that
could make him a credit to his college, and that college the ornament
of the most learned and polite university
;

and

it

was

his happiness

to have several contemporaries and fellow students

who exercised

and excited this virtue in themselves and others, thereby becoming so deservedly in favour with this age, and so good a proof of its
-lice

discernment.

into

His judgment, naturally good, soon ripened an exquisite fineness and distinguishing sagacity, which,

as

it

was active and bu c y, so

it

was vigorous and manly, keeping

LIFE OF SMITH.

32 n

even paces with a rich and strong imagination, always upon the wing, and never tired with aspiring. Hence it \vus that, though

he writ

as

young

as

earliest productions

and his Cowley, he had no puerilities were so far from having any thing in them
;

trifling, that, like the junior compositions of Mr. There are many Stepney, they may make grey authors blush. of his first essays in oratory, in epigram, elegy, and epic, still

mean and

terly

handed about the university in manuscript, which show a mashand ; and, though maimed and injured by frequent trans-

make their way into our most celebrated miscellanies, where they shine with uncommon lustre. Besides those verses in the Oxford books which he could not help setting his name
cribing,
to,

several of his compositions

his

came abroad under

other names,

which

own

singular modesty, and faithful silence, strove in

vain to conceal.
versity

The

upon

state subjects

Encaenia and public collections of the uniwere never in such esteem, either for

elegy or congratulation, as when he contributed most largely to them ; and it was natural for those who knew his peculiar

way of

writing to turn to his share in the work, as by far the

most relishing part of the entertainment. As his parts were exand not ontraordinary, so he well knew how to improve them
;

ly to polish

the diamond, but enchase

it

in

the most solid and

durable metal.
of his
life,

Though he was an academic the greatest part yet he contracted no sourness of temper, no spice of

pedantry, no itch of disputation, or obstinate contention ior the old or new philosophy, no assuming way of dictating to others,

which are
led into,

faults,

though excusable, which some are

insensibly-

who

are constrained to dwell long within the walls of a

private college.

His conversation was pleasant and instructive

and what Horace said of Plotius, Varius, and Virgil, might ly be applied to him.
^W 1-111 V* V sanus Amico.' Nil ego contulerim ^V_JJJ.<,I1V.1*I1 jucundo
_1

just-

* *

'-*

l\

'

'

'

"

Sat

v.

1.

44.

correct a writer as he was in his most elaborate pieces, he read the works of others with candour, and reserved his

As

his greatest severity for

cherish and advance, than

own compositions being- readier damp or depress a rising genius, and

;

to

as
in-

patient of being excelled himself, dustrious to excel others.

if

any could excel him, ns

VOL.

i.

42

324

Lin; OF SMITH.

'Twerc to be vushed he had confined himself to a particular in any ; but, in this, profession who was capable of surpassing his want of application was in a great measure owing to his want
of due encouragement.

He passed through the exercises of the college and university with unusual applause ; and though he often suffered his friends to call him oft" from his retirements, and to lengthen out those
jovial avocations, yet his return 10 his studies

was so much the

more

passionate, and his intention upon those refined pleasures of reading and thinking so vehement, to which his facetious and un-

bended intervals bore no proportion, that the habit grew upon him, and the series of meditation and reflection being kept up whole weeks together, he could better sort his ideas, and take
sundry parts of a science at one view, without interruption or confusion. Some indeed of his acquaintance, who were pleased
in the

to distinguish

between the wit and the scholar, extolled him

;

alto-

but others, who gether on the account of the first of these titles knew him better, could not forbear doing him justice as a prodigy
in both kinds.

He

had signalized himself,

in the schools, as a phi-

losopher and polemic of extensive knowledge and deep penetration ; and went through all the courses with a wise regard to the I remember him in the dignity and importance of each science.
divinity school

responding and disputing with a perspicuous en-

ergy, a ready exactness, and

commanding

force of argument,
;

worthily presided in the chair whose condeand disinterested commendation of him gave him such scending a reputation as silenced the envious malice of his enemies, who

when Dr. Jane

theology.

durst not contradict the approbation of so profound a master in None of those self sufficient creatures, who have eith-

er

trifled

encumbered
understood

with philosophy, by attempting to ridicule it, or have it with novel terms, and burdensome explanations,
its real

weight and purity half so well as Mr. Smith.

to

He

was too discerning

allow of the

character of unprofit-

rugged, and abstruse, which some superficial sciolists, so and polite as to admit of no impression, cither out smooth very of an unthinking indolence, or an ill grounded prejudice, had affixable,

ed

to this sort of studies.

He knew

the thorny terms of philos;

ophy served well

to fence in the true doctrines of religion

and

looked upon school divinity as upon a rough but well wrought

LIFE OF SMITH.

325

armour, which might at once adorn and defend the Christian hero, and equip him for the combat.

Mr. Smith had a long and perfect intimacy with

and Latin
classics
;

all

the

Greek

with which he had carefully con. pared whatever was worth perusing in the French, Spanish, and Italian, to
writers of his

which languages he was no stranger, and in all the celebrated own country. But then, according to the curious

observation of the late earl of Shaftesbury, he kept the poet in awe by regular criticism ; and, as it were, married the two arts for
their mutual support and improvement. of credit, upon that subject, which he had

There was not a

riot diligently
;

tract

from Aristotle down

to

Hedelin and Bossu

so that,

examined, having each

rule constantly'before him, he could carry the art through every poem, and at once point out the graces and deformities. By this

means he seemed
itate.

to read with a design to correct as well as

im-

Being thus prepared, he could not but taste every little delithough it was impossible for cacy that was set before him
;

be fed and nourished with any thing He considered the anbut what was substantial and lasting.
at the

him

same time

to

cients and
chitects

moderns not

as parties or rivals for fame, but as ar;

ing to

upon one and the same plan, the art of poetry accordwhich he judged, approved and blamed, without flattery
it

or detraction. of others,
strict

If he did not always commend the compositions was not ill nature, which was not in his temper, but that would not let him call a few flowers set in justice

ranks, a glib measure, and so many couplets, by the name of son's opinion, who could not admire, poetry ; he was of Ben Jon
Verses as smooth and
soft as

cream,

In which there was neither depth nor stream.

And therefore, though his want of complaisance for some men's overbearing vanity made him enemies, yet the better part of mankind were obliged by the freedom of his reflections. His Bodleian speech, though taken from a remote and imcopy, hath shown the world how great a master he was
perfect of the Ciceronian eloquence,
force of

mixed with

the conciseness and

Demosthenes, the elegant and moving turns of Plinv. and the acute and wise reflections of Tacitus.

LIFE OF SMITH.
Since

Temple and Roscommon, no man understood Horace

happy
diction, rolling

better, especially as to his

tiful

numbers, beau-

imagery, and alternate mixture of the soft and the sublime. This endeared Dr. Hannes's odes to him, the finest genius for

His friend Mr. Philips's Latin lyric since the Augustine age. ode to Mr. St. John, late lord Bolingbroke, after the manner of Horace's Lusory or Amatorian Odes, is certainly a masterpiece ;
but Mr. Smith's Pocockius is of the sublimer kind, though, like Waller's writings upon Oliver Cromwell, it wants not the most I delicate and surprising turns peculiar to the person piaised. do not remember to have seen any thing like it in Dr. Bathurst,*

attempts this way with applause. He was an excellent judge of humanity ; and so good an historian, that in familiar discourse he would talk over the most memorable facts

who had made some

in antiquity, the lives, actions,

and characters, of celebrated men,

and accuracy. As he had thoroughly read and digested Thuanus's works, so he was able to copy after him j and his talent in this kind was so well known and allowed, that
with amazing
facility

which

he had been singled out by some great men to write a history, it was for their interest to have done with the utmost art

and dexterity.

I shall not mention for what reasons this design was dropped, though they are very much to Mr. Smith's honour. The truth is, and I speak it before living witnesses, whilst an agreeable company could fix him upon a subject of useful lit;

erature, nobody shone to greater advantage that Memmius whom Lucretius speaks of ;

he seemed to be

Quern tu, Dea, tempore in omni Omnibus ornatum voluisti excellere

rebus.

His works are not many, and those scattered up and down

in

miscellanies and collections, being wrested from him by his friends with great difficulty and reluctance. All of them together make but a small part of that much greater body which lies

dispersed in the possession of numerous acquaintance ; and cannot perhaps be made entire, without great injustice to him, be-

cause few of them had his

last

hand, and the transcriber was

often obliged to take the liberties of a friend.

*

His condolence
in

Dr. Ralph Bathurst, whose

life

and literary remains were published

1761, by

Mr. Thomas Warton.

C.

LIFE OF SMITH.
for the death of

327

Mr. Philips is full of the noblest beauties, and hath done justice to the ashes of that second Milton, whose writings will last as long as the English language, generosity, and
valour.

a passion he was most susceptible upon as sacred and inviolable.

For him Mr. Smith had contracted a perfect friendship ; of, and whose laws he looked

that passed under his pen had all the life, proand embellishments bestowed on it, which an exquisite portion, skill, a warm imagination, and a cool judgment, could possibly

Every subject

bestow on it. The epic, lyric, elegiac, every sort of poetry he touched upon, and he had touched upon a great variety, was raised to its proper height, and the differences between each ot them

new

observed with a judicious accuracy. saw the old rules and beauties placed in admirable order by each other ; and there was a predominant fancy and spirit of his own infused, superior to what

We

some draw

off

from the ancients, or from poesies

here and there culled cut of the moderns, by a painful industry and servile imitation. His contrivances were adroit and magnifhis sentiments charmhis images lively and adequate icent
;
;

ing and majestic ; his expressions natural and bold ; his numbers various and sounding ; and that enamelled mixture of classical wit, which, without redundance and affectation, sparkled

through his writings, and was no less pertinent and agreeable. His Phzdra is a consummate tragedy, and the success of it

was as great as the most sanguine expectations of his friends The number of nights, and the comcouid promise or foresee. mon method of filling the house, are not always the surest marks
of judging what encouragement a play meets with ; but the gentaste about town was reerosity of all the persons of a refined

markable on
zealously

this occasion

and

it

must not be forgotten how

all

Mr. Addison espoused

his interest, with

the ele-

nature for which that accomgant judgment and diffusive good is so justly valued by mankind. and author plished gentleman But as to Phaedra, she has certainly made a finer figure under

Mr. Smith's conduct, upon the English

stage,

than either in

and or Athens need not say she surpasses the French one, though embellished with whatever regular beauties and moving softness Racine,
;

Rome
I

if

she excels the Greek and Latin Phx-

dra,

himself could give her.

328
a

LIFE OF SMITH.

No man had justcr notion of the difficulty of composing than Mr. Smith; and he sometimes would crcute greater difficulties

than

he had reason

to

apprehend.
AV riling

Writing with ease,

easily written,

what, as

Mr. Wycherley speaks, may be

moved

upon a subject, he would seriously consider what Demosthenes, Homer, Virgil, or Horace, if alive, would say upon that occasion, which whetted

his indignation.

When

he was

him

to

exceed himself as well as others.

Nevertheless, he

could not or would not finish several subjects he undertook ; which may be imputed either to the briskness of his fancy, still

hunting after new matter, or to an occasional indolence, Avhich spleen and lassitude brought upon him, which, of all his foibles,
to conceit

the world was least inclined to forgive. That this was not owing and vanity, or a fulness of himself, a frailty which has

been imputed to no less men than Shakespeare and Jonson, is clear from hence because he left his Avorks to the entire disposal of
;

most rigorous censures he even courted and solicited, submitting to their animadversions, and the freedom they
his friends, Avhose

took Avith them, with an unreserved and prudent resignation. I have seen sketches and rough draughts of some poems

he designed,

set out analytically

wherein the

fable, structure,

and connection, the images, incidents, moral, episodes, and a great variety of ornaments, were so finely laid out, so well fitted to the rules of art, and squared so exactly to the precedents of
the ancients, that
I

have often looked on these poetical elements

with the same concern with which curious

men

are affected at

the sight of the most entertaining remains and ruins of an anThose fragments of the learned, which tique figure or building.

some men have been

so

useless rarities, without

proud of their pains in collecting, are form and without life, when compared

with these embryos, which wanted not spirit enough to preserve

them so that I cannot help thinking that if some of them were to come abroad, they would be as highly valued by the poets, as
;

the sketches of Julio and Titian are by the painters

though

there

is

nothing in them but a few outlines, as to the design and

that

proportion.
It

must be confessed,

Mr. Smith had some

defects in his

conduct, which those are most apt to remember who could imitate him in nothing else. His freedom Avith himself drew severer

acknowledgments from him than

all

the malice he ever provoked

LIFE OF SMITH.
was capable
,of

329

his misfortunes the hard

advancing, and he did not scruple to give even name of faults ; but, if the world had
all

half his good nature,

the shady parts would be entirely struck

out of his character.

A man,
could

make

who, under poverty, calamities, and disappointments so many friends, and those so truly valuable, must

have just and noble ideas of the passion of friendship, in the success of which consisted the greatest, if not the only, happiness of
his
life.

He knew
him

fortune threw

very well what was due to his birth, though short of it in every other circumstance of life-

He avoided making any, though perhaps reasonable, complaints of her dispensations, under which he had honour enough to bo easy, without touching the favours she flung in his way when
him at the price of a more durable reputation. He took care to have no dealings with mankind in which he could not be just ; and he desired to be at no other expense in his pretensions
offered to

than that of intrinsic merit, which was the only burden and reproach he ever brought upon his friends. He could say, as Hor-

ace did of himself, what

*'

never yet saw translated.

pauper
in cere."

Meo sum
no

At
those

his

coming

to town,

man was more

surrounded by

all

who

great
arts

men

really had or pretended to wit, or more courted by the who had then a power and opportunity of encouraging

and sciences, and gave proofs of their fondness for the name of patron in many instances, which will ever be remembered to
glory.

Mr. Smith's character grew upon his friends by and outwent the strongest prepossessions which had intimacy, been conceived in his favour. Whatever quarrel a few sour is their happiness, may possibly have creatures, whose
their

obscurity

with the age, yet amidst a studied neglect and total disuse of all those ceremonial attendances, fashionable equipments, and external recommendations, which are thought necessary introductions was so happy as still to this into the

grande monde,

gentleman

please

Jand

saw how

whilst the rich, the gay, the noble, and honourable, much he excelled in wit and learning, they easily forall

gave him

other differences.

Hence

it

was that both his ac-

his own free choice. quaintance and retirements wore

What

330

LIFE OF SMITH.
true of him,

Mr. Prior observes upon a very great character, was

that most of his faults brought their excuse with them.

Those who blamed him most, understood him

least,

it

being*

the custom of the vulgar to charge an excess upon the most complaisant, and to form a character by the morals of a few, who have sometimes spoiled an hour or two in good company. Where
only fortune
tion
is wanting to make a great name, that single excep. can never pass upon the best judges and most equitable observers of mankind ; and when the time comes for the world to

spare their pity, we may justly enlarge our demands upon for their admiration.

them

Some few

eral considerable undertakings

years before his death, he had engaged himseif in sevin all which he had }: chared the
;

world to expect mighty things from him. I have been abuut len sheets of his English Pindar, which exceeded any thing of that

He had drawn I could ever hope for in our own language. out the plan of a tragedy of the lady Jane Grey, and had gone through several scenes of it. But he couid not well have bekind

queathed that work

;

to

better hands than where,

hear,

it is

at

and the bare mention of two such names may present lodged justify the largest expectations, and is sufficient to make the town
an agreeable invitation. His greatest and noblest undertaking was Lvnginus. He had finished an entire translation of the Sublime, which he sent to the

reverend Mr. Richard Parker, a friend of

his, late

of Merton
it

college, an exact critic in the Greek tongue, from whom The French version of Monsieur Bcileau, to my hands.
truly valuable,

came

though

was far short of it. He proposed a large addition to this work, of notes and observations of his own, with an entire
system of the Art of Poetry, in three books, under the titles of I saw the last of these perfect, and thought, diction, and figure.
in a fair copy, in

which he showed prodigious judgment and

reading ; and particularly had reformed the art of rhetoric, by re' ducing that vast and confused heap of terms, with which a long
succession of pedants had encumbered the world, to a very nar-

row compass, comprehending all that was useful and ornamental Under each head and chapter, he intended to make in poetry. remarks upon all the ancients and moderns, the Greek, Latin,

LIFE OF SMITH.

331

English, French, Spanish, and Italian poets, and to note their several beauties and defects.

What
hands of

remains of his works

is

left,

as I

am

informed, in the

It cannot be supposed they would suppress any thing that was his, but out of respect to his memory, and for want of proper hands to finish

men

of worth and judgment,

who

loved him.

what so great a genius had begun.

Such is the declamation of Oldisworth, written while his admiration was yet fresh, and his kindness warm ; and therefore such as, without any criminal purpose of deceiving, shows a
strong desire to make the most of all favourable truth. much commend the performance. The praise is often
I

cannot

indistinct,

and the sentences are loaded with words of more

pomp than use.

There

is little,

plainer tale

however, that can be contradicted, even when a comes to be told.

at

NEALE, known by the name of Smith, was born Handley, the seat of the Lechmeres, in Worcestershire. The
It is

EDMUND

year of his birth is uncertain.* He was educated at Westminster.

known

to

have been

the practice of Dr. Busby to detain those youths long at school of whom he had formed the highest expectations. Smith took his master's degree on the 8th. of July, 1696; he therefore was
in probably admitted into the university

1689,

when we may
as has

suppose him twenty years

old.

His reputation
told
;

for literature in his college

was such

been

but the indecency and licentiousness of his behaviour drew upon him, Dec. 24, 16*94, while he was yet only bachelor, a public admonition, entered upon record, in order to his expulsion.

Of

this reproof the effect is not

known.

He was
will

know, much had exhibited literary merit; and of that he by his excellent ode on the death of the great
notorious.

At Oxford,

as

we

all

probably less be forgiven to evidence

sufficient

orientalist,

Dr. Po-

cock,

who

ten by
*

died in 1691, and whose praise must have been writSmith when he had been but two years in the university.
old

By his epitaph he appears to have been forty two years He was consequently born in the year 1668. R.
VOL.
i.

when he

died.

43

LIFE OP SMITH.

glicance,

This ode, which closed the second volume of the Must Anits though perhaps some objections may be made to
;

in that collection Laiinity, is by far the best lyric composition

nor

do
It

know where

to find

it

equalled

among

the modern writers.

images not classical in classical diction its digressions and returns have been deservedly recommended by Trapp as models for imitation. He had several imitations from Cowley.
expresses, with great
;

felicity,

Testator hinc tot sermo coloribus

Quot

tu,

Pococki, dissimilis tui

efters,

Orator

Te memores
I will not

quot vicissim celebrare gaudent.

commend

the figure which

makes the

orator proI

nounce the colours^ or give to colours memory and delight. of these lines; it, however, as an imitation
So many languages he had in store, That only fame shall speak of him iu more.

quote

The
is

simile by

which an old man, retaining the

fire

of his youth,

compared

to jEtna flaming

through the snow, which Smith

has used with great pomp, is stolen from Cowley, however little worth the labour of conveyance. He proceeded to take his degree of master of arts, July 8,
1G96. Of the exercises which he performed on that occasion, I have not heard any thing memorable. As his years advanced, he advanced in reputation for he con;

tinued to cultivate his mind, though he did not

ularities;

amend

his irreg-

by which he gave so much offence, that, April 24, 1700, " the dean and chapter declared the place of Mr. Smith void, he behaviour in the house of Mr. of riotous been convicted having
Cole, an apothecary ; but it was referred to the dean when and upon what occasion the sentence should be put into execution."

Thus tenderly was he treated ; the governors of his college could hardly keep him, and yet wished that he would not force them to drive him awav.

Some time
in his

afterward he assumed an appearance of decency

phrase, he whitened himself, having a desire to obtain the censorship, an office of honour and some profit in the col-

own

lege

but,

when

the election came, the preference

was given

to

LIFE OF SMITH.

Mr. Foulkes, his junior the same, I suppose, that joined with Freind in an edition of part of Demosthenes. The censor is
;

a tutor

and

it

was not thought proper

to a

to trust the superintend-

ence of others

man who

took so

little

care of himself.

time Smith employed his malice and his wit against the dean, Dr. Alddch, whom he considered as the opponent of
this

From

his claim.

Of

his

lampoon upon him,

once heard a single

line too gross to

be repeated.
a genius and a scholar, and Oxford
;

But he was
willing to lose

still

was un-

he was endured, with all his pranks and his vices, two years longer ; but on Dec. 20, 1705, at the instance of all the canons, the sentence, declared five years before, was put
into execution.

him

The
friends,

execution was, I believe, silent and tender

for

one of his
to

from

whom

I learned

much

of his

life,

appeared not

know

it.

He

was now driven

to

London, where he associated himself

with the whigs, whether because they were in power, or because the tories had expelled him, or because he was a whig by prinHe was, however, caressed by ciple, may perhaps be doubted. men of great abilities, whatever were their party, and was supported by the
tion.

liberality of those

who

delighted in his conversa-

by OhHsv.'orth, to have evening, as he was sitting with a friend at a tavern, he was called down by the waiter ; and. having staid some time below, came up thoughtful. After a pause, said he to " He that wanted me below was his Addison, whose

There was once

useful.

a design, hinted at

made him

One

friend,

business was to
intended, and
4

tell

me

that a history of

the revolution
it.

was
said,

to propose that I should undertake

What shall I do with the character of lord Sunderland ?' and Addison immediately returned, When, Rag, were you drunk last ?' and went away." Cajitain Rag was a name which he got at Oxford by his neg'

ligence of dress.

to

This story I heard from the late Mr. Clark of Lincoln's inn, whom it was told by the friend of Smith. Such scruples might debar him from some profitable emcould not deprive him of any mi: ployments ; but, as they

334
esteem, they
introduced
parties,
left

LIFE OF SMITH.

him many

friends

and no

man was

ever belter

to ihe theatre

than he, who, in that violent conflict of

first

hud a prologue and epilogue from the

will no\v

wits

on

either side.

But learning and nature

es.

and then take different coursIt

His play pleased the critics, and the critics only. as Addison has recorded, hardly heard the third night.
li

was,

.d

indeed trusted entirely to his

Smith merit, had ensured no band of

appkiuders, nor used any artifice to force success, and found that

nuked excellence was not

sufficient for its

The

play,

however, was bought by Lintot,

own support. who advanced

;

the

price from

fifty

guineas, the current rate, to sixty

the general patron, accepted the dedication. kept him from writing the dedication till Lintot, after fruitless
importunity, gave notice that he would publish the play without Now therefore it was written ; and Halifax expected the

and Halifax, Smith's indolence

it.

author with his book, and had prepared to reward him with a Smith, by pride or capplace of three hundred pounds a year.
rice, or indolence, or bashfulness, neglected to attend him, though doubtless warned and pressed by his friends, and at last missed his reward by not going to solicit it.

Addison has, in the Spectator, mentioned the neglect of Smith's tragedy as disgraceful to the nation, and imputes it to The authority of Adthe fondness for operas then prevailing. dison is great j yet the voice of the people, when to please the
people is the purpose, deserves regard. not but think the people in the right.
ical,

In this question,

can-

The
that

a story which

we

are accustomed to

mythologand the reject as false

;

fable is

rn .nncrs are so distant

from our own,

;

we know them

not

from sympathy, but by study

action
odi
;

the ignorant do not understand the

as a schoolboy's talc
;

the learned reject

I

it

incrcdulus

moment behold with interest or anxiety. The. sentiments thus remote from life are removed yet further by the diction, which is
cannot for a
believe, I cannot for a

What

moment

luxuriant and splendid for dialogue, and envelopes the thoughts rather than displays them. It is a scholar's play, such as may please the reader rather than the spectator ; the work of a vigorous and elegant mind, accustomed to please itself with its
too

own
life.

conceptions, but of

little

acquaintance with the course of

LIFE OF SMITH.

335

Dennis tells us, in one of his pieces, that he had once a design to have written the tragedy of Phaedra ; but was convinced that the action was too mythological. In 1709, a year after the exhibition of Phadra, died John Philthe friend and fellow collegian of Smith, who on that occawrote a poem, which justice must place among the best elegies which our language can show, an elegant mixture of fondness and admiration, of and softness. There are some
ips,

sion,

dignity

pi;^-

sages too ludicrous

This elegy
a guinea
profitable
;

it

but every human performance has its faults. was the mode among his friends to purchase for
;

and, as his acquaintance was numerous,

it

was a very

poem. Of his Pindar mentioned by Oldisworth, I have never otherwise heard. His Longinus he intended to accompany with some
illustrations,

and had selected his instances of the false sublhn from the works of Blackmore.

He

story of lady Jane Grey.

resolved to try again the fortune of the stage, with the It is not unlikely that his experience

of the inefficacy and incredibility of a mythological tale, might determine him to choose an action from the English History, at

no great distance from our own times, which was

to

end

in a real

event, produced by the operation of known characters. subject will not easily occur that can give more opportunities of informing the understanding, for which Smith was un-

questionably qualified, or for moving the passions, in

which

suspect

have had less power. his plan and collected materials, he declarformed Having ed that a few months would complete his design and, that he
to
;

him

work with less frequent avocations, he was, in June, 1710, invited by Mr. George Ducket to his house at Gartham, in Wiltshire. Here he found such opportunities of indulmight pursue
his

gence as did not much forward

his studies,

and pai\icuLrly

some strong
drank
till

ale,

too delicious to

be resisted.
;

He

ate

i.nd

and then, resolving to he found himself plethoric ease himself by evacuation, he wrote to an apothecary in the

neighbourhood a prescription of a purge so forcible, that the had given notice apothecary thought it his duty to delay it till he
of
its

danger.

shopman, and boastful of

Smith, not pleased with the contradiction of a his own knmvlrd<;o, nvuu-d the notice

336

LIFE

01-

SMITH.

with rude contempt, and

in July,

swallowed his own medicine, which,

to the

1710,

brought him

grave.

He

was buried

at

Gartham.

Many years afterward, Ducket communicated to Oldmixon, the historian, an account, pretended to have been received from
Smith, that Clarendon's History was, in its publication, corruptand that Smith was ed by Aldrich, Smalridge, and Atterbury to and the alterations. insert employed forge
;

This story was published triumphantly by Oldmixon, and may be supposed to have been eagerly received ; but its progress was soon checked for, finding its way into the Journal of Tre;

voux,

under the eye of Atterbury, then an exiie in France who immediately denied the charge, with this remarkable parit fell

ticular, that

he never

in his

whole

life

had once spoken

to

Smith

;*

his

who The charge was afterward very diligently refuted by Dr. Burton, of Eton, a man eminent for literature and, though not
;

being, as must be inferred, not accepted by those attended to their characters.

company

of the

same party with Aldrich and Atterbury, too studious of truth to leave them burdened with a false charge. The testimonies which he has collected have convinced mankind that either Smith or Ducket were guilty of wilful and malicious falsehood.
This controversy brought into view those parts of Smith's life, which, with more honour to his name, might have been concealed.

Of Smith
estimation
praises

can yet say a

his

little

more.

He

was a man of such

like

among companions, which he dropped in conversation were considered,

that the casual censures or

those of Scaliger, as worthy of preservation. He had great readiness and exactness of criticism, and by a cursory glance over a new composition would exactly tell all its
faults

and beauties.

He
ity,

was remarkable

for the

power of reading with great

fidelity

rapid-

and of retaining, with great

what he so

easily col-

lected.
*

pp. 126. 133.

at

See Bishop Atterbury's " Epistolary Correspondence," 1799. Vol. III. In the same Avork, Vol. 1. p. 325, it appears that Smith was one time suspected by Atterbury to have been author of the " Tale of a.

Tub."

N.

'

LIFE OF SMITH.

337
;

He
and,

therefore always

knew what

the present question required

state of apparent negligence and drunkenness, he never discovered his hours of reading or method of study, but

when made in a

his friends expressed their

wonder

at his acquisitions,

involved himself in affected silence, and fed his

their admiration

own

vanity with

and conjectures. One practice he had, which was easily observed ; if any thought or image was presented to his mind that he could use or imit

prove, he did not suffer

tavern, or in the

to

be

lost

but, amidst the jollity of a

warmth

of conversation, very diligently

com-

mitted

it

to

paper.

Thus it was that he had gathered two quires of hints for his new tragedy of which Rowe, when they were put into his hands
;

could make, as he says, very little use, but which the collector considered as a valuable stock of materials.

When
of a

he came

to

the licentious and dissolute

London, his way of life connected him with and he affected the airs and gaiety
;

man

of pleasure
still

lastic cloudiness

but his dress was always deficient ; schohung about him ; and his merriment was
all

sure to produce the scorn of his companions.

With

all

his carelessness, and

at fortune
;

his vices,

he was one of the

suffered to

murrnurers

and wondered

why he was

be poor, when Addison was caressed and preferred ; nor would a very little have contented him ; for he estimated his wants at
six

hundred pounds a year.

it

In his course of reading,

ly

was

particular that he had diligent-

perused, and accurately remembered, the old romances of

knighterrantry.

had a high opinion of his own merit, and was something contemptuous in his treatment of those whom he considered as

He

He had many frailnot qualified to oppose or contradict him. ties ; yet it cannot but be supposed that he had great merit who
could obtain to the same play a prologue from Addison and an epilogue from Prior ; and who could have at once the patronage
of Halifax and the praise of Oldisworth. For the power of communicating these minute memorials,
I

am

indebted to

my

conversation with Gilbert Walmslcy, lale

court of Lichficld, who was acregisterer of the ecclesiastical and dcrliu'cd. that, if thr Ducket Smith and ; with both quainted

338

LIFE OF SMITH.

tale concerning Clarendon were forged, he should suspect Ducket of the falsehood ; " for Rag was a man of great veracity."

Of Gilbert Walmsley, thus presented to my mind, let me indulge myself in the remembrance. I knew him very early ; IK was one of the first friends that literature procured me, and I
hope
that at least

my

gratitude

made me worthy
I

of his notice.
;

He
all

was of an advanced age, and

never received

my

was only not a boy yet he He was a whig, with notions with contempt.
;

the virulence and malevolence of his party

I

yet difference of

opinion did not keep us apart.

honoured him, and he endur-

ed me.

He
its

vices or

had mingled with the gay world, without exemption from its follies, but had never neglected the cultivation of
;

his

mind

his belief of revelation

was unshaken

his learning

preserved his principles ; he grew first regular, and then pious. His studies had been so various, that I am not able to name a

man
great
tell

of equal knowledge. His acquaintance with books was and what he did not immediately know, he could at least ;
to find.

where

Such was

his amplitude of learning, and such

it

his copiousness of communication, that

may be doubted whether

his

a day

now
this

passes in which I have not

some advantage from

friendship.

At

man's

table I

enjoyed

many

cheerful and instructive

;

hours, with companions such as are not often found who has lengthened, and one who has life

with one

gladdened

with Dr.

James, whose skill in physic will be long remembered ; and with David Garrick, whom I hoped to have gratified with this character of our common friend ; but what are the hopes of man I
!

disappointed by that stroke of death, which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and impoverished the public stock of harmless
pleasure.

am

LIFE OF SMITH.
In the library at Oxford
Pocackius.
is

339

the following ludicrous analysis of

EX AUTOGRAPHO.
[Sent by the author to Mr. Urry.3

OPUSCULUM
hactenus
pennis.

hoc, Halberdarie amplissime, in

lucem profem

distuii, judicii tui

Tandem

subveritus magis quam bialiquanclo oden hanc ad te mitto sublimem,

acumen

teneram, flebilem, suaveni, qualem demum divinus, si Musis vaadeo scilicet sublimem ut inter lecaret, scripsisset Gastrellus
;

gendum

riclere velis. Cujus clegantiam ut melius inspicias, versuum ordinem Sc materiam breviter mus versus de duobus l referam. 2 dus Sc 3 US prseliis decantatis.

dormire, adeo flebilem ut

de Lotharingio, cuniculis subterraneis, saxis, ponto, hostibus, 8c Asia. 4 tus Sc 5 tus de catenis, sudibus, uncis, draconibus, tigri6 m 7 US 8 m , 9, de Gomorrha, de Babylone, bus, & crocodilis.
, ,

quodam domi suae peregrine. ID" aliquid de quodam Pocockio. \l> 12"8 de Syria, Solyma. 13 US 14 US de Hosea, 8c quercu^ Sc de juvene quodam valde sene. 15 US 16^, de jEtna, Sc quomodo jEtna Pocockio sit valde similis. 17 m
Babele,
Sc
5
, , ,
, ,

18 US , de tuba, astro, umbra, flammis, rotis, Pocockio non neglecCsetera de Christianis, Ottomanis, Babyloniis, Arabibus, Sc to.
* gravissima agrorum melancholia de Caesare Flacco Nestore, & miserando juvenis cujusdam florentissimi fato, anno aetatis suae centesimo praemature abrepti. Quas omnia cum accurate ex; y

hanc meam admiranda plane varipenderis, necesse est ut oden Subito ad Batavos proficiscor, lauro ab etate constare fatearis.
illis

donandus.

Prius vero Pembrochienses voco ad ccrtamen

Poeticum.

Vale.
Illustrissima tua deosculor crura.

E. SMITH.
*

Pro Flaccoy animo paulo

attentiore, scripsisscm

Marone.

V.QL. I.

DUKE.

Mr. RICHARD DUKE I can find few memorials. He was Westminster* and Cambridge ; and Jacob relates, that he was some time tutor to the duke of Richmond. He appears from his writings to have been not ill qualified for
bred
at

poetical compositions

and being conscious of his powers, when

he

left'

was

the university, he inlisted himself among the wits. He the familiar friend of Otway ; and was engaged, among;

*mher popular names, in the translations of Ovid and Juvenal. In his Review, though unfinished, are some vigorous lines. His poems are not below mediocrity ; nor have I found much in them
to be praised. f

With
times
;

the wit he
for

seems

to

have shared the dissoluteness of the

some of

his compositions are

such as he must have

reviewed with detestation

in his later days,

those sermons which Felton has

when he published commended.

Perhaps, like some other foolish young men, he rather talked than lived viciously, in an age when he that would be thought a wit was afraid to say his prayers ; and, whatever might have
ijeen bad in the
first

part of his

life,

was surely condemned and

reformed by

his better

judgment.

In 1683, being then master of arts, and fellow of Trinity college in Cambridge, he wrote a poem on the marriage of the lady

Anne with George

*

prince of

Denmark.

He was

admitted there
;

bridge, in 167.5
}

in 1670; was elected to Trinity college, G.im and took his master's degree in 1C82. N.

They make

a part of a

volume published by Tonson

in 8vo.
<>f
'
'

1717, cm,

taming the poems of the earl of Roscoinmon and the dukiM Essay on Poetry but were first published in Drydcn';

nuckin^liun,':

3?.os<, if

not

all,

of thf

po^ms

in

that

roll.

LIFE OF DUKE.

He
ester,
lain to

then took orders

;*

and, being

made prebendary

of Glouc-

became

a proctor in convocation for that church, and chap-

queen Anne.

In 17 10, he was presented by the bishop of Winchester to the wealthy living of Witncy in Oxfordshire, which he enjoyed but

On Februaiy 10, 1710-1 1, having returned from an entertainment, he was found dead the next morning. His death is mentioned in Swift's Journal.
a few months.
*
nrul

He was presented to the rectory of Blaby in Leicestershire, in 1687-8 obtained a prebend at Gloucester in 1688. N,

KING.

W ILLIAM KING
From Westminster

was born

in

Ezekiel King, a gentleman. Clarendon.

school,

He

London in 1663 the son of was allied to the family of

;

where he was a scholar on the

foundation under the care of Dr. Busby, he was at eighteen elected to Christchurch, in 168 1 ; where he is said to have prose-

cuted his studies with so

much

intenseness and activity, that

before he was eight years standing he had read over, and

made

remarks upon, twenty two thousand odd hundred books and manThe books were certainly not very long, the manuuscripts.*
scripts not very difficult, nor the remarks very large ; for the calculator will find that he despatched seven a day for every day

of his eight years ; with a remnant that more than satisfies mo&t other students. He took his degree in the most expensive manner, as a

grand comjiounder

whence

it is

inferred that he inher-

ited a considerable fortune.

In 1688, the same year in which he was made master of arts, he published a confutation of Varillas's account of Wickliff ; and, engaging in the study of the civil law, became doctor, in 1692, and was admitted advocate at doctors commons. He had already made some translations from the French, and
written

some humorous and satirical pieces; when, in 1694> Molesworth published his Account of Denmark, in which he treats the Danes and their monarch with great contempt ; and takes of insinuating those wild principles, by which he the
opportunity

and by which his adversaries supposes liberty to be established, and government is endangered. suspect that all subordination and the Danish minister offended book This prince George
;

presented a

memorial against

it.

The

principles of
in his

its

author
1776,

*ThIs appear- by Ms

\.<lvrr<m-ia,"

prints

works,

r'i'

o44

LIFE OF KING.

did not please Dr. King ; and therefore he undertook to confute The controversy is now forgotten ; part, and laugh at the rest. live seldom kind this and books of long, when interest and resent-

ment have

ceased.

In 1697, he mingled in the controversy between Boyle and Bcntlcy ; and was one of those who tried what wit could perform
in opposition to learning,

on a question which learning only

could decide.
In 1699, was published by

him

A Journey

to

London, after the

method of Dr. Martin

Paris.
sir

Journey to published And, in 1700, he satirized the royal society, at least

Lister,

who had

Hans Sloane

their president, in

two dialogues,

entitled

The
and

Transact toner.

Though he was

a regular advocate in the courts of

civil

canon law, he did not love his profession, nor indeed any kind of business which interrupted his voluptuary dreams, or forced him to rouse from that indulgence in which only he could find delight_

His reputation as a civilian was yet maintained by his judgments in the courts of delegates, and raised very high by the address
and knowledge which he discovered
.

in

1700,

when he defended

the earl of Anglesea against his lady, afterward dutchess of Buckinghamshire, who sued for a divorce, and obtained it.

The expense
ment

lessened his revenues

in Ireland,

of his pleasures, and neglect of business, had now and he was willing to accept of a settle;

where, about 1702, he was made judge of the

admiralty, commissioner of the prizes, keeper of the rec jrds in Birmingham's tower, and vicar general to Dr. Marsh, the primate.

But it is vain to put wealth within the reach of him who will not stretch out his hand to take it. King soon found a friend, as Idle and thoughtless as himself, in Upton, one of the judges, %vho had a pleasant house called Mountown, near Dublin, to which

King frequently
get his cares,

retired

delighting to neglect his interest, for-

and desert his duty. Here he wrote Malhj of Mount own, a

poem by
;

which, though
it it

fanciful readers in the pride of sagacity

have given

a political

interpretation,

as

it

expressed, was dictated only by the author's delight in the quiet of

originally

was meant

no more than

LIFE OF KING.
In 1708,

345

lord Wharton was sent to govern Ireland, King returned to London, with his poverty, his idleness, and his wit ;

when

and published some essays, called Useful Transactions. His Voyage to the Island of Cajamai is particularly commended. He then wrote The An ofLo-ue, a poem remarkable, notwithstanding
its title, for

purity of sentiment ; and in 1 709 imitated Horace in an Art of Cookery ^ which he published, with some letters to Dr.

Lister.

In 1710, he appeared, as a lover of the church, on the side of

Sacheverell
;

and was supposed

to

have concurred

at least in the

His eyes were open to all the opprojection of The Examiner. erations of whiggism ; and he bestowed some strictures

upon

Dr. Kennet's adulatory sermon at the funeral of the duke of Devonshire. The History of the Heathen Gods, a book composed for schools*

was written by him in 1710. The work is useful, but might have been produced without the powers of King. The next year, he published Rufinus, an historical essay and a poem, intended
;

to dispose the nation to think as he thought of the

duke of Marl-

borough and his adherents.

In

power.

1711, competence, if not plenty, was again put into his He was, without the trouble of attendance, or the mor-

tification

and other

of a request, made gazetteer. Swift, Freincl, Prior, men of the same party, brought him the key of the

gazetteer's office.

He was now

again placed in a profitable

em-

ployment, and again threw the benefit away. An act of insolvenand cy made his business at that time particularly troublesome
;

he would not wait

resigned ments.
it,

hurry should be at an end, but impatiently and returned to his wonted indigence and amusetill

One

of his amusements at Lambeth, where he

resided,

was

Dr. Tenison, the archbishop, by a public festivity, on the surrender of Dunkirk to Hill ; an event with which Tenito mortify

son's political bigotry did not suffer him to be delighted. King was resolved to counteract his sullenness, and at the expense of

a few barrels of ale

filled

the neighbourhood with honest merri-

ment.
In the autumn of 1712, his health declined
;

by degrees, and died on Christmas day.

Though

he grew weaker his life had

346

LIFE OF KING.

not been without irregularity, his principles were pure and or-

thodox, and his death was pious.

After this relation,

it

will

be naturally supposed that his poems

were rather the amusements of idleness than efforts of study ; that he endeavoured rather to divert than astonish ; that his and that, if his verse was thoughts seldom aspired to sublimity he attained his what he desired. His and images familial', easy
;

purpose is to be merry ; but, perhaps, to enjoy his mirth, be sometimes necessary to think well of his opinions.*
* Dr.

it

may

Johnson appears to have made but

little

use of the

life

of Dr. King,

" Works, in 3 vols," 1776, to which it may not be impertiprefixed to his nent to refer the reader. His talent for humour ought to be praised in the
highest terms. In that at least he yielded to none of his contemporaries. C.

SPRAT.

THOMAS
tells

SPRAT

was born
;

in 1636, at Tallaton, in

Devon.

shire, the son of a

clergyman

and having been educated, as he

of himself, not at Westminster or Eton, but at a little school by the churchyard side, became a commoner of Wadham college

in

Oxford

in

1651

and, being chosen scholar next year, pro-

ceeded through the usual academical course ; and in 1657, became master of aits. He obtained a fellowship, arid commenced
poet.

In 1659, his poem on the death of Oliver was published, with those of Dryden and Waller. In his dedication to Dr. Wilkins, he appears a very willing and liberal encomiast, both of the living

and the dead. He implores his patron's excuse of his verses* both as falling " so infinitely below the full and sublime genius of that excellent poet who made this way of writing free of our " nation," and being so little equal and proportioned to the renown of the prince on whom they were written ; such great actions and
lives deserving to be the subject of the noblest

pens and most

Having proceeds your care and indulgence, and been formed, as it were, by your own hands, not to entitle you to any thing which my meanness
;

divine fancies."

He

"

so long experienced

produces, would be not only injustice, but sacrilege." He published, the same year, a poem on the plague of Athens ; a subject of which it is not easy to say what could recommend
it.

To these he added afterward a pcem on Mr. Cowlcy's death. After the restoration he took orders, and by Cowley's recommendation was made chaplain to the duke of Buckingham, whom
he
is

said to

have helped
45

in writing

The Rchcarxul.

He

was-

likewise chaplain to the king,

VOL.

I.

LI1

E OF SPRAT.

As he was

the favourite of Wilkins, at

whose house began

those philosophical conferences and inquiries, which in time produced the royal society, he was consequently engaged in the same studies, and became one of the fellows ; and when, after their incorporation, something
lic to
lie

seemed necessary
he undertook
is

to recoficile the

the

new

institution,

to write its history,

pubwhich

published in 1667.

This

one of the few books which se-

lection of sentiment and elegance of diction have

been able to

upon a subject flux and transitory. The of the Royal Society is now read, not with the wish to History know what they were then doing, but how their transactions are
preserve, though written
exhibited by Sprat. In the next year he published Observations on Sorbiere's Voyage into England, in a letter to Mr. Wren. This is a work not_
ill

performed

but perhaps rewarded wiih at least

its full

pro-

portion of praise. In 1668, he published Cowley's Latin poems, and prefixed in Latin the life of the author ; which he afterward amplified, and

placed before Cowley's English works, which were by will committed to his care.
Ecclesiastical benefices

now

fell

fast

upon him.

In 1668, he

became

a prebendary of
St.

Westminster, and had afterward the

church of

made canon

Margaret adjoining to the abbey. He was, in 1 680, of "Windsor; in 1683, dean of Westminster ; and in

1684, bishop of Rochester. The court having thus a claim to his diligence and gratitude, lie was required to write the history of the ryehouse plot ; and
in 1685, published

A true

account and declaration of the horrid

conspiracy against the late king, his present majesty, and the firesent government ; a performance which he thought convenient,
after the revolution, to extenuate

and excuse.

The same year, being made dean of the chapel

the

clerk of the closet to the king, he

royal
;

was

and, the year afterward, received

last proof of his master's confidence, by being appointed one On the critical of the commissioners for ecclesiastical affairs.

day when the declaration distinguished the true sons of the church of England, he stood neuter, and permitted it to be read at Westminster ; but pressed none to violate his conscience ;

OFE OF
his voice in his favour.

SPRAT.

349

and when the bishop of London was brought before them, gave

Thus far he suffered interest or obedience to carry him ; but further he refused to When he found that the powers of go. the ecclesiastical commission were to be exercised against those

who had

refused the declaration, he wrote to the lords, and other

commissioners, a formal profession of his unwillingness to exercise that authority any longer, and withdrew himself from them. After they had read his letter, they adjourned for six months, and
scarcely ever

met

afterward.

king James was frighted away, and a new government was to be settled, Sprat was one of those who considered, in a conference, the great question, whether the crown was vacant, and manfully spoke in favour of his old master. He complied, however, with the new establishment, and was left unmolested but, in 1692, a strange attack was made upon
;

When

him by one Robert Young and Stephen Blackhead, both men convicted of infamous crimes, and both, when the scheme was
Newgate. These men drew up an association, which they whose names were subscribed declared their resolution to restore king James, to seize the princess of Orange dead or alive, and to be ready, with thirty thousand men to meet
laid, prisoners in

in

king James when he should

land.

To

this they put the

arid

names

of Sancroft, Sprat, Marlborough, Salisbury,

others.

The

copy of Dr. Sprat's name was obtained by a fictitious request, to which an answer in his owJt hand was desired. His hand was
copied so well, that he confessed
it

might have deceived himself.

to see the house,
;

Blackhead,

who had

carried the letter, being sent again with a

plausible message,
ticularly

was very curious

and par-

is supimportunate was association. the leave he to however, This, posed, designed and he dropped it in a flowerpot in the parlour. denied him Young now laid an information before the privy council and
; ;

to be let into the study

where, as

May

7, 1692, the
strict

under a

bishop was arrested, and kept at a messenger's guard eleven days. His house was searched, and

directions

were given that the flowerpots should be inspected. messengers, however, missed the room in which the paper was left. Blackhead went therefore a third time and finding

The
his

paper where he had

left

it,

brought

it

away.

UJ.-E

OF SPRAT.

The
13th.

bishop, having been enlarged, was, on June the 10th. and

council, and confronted
persisted, with

examined again before the privy

with his accusers.

Young

the most obdurate

impudence, against the strongest evidence ; but the resolution of Blackhead by degrees gave way. There remained at last no doubt of the bishop's innocence, who, with great prudence and
diligence, traced the progress, and detected the characters of the

two informers, and published an account of his own examination and deliverance ; which made such an impression upon him,
that he

commemorated

it

through

life

by a yearly day of thanks-

giving.

With what hope, or what interest, the villains had contrived an accusation which they must know themselves utterly unable
to prove,

was never discovered.

this,

he passed his days in the quiet exercise of his functhe cause of Sacheverell put the public in commotion, he honestly appeared among the friends of the church. He
tion.

After

When

lived to his seventy ninth year, and died

Burnet

is

not very favourable to his

May 20, 1713. memory but he and Bur;

net were old rivals.

public occasion they both preach' ed before the house of commons. There prevailed in those days
;

On some
when

an indecent custom
topic in a

the preacher touched any favourite

was

that delighted his audience, their approbation expressed by a loud hum continued in proportion to their

manner

zeal or pleasure.

When

gation
it,

hummed

so loudly and so long, that

Burnet preached, part of his congrehe sat dowu to enjoy

and rubbed his face with his handkerchief. When Sprat preached, he likewise was honoured with the like animating hum ; but he stretched out his hand to the congregation, and cried,
<(

Peace, peace,

pray you, peace."

my youth by my father, an old man, who had been no careless observer of the passages of those times. Burnct's sermon, says Salmon, was remarkable for sedition, and Sprat's for loyalty. Burnet had the thanks of the house ; Sprat had no thanks, but a good living from the king which, he
This
1

was

told in

said,

was of as much value as the thanks of the commons.

The works of Sprat, besides his few poems, are, The History of the Royal Society, The Life of Covvley, The Answer to Sorbiere, The History of the Ryehouse Plot, The Relation of bis

LIFE OF SPRAT.

351
I

own Examination, and

volume of sermons.

have heard

it

observed, with great justness, that every book is of a different kind, and that each has its distinct and charade ristical excellence.

My

business
;

is

only with his poems.

that, as

He

considered Cowlcy

as a model

he was imitated, perfection was approached. Nothing, therefore, but Pindaric liberty was to be expected. There is in his few productions no want of

and supposed

such conceits as he thought excellent; and of those our judg-

ment may be

settled

by the

first

Cromwell, where he

says, that

that appears in his praise of Cromwell's " fame, like man,

grow white

as

it

grows

old."

HALIFAX.

A HE

life

of the earl of Halifax was properly that of an artful

and active statesman, employed in balancing parties, contriving expedients, and combating opposition, and exposed to the vicissitudes of advancement and degradation
poetical merit is the claim to attention
is
;

but in this collection,

and the account which

here to be expected

may

influence in the state, but to his rank

properly be proportioned not to his among the writers of verse,

Charles Montague was born April 16, 1661, at Horton, in Northamptonshire, the son of Mr. George Montague, a younger
son of the earl of Manchester.
country, and then

He

was educated
;

first

in

the

removed

to

Westminster

where,

in 1677,

he

was chosen a king's

scholar, and

recommended himself to Busby

by his felicity in extemporary epigrams. He contracted a very intimate friendship with Mr. Stepney ; and, in 1682, when Stepney was elected at Cambridge, the election of Montague
being
not to proceed
till

the year following, he was afraid lest by being

placed at Oxford he might be separated from his companion, and therefore solicited to be removed to Cambridge, without wailing for the advantages of another year.
It

seems indeed time

to

wish for a removal

for

he was

al-

ready a schoolboy of one and twenty.

relation, Dr. Montague, was then master of the college which he was placed a fellow commoner, and took him under Here he commenced an acquaintance with his particular care.

His

in

the great Newton, which continued through his last attested by a legacy.

life,

and was

a<:

In 1685, his verses on the death of king Charles made such an impression on the earl of Dorset, that he was invited to town, and introduced by that universal patron to the other wits. In
1687, he joined with Prior in den's Mouse-) a burlesque of

The City JHousc and Country

Dn

Hind and Panther.

He

354-

LIFi;

OF HALIFAX

He

the invitation to the prince of Orange, and sat in the convention, about the same time married the countess dowager of

Manchester, and intended to have taken orders ; but afterward altering his purpose, he purchased for fifteen hundred pounds,
the place of one of the clerks of the council.

After he had written his epistle on the victory of the Boyne, his patron Dorset introduced him to king William, witn this expression

"
;

Sir,

To
of

which the king

have brought a mouse to wait on your majesty." " You do well to is said to have replied, put me

a wan of him ;" and ordered him a pension hundred pounds. This story, however current, seems to have been made after the event. The king's answer implies a
in the

way of making

five

greater acquaintance with our proverbial and familiar diction than king William could possibly have attained. In 1691, being member of the house of commons, he argued warmly in favour of a law to grant the assistance of counsel in
trials for

high treason

and, in the midst of his speech, falling into

;

some

observed,

confusion, " how

was

for a while silent

it

but, recovering himself,

reasonable

was

to allow counsel to

men

called

as criminals before

much
their

appeared how the presence of that could one of disconcert assembly

a court of justice,

when

it

own body."* After this he rose

fast into

honours and employments, being

made one

of the commissioners of the treasury, and called to the council. In 1694, he became chancellor of the excheprivy

quer ; and the next year engaged in the great attempt of the reIn 1 696, he coinage, which was in two years happily completed. projected the general fund, and raised the credit of the exchequer
it
;

was determined by

and, after inquiry concerning a grant of Irish crown lands, a vote of the commons, that Charles Mon-

tague, esquire, had deserved his majesty's favour.

In

698, being

Mr. Reed observes that this anecdote is related by Mr. Walpole, in his Catalogue of royal and noble authors, of the earl of Shaftesbury, author of the Characteristics, but it appears to me to be a mistake, if we are to understand that the words were spoken by Shaftesbury at this time, when he had no scat in the house of commons nor did the bill at this time,
;

pass

being thrown out by the house of lords. It became a law in the 7th. William, when Halifax and Shaftesbury both had seats. The editors of the Biographia Uritannica adopt Mr. "Walpolc's story, but they are not speaking Of The story first appeared in the life of lord Halifax, published in 1715. C.
this period.

LIFE OF HALIFAX.
advanced to the

355

first commission of the treasury, he was appointed one of the regency in the king's absence ; the next year he was made auditor of the exchequer, and the year after created baron Halifax. He was however impeached by the commons ;

but the articles were dismissed by the lords. At the accession of queen Anne he was dismissed from the
council ; and in the first parliament of her reign was again attacked by the commons, and again escaped by the protection of the lords. In 1704, he wrote an answer to Bromley's speech

He headed the inquiry into the against occasional conformity. danger of the church. In 1706, he proposed and negotiated the
union with Scotland
;

and when the elector cf Hanover had re-

ceived the garter, after the act had passed for securing the protestant succession, he was appointed to carry the ensigns of the
order to the electoral court.
Sacheverell
;

He

sat

as one of the judges of

but voted for a mild sentence.

Being now no

lon-

ger in favour, he contrived to obtain a writ for summoning the electoral prince to parliament as duke of Cambridge.

At
and
fax,

the queen's death he was appointed one of the regents

at the accession of

George the

first

was made

earl of Hali-

knight of the garter,

a:id Erst

commissioner of the treasnot to be had, and this he

ury, with a grant to his ship of the exchequer.

nephew

of the reversion of the auditor-

More was

kept but a little while ; for, on -:he 19th. of May, 1715, he died of an inflammation of his lungs.

panied by and Pope, who forbore to

who from a poet became a patron of poets, it v-ill be believed that the works would not miss of celebration. readily Addison began to praise him early, und was followed or accomother poets ; perhaps by almost all, except Swift
him,
flatter

Of

him

in his life,

and after his

in the

death spoke of him, Swift with slight censure, and Pope character of Bufo with acrimonious contempt.

" fed with dedications ;" for Tickell was, as Pope says, was unrewarded. To charge all unaffirms that no dedicator

He

merited praise with the guilt of flattery, and to suppose that the encomiast always knows and feels the falsehood of his assertions, nature and human is surely to discover great ignorance of human but on expeon not rules, In determinations depending life.
rience and comparison, judgment,
vol..
i.

is

always in some dccrrcr

4*

356

LIFE OF HALIFAX.

subject to affectation.

Very near

to admiration is the

wish to

admire.

Every man

willingly gives value to the praise which he receives,

and considers the sentence passed in his favour as the sentence of admire in a friend that understanding which discernment.

We

selected us for confidence

we admire more,

in a patron, that

judgment
directed

which, instead of scattering bounty indiscriminately,

it 10 us ; and, if the patron be an author, those performances which gratitude forbids us to blame, affection will easily dispose us to exalt.

these prejudices, hardly culpable, interest adds a power always operating, though not always, because not willingly, per-

To

The modesty of praise wears gradually away and perhaps the pride of patronage may be in time so increased, that modest praise will no longer please. Many a blandishment was practised upon Halifax, which he
ceived.
;

would never have known, had he had no other attractions than those of his poetry, of which a short time has withered the beauties.

It

would now be esteemed no honour, by a contributor

to the

monthly bundles of verses, to be told, that, iaj or solemn, he sings like Montague.

in strains either famil-

PARNELL.

HE
man
that

ingly decline, since

is a task which I should very willhas been lately written by Goldsmith, a of such variety of powers, and such felicity of performance,
life
it

of Dr.

PARNELL

he always seemed

to

do best that which he was doing

man who had

the art of being minute without tediousncss, and general without confusion ; whose language was copious withness.

out exuberance, exact without constraint, and easy without weak-

What
made an
fication

such an author has

abstract

told,

who would
;

tell

again

have

from his larger narrative

attempt, that
it

and have this grati-

from

my

ing due tribute to the

memory
}<ag

gives me an opportunity of payof Goldsmith.

3-atysv7V.

To

ytf>X.S 'i?l

THOMAS PARNELL was

ire,

the son of a

commonwcalthsman of
left

the same name, who, at the restoration,

Congleton

in

Chesh-

where the family had been established

for several centuries,

and, settling in Ireland, purchased an estate, which, with his lands

in Cheshire descended to the poet,

who was born

at

Dublin in

1679
at the

and, after the usual education at a

grammar

school,

was

age of thirteen, admitted into the college, where, in 1700, he became master of arts ; and was the same year ordained a deacon, though under the canonical age, by ^ dispensation from
the bishop of Deny. About three years afterward he was

made a

priest

and

in

1705 Dr. Ashe, the bishop of Clogher, conferred upon him the archdeaconry of Clogher. About the same time he married

Mrs. Anne Minchin, an amiable lady, by whom he had two who long survived him. sons, who died young, and a daughter of the whigs, in the end of queen Anne's reign, At the
ejection

Parnell was persuaded to change his party, not without

much

358
censure from those
the

LIFE OF FARNELL.

whom

he forsook, and was received by

new

ministry as a valuable reinforcement.

When

the earl

of Oxford was told that Dr. Parnell waited

among

the crowd in

the outer room, he went, by the persuasion of Swift, with his treasurer's staff in his hand, to inquire for him, and to bid him

welcome ; and, as may be inferred from Pope's dedication, admitted him as a favourite companion to his convivial hours, but, as it seems often to have happened in those times to the favourites of the great,

was

without attention to his fortune, which, however, no great need of improvement. Parnell, who did not want ambition or vanity, was desirous to make himself conspicuous, and to show how worthy he was of
in

high preferment. As he thought himself qualified to become a popular preacher, he displayed his elocution with great success in the pulpits of London ; but the queen's death putting an end to
his expectations, abated his diligence ; and Pope represents him as falling from that time into intemperance of wine. That in his latter life he was too much a lover of the bottle, is not de-

nied

but I have heard

it

imputed

to a cause

more

likely to

obtain forgiveness from mankind, the untimely death of a darling son ; or, as others tell, the loss of his wife, who died, 1712, in

the midst of his expectations.

He

was now

to derive

every future addition to his prefer-

ments from his personal interest with his private friends, and he was not long unregarded. He was warmly recommended by
Swift to archbishop King,
in

who gave him

prebend

in

1713

and

May 1716, presented him to the vicaiuge of Finglass in the diocese of Dublin, worth four hundred pounds a year. Such
man
inclines

notice from such a

me

to believe, that the vice of

which he has been accused -was not gross, or not notorious. But his prosperity did not last long. His end, whatever was its cause, was now He enjoyed his approaching.
preferment
little

more than a year

for in July,

1717, in his thirty eighth

year, he died at Chester on his

way

to Ireland.

He seems to have been one of those poets who take delight He contributed to the papers of that time, and probin writing. He left many composiably published more than he owned.
tions best,

and dedicated them

behind him, of which Pope selected those which he thought to the earl of Oxford. Of these Gold-

LIFE OP PARNELL.

3^9

contradict.

smith has given an opinion, and his criticism it is seldom safe to He bestows just praise upon The rise of Woman, The
;

Fairy Tale, and the Pervigilium Veneris

but has very properly

remarked
have not

that in

The Battle of Mice and Frogs, the Greek names

effect.
is

in

English their original

that

He

tells us,

The Book

Worm

borrowed from Bcza

but he should have added, with modern applications ; and, when he discovers that Gay Bacchus is translated from dugurellun, he ought to have remarked that the latter part is purely Parnell's.

Another poem, When Spring comes on, is, he says, taken from the French. I would add, that the description of Barrenness, in his verses to Pope, was borrowed from Secundus ; but lately searching for the passage, which I had formerly read, I could not find it. The Night piece on Death is indirectly preferred by
Goldsmith
to Gray's

Churchyard ;

but, in

my

opinion,

Gray has

the advantage of dignity, variety, and originality of sentiment. He observes, that the story of the Hermit is in More's Dialogues

and Hoivell's Letters, and supposes

Arabian.

it

to

have been originally

ty,

Goldsmith has not taken any notice of the Elegy to the old Beauwhich is perhaps the meanest ; nor of the Allegory on Man^

the happiest of Purnell's performances ; the hint of the Hymn to Contentment I suspect to have been borrowed from Cleiveland. The general character of Parnell is not great extent of com-

prehension, or
less is his

fertility

own.

of mind. Of the little that appears still His praise must be derived from the easy sweet;

ness of his diction

pains
;

in his verses there is

effort,
is

he

is

sprightly without
;

more happiness than and always delights, though

he never ravishes
casual.

every thing

If there is

some appearance
it is

proper, yet every thing seems of elaboration in the Her-

mit, the narrative, as

less* airy, is less pleasing.

Of

his

other compositions it is impossible to say whether they are the productions of nature, so excellent as not to want the help of
art,

or of art so refined as to resemble nature.

relates only to the pieces

published by Pope. large appendages which I find in the last edition, I can only say, that I know not whence they came, nor have ever inThey stand upon the faith of quired whither they are going.

This criticism

Of the

the compilers.
*

Dr. "Wjir'on ^sks, "

l*

than Mint

"
F..

GARTH.

SAMUEL GARTH
from some school
house
in in his

was of a good family

in Yorkshire,

and

own country became

till

a student at Peter-

Cambridge, where he resided

he became doctor of

He was examined before the colphysic on July the 7th. 169 1. lege at Lo.ndon on March the 12th. 1692, and admitted fellow, July 26th. 1693. He was soon so much distinguished, by his
conversation and accomplishments, as to obtain very extensive practice ; and, if a pamphlet of those times may be credited, had

the favour and confidence of one party, as Radcliffe had of the

other.

He

is

always mentioned as a

man

of benevolence

and

it

is

his desire of helping the helpless, disposed just to suppose that him to so much zeal for the Dispensary ; an undertaking, of

which some account, however short, is proper to be given. Whether what Temple says be true, that physicians have had

more

learning than the other faculties, I will not stay to inquire ; every man has found in physicians great liberality and dignity of sentiment, very prompt effusion of beneficence* and willingness to exert a lucrative art where there is no hope of physicians, of lucre. Agreeably to this character, the college candiall the an fellows, edict, requiring in July 1687, published to the neighbouradvice to and licentiates, give gratuitous dates,
but, I believe,

ing poor.
to the court of aldermen ; and, a question should be exthe appellation of the poor being made to whom to bring sufficient be should it that tended, the college answered, in the parish where the from officiating clergyman a testimonial

This edict was sent

the patient resided. found their charm After a year's experience, the physicians and made to a great desome
frustrated by

malignant opposition, of physic ; they therefore voted, gree vain by the high price

in

LIFE OF
August, 1688,

GARTH
college should be ac-

thai the laboratory of the

commodated

to the preparation of
;

medicines, and another

room
to the

prepared for their reception

and that the contributors

expense should manage the charity. It was now expected, that the apothecaries would have undertaken the care of providing medicines ; but they took another
course. Thinking the whole design pernicious to their interest? they endeavoured to raise a faction against it in the college, and found some physicians mean enough to solicit their patronage, by

betraying to

them the counsels of

the college.

The

greater

part, however, enforced by a new edict, in 1694, the former order of 1687, and sent it to the mayor and aldermen, who appointed a committee to treat with the college, and settle the mode of

administering the charity. It was desired by the aldermen, that the testimonials of church-

wardens and overseers should be admitted

sidered as/joc?*.
It

and that

all

hired

servants, and all apprentices to handicraftsmen, should be con-

This likewise was granted by the college. was then considered who should distribute the medicines,

and who should settle their prices. The physicians procured some apothecaries to undertake the dispensation, and offered that
the warden and
price.

company of the apothecaries should

;

adjust the

This

offer

engaged

to assist

was rejected and the apothecaries who had the charity were considered as traitors to the

company, threatened with the imposition of troublesome offices, and deterred from the performance of their engagements. The
apothecaries ventured upon public opposition, and presented a kind of remonstrance against the design to the committee of the and at last city, which the physicians condescended to confute
;

have prevailed among the sons of trade ; for the proposal of the college having been considered, a paper of ^approbation was drawn up, but postponed and forgotten.
the traders
to

seem

The physicians still persisted ; and in 1696 a subscription was raised by themselves, according to an agreement prefixed to the
dispensary.
for

The poor
a time,
I

how long

know

were, for a time, supplied with medicine ; The medicinal charity, like not.
at last died

others,

began with ardour, but soon remitted, and

gradually away.

LIFE OF GARTH.

363

About the time of the

Bisflensary.

The poem,

subscription begins the action of The as its subject was present and popular,

co-operated with the passions and prejudices then prevalent, and, with sucli auxiliaries to its intrinsic merit, was universally and

applauded. It was on the side of charity against the intrigues of interest, and of regular learning against licentious usurpation of medical authority, and was therefore naturally faliberally

voured by those who read and can judge of poetry. In 697, Garth spoke that which is now called the flarveia?i oration ; which the authors of the Biographia mention with more
!

praise than the passage quoted in their notes will fully justify. Garth, speaking- of the mischief done by quacks, has these ex-

pressions
sec!

"
;

Non tamen

telis

vulnerat ista agyrtarum colluvies,

theriaca quaxlam magis perniciosa, non pyrio, sed pulvere nescio quo exotico certat, non globulis plumbeis, sed pilulis seque lethalibus interftcit." This was certainly thought fine by the author, and
is still admired by his biographer. In October, 1702, he became one of the censors of the college.

Garth, being an active and zealous whig, was a

kit cat club, and,

member

of the

by consequence, familiarly known

to all the

great

fell into

denomination. In 1710, when the government other hands, he writ to lord Godolphin, on his dismission, a short poem, which was criticised in the Examiner, and

men of that

so successfully either defended or excused by Mr. Addiscn, that, for the sake of the vindication, it ought to be preserved. At the accession of the present family his merits were ac-

knowledged and rewarded.

his hero,

Marlborough

He was knighted with the sword of and was made physician in ordinary to

the king, and physician general to the army. He then undertook an edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses, translated by several hands,

which he recommended by a preface,

;

written with

more

ostentation than ability

his notions are half

formed, and his materials immethodically confused. This was his last work. He died, Jan. 18, 17 17-18, and was buried at Harrow

on the

hill.

His personal character seems

to

have been social and

liberal.

He communicated

quaintance ; ness included virulence,

'OI-. 7.

himself through a very wide extent of acand though firm in a party, at a time when firmyet he imparted .his kindness to those
"

LIFE OF GARTH.

who were not supposed to favour his principles. He was an early cncourager of Pope, and was at once the friend of Addison and of Granville. He is accused of voluptuousness and irreligion ; and Pope, who says, " that if ever there was a good Christian, without knowing himself to be so, it was Dr. Garth," seems not
able to deny what he
is

angry to hear, and loth to confess.

that

Pope afterward declared himself convinced,

the

Garth died

in

communion
is

of the church of

Rome, having been

privately

observed by Lowth, that there is less distance between thought scepticism and popery ; and that a mind, wearied with perpetual doubt, willingly seeks repose in the bosom
reconciled.
It is

than

of an infallible church.

His poetry has been praised at least equally to its merit. In The Dispensary there is a strain of smooth and free versification ;
but few lines are eminently elegant.

No

passages

fall

below

The plan seems formmediocrity, and few rise much above it. ed without just proportion to the subject ; the means and end have no necessary connection. Resnel^ in his preface to Po/ie's
Essay, remarks, that Garth exhibits no discrimination of char-

have been

and that what any one says might, with equal propriety, said by another. The general design is, perhaps, open to criticism but the composition can seldom be charged with
acters
;
;

inaccuracy or negligence.

The

author never slumbers in self

indulgence
left

his full vigour is always exerted

;

unfinished

nor

is it

; scarcely a line is easy to find an expression used by con-

straint,

Pope, that

or a thought imperfectly expressed. It was remarked by The Dispensary had been corrected in every edition,

and that every change was an improvement. It appears, however, to want something of poetical ardour, and something of general delectation ; and therefore, since it has been no longer
supported by accidental and extrinsic popularity,
scarcely able to support
itself.
it

has been

ROWE.

NICHOLAS ROWE was born at Little

shire, in

Beckford, in Bedforcu

His family had long possessed a considerable His estate, with a good house, at Lambertoun in Devonshire.* ancestor from whom he descended in a direct line received
1673.

the

arms borne by
His
father,

his descendants for his bravery in the holy

first that quitted his paternal acres to practise any art of profit, professed the law., and published Benlow's and Dallison's Reports in the reign of

war.

John Rowe, who was the

James

the second, when, in opposition to the notions then

dili-

gently propagated, of dispensing power, he ventured to remark how low his authors rated the prerogative. He was made a serHe was bin led in the Temple, geant, and died, April 30 5 1692.

church.

Nicholas was

first

sent to a private school at Highgate

and,

being afterward removed to Westminster, was at twelve yearsf chosen one of the king's scholars. His master was Busby, who
suffered none of his scholars to let their powers
lie

useless

and

his exercises in several languages are said to have been written of excellence, and yet to have cost him with uncommon

degrees

very

little

labour.

At sixteen he had, in his father's opinion, made advances in him for the study of law, and was learning sufficient to qualify middle the temple, where for some time entered a student of
statutes and reports with proficiency proportionate to the force of his mind, which was already such that he endeavoured to comprehend law, not as a series of precedents, or collection of positive precepts, but as a system of rational government, ano

he read

impartial justice.
* In the Villarc, Lamerton.
Grig. Edit,
1088.

tile was not elected

till

366

LIFE OF ROWE.
he was nineteen, he was, by the death of his lather, to his own direction, and probably from that time suf-

When
left

more

fered law gradually to give way to poetry. At twenty five he produced The Ambitious Stcfi Mother, which was received with so

much

favour, that

he devoted himself from that time wholly

to elegant literature.

His next tragedy, 1702, was Tamerlane, in which, under the of Tamerlane, he intended to characterize king illiam, and Lewis the fourteenth under that of Bajazet. The virtues

name

of Tamerlane
poet, for
I

those

seem to have been arbitrarily assigned him by his know not that history gives any other qualities than which make a conqueror. The fashion, however, of the
to
;

time was,

detestation

accumulate upon Lewis all that can raise horror and and whatever good was withheld from him, that it

might not be thrown away, Avas bestowed upon king William. This was the tragedy which Rowe valued most, and that which probably, by the help of political auxiliaries, excited most applause
;

sional praise.

but occasional poetry must often content itself with occaTamerlane has for a long time been acted only

once a year, on the night when king William landed. Our quarrel with Lewis has been long over ; and it now gratifies neither
zeal nor malice to see
like a Saracen

him painted with aggravated

1703,
it

features,

upon a

sign.

The Fair Penitent,

his next production,

is

one of the

most pleasing tragedies on the

stage,

where

still

keeps

its

turns of appearing, and probably will long keep them, for there is scarcely any work of any poet at once so interesting by the
fable,

and so delightful by the language.

The

story is domestic,

and therefore
to

common

easily received by the imagination, and assimilated life ; the diction is exquisitely harmonious, and soft

or sprightly as occasion requires. The character of Lothario seems to have been expanded by Richardson into Lovelace ; but he has excelled his original iu

the moral effect of the

fiction.

Lothario,

r.'itb

gaiety which can-

not be hated, and bravery which cannot be despised, retains too much of the spectator's kindness. It was in the power of Rich-

ardson alone to teach us at once esteem and detestation, to

virtuous resentment overpower
all

make

the benevolence which wit,

;

elegance, and courage, naturally excite hero in the villain.

and

to lose at last, the

LIFE OF HOWE.

3G7
;

The
drama
past,

fifth act is

not equal to the former

little

the events of the

to talk of

are exhausted, and

It

remains but
title

what

is

has been observed, that the

of the play does not

sufficiently

correspond with the behaviour of Calista,

who

at last

shows no evident signs of repentance, but may be reasonably suspected of feeling pain from detection rather than from guilt, and expresses more shame than sorrow, and more rage than
shame.

His next, 1706, was Ulysses; which, with the common fate of mythological stories, is now generally neglected. have been too early acquainted with the poetical heroes, to expect any

We

pleasure from their revival

to

show them,
;

as they have already

been shown,
ities,

is to

disgust by repetition
is to

to give

them new

qual-

or

new

adventures,

offend by violating received notions.

The Royal Convert, 1708, seems to have a better claim to lonThe fuble is drawn from an obscure and barbarous age, gevity. for \vhcn to which fictions are more easily and properly adapted objects are imperfectly seen, they easily take forms from imagi;

nation.

and therefore very

ancestors in our own country, attention. catches Rodogunc is a pereasily violent and of passions, great high spirit, sonage truly tragical, a soul that would with dignity, and wicked with

The

scene

lies

among our

tempestuous have been heroic if

it

had been virtuous.

The motto seems

to

tell, that this play was not successful. Rowe does not always remember what

his characters require.

In Tamerlane there
love

is

some

and Rodogune, a savage ; of Jupiter. eagle that bears the thunder This play discovers its own date, by a prediction of the union,

ridiculous mention of the god of Saxon, talks of Venus, and the

in imitation of

Cranmer's prophetic promises

to

Henry

(he eighth,

The

are not very naturally introanticipated blessings of union

duced, nor very happily expressed.

comedy,

He ventured on a lie once, 1706, tried to change his hand. was and produced The Biter ; with which, though it
;

he was himself delighted unfavourably treated by the audience, vehehouse in the sat laughing with great for he is said to have
a opinion produced jest of mirth, had no sympathy But, finding that he and the public

mence, whenever he had,

he
tried at lighter scenes

in his

own

no more.

368

LIFE OF ROWE.

as

its

After the Royal Convert, 1714, appeared Jane Shore, written, author professes, imitation of Shakes/ieare'x style. In

what he thought himself an imitator of Shakespeare,

it

is

not

The numbers, the diction, the sentiments, easy to conceive. and the conduct, every thing in which imitation can consist, are remote in the utmost degree from the manner of Shakespeare,
whose dramas it resembles only as it is an English story, and as some of the persons have their names in history. Thii> play,
consisting chiefly of domestic scenes and private distress, lays

hold upon the heart. The wife is forgiven because she repents, and the husband is honoured because he forgives. This, therestill welcome on the stage. was lady Jane Grey. This subject had been chosen by Mr. Smith, whose papers were put into Rowe's hands such as he describes them in his preface. This play From this time he gave nothlikewise has sunk into oblivion.

fore, is

one of those pieces which we

tragedy,
1715,

His

last

ing more to the stage.

Being by a competent fortune exempted from any necessity of combating his inclination, he never wrote in distress, and therefore does not appear to have ever written in haste. His

works were finished to his own approbation, and bear few marks It is remarkable, that his prologues and of negligence or hurry. epilogues are all his own, though he sometimes supplied others j he afforded help, but did not solicit it.

As his studies necessarily made him acquainted with Shakespeare, and acquaintance produced veneration, he undertook, 1709, an edition of his works, from which he neither received much
praise, nor
to have expected it ; yet, I believe, those who with former compare copies, will find that he has done more than he promised ; and that, without the pomp of notes or boasts
it

seems

of criticism, many passages are happily restored. He prefixed life of the author, such as tradition, then almost expiring, could

* which cannot be said to discover m/,. jh supply, and a preface, or He at least contributed to the penetration. profundity popularity of his author.

He was
*

willing

than poetry.

He

enough to improve was undersecretary

his fortune

by other

arts

for three years

it

when the

from

Mr. ROAVC'S preface, however, is not this passage, from the life. R.

distinct, as

might be suppose^

LIFE OF ROWE.

369

to the earl of

duke of Queensbury was secretary of state, and afterward applied Oxford for some public employment.* Oxford

enjoined

him

to study

Spanish

he came

again, and said that he had mastered

sir, I

and when, some time afterward, it, dismissed him

with this congratulation, " Then,

reading

envy you the pleasure of

but

Don Quixote
is

in the original."
;

This story

sufficiently attested

why

Oxford,

who

de-

sired to be thought, a favourer of literature, should thus insult a

man

of acknowledged merit ; or how Rowe, who was so keen a whigf that he did not willingly converse with men of the opposite party,

sible to discover.

could ask preferment from Oxford, it is not now posPope, who told the story, did not say on what
;

occasion the advice was given

and, though he

owned Rowe's

disappointment, doubted whether any injury was intended him, but thought it rather lord Oxford's odd way. It is likely that he lived on discontented through the rest of

queen Anne's reign

kinder friends.

but the time

came

at last

when he found

At

poet laureat ; I am who, IT 16, died in the Mint, where he was forced to seek shelextreme poverty. He was made likewise one of the land ter

the accession of king George he was made afraid by the ejection of poor Nahum Tate,

by

of London. The prince of surveyors of the customs of the port Wales chose him clerk of his council ; and the lord chancellor

Parker, as soon as he received the

secretary of the presentations.

seals,

appointed him, unasked,

Such an accumulation of em-

a considerable revenue. ployments undoubtedly produced very some translated parts of Lucan's Pharsalia, already

Having which had been published in the miscellanies, and doubtless received many praises, he undertook a version of the whole work,
which he
lived to finish, but not to publish.
It

seems

to

have

been printed under the care of Dr. Wclwood, who prefixed the author's life, in which is contained the following character.
"

As

to his person,

it

of a regular, and
so
its

manly beauty.

was graceful and well made his face As his soul was well lodged,
;

rational

and animal faculties excelled

fruitful invention, a

in a

high degree.
in

He

had a quick and

deep penetration, and a large

and easiness compass of thought, with singular dexterity

*

mak

Spewce.

37O

LIFE OF HOWE.

ing his thoughts to be understood. He was master of most parts of polite learning, especially the classical authors, both Greek and Latin understood the French, Italian, and Spanish langua;

ges

and spoke the

first fluently,

and the other two tolerably

well.

" lie had likewise read most of the

ries in their original languages,
lish,

Greek and Roman

histo-

French,
;

Italian,

and most that are wrote in Engand Spanish. He had a good taste in phi-

losophy and, baving a firm impression of religion upon his mind, he took great delight in divinity and ecclesiastical history, in both

which he made great advances country, which were frequent.

a sincere

in the

times he retired into the

all
;

Pie expressed, on

occasions,

his full persuasion of the truth of revealed religion

member

and being of the established church himself, he pitied,

it.

but condemned not, those that dissented from

the principles of persecuting
ions in religion
;

He

abhorred

men upon the

account of their opin-

him was

to

and being strict in his own, he took it not upon censure those of another persuasion. His conversation and
his inimitable
it

pleasant, witty, and learned, without the least tinctu re of

;

affectation or pedantry

and enlivening the company, made out of humour when he was in it.
tions
least
lus,

manner of diverting impossible for any one to be

detraction

Envy and
;

seemed

to be entirely foreign to his constitution

and whatever provoca-

he met with at any time, he passed them over without the thought of resentment or revenge. As Homer had a Zoifor there were not wantso Mr, Rowe had sometimes his
;

ing malevolent people, and pretenders to poetry too, that would now and then bark at his best performances ; but he was so much
conscious of his
forgive

own

genius, and had so

much good

nature as to

them

nor could he ever be tempted to return them an

answer. " The love of learning and poetry made him not the less fit for business, and nobody applied himself closer to it, when it re-

The late duke of Queerisberry, when he made him his secretary for public affairs ; and when that truly great man came to know him well, he was never so pleased as when Mr. Rowe was in his company. After
quired his attendance. \vas secretary of state,
the duke's death,
all avenues were stopped to his preferment ; and during the rest of that reign, he passed his time with the

LIFE OF HOWE.

muses and
friends.

his books, and

sometimes the conversation of his

to

" a

When
way

he had just got

fair

to

make

it

better, death

be easy in his fortune, and was in swept him away, and in him

deprived the world of one of the best men, as well as one of the
best geniuses of the age. He died like a Christian and a philosin with all mankind, and with an absolute resignaopher, charity humour to the his tion to the will of God. He
last
;

good kept up and took leave of his wife and friends, immediately before his last agony, with the same tranquillity of mind, and the same
indifference for
life,

a short though he had been upon taking but first to a daughter of Mr. Par; journey. and afterward to a sons, one of the auditors of the revenue
as

He was

twice married

in Dorsetshire. By daughter of Mr. Devenish, of a good family and by the- second a daughter, married the first he had a son
;

afterward to Mr. Fane.

He

died the 6th. of December, 1718,

;

in the forty fifth year of his

age

and was buried the nineteenth

in the aisle

of the

same month

in

Westminster Abbey,

where

many

his body being

of our English poets are interred, over against Chaucer, attended by a select number of his friends, and

the dean and choir officiating at the funeral."

To

this character,

of a friend,

may

letter to Blount,

which is apparently given with the fondness be added the testimony of Pope ; who says, in a " Mr. Rowe accompanied me, and passed a
I

tell you how much a man of his must but acquaint you, there is a vivacturn entertained me make almost of peculiar to him, which disposition, ity and gaiety from him without that uneasiness which to

week

in the Forest.

need not
I

it

part impossible all our pleasure." generally succeeds his companion, has left behind him another mention of

Pope
"

less advantageous,
in

which

is

thus reported by Dr. Warburton.

Mr. Pope's opinion, maintained a decent character, Rowe, offended with some but had no heart. Mr. Addison was justly and estranged lumsel that from want, behaviour, which arose Mr. Pope, their felt severely. Rowe which very from him at some Junecommon friend, knowing this, took an opportunity, how him tell to poor ture of Mr. Addison's advancement,
;

was grieved at his displeasure, and which he expressed ed at Mr. Addison's good fortune
;

what

satisfaction

he expressso

nw

VOL.

*.

LIFE OF ROWE.
ally, that he,

Addison replied,
ity of his heart

Mr. Pope, could not but think him sincere, MF, I do not suspect that he feigned but the lev'
;

struck with any new adventure ; and it would affect him just in the same manner, if he heard I was going to be handed.' Mr. Pope said he could not deny but
is

such, that he

is

Mr. Addison understood Rowe well." This censure time has not left us the power of confirming or
but observation daily shows, that much stress is not to on hyperbolical accusations, and pointed sentences, which even he that utters them desires to be applauded rather than
refuting
;

be

laid

credited.

Addison can hardly be supposed

to

have meant

all

that

characters can bear the microscopic scrutiny of ivit quickened by anger ; and perhaps the best advice to authors would be, that they should keep out of the way of one another.
said.

he

Few

Rowe
lator.

is chiefly to

be considered as a tragic writer and a trans-

In his attempt at comedy he failed so ignominiously, that and his occasional poems his 'Biter is not inserted in his works
;

and short compositions are rarely worthy of either praise or censure

to
;

for they
its

seem

the casual sports of a

its

mind seeking rather

is

amuse

leisure than to exercise

powers.
not

In the construction of his dramas, there

is

much

art

he

not a nice observer of the unities.

place as his convenience requires. my opinion, any violation of nature,

He extends time and varies To vary the place is not, in

if

the change be

made

be-

tween the
himself
at

acts

no less easy for the spectator to suppose Athens in the second act, than at Thebes in the first;
;

for

it

is

but to change the scene, as is clone by Rowe, in the middle of an act, is to add more acts to the play, since an act is so much of the business as is transacted without interruption. Rowe, by this

from difficulties ; as, in Jane Grey, when we have been terrified with all the dreadful pomp of public execution, and are wondering how the heroine or the poet will proceed, no sooner has Jane pronounced some
license, easily extricates himself

prophetic

rhymes, than, pass and be gone, the scene closes, and Pembroke and Gardiner are turned out upon the stage.
I

know

into nature,

not that there can be found in his plays any deep search any accurate discriminations of kindred qualities, or
its

nice display of passion in

fined.

progress

all is

general and unde-

Nor does he much

interest or affect the auditor, except

LIFE OF HOWE.

37 S

m Jane Shore, who

is always seen and heard with pity. Alicia is a character of empty noise, with no resemblance to real sorrow or to natural madness.

Whence, then, has Rowe his reputation ? From the reasonableness and propriety of some of his scenes, from the elegance of his diction, and the He seldom moves suavity of his verse. either pity or terror, but he often elevates the sentiments ; he
seldom pierces the
breast, but

he always delights the

Verses^ and of the first

ear,

and

often improves the understanding.

His translation of the Golden

Quillet's

book of
Golden

poem, have nothing

in

them remarkable.

The

Verses are tedious.

The

version of
;

Lucan
for there

is

English poetry

is

one of the greatest productions of perhaps none that so completely

Lucan is distinexhibits the genius and spirit of the original. guished by a kind of dictatorial or philosophic dignity, rather, as
QuintiUan observes, declamatory than poetical ; full of ambitious morality and pointed sentences, comprised in vigorous and animated lines. This character Rowe has very diligently and successfully

preserved.

His

versification,

which

is

such as his

contemporaries practised, without any attempt at innovation or improvement, seldom wants either melody or force. His author's sense is

sometimes a

little

diluted by additional infusions,

and sometimes weakened by too much expansion. But such faults are to be expected in all translations, from the constraint of

measures and dissimilitude of languages.

*The

Pharsalia of
it

Rowe
*

deserves

read will

more notice than be more esteemed.*

of

it

obtains,

and as

is

more

The

life

Rowe

is

a very remarkable

instance of die
I

uncommon

strength of Dr. Johnson's

memory.

When

received from

him the MS.

he complacently observed, "that the criticism was tolerably well dour, thirtv yeovs." considering that he had not seen Rowe's works for

ADDISON.

JOSEPH ADDISON was born

on the

first

of May, 1672, at

Milston, of which his father, Lancelot Acldison, was then rector, near in Wiltshire, and appearing weak and unlikely to live,

Ambrosebury he was christened the same day. After the usual domestic education, which, from the character of his father, may be of reasonably supposed to have given him strong impressions at AmbroseMr. of care the to Naish, piety, he was committed
bury, and afterward of Mr. Taylor at Salisbury. Not to name the school or the masters of men illustrious for is is a kind of historical fraud, by which honest fame
literature,
I would therefore trace him through injuriously diminished; In 1683, in the beginning education. his of the whole process

of his twelfth year, his father, being

made dean

of Lichfieid,

to his new residence, and, I beiieve, naturally carried his family not long, under Mr. Shaw, placed him for some time, probably father of the late Dr Peat school the Lichfieid, then master of

ter

count, and

have given no acof a barring out, told me, only from a story when I was a boy, by Andrew Corbet of Shropshire, who had heard it from Mr. Pigot his uncle. The practice of barring out was a savage license, practised in the boys, schools to the end of the last century, by which

Shaw.

Of

this interval his biographers

it

know

many

when the

periodical

vacation

drew near, growing petulant

at

the

before the time of regular recess, approach of liberty, which they barred the doors, and of the of school, took possession It is not easy to defiance from the windows.

some days

bade their master occasions the master would do more than suppose that on such be credited, he often struggled hard laugh ; yet, if tradition may

The master, when Pigot \\ as to force or surprise the garrison. and the whole operaa schoolboy, was barred out at Lichfieid ;
tion, as

he

said,

was planned and conducted by Addison.

376

LIFE OF ADDISCXS.

To judge better of the probability of this story, I have inquired when he was sent to the Chartreux ; but, as he was not one
of those who enjoyed the founder's benefaction, there is no account preserved of his admission. At the school of the Churtrcux, to which he was removed either from that of Salisbury

Dr.

or Lichficld, he pursued his juvenile studies under the care of Ellis, and contracted that intimacy with sir Richard Steele,

\vhich their joint labours have so effectually recorded.

Of this memorable friendship the greater praise must be It is not hard to love those from whom given to Steele. nothing can be feared ; and Addison never considered Steele as a rival >
but Steeie lived, as he confesses, under an habitual subjection to the predominating genius of Addison, whom he always mentioned with reverence, and treated with obsequiousness.

Addison,* \vho knew his own dignity, could not always forbear to show it, by playing a little upon his admirer ; but he was his jests were endured without resistin no danger of retort ance or resentment.
;

But the sneer of

jocularity

was not the

worst.

Steele,

whose

imprudence of generosity,

or vanity of profusion,

kept

him

always incurably necessitous, upon some pressing exigence, in an evil hour, borrowed an hundred pounds of his friend,

probably without much purpose of repayment ; but Addison, who seems to have had other notions of a hundred pounds, grew

impatient of delay, and reclaimed his loan by an execution. Steele felt with great sensibility the obduracy of his creditor, but with emotions of sorrow rather than of anger.f
in

In 1687 he was entered into queen's college in Oxford, where, 1 689, the accidental perusal of some Latin verses gained him

the patronage of Dr. Lancaster, afterward provost of queen's college ; by whose recommendation he was elected into Mag*

Spence-

was communicated to Johnson in my hearing by a person of untiuestionable veracity, but whose name I am not at liberty to mention. He had it, as he told us, from lady Primrose, to whom Steele related it
f This
fact

that he had heard,

The late Dr. Stinton confirmed it to me, by savins:, from Mr. Hooke, author of the Roman History and he, from Mr. Pope. H.
with tears in his eyes.
it
;

related.

See, Victor's Letters, Vol. R.

I.

p. 328, this transaction

somewhat differently

LIFE OF ADDISON.
dalen college as a demy, a term by -which that society denominates those which are elsewhere called scholars ; young men

who partake of the founder's benefaction, and succeed in their order to vacant fellowships.*
Here he continued
first

to cultivate poetry

and criticism, and grew

eminent by

his Latin compositions,

which are indeed

entitled

to particular praise.
tion

He

has not confined himself to the imita-

of any ancient author, but has formed his style from the general language, such as a diligent perusal of the productions of different ages happened to supply.
ness, for

His Latin compositions seem to have had much of his fondhe collected a second volume of the MUS<K Anglican*,
for a

perhaps

are inserted, and

convenient receptacle, in which all his Latin pieces where his poem on the peace has the first place.

He

time,

afterward presented the collection to Boiieau, who, from that " conceived," says Tickell, "an opinion of the English gen-

ius for poetry."

Nothing is better known of Boiieau, than that he had an injudicious and peevish contempt of modern Latin, and
therefore his profession of regard civility rather than approbation.

was probably

the effect of his

Three of his Latin poems are upon subjects on which perhaps he would not have ventured to have written in his own The Battle of the Pigmies and Cranes ; The Baromlanguage.
eter
;

and

A Bowling green. When

the matter

is

low or scanty,

a dead language, in which nothing is mean because nothing is familiar, affords great conveniences ; and, by the sonorous magnifi-

Roman syllables, the writer conceals penury of thought, and want of novelty, often from the reader, and oficn from himself. In his twenty second year he first showed his power of Engand soon af. lish poetry by some verses addressed to Dryden of the fourth the of a translation terward published greater part " latter swarm after my which, says Dryden, Georgic, upon Bees; is hardly worth the hiving."
cence of
;

About the same time he composed the arguments prefixed

to the several

and produced on essay and uninstructivc, withon the Georgics, juvenile, superficial, books of Dryden's Virgil
;

out

much

either of the scholar's learning or the critic's penetra-

tion.
*

He

took the degree of

M. A.

Feb.

H,

LIFE OF ADD1SON.
His next paper of verses contained a character of the prinHenry Sacheverell, who was then, if not a poet, a writer of verses ;* as is shown by his vercipal English poets, inscribed to

sion of a small part of Virgil's Georgics, published in the miscellanies ; and a Latin encomium on queen Maiy, in the MUS<K

These verses exhibit all the fondness of friendship ; but on one side or the other, friendship was afterward too weak for the malignity of faction.
Anglicana.
In this poem is a very confident and discriminate character of Spenser, whose work he had then never read.f So little sometimes is criticism the effect of judgment. It is necessary to inthat about this time he was introduced by ConAddison greve to Montague, then chancellor of the exchequer was then learning the trade of a courtier, and subjoined Montague as a poetical name to those of Cowley and of Dryden.
;

form the reader,

By

Tickell, with his natural modesty, he

the influence of Mr. Montague, concurring, according to was diverted from his

original design of entering into holy orders.

Montague alleged

employments without and declared, that, though he was representliberal education ed as an enemy to the church, he would never do it any injury but by withholding Addison from it. Soon after, in 1695, he wrote a poem to king William, with a
civil
;

the corruption of men

who engaged in

rhyming

introduction addressed to lord Somers.

to elegance or literature
;

had no regard

his study

yet by a choice of ministers, whose disposition

King William was only war ; was very different

very liberal

from
*

his

own, he procured, without

intention, a

A letter which I found among Dr. Johnson's papers, dated in January, 1784, from a lady iu Wiltshire, contains a discovery of some importance in literary history, viz. that, by the initials 11. S. prefixed to the poem, we are not to understand the famous Dr. Henry Sacheverell, whose trial is the most
remarkable incident
in his life.

The

information thus communicated

is,

that

the verses in question were not an address to the famous Dr. Sacheverell, but to a very ingenious gentleman of the same name, who died young, supposed
to be a
this

Manksman,
left his

for that

he wrote the history of the

Isle

of

Man.

That

papers, to Mr. Addison, and had formed the plan of a tragedy upon the death of Socrates. The lady says she had this information from a Mr. Stephens, who was a fellow of Merton college, a contemporary

person

and intimate with Mr. Addison prebendary of Winchester

.

in

Oxford,

who died, near

fifty

years ago, a

H.
t Spenco.

OF ADDISON.
<

379

Addison was caressed both by Somers and Montague. In 1697 appeared his Latin verses on the peace of Ryswick, which he dedicated to Montague, and which was afterward called
by Smith,
" the best Latin

patronage to poetry.

poem
;

since the jEneicl."

Praise must

not be too rigorously examined

but the performance cannot be

denied to be vigorous and elegant. Having yet no public employment, he obtained, in 1699, a pension of three hundred pounds a year, that he mi^ht be enabled to travel. He staid a year at Blois,* probably to learn the Trench language ; and then proceeded in his journey to Italy,
far from being he not only collected his observations on the country, but found time to write his dialogues on medals, and four acts of

which he surveyed with the eyes of a poet. While he was travelling at leisure, he was
;

idle

for

Cato.

Such

at least is the relation

of Tickell.

Perhaps he only

collected his materials, and formed his plan.

Whatever were
wrote the

his other

letter to lord

employments in Italy, he there Halifax, which is justly considered as the

his poetical productions.
it

most
But

elegant, if not the

most sublime, of

necessary to hasten home ; being, as Swift informs us, distressed by indigence, and compelled to become the tutor of a travelling squire, because his pension
in about

two years he found

was not remitted.

At
lord

his

Somers.

return he published his travels, with a dedication to As his stay in foreign countries was short, his

observations are such as might be supplied by a hasty view, and consist chiefly in comparisons of the present face of the country

with the descriptions

left

us by the

Roman

poets,

from

whom

he made preparatory collections, though he might have spared the trouble, had he known that such collections had been made
twice before by Italian authors.

The most amusing passage of his book is his account of the minute republic of San Marino of many parts it is not a very severe censure to say, that they might have been written at homeHis elegance of language, and variegation of prose and verse,
;

however, gains upon the reader

*

and the book, though a while

Spence.

POL.

I.

49

380
neglected, before

LIFE OF ADDkAj.

became
it

in

time so
it

much

the favourite of the public.

its

th.it

was reprinted
to

rose to five times

price.

When

he returned

England, in

1702,

with a meanness of

of the difficulties to which he appearance which gave testimony his old found had been reduced, he patrons out of power, and for the cultivation of his full leisure at a for was therefore, time,

mind
little

and a mind so cultivated gives reason to believe thai

lost.

time was

But he remained not

at

neglected or useless. The victory Blenheim, 1704, spread triumph and confidence over the nalong-

tion

and lord Godolphin, lamenting to lord Halifax, that it had ; not been celebrated in a manner equal to the subject, desired

him to propose it to some better poet. Halifax told him, that there was no encouragement for genius ; that worthless men
were unprofitably enriched with public money, without any care to find or employ those whose appearance might do honour to
their country.

To

this

should in time be rectified

Godolphin replied, that such abuses and that if a man could be found ;

capable of the task then proposed, he should not want an ample recompense. Halifax then named Addison, but required that the
treasurer should apply to
sent the

him in his own person. Godolphin message by Mr. Boyle, afterward lord Carleton and Addison, having undertaken the work, communicated it to the treasurer, while it was yet advanced no further than the simile
;

of the angel, and was immediately rewarded by succeeding Mr. Locke in the place of commisdoner of appeals.
In the following year he was at Hanover with lord Halifax
;

and the year

sir

was made under secretary of state, Charles Hedges, and in a few months more to the
after
this

first

to

earl of

Sunderland

About

time the prevalent

taste for Italian

him own

to try

what would be the

effect of a

operas inclined musical drama in our

He therefore wrote the opera of Rosamond, language. which, when exhibited on the stage, was either hissed or neglected
;

but, trusting that the readers

would do him more

skill, in

justice,

he published it with an inscription

a

to the dutchess of

Maryborough ;

woman

without

skill,

or pretensions to

poetry or literaservile absurd-

ture,

His dedication was therefore an instance of

LIFE OP ADDTSON.
ity, to

381

be exceeded only by Joshua Barnes's dedication of a Greek

Anacreon to the duke. His reputation had been somewhat advanced by The Taulrr Husband, a comedy which Steele dedicated to him, with a confession that he owed to him several of the most successful scenes.
Addison supplied a prologue. the marquis of Wharton was appointed lord lieutenant of Ireland, Addison attended him as his secretary, and was made
this play

To

When

keeper of the records in Birmingham's tower, with a salary of The office was little more than three hundred pounds a year. was and the nominal, salary augmented for his accommodation.
Interest and faction allow
little

to the operation of particular

dispositions or private opinions.

ters

Two men
of

of personal charac-

more opposite than those

not easily be brought together. of regard, to gate, and shameless, without regard, or appearance said of right and wrong ;* whatever is contrary to this, may be

Wharton and Addison could Wharton was impious, profli-

Addison

but as agents of a party they were connected, and they adjusted their other sentiments we cannot know. Addison must however not be too hastily condemned.
;

how
It is

not necessary to refuse benefits from a bad man, when the acof his crimes ; nor has the subceptance implies no approbation the opinions or conduct examine to officer ordinate any obligation of those under whom he acts, except that he may not be made
the instrument of wickedness.
It is

Addison

counteracted, as far as

he was

reasonable to suppose that able, the malignant and

tervention

of the lieutenant ; and that at least by his inblasting influence some good was done, and some mischief prevented.

When

he was

in

office,

he made a law

to himself, as Swift

has recorded, never to remit his regular fees in civility to his " I " may have a hundred friends and if friends ; for," said he,
;

two guineas, I shall, by relinquishing my right, lose my there than i\vo two hundred guineas, and no friend gain more and the the between imported ^oou is therefore no proportion
fee be
;

evil suffered."

He

was

in

Ireland

when

Stccle, without any

comrm
;

m
which
ill,

of his design, began the publication a remark on Virgil not long concealed ; by inserting
*

of the Taller

but he v;

Dr. Johnson appears

liis

to

l,

a vc

Wended the character

of the marquii

that of

son the duke.

N-

382

LIFE OF ADD1SON.

It is indeed not Acldison had given him, he discovered himself. easy for any man to write upon literature or common life, so as

not to

converses, and

make himself known to those with whom he who are acquainted with his track of

familiarly

study, his

favourite topics, his peculiar notions, and his habitual phrases. If Steele desired to write in secret, he was not lucky ; a single

His first Tatler was published April 22, Tickell 1709, and Addison's contribution appeared May 26. without concluded Tatler was and that the observes, begun hisj
concurrence.
not suffer

month detected him.

This

is

doubtless literally true

but the work did

much

by his unconsciousness of iis

its

commencement, or

his absence at

cessation

for

he continued his assistance to

December

23, and the paper slopped on January 2.

He

did

not distinguish his pieces by any signature ; and I know not whether his name was not kept secret till the papers were collected into volumes.

To the Tatler, in about two months, succeeded the Spectator ; a series of essays of the same kind, but written with less levity, upon a more regular plan, and published daily. Such an undertaking showed the writers not to distrust their own copiousness
of materials or
facility

of composition, and their performance

their confidence. They found, however, in their progress, justified many auxiliaries. To attempt a single paper was no terrifying
; many pieces were offered and many were received. Addison had enough of the zeal of party, but Steele had at The Spectator, in one of the that time almost nothing else. first papers, showed the political tenets of its authors ; but a res-

labour

olution

eral topics,

was soon taken, of courting general approbation by genand subjects on which faction had produced no di;

versity of sentiments
life.

such as

literature, morality,

and familiar

To

this practice they

adhered with few deviations.

The

ardour of Steele once broke out in praise of Marlborough ; and when Dr. Fieetwood prefixed to some sermons a preface, overflowing with whiggish opinions, that it might be read by the queen,*; it was reprinted in the Spectator.
Tliis particular number of the Spectator, it is said, was not published twelve o'clock, that it might come out precisely at the hour of her majesty's breakfast, and that no time might he left for deliberating about serv-

till

ing it up with that meal, as usual. See the edition of the notes, Vol. VI. No. 2H, note. p. 452, &c. N.

TATJ.ER

with

LIFE OF ADDISON.

C83

To teach the minuter decencies and inferior duties, to regulate the practice of daily conversation, to correct those depravities which are rather ridiculous than criminal, and remove those grievances which,
ly vexation,
if

they produce no lasting calamities, impress hour-

first attempted by Casa in his hook of Mu.rn.ers) and Castiglione in his Cuurtier ; two books yet celebrated in Italy for purity and elegance, and which, if they are now less read,

was

are neglected only because they have effected that reformation which their authors intended, and their precepts now are no lon-

ger wanted.
written
is

Their usefulness

sufficiently attested

to the age in which they were by the translations which almost all

Europe were in haste to obtain. This species of instruction was continued, and perhaps advanced, by the French ; among whom la Bruyere's Manners of
the Age, though, as Boileau remarked, it is written without connection, certainly deserves great praise for liveliness of description

the nations of

and justness of observation. Before the Tatler and Spectator,

if

the writers for the theatre

are excepted, England had no masters of common life. No writers had yet undertaken to reform either the savageness of neglect, or the impertinence of civility ; to show when to speak

how to refuse or how to comply. had ma; teach us our more important dudes, and to settle but an Arbiter Elegini'iurum^ opinions in philosophy or politics a judge of propriety, was yet wanting, who should survey the
or to be silent

We

ny books

to

it from thorns and prickles, which tease the passer, though they do not wound him. For this purpose nothing is so proper as the frequent publication of short papers, which we read not as study but amusement.

track of daily conversation, and free

If the

likewise subject be slight, the treatise

is

short.

The

busy may find time, and the idle may find patience. This mode of conveying cheap and easy knowledge began among us in the civil war,* when it was much the interest of
*

Newspapers appear
;

to have

The original sinner Cleiveland, in his character of a London Diurnal, says, of this kind was Dutch Gallo Kclgicus the Protoplas, and the n.n.leni M.
i

had an earlier date than here asstgned. "

curies but

Hans en Kelders."
mentioned
in

Some

intelligence pi^-ii
p.

l.\

.Mercnrins <.:dlo
ori-inalh pubin

Belgicus

is

Carew's Survey of Cornwall,

first.

I'J'">,

lished in 1602.

These

vehicles of information arc often mentioned

tin

Charles the plays of James and

R.

LIFE OF ADDISON.
either party to raise and fix the prejudices of the people. At that time appeared Mercurius Aulicus, Mercurius Rusticus, and
It is said, that when any title grew popular, was stolen by the antagonist, who by this stratagem conveyed his notions to those who would not have received him had he not

Mercurius Civicus.

it

worn the appearance of

days
left

a friend.

The tumult

of those unhappy

scarcely any man leisure to treasure up occasional compositions ; and so much were they neglected, that a complete
collection is

no where to be found. These Mercuries were succeeded by L'Estrange's Observa;

and that by Lesley's Rehearsal, and perhaps by others ; hitherto nothing had been conveyed to the people, in this
tor

but

com-

modious manner, but controversy relating to the church or state ; of which they taught many to talk, whom they could not teach
to judge.
It has been suggested, that the royal society was instituted soon after the restoration, to divert the attention of the people from public discontent. The Taller and Spectator had the

same tendency

ties, loud, restless,

they were published at a time when two parand violent, each wilh plausible declarations,

and each perhaps without any distinct termination of its views, were agitating the nation ; to minds heated with political contest,
they supplied cooler and more inoffensive reflections
said by Addison, in a subsequent work, that they
;

and

it

is

had a perceptible influence upon the conversation of that time, and taught the frolicsome and the gay to unite merriment with decency an effect
;

which they can never wholly lose, while they continue to be among the first books by which both sexes are initiated into the
elegances of knowledge. The Taller and Spectator adjusted, like Casa, the unsettled practice of daily intercourse by propriety and politeness ; and,

and manners of the age. personages introduced in these papers were not merely ideal they were then known, and conspicuous in various stalike la Bruyere, exhibited the characters

The

Of the Taller this is told by Steele in his last paper ; and of the Spectator by Budgell in the preface to Theophrastus ; a book which Addison has recommended, and which he was
tions.
traits,

Of those porsuspected to have revised, if he did not write it. which may be supposed to be sometimes embellished, and

LIFE OP ADDISON.
sometimes aggravated, the
partly forgotten.
originals are

385
partly

now

known and

But to say that they united the plans of two or three eminent writers, is to give them but a small part of their due praise ;
they superadded literature and criticism, and sometimes towered
far above their predecessors
;

and taught, with great justness of

argument and dignity of language, the most important duties and sublime truths.
All these topics were happily varied with elegant fictions and refined allegories, and illuminated with different changes of style

and

felicities

of invention.

recorded by Budgell, that of the characters feigned or exhibited in the Spectator, the favourite of Addison was sir
It is

Roger de Coverley, of whom he had formed a very delicate and discriminate idea,* which he would not suffer to be violated ; and
therefore,
girl in the

when

Steele had shown him innocently picking up a temple, and taking her to a tavern, he drew upon himof his friend's indignation, that he was forced to apsir Roger for the time to

self so

much

pease him by a promise of forbearing

come.

The

reason which induced Cervantes to bring his hero to the

declare, with an
;

Quixote, y yofiara el, made Addison undue vehemence of expression, that he would kill sir Roger being of opinion that they were born for one another, and that any other hand would do him wrong. It may be doubted whether Addison ever filled up his origsola nacio grave, para mi

Dm

inal delineation.

He

ation

somewhat warped

describes his knight as having his imaginbut of this perversion he has made ;

very little use. The irregularities in sir Roger's conduct seem not so much the effects of a mind deviating from the beaten track
of of some overwhelming idea, as life, by the perpetual pressure of habitual rusticity, and that negligence which solitary grandeur

naturally generates. The variable weather of the mind, the flying vapours of inci-

which from time to time cloud reason, without pient madness,

* The errors in this account are explained at considerable length in tlir to the edition in the Hui r ISH ESSAYI r preface to the Spectator prefixed The original delineation of sir Roger undoubted!} bt.-li>njrs to Steele. <j.

LIFE OF ADUISO:\
eclipsing
it, it

requires so

much

nicety to exhibit, that Addison

seems
j

to

'o sir

have been deterred from prosecuting his own design. Roger, who, as a country gentleman, appears to be a
it

lory, or, as
est, is

is

gently expressed, an adherent to the landed intersir

opposed

Andrew
it is

Frceport, a
interest,

chant, zealous for the

trariety of opinions,

moneyed

new man, a wealthy merand a whig. Of this con-

probable more consequences were at first intended than could be produced when the resolution was taken

to exclude party
that
little

from the paper. Sir Andrew does but little, and seems not to have pleased Addison, who, when he dismissed him from the club, changed his opinions. Steele had made him, in the true spirit of unfeeling commerce, declare,
would not
build an hospital for idle
settles
last

that he "
at

he buys land,

in

people ;" but the country, and builds, not a

manufactory, but an hospital for twelve old husbandmen, for men with whom a merchant has little acquaintance, and whom he

commonly

considers with

little

kindness.

essays thus elegant, thus instructive, and thus commodiously distributed, it is natural to suppose the approbation general and the sale numerous. I once heard it observed, that the
sale
last

Of

may

number

be calculated by the product of the tax, related in the to produce more than twenty pounds a week, and

therefore stated at one and twenty pounds, or three pounds, ten a paper, will give sixteen shillings a day ; this, at a halfpenny

hundred and eighty * for the daily number. This sale is not great ; yet this, if Swift be credited, was likely to grow less for he declares that the Spectator, whom he ridicules for his endless mention of the fair sex, had before his re;

cess wearied his readers.

The next year, 1713, in which Cato came upon the stage, was the grand climacteric of Addison's reputation. Upon the
death of Cato, he had, as
is

said,

planned a tragedy in the time

of his travels, and had for several years the four first acts finished, which were shown to such as were likely to spread their admiration.

lates that Steele,

They were seen by Pope, and by when he took back the copy,

Gibber,
told

who

re-

him, in the

despicable cant of literary modesty, that, whatever spirit his

*

That

tliis

calculation

is

not exaggerated, that

it is

even

much below

the

veal

number, see the notes on the Tatter,

ed. 1786, Vol. VI. P- 452.

N.

LIFE OP ADDISOX.
iiiend had

38?

shown in the composition, he doubted whether he would have courage sufficient to expose it to the censure of a
British audience.

The time however was now come, when

those

who

affected

to think liberty in danger, affected likewise to think that a stage

play might preserve it ; and Acldison was importuned, in the name of the tutelary deities of Britain, to show his courage and
his zeal by finishing his design. To resume his work he seemed perversely and unaccountably unwilling ; and by a request, which perhaps he wished to be de-

nied, desired

Mr. Hughes

to

add a

fifth act.

Hughes supposed

him
days

serious

and, undertaking the supplement, brought in a few

;

time gone
afterward

some scenes for his examination but he had in the mean to work himself, and produced half an act which he
;

completed, but with

;

tionate to the foregoing parts

brevity irregularly disproporlike a task, performed with reluc-

tance and hurried to

its

conclusion.

It may yet be doubted whether Cato.was made public by any change of the author's purpose for Dennis charged him with
;

favour, by false positions of preparatory criticism, and with poisoning the town by contradicting

raising prejudices in his

own

in the Spectator the established rule of poetical justice,

because

his

own

hero, with

all

his virtues,

was

to fall

before a tyrant.

The

fact is certain ; the motives we must guess. Acldison was, I believe, sufficiently disposed to bar all avenues When Pope brought him the prologue, against all danger.

which
words,

is

properly accommodated to the play, there were these

Britons, arise
!

be worth like this approved ;" meanthan, Britons, erect and exalt yourselves to the approbation of public virtue. Addison was frighted, lest he should be thought a promoter of insurrection, and the line to " attend." was
ing nothing more
liquidated
Britons,

"

Now

"

heavily in clouds

portant day," That there might, however, be left as little to hazard as was tre. on the first night Steelc, as himself relates, undertook to possible,

came on the day, the great, the imwhen Addison was to stand the hazard of the thea-

pack an audience.

This, says Pope,* had

*

bcm

tried for the

iir.it

Spence

VOL.

50

388
time

LIFE OF AUDISOX.
in favour of the Distrest

Mother

and was now, with more

efficacy, practised for Cato.

The danger was

time on
fire

soon over.

with faction.

The whole nation was at that The whigs applauded every line in
;

and the liberty was mentioned, as a satire on the tories The was unfelt. satire the to show that echoed lories every clap, to his box, Booth called He of is known. well story Bolingbrokc

which

and gave him

fifty

against a perpetual dictator.

well guineas for defending the cause of liberty so The whigs, says Pope, design a secit

ond present when they can accompany

with as good a sentence.

play, supported thus by the emulation of factious praise, was acted night after night for a longer time than, I believe, the

The

public had allowed to any

drama before

and the author, as Mrs.

Porter long afterward related, wandered through the whole exhibition behind the scenes with restless and unappeasable solicitude. When it was printed, notice was given that the queen would be pleased if it was dedicated to her ; " but as he had designed that compliment elsewhere, he found himself obliged," says " Tickell, by his duty on the one hand, and his honour on the
it into the world without any dedication." happiness has always its abatements ; the brightest sunshine of success is not without a cloud. No sooner was Cato

other, to send

Human

offered to the reader than

of Dennis, with

all

it was attacked by the acute malignity the violence cf angry criticism. Dennis,

though equally zealous, and probably by his temper more furious than Addison, for what they called liberty, and though a flatterer of the whig ministry, could not sit quiet at a successful play but
;

was eager

to tell friends

their admirations.

and enemies that they had misplaced The world was too stubborn for instruction ;
and Cato continued
to

with the fate of the censurer of Corneille's Cid, his animadversions

showed

his

anger without

effect,

be

praised.

Pope had now an opportunity of courting the friendship of

Addison, by vilifying his old enemy, and could give resentment its full play, without appearing to revenge himself. He therefore published A Narrative of the Madness of John Dennis ; a performance which left the objections to the play in their full force, and therefore discovered more desire of vexing the critic

than of defending the poet.

JLIFE

OF ADDISON.

389

selfishness of Pope's friendship

Addison, who was no stranger to the world, probably saw the ; arid, resolving that he should

have the consequences of his officiuusness to himself, informed Dennis by Steele, that he was sorry for the insult ; and that whenever he should think fit to answer his remarks, he would
do
it

in a

manner
said by

to

which nothing could be objected.

is in

The
upon
tice

greatest weakness of the play

the scenes of love,

which are

Pope*

to

have been added to the original plan

a subsequent review, in

of the stage.
is

Such an

authority

compliance with the popular pracit is hard to reject yet

;

so intimately mingled with the whole action, that cannot easily be thought extrinsic and adventitious ; for, if

the love

it
it

were taken away, what would be

filled in

left

or

how were
to

the four acts

the

first

draught

At the

publication the wits

seemed proud

pay their attend-

ance with encomiastic verses.

The

best are from an

hand, which will perhaps lose somewhat of their praise author is known to be Jeffreys.

unknown when the

Cato had yet other honours. It was censured as a party play by a scholar of Oxford, and defended in a favourable examination
by Dr. Sewel. It was translated by Salvini into Italian, and and by the Jesuits of St. Omer's into Latin> acted at Florence and played by their pupils. Of this version a copy was sent to
;

Mr. Addison

it is

to

be wished that

it

could be found, for the

sake of comparing their version of the soliloquy with that of Bland. tragedy was written on the same subject by Des Champs, a

French poet, which was translated, with a criticism on the EngBut the translator and the critic are now forgotten. lish play.

Dennis
son

lived on unanswered, and therefore

little

read.

Addi-

the policy of literature too well to make his enemy important by drawing the attention of the public upon a criticism,

knew

which, though sometimes intemperate, was often irrefragable. While Cato was upon the stage, another daily paper, called

The Guardian, was published by Steele. To this Addison ga\c whether occasionally or by previous engagement great assistance, is not known. The character of Guardian was too narrow and too serious it
;

might properly enough admit both the duties and the decencies of include literary speculations, and was ir> life? but seemed not to

390

LIFE OF ADDISON.

some degree violated by merriment and burlesque. What had the guardian of the lizards to do with clubs of tall or of little men, with nests of ants, or with Strada's prolusions ?

Of this paper nothing is necessary to be said, but that it found many contributors, and that it was a continuation of the Spectator,
with the same elegance, and the same variety,
till

some unlucky

sparkle from a tory paper set Steele's politics on fire, and wit at once blazed into faction. He was soon too hot for neutral topics,

and quitted the Guardian to write the Englishman. The papers of Addison are marked in the Spectator by one of the letters in the name of C//o, and in the Guardian by a hand ; whether it was, as Tickell pretends to think, that he was unwilllikelihood, insinuates, that
to others

ing to usurp the praise of others, or, as Steele, with far greater he could not without discontent impart

satisfy itself

he

laid

any of his own. I have heard that his avidity did not with the air of renown, but that with great eagerness hold on his proportion of the profits.

Many of these papers were written with powers truly comic, with nice discrimination of characters, and accurate observation
of natural or accidental deviation from propriety ; but it was not supposed that he had tried a comedy on the stage, till Steele,
after his death, declared

him

the author of the

to be true

Drummer.

This
;

however Steele did not know

for,

by any direct testimony

when Addison put

is

it was the work was received, as

the play into his hands, he only told him? of a " gentleman in the company ;" and when it
confessed, with cold disapprobation, he was it. Tickell omitted it in his col-

probably less willing to claim

lection

; but the testimony of Steele, and the total silence of any other claimant, has determined the public to assign it to Addison, and it is now printed with his other poetry. Steele carried the

Drummer to the playhouse, and afterward to the press, and sold the copy for fifty guineas. To the opinion of Steele may be added the proof supplied by
the play itself, of .which the characters are such as Addison would have delineated, and the tendency such as Addison would have promoted. That it should have been ill received would raise

wonder, did we not daily see the capricious distribution of theatrical praise.

He

was not

all

this

time an indifferent spectator of public

exigencies required, in 1707.

affairs.

He

wrote, as different

LIFE OF ADDISOX.

391

The present state of the war, and the necessity of an augmentation ; which, however judicious, being written on temporary topics and exhibiting no peculiar powers, laid hold on no attention, and has
naturally sunk by said of the few
its own weight into nee lect. This cannot be papers entitled The Whig Examiner, in which is the force of gay malevolence and humorous satire.

employed

all

paper, which just appeared and expired, Swift remarks, with exultation, that it is now down among the dead men."' He might well rejoice at the death of that which he could not

Of this

have

killed.

Every reader of every

party, since personal malice

and the papers which once inflamed the nation are read only as effusions of wit, must wish for more of the Whig Examiners ; for on no occasion was the genius of Addison more vigoris past,

ously exerted, and on none did the superiority of his powers more evidently appear. His Trial of Count Tariff, written to

expose the treaty of commerce with France, lived no longer

than the question that produced it. Not long afterward, an attempt was
tator, at a

made

to revive the
to literature,

Spec-

time indeed by no means favourable

when

new family to the throne filled the nation with anxiety, discord, and confusion ; and either the turbulence of the times or the satiety of the readers put a stop to the publication, after an experiment of eighty numbers, which were afterthe succession of a
into an eighth volume, perhaps more valuable than any of those that went before it. Addison produced more than a fourth part, and the other contributors are by no means

ward collected

unworthy of appearing as

his associates.

The

time that had

passed during the suspension of the Spectator, though it had not lessened his power of humour, seems to have increased his disposition to seriousness

comic papers

is

the proportion of his religious to hi> ; greater than in the former series.

The

Spectator,

from
;

its

recommencement, was published

only-

three times a
the papers.
*

week

and no discriminative marks were added to

To

Addison, Tickell has ascribed twenty three. t

is,

From

a tory song in vogue at the time, the burden whereof And lie that will this health deny,

Down among
f

the dead

men

let

him

lie.

II.

XT!), 580.,

Numb. 55G, 557, 558, 559, 561, 562, 565, 567. SflM 583. 5W. 584, 585, .100, 592,

v'-

"'

"
''"^

W,

LIFE OF ADDISOX.

The

Spectator had

many

contributors

and Steele, whose neg-

ligence kept him always in a hurry, when it was his turn to lurnish a paper, called loudly for the letters, of which Adclison, whose
materials were more,

made

little

use

having recourse to sketches

and

hints, the

product of his former studies, which he

;

now

re-

viewed and completed among these are named by Tickell the Essays on Wit* those on the Pleasures of the Imagination, and the
Criticism on Milton.

When

the house of
to

Hanover took possession of the

throne,

it

expect that the zeal of Addison would be suitBefore the arrival of king George, he was mi-de ably rewarded. secretary to the regency, and was required by his office to send
notice to

was reasonable

Hanover

that the

queen was dead, and

that the throne

was vacant.
but Addison,

To

do this would not have been

so

difficult to

any

man

who was

overwhelmed with the greatness

oi the

event, and so distracted by choice of expression, that the lords, who could not wait for the niceties of criticism, called Mr. South-

him to despatch the mesSouthwell told what was sage. readily necessary, in the common style of business, and valued himself upon having done what was too hard for Addison.
well, a clerk in the house, and ordered

qualified for the Freeholder, a pnper which he a twice week, from Dec. 23, 1715, to the middle of published the next year. This was undertaken in defence of the estab-

He

was better

lished government,

sometimes with argument, and sometimes

In argument he had many equals ; but his humour was singular and matchless. Bigotry itself must be delighted with the Tory Foxhunter.

with mirth.

There are however some strokes less elegant and less decent ; such as the Pretender's Journal, in which one topic of ridicule is his poverty. This mode of abuse had been Milton employed
by
against king Charles II.
-Jacobxi

Centum,

exulantis viscera mavsupii regis."

And Oldmixon delights to tell of some alderman of London, that he had more money than the exiled princes ; but that which might be expected from Milton's savageness, or Oldmixon's meanness, was not suitable to the of Addison.
delicacy

LIFE OF ADDISON.
Steele thought the

393

humour of the Freeholder too nice and gensuch noisy times and is reported to have said, that the ministry made use of a lute, when they should have called for a
tle for
;

trumpet.
wick,
ship,

This year, 1716,* he married the countess dowager of Warwhom he had solicited by a very long and anxious courtperhaps with behaviour not very unlike that of sir Roger widow and who, I am afraid, diverted herself
;

to his disdainful

often by playing with his passion.

her by becoming tutor

son,
first

to

her son.f

He is said to have first known " He formed," said Ton-

recommended

" the design of getting that lady from the time when he was into the family." In what part of his life he

obtained the recommendation, or how long, and in what manner he lived in the family, I know not. His advances at first were
certainly timorous, but

grew bolder

as his reputation

and

influ-

ence increased
on terms

till

much

like

was persuaded to marry him, those on which a Turkish princess is esat last the lady

poused, to
ter, I

the Sultan is reported to pronounce, " Daughthis man for thy slave." The marriage, if unthee give eontradicted report can be credited, made no addition to his hap-

whom

piness

it

neither found

them nor made them

equal.

She

al-

ways remembered her own rank, and thought herself entitled to Rov\ e's treat with very little ceremony the tutor of her son.
ballad of the Despairing Shejiherd is said to have been written,

either before or after marriage, upon this

it is

memorable

pair

and

certain that

Addison has

left

behind him no encouragement

for ambitious love.

The
made

be supposed

to his highest elevation, being year after, 1717, he rose this employment he might justly For of state. secretary of business, and by his qualified by long practice
;

but expectation is often regular ascent through other offices that he was unequal to confessed is it universally disappointed ; In the house of commons he could not the duties of his place. defence of the governspeak, and therefore was useless to the
In the office, says Pope,} he could not issue an order ment. What he without losing his time in quest of fine expressions. his in rank he lost in credit and, by experience finding gained
;

own

inability,
*

was forced
2:

to solicit his dismission, with a pensioi*

August

f Spenrc.

ll.i.l

394

LIFE OF ADDISON.
His friends
palliated this re-

of fifteen hundred pounds a year.

linquishment, of which boih friends and enemies

knew

the true

reason, with an account of declining health, and the necessity of recess and quiet.

He now returned to his vocation, and began to plan literary occupations for his future life. He purposed a tragedy on the death of Socrates ; a story of which, as Tickell remarks, the
basis is narrow, and to

been appended.

which I know not how love could have There would, however, have been no want eithreli-

er of virtue in the sentiments or elegance in the language. He engaged in a nobler work, a defence of the Christian
gion, of

which part was published after his death ; and he deto have made a new poetical version of the psalms. signed

These pious compositions Pope imputed * to a selfish motive, upon the credit, as he owns, of Tonson who, having quarrelled with Addison, and not loving him, said, that when he laid down
;

the secretary's "

bishopric
heart."
;

office,

he intended
"
I

to take orders,

and obtain a
in his

for," said he,

always thought him a priest

That Pope should have thought this conjecture of Tonson worth remembrance, is a proof, but indeed, so far as I have found? the only proof, that he retained some malignity from their ancient rivalry.
tal

ever suspected

Tonson pretended but to guess it ; no other morit and Pope might have reflected, that a man
;

who had been secretary knew a nearer way to a

translating the psalms.
It is related, that

of state, in the ministry of Sunderland, bishopric than by defending religion or

dictionary,

he had once a design to make an English and that he considered Dr. Tillotson as the writer of

highest authority.

There was formerly

er, clerk of the leatherseller's

sent to me by Mr. Lockcompany, who was eminent for

curiosity and literature, a collection of

Tillotson's works, as

examples collected from.

Locker
it

said,

to be of use, so I inspected
indistinctly.

by Addison. It came too late but slightly, and remembered it

thought the passages too short. Addison, however, did not conclude his life in peaceful studies ; but relapsed, when he was near his end, to a political disI

pute.
*

spence:

LIFE OF ADDISON.

395

It so happened that, 1718-19, a controversy was agitated, with great vehemence, between those friends of long continuance, Addison and Steele. It may be asked, in the language of Homer,

what power or what cause could set them at variance. The The earl of subject of their dispute was of great importance.
Sunderland proposed an act called The Peerage Bill ; by which the number of peers should be fixed, and the king restrained

from any new creation of

should be extinct.
the king, and, as is

nobility, unless

when an

old family
;

To

this the lords

would naturally agree

and

who was yet little acquainted with his own prerogative, now well known, almost indifferent to the possessions of the crown, had been persuaded to consent. The only difficulty was found among the commdns, who were not likely to approve the perpetual exclusion of themselves and tneir posterity. The bill therefore was eagerly opposed, and among others by sir
speech was published. their dignity diminished by improper and advancements, particularly by the introduction of twelve new

Robert

Wai pole, whose

The

lords

might think

peers at once, to produce a majority of tories in the last reign an act of authority violent enough, yet certainly legal, and by no means to be compared with that contempt of national right with
;

which, some time afterward, by the instigation of whiggism, the commons, chosen by the people for three years, chose themselves for seven.
lords, the people

had no wish

But, whatever might be the disposition of the to increase their power. The tenearl of

dency of the

bill,

as Steele observed in a letter to the

;

Oxford, was to introduce an aristocracy for a majority in the house of lords, so limited, would have been despotic und irresistible.

To

whose pen

prevent this subversion of the ancient establishment, Steele, readily seconded his political passions, endeavoured

to alarm the nation, by a

pamphlet called The Plebrian. To this The Old was an answer published by Addison, under the title of it is not discovered that Steele was then known which in Whig, Steele replied by a second to be the advocate for the commons.
Plebeian
;

himself
nent.

to his question, without

and, whether by ignorance or by courtesy, confined any personal notice of his oppo-

Nothing hitherto was committed against the laws of

;

of decency friendship, or proprieties

but rontrnvoriists ranno:

VOL.

r.

> l

396

LIFE OF ADDISON.

The Old Whig anlong retain their kindness for each other. swered the Pi.'bcian, and could not forbear some contempt of " " little Dicky, Dicky, whose trade it was to write pamphlets
however, did not lose his settled veneration for his fiiend but contented himself with quoting some lines of Cato, which were at once detection and reproof. The bill was laid aside during
;

that

session

and Addison died belore the next,

in

which

its

rejected by two hundred and hundred and seventy seven. Every reader surely must regret that these two illustrious friends, after so many years passed in confidence and endearment,
sixty five to
in unity of interest, conformity of opinion,

commitment was

one

and fellowship of study,

should

finally part in

acrimonious opposition.
ci-oilc"

Such

a controversy
it.

was u Bellum phisriuam

tainties of the
bility

as

Lucan expresses
?

\Vhy

could not faction find other advocates

but,

among

the uncer-

human
I

state,

we

are

doomed

to nuir-ber the insta-

of friendship.
dispute

Of this

have

little

knowledge but from the Biograis

phia Briiannica.
works, nor
is
it

The Old Whig

not inserted in Addi:->on's

in his life
;

mentioned by Tickeli

why

it

was

omitted, the biographers doubtless give the true reason ; the fact was too recent, and those who had been heated in the contention

were not

yet cool.

is

necessity of complying with times, and of sparing persons, the great impediment of biography. History may be formed
;

The

from permanent monuments and records written from personal knowledge, which
less,

but lives can only be

is

and

in a short

time

is lost

for ever.
it

What

growing every day is known can

told', it is

seldom be immediately

told

and when

might be

no

The delicate features of the mind, the nice dislonger known. criminations of character, and the minute peculiarities of conduct) are soon obliterated ; and it is surely better that caprice, obstinacy,
tion,
frolic, and folly, however they might delight in the descripshould be silently forgotten, than that, by wanton merriment and unseasonable detection, a pang should be given to a widow,

a daughter, a brother, or a friend.

ratives is
to feel

As the process of these narnow bringing me among my contemporaries, I begin

"

myself

walking upon ashes under which the

fire is

not

extinguished," and coming- to the time of which it will be proper rather to say nothing that is false, than all that is true.*'

LIFE OP ADDISON.

397
Addison

The end
had
for

of this useful

life

was now approaching.

some time been oppressed by

;

shortness of breath, which

was no\v aggravated by a dropsy and, finding his danger pressing, he prepared to die conformably to his own precepts and professions.

During

this lingering decay,

he

sent, as

Pope

relates,* a

mes-

sage by the earl of Warwick to Mr. Gay, desiring to see him. Gay, who had not visited him for some time before, obeyed the

summons, and found himself received with

great kindness.

The

purpose for which the interview had been solicited was then discovered. Addison told him, that he had injured him ; but that, if he recovered, he would recompense him. What the injury

was he did not explain, nor did Gay ever know but supposed some preferment designed for him, had, by Addison's intervention, been withheld.
;

that

Lord Warwick was

young man of very irregular

life,

and

perhaps of loose opinions. Addison, for whom he did not want but respect, had very diligently endeavoured to reclaim him
;

arguments and expostulations had no effect. One experiment, however, remained to be tried when he found his life near its end, he directed the young lord to be called ; and when
his
;

he desired, with great tenderness, to hear his last injunctions, told him, " I have sent for you, that you may see how a Christian
can die."
not
;

What

effect this awful scene

had on the

earl, I

know
;

he likewise died himself

in a short time.

In Tick ell's excellent elegy on his friend are these lines

He

taught us

how

to live
!

The
in

price of knowledge

and, oh too high taught us how to die

!

which he

alludes, as

he

told

Dr. Young, to

this

moving

in^

terview.

Having given

directions to

Mr. Tickell

for the publication of

his works, and dedicated

them on

his deathbed to his friend

Mr.

Craggs, he died June

child but a daughter.!

17,

1719, at

Holland house, leaving no

Spence.

j-

Who
Cent

died at Bilton, in Warwickshire, at a very advanced age, in 179/"

<W

Mag-. Vol.

LXVII.

p. '256, 385.

N.

LIFE OF ADDISON.

Of his

virtue

it

is

a sufficient testimony that the resentment of

He was not one party has transmitted no charge of any crime. of those who are praised only after death ; for his merit was so
generally acknowledged, that Swift, having observed
election passed without a contest, adds, that if
that

his

he had proposed

himself for king, he would hardly have been refused. His zeal for his party did not extinguish his kindness for the

merit of his opponents ; when he was secretary in Ireland, he refused to intermit his acquaintance with Swift. Of his habits, or external manners, nothing is so often mencalled

tioned as that timorous or sullen taciturnity which his friends modesty by too mild a name. Steele mentions with great

tenderness " that remarkable bashfulness, which is a cloak that hides and muffles merit ;" and tells us, that " his abilities were covered only by modesty, which doubles the beauties which are seen, and gives credit and esteem to all that are concealed."
Chesterfield affirms, that " Addison

was the most timorous and

Addison, speaking of

awkward man
his

that he ever saw."

And

deficience in conversation, used to say of himself, that, with respect to intellectual wealth, " he could draw bills for a

own

thousand pounds, though he had not a guinea in his pocket." That he wanted current coin for ready payment, and by that

want was often obstructed and distressed ; that he was often oppressed by an improper and ungraceful timidity, every testimony concurs to prove ; but Chesterfield's representation is doubtless That man cannot be supposed very inexpert in hyperbolical.
the arts of conversation and practice of life, who, without fortune or alliance, by his usefulness and dexterity, became secretary of state ; and who died at forty seven, after having not only stood

long in the highest rank of wit and literature, but most important offices of state.

filled

one of the

The

of silence

time in which he lived had reason to lament his obstinacy " for he was," " above all men in that says Steele,
;

humour, and enjoyed it in such perfection, that I have often reflected, after a night spent with him apart from all the world, that I had had the pleasure of conversing with an intimate
talent called

acquaintance of Terence and Catullus,

nature, heightened with

who had

all

their wit and

humour more

than any other

man

ever possessed."

exquisite and delightful This is the fondness of n

LIFE OF ADDISON.
friend
;

399
.

" Addison's conis told us by a rival " had more charming in it versation,"* says Pope, something than I have found in any other man. But this was only when
let

us hear what

familiar

served his dignity by a

before strangers, or perhaps a single stranger, he prestiff silence."

This modesty was by no means inconsistent with a very high He demanded to be the first name in opinion of his own merit.

modern
Dryden,

wit

and, with Steele to echo him, used to depreciate

whom Pope
no reason

There

is

to doubt that

and Congreve defended against them.f he suffered too much pain from

the prevalence of Pope's poetical reputation ; nor is it without strong reason suspected, that by some disingenuous acts he endeavoured to obstruct it ; Pope was not the only man whom he
insidiously injured,
afraid.

though the only

man

of

whom

he could be

His own powers were such as might have

conscious excellence.

satisfied

him with

given no proofs. He the sciences, and to have read

extensive learning he has indeed seems to have had small acquaintance with
little

Of very

except Latin and French

but of the Latin poets his Dialogues on Medals show that he had perused the works with great diligence and skill. The abund-

ance of his

own mind left him

little

in

need of adventitious

senti-

ments
ed.

his wit always could suggest

what the occasion demand-

He

had read with

human
agem

life,

critical eyes the important volume of and knew the heart of man, from the depths of strat-

to the surface of affectation.

he could easily communicate. " This," says " was Steele, particular in this writer, that, when he had taken his resolution, or made his plan for what he designed to write,

What he knew

much freedom
Pope4 who

he would walk about a room, and dictate it into language with as and ease as any one could write it down, and at-

tend to the coherence and

grammar

of what he dictated."

can be less suspected of favouring his memory, declares that he wrote very fluently, but was slow and scrupulous
in correcting
fast,
;

that

many

of his Spectators were written very

;

and sent immediately to the press he for his advantage not to have time for
*

and that

it

seemed

t/.

much

revisal.

Spenrn

-j-

Tonson am] Spencc

400
"

LIFE OF ADD1SOK.

" any thing to please his friends, says Pope, before publication ; but would not retouch his pieces afterward ; and I believe not one word in Cato to which I made an objection

He

would

5*

alter,

was suffered

to stand.*'

The

last line

of Cato
!

is

Pope's, having been originally written

life.

Anc! oh

'twas this that ended Cato's

Pope might have made more

lines.

objections to the six concluding

er

" couplet the words from hence" are impropand the second line is taken from Dryden's Virgil. Of the

In the

first

next couplet, the first verse, being included in the second, is therefore useless and in the third di .cord is made to produce strife.
;

Of
Pope
geil,

the course of Addison's familiar day,* before his marriage, has given a detail. He had in the house with him Bud-

and perhaps Philips.

His chief companions were Steele,

With Budgell, Philips, Carey, Davenant, and colonel Brett. one or other of these he always breakfasted. He studied all morning, then dined at a tavern, and went afterward to Button's.
Button had been
a

servant in the countess of

Warwick's fam-

of Addison, kept a coffeehouse on ily, who, under the patronage the south side of Russel street, about two doors from Covent

garden.

Here

it

was

that the wits of that time used to assemble.

suffered any vexation from the he the withdrew countess, company from Button's house. From the coffeehouse he went again to a tavern, where he
It is said, that

when Addison had

often sat late, and drank too

much

wine.

In the bottle, discon-

tent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and bashfulness It is not unlikely that Addison was first seduced for confidence.
to excess by the

manumission which he obtained from the

servile

timidity of his sober hours. presence of those to whom he

He

that feels oppression

from the

knows himself superior

will desire

to set loose his powers of conversation ; and who that ever asked succours from Bacchus was able to preserve himself from being

enslaved by his auxiliary ? Among those friends it was that Addison displayed the ele-

gance of his colloquial accomplishments, which may easily be supposed such as Pope represents them. The remark of Mandeville, who, when he had passed an evening in his company,
*

Spence.

LIFE OP ADDISON.

401

his character
incited to
deville.

declared that he was a parson in a tyewig, can detract little from to strangers, and was not ; he was always reserved

uncommon freedom

by a character like that of

Man-

From any minute knowledge

of his familiar manners, the in-

Steele once tervention of sixty years has now debarred us. of his a and the description complete public promised Congreve

character

Steele thought no

but the promises of authors are like the vows of lovers. more on his design, or thought on it with
last

anxiety that at of Tickell.

disgusted him, and

left his

friend in the hands

One
It

was

his practice,

has preserved. slight lineament of his character Swift when he found any man invincibly wrong, to

opinions by acquiescence, and sink him yet deeper in This artifice of mischief was admired by Stella ; and absurdity. Swift seems to approve her admiration.
flatter his

His works

will

supply some information.

It

appears, from

his various pictures of the world, that, with all his bashiulness, he had conversed with many distinct classes of men, had survey-

ed their ways with very diligent observation, and marked with

great acuteness the effects of different

modes of life.

He

was a

whose presence nothing reprehensible was out of danger; quick in discerning whatever was wrong or ridiculous, and not " in his writ" There are," says Steele, unwilling to expose it.

man

in

ings

many
;

oblique strokes upon

some

of the wittiest

men

of the

His delight was more to excite merriment than detestaage." and he detects follies rather than crimes. tion If any judgment be made, from his books, of his moral charKnowlacter, nothing will be found but purity and excellence.
than that of Addison,' edge of mankind, indeed, less extensive will show, that to write, and to live, are very different. Muny

who praise virtue do no more than praise it. Yet it is reasonable to believe that Addison's professions and practice were at
no great variance, since, amidst that storm of faction in which most of his life was passed, though his station made him conthe character spicuous, and his activity made him formidable, contradicted by his enemies ; given him by his friends was never of those with whom interest or opinion united hjm he bad
not only the esteem, but the kindness
;

and of others,

whom

402

LIFE OF ADDISON.

the violence of opposition drove against him, though he might

lose the love, he retained the reverence.
It is justly observed by Tickell, that he employed wit on the He not only made the proper use side of virtue and religion. of \vit himself, but taught it to others ; and from his time it has

been generally subservient to the cause of reason and of truth. He has dissipated the prejudice that had long connected gaiety with He has vice, and easiness of manners with laxity of principles.
restored virtue to
its

dignity, and taught

innocence not to be
" above
all

ashamed.

This
all

is

an elevation of

literary character,

Greek, above

Roman fame."

No

greater

felicity

can genius

attain than that of

having purified intellectual pleasure, separated mirth from indecency, and wit from licentiousness ; of having taught a succession of writers to bring elegance and gaiety to
the aid of goodness ; and, if I may use expressions, yet " turned awful, of having many to righteousness.'*

more

Addison

in his life,

and

for

some time

afterward, was consid-

ered by the greater part of readers as supremely excelling both in poetry and criticism. Part of his reputation may be probably
ascribed to the advancement of his fortune
observes, he
levee,
it

became

a statesman, and

when, as Swift saw poets waiting at his

;

is

Much

likewise
;

no wonder that praise was accumulated upon him. may be more honourably ascribed to his personal
if

character

he who,

he had claimed

it,

might have obtained

and accidental fame

the diadem, was not likely to be denied the laurel.

But lime quickly puts an end

and Addison
is

to artificial

through futurity protected only by his genius. Every name which kindness or interest once raised too high, is in danger, lest the next age should, by the vengeance of
criticism,

to pass

sink

it

lately styled

him

in the same proportion. great writer has " an indifferent poet and a worse critic."

His poetry
fessed that
it

is first to

be considered

of which

it

must be con-

has not often those

felicities

of diction which give

lustre to sentiments, or that vigour of sentiment that animates

diction
is

there

is little

of ardour, vehemence, or transport

there

very rarely the awfulness of grandeur, and not very often the He thinks justly ; but he thinks faintly. splendour of elegance.

This

is

his general character

to

which, doubtless,

many

single

passages will furnish exceptions.

LIFE OF ADDISOX.
Yet,
if

4G3

he seldom reaches supreme excellence, he rarely sinks

still

into dulness, and is

more

rarely entangled in absurdity.

to

He

be negligent. There is in most of his compositions a calmness and equability, deliberate and cautious, sometimes with little that delights, but seldom with
did not trust his powers

enough

any thing that offends. Of this kind seem to be his poems to Drydcn, to Somers, and to the king. His ode on St. Cecilia has been imitated by Pope,

and has something in it of Drydcn's vigour. Of his account of the English poets, he used to speak as a " poor thing ;"* but it is not worse than his usual strain. He has said, not very judiciously, in his character of Waller,

Thy verse could show ev'n Cromwell's innocence, And compliment the storms that bore him hence.
O! had thy muse not come an age too soon. But seen great Nassau on the British throne,

How

had

his

triumph

glitter'd in thy

page

What

is this

but to say, that he

who could compliment Crom*?

well had been the proper poet for king William ever, never printed the piece.

Addison, how-

The letter from Italy has been always praised, but has never been praised beyond its merit. It is more correct, with less appearance of labour, and more elegant, with less ambition of ornament, than any other of his poems. There is, however, one broken metaphor, of which notice may properly be taken.
Fir'd with that
I bridle in

name

my
to

struggling

muse with

pain,

That longs

launch into a nobler strain.

To bridle a goddess is no very delicate idea but why must she be bridled ? because she longs to launch ; an act which was
;

never hindered by a
a nobler strain.
boat
;

bridle ;
is

and whither

will

she launch ? into

She

in the first line a horse, in the

is to

second a

and the care of the poet

keep

his horse or his boat

from singing.

The

Warton has termed

next composition is the far famed Campaign, which Dr. a " Gazette in Rhyme," with harshness not

Before a cenoften used by the good nature of his criticism. sure so severe is admitted, let us consider that war is a freouent
*

Spence.

VOL.

I.

52

404

LIFE OF ADDISON.

who has described it with subject of poetry, and then inquire of our own writers tried their force. and Many justness powers upon this year of victory ; yet Addison's is confessedly
more
thc best performance ; his poem is the work of a man not blinded by the dust of learning ; his images are not borrowed merely from books. The superiority which he confers upon his hero " is not personal prowess, and mighty bone," but deliberate inof conhis passions, and the power trepidity, a calm command of
sulting his

own mind in the midst of danger. The rejection and contempt of fiction is rational and manly. It may be observed that the last line is imitated by Pope.
Marlb'rough's exploits appear divinely bright ItaisM of themselves, their genuine charms they boast, And those that paint them truest, praise them most.
;

This Pope had in his thoughts but not knowing how to Ubc what was not his own, he spoiled the thought when he had bor;

rowed

it.

The v,-ell sung woes shall sooth my He best can paint* them who shall

feel

pensive ghost them most.

;

Martial exploits may be painted ; perhaps woes may \wpuintcd ; but they are surely not jminted by being welt swig ; it is not easy
to paint in song, or to sing in colours.

No passage in the Campaign has been more often mentioned than the simile of the angel, which is said in the Tatler to be " one
of the noblest thoughts that ever entered into the heart of man," and is therefore worthy of attentive consideration. Let it be firinquired whether it be a simile. poetical simile is the dis covery of likeness between two actions, in their general nature
dissimilar, or of causes terminating by different operations in

some resemblance of
consequence from a

effect.

But the mention of another

like

like cause, or of a like

performance by a
It is

like agency, is not a simile, but an exemplification.

not a

simile to say that the

fields
its
;

Thames

waters

fields, as

the

or that as

Hecla vomits flames

in Iceland, so

Po waters _/Etna vom-

flames in Sicily.

When

Horace says of Pindar, that he pours

his violence and rapidity of verse, as a river swoln with rain rush-

es from the mountain, or of himself, that his genius wanders in

" Paint" means, says Dr. Warton, express or describe them.

C.

LIFE OF ADDISON.
i

405

4\iest of poetical decorations, as the

;

bee wanders to collect hon-

ey he. in either case, produces a simile ; the mind is impressed with the resemblance of things generally unlike, as unlike
as intellect and body.

But

if

Pindar had been described as writ-

ing with the copiousness and grandeur of Homer, or Horace had told that he reviewed and finished his own poetry with the

same care
the

as Isocrates polished his orations, instead of similitude

identity
;

he would have exhibited almost

he would have given

In the

same

portraits with different

names.

poem now

ex-

amined, Avhen the English are represented as gaining a fortified pass, by repetition of attack, and perseverance of resolution ; their
obstinacy of courage, and vigour of onset, is well illustrated by the sea that breaks, with incessant battery, the dikes of Holland.

This is a simile

but

when A ddison, having

tells us, that
is

of Marlborough' s person, with every grace," here

cation.

celebrated the beauty " Achilles thus was formed

A
;

simile

may be compared

no simile, but a mere exemplifito lines converging at a

more excellent as the lines approach from greater an exemplification may be considered as two parallel lines which run on together without approximation, never far separated, and never joined.
point, and is

distance

of both

is so like the angel in the poem, that the action almost the same, and performed by both in the same manner. Marlborough " teaches the battle to rage ;" the an" unmoved in " directs the storm ;" Marlborough is peacegel

Marlborough
is

ful

thought

;" the

stands "
< ;

unmoved

" calm and serene ;" Marlborough angel is the shock of hosts ;" the angel rides amidst

calm

in the
;

whirlwind."

The

lines

on Marlborough are just

and noble

but the simile gives almost the same images a sec-

ond time.

Bat perhaps this thought, though hardly a simile, was remote from vulgar conceptions, and required great labour of research, Of this, Dr. Madden, a name which or dexterity of application.
If I had Ireland ought to honour, once gave me his opinion. " ten schoolboys to write on the battle of Blenheim, set," said he and eight had brought me the angel, I should not have been sur-

"

prised."

The

we

of the

opera of Rosamond, though it is seldom mentioned, is The subject is well first of Addison's compositions.

LIFE OF ADD1SON.
t.hoscn, the fiction is pleasing}
i

and the praise of Marlborough,

KW which the scene gives an opportunity, is, what perhaps every human excellence must be, the product of good luck, improved by genius. The thoughts are sometimes great, and sometimes
tender
;

the versification

is

easy and gay.

There

is

doubt U:ss>
is lit-

some advantage
tle

in the shortness of the

lines,

which there

The dialogue temptation to load with expletive epithets. seems commonly better than the songs. The two comic characters of sir Trusty

such as the poet intended.*

and Grideline, though of no great value, are yet Sir Trusty's account of the death of
absurd.

Rosamond
airy

is,

I think, too grossly

;

The whole drama

is

and elegant

conclusion.
try,

engaging in its process, and pleasing in its If Addison had cultivated the lighter parts of poe-

he would probably have excelled.

tragedy of Cato, which, contrary to the rule observed in works of other poets, has by the weight of its charits

The

selecting the
acter forced

way

into the late collection, is unquestionably the

noblest production of Addison's genius.

read,
it is

Of

a work so

much

difficult to say

any thing new.

About things on which

;

the public thinks long, it commonly attains to think right and of Cato it has been not unjustly determined, that it is rather a poem
in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just sentiments in elegant language, than a representation of natural affections, or

of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing here " excites or " assuages emotion ;" here is no magical power of

The events are exraising fantastic terror or wild anxiety." pected without solicitude, and are remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care we consider not what
;

they are doing, or what they arc suffering ; we wish only to know what they have to say. Cato is a being above our solicitude ; a

man

of

whom
much

care with heedless confidence.

the gods take care, and whom we leave to their To the rest neither gods nor men
attention
;

ean have

for there is not

strongly attracts either affection or esteem.

one among them that But they are made the

vehicles of such sentiments and such expression, that there is scarcely a scene in the play which the reader docs not wish to

impress upon his memory.

*

But, according; to Dr. Warton,

"

ought not to have intended.'*

C-

.LIFE

OF ADDISON-

407

When
print
it,

Cato was shown to Pope,* he advised the author to

without any theatrical exhibition ; supposing that it would be read more favourably than heard. Addison declared

himself of the same opinion

friends for
ties
its
it

made

but urged the importunity of his ; appearance on the stage. The emulation of parand its success has successful beyond expectation
;

introduced or confirmed among- us the use of dialogue too declamatory, of unaffecting elegance, and chill philosophy. The universality of applause, however it might quell the censure of

common
in fixed

mortals, had no other effect than to harden

dislike
;

Dennis
cious.

but his dislike was not merely capri-

He

found and showed

many

faults

he showed them

indeed with anger, but he found them with acuteness, such as ought to rescue his criticism from oblivion though, at last, it yvill have no other life than it derives from the work which it
;

endeavours to oppress. Why he pays no regard to the opinion of the audience, he

gives his reason, by remarking, that, " deference is to be paid to a general applause, when it appears that that applause is natural and spontaneous ; but that

little

regard

is

to be

had

to

it,

when

it is

affected and artificial.

the tragedies which in his memory have had vast and violent runs, not one has been excellent, few have been tolerable,

Of all

most have been scandalous.

When

a poet writes a tragedy,

feels

who knows he

has judgment, and

who

he has genius, that

poet presumes upon his

own

merit, and scorns to

make

a cabal.

That people come

coolly to the representation of such a tragedy, without any violent expectation, or delusive imagination, or in;

vincible prepossession

that such an audience is liable to receive

the impressions which the

poem shall naturally make on them, and to judge by their own reason, and their own judgments, and that reason and judgment are calm and- serene, not formed by nature to make proselytes, and to control and lord it over

the imaginations of others. But that when an author writes a tragedy, who knows he has neither genius nor judgment, he has

recourse to the making a party, and he endeavours to

in industry
craft the

make up

what

is

wanting in

talent,
;

absence of poetical art

supply by poetical that such an author is humbly

and

to

OF ADDISO.N
contented to raise men's passions by a plot -without doors, since .be despairs of doing it by that which he brings upon the stage.

That

party, and

passion, and prepossession, are clamorous and

the more clamorous and tumulmore erroneous that they domineer and tyrannize over the imaginations of persons who want judgment, and sometimes too of those who have it and, like a fierce and outrageous torrent, bear down all opposition before them." He then condemns the neglect of poetical justice ; which is

tumultuous things and so

much

tuous by

how much

the

ihvays one of his favourite principles.

" 'Tis certainly the duty of every tragic poet, by the exact

dis-

tribution of poetical justice, to imitate the divine dispensation, and to inculcate a particular providence. 'Tis true, indeed, upon the

less suffer.

stage of the world, the wicked sometimes prosper, and the guiltBut that is permitted by the governor of the world,

to show,

from the

attribute of his infinite justice, that there is

a compensation in futurity, to prove the immortality of the human soul, and the certainty of future rewards and punishments.

But the poetical persons in tragedy exist no longer than the. reading or the representation ; the whole extent of their entityis circumscribed by those ; and therefore, during that reading or representation, according to their merits or demerits, they

must be punished

or rewarded.

If this is not done, there

is

no

impartial distribution of poetical justice, no instructive lecture of a particular providence, and no imitation of the divine dispensation.

And

yet the author of this tragedy does not only run

in the fate of his principal character
;

counter to

this,

but eve-

ry where, throughout it, makes virtue suffer, and vice triumph ; for not only Cato is vanquished by Cesar, but the treachery andper-

Syphax prevails over the honest simplicity and the of and the sly subtlety and dissimulation of Portius Juba; credulity over the generous frankness and open heartedness of Marcus."
fidiousness of

Whatever pleasure there may be

and virtue rewarded,
life,

yet, since

the poet

is

certainly at

in seeing crimes punished wickedness often prospers in real liberty to give it prosperity on the

stage.

For

if

poetry has an imitation of reality,

how

are

its

laws broken by exhibiting the world in its true form ? The stage " may sometimes gratify our wishes ; but, if it be truly the mirror of life,"
it

ought

to

show us sometimes what we are to expect.

LIFE OF ADDISON.
Dennis objects
reasonable
;

to the characters, that they are not natural, nor but as heroes and heroines are not beings that are

seen every day, it is hard to find upon what principles their conIt is, however, not useless to consider what duct shall be tried. he says of the manner in which Cato receives the account of his
son's death.

" Nor is the more in grief of Cato, in the fourth act, one jot Cato renature than that of his son and Lucia in the third.
ceives the

news of

his

with a sort of satisfaction

son's death not only with dry eyes, but and in the same page sheds tears for ;

the calamity of his country, and does the same thing in the next page upon the bare apprehension of the danger of his friends. Now, since the love of one's country is the love of one's coun-

have shown upon another occasion, I desire to ask Of all our countrymen, which do we love most, these questions.
trymen, as
those
I

whom we know, or those whom we know not And of thosewhom we know, which do we cherish most, our friends or our
?

enemies

And

of our friends, which are the dearest to us, those

who

are related to us, or those

who

are not

And

of

all

our

re-

lations, for

near to

which have we most tenderness, us, or for those who are remote ?

for those

who

are

And

of our near

relations,

to us,

which are the nearest, and consequently the dearest our offspring, or others ? Our offspring, most certainly ;

as nature, or in other words, Providence, has wisely contrived for the preservation of mankind. Now, does it not follow, from

what has been

said, that for

man

to receive the
at the

son's death with dry eyes,

and
is

to

weep

news of same time for

his

the

calamities of his country,

able inconsistency

a wretched affectation, and a miser-

? Is not that, in plain English, to receive with dry eyes the news of the deaths of those for whose sake our country is a name so dear to us, and at the same time to shed

tears for those for

to us ?"

whose sakes our country

is

not a

name

so dear

But

this formidable assailant is least resistible

when he

attacks

the probability of the action, and the reasonableness of the plan. Every critical reader must remark, that Addison has, with a
scrupulosity almost unexampled on the English stage, confined himself in time to a single day, and in place to rigorous unity. The scene never change?, and the whole action of the 'play passes

41O
in the great

LIFE OF ADDISOX.
hall of Cato's

house

at

Utica.

Much

therefore

is

done
and

in the hull, for

this

which any other place would be more fit ; impropriety affords Dennis many hints of merriment, and
passage is long but as such the objections are skilfully and common,
;

opportunities of triumph.
disquisitions are not

The

formed and vigorously urged, those who delight

troversy will not think it tedious. " Upon the departure of Portius, Sempronius
soliloquy,

in critical con-

and immediately
it

in

makes but one comes Syphax, and then the two

politicians are at

immediately.

They

lay their

with their snuffboxes in their hands, as

Mr. Bayes has

heads together, it, and

fcague

it

away.

But, in the midst of that wise scene, Syphax

seems

to give a seasonable caution to

.

Sempronius.

But

is it
?

true,

Is called

together

Gods

Sempronius, that your senate; thou must be cautious;

!

Cato has piercing eyes.

" There

is

a great deal of caution

shown indeed,

in

meeting

in

carry on their plot against him. Whatever opinion they have of his eyes, I suppose they have none of his ears, or they would never have talked at this foolish rate so
a governor's

own

hall to

near.

" Gods
"
!

thou must be cautious.

Oh yes, very cautious ; for if Calo should overhear you, and turn you off for politicians, Cesar would never take you ; no,
Cesar would never take you.
"

When

Cato, act

II.

turns the senators out of the hall, upon

pretence of acquainting Juba with the result of their debates, he appears to me to do a thing which is neither reasonable nor

Juba might certainly have better been made acquainted with the result of that debate in some private apartment of the But the poet was driven upon this absurdity to make palace.
civil.

mand Marcia

and that is, to give Juba an opportunity to deof her father. But the quarrel and rage of Juba and Syphax, in the same act ; the invectives of Syphax against the Romans and Cato ; the advice that he gives Juba, in her father's
%vay for another
;

hall, to

bear away Marcia by force

his refusal,

and his brutal and clamorous

when Cato was scarcely rage upon out of sight, and perhaps not out of hearing, at least, some of
and
at

time

LIFE OF ADBISON.
his guards or domestics

411

within healing
that
it is

is

a thing thit is so far

must necessarily be supposed to be from being probable,

hardly possible, " Sempronius, in the second act,

comes back once more

in

the same morning to the governor's hall, to carry on the conspiracy with Syphax against the governor, his country, and his family ; which is so stupid that it is below the wisdom of the

O -'s, the Mac's, and the Teague's even Eustace Commins himself would never have gone to justice hall, to have conspired
;

against the government.

their heads together, in

If officers at Portsmouth should lay *s order to the carrying off * J

G -'s hall, to carry niece or daughter, would they meet in J on that conspiracy ? There would be no necessity for their
meeting there,
plot,
at least till they came to the execution of their because there would be other places to meet in. There

would be no
there would

probability that they should

meet

there, because

Now

be places more private and more commodious. there ought to be nothing in a tragical action but what is

necessary or probable. " But treason is not the only thing that is carried on in this hall ; that, and love, and philosophy, take their turns in it, without any
tion, as

as

if

manner of necessity or probability occasioned by the acduly and as regularly, without interrupting one another, there were a triple league between them, and a mutual
that each should give place to,

agreement
other, in a

and

make way for, the

this act,

due and orderly succession.

to the third act.

"

We

come now

Sempronius, in

conies into the governor's hall, with the leaders of the mutiny ; but, as soon as Cato is gone, Sempronius, who but just before

had acted
egregious "

like an unparalleled
fool, to

knave, discovers himself, like an

be an accomplice in the conspiracy.

A-iilai;is,

To

Semp. mix

Know,

when such
;

paltry slaves

presume

in treason, if the plot succeeds,

They're thrown neglected by

but, if

it fails,

They're sure to die like dogs, as you shall do. Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth To sudden death

The person meant by the initials J. G. is sir John Gibson, lieutenant governor of Portsmouth in the year 1710, and afterward. He was much behoved in the army, and by the common soldiors called Jilmmt Gibson. H.
YOT,.
r.

53

412

JJFE OF ADD1SON.
second lender says, there arc none possible at such a juncture ? Can

" 'Tis true, indeed, the

there but friends
;

but

is that

a parcel of rogues attempt to assassinate the governor of a town of war, in his own house, in midday ? and, after they are discovered, and defeated, can there be none near them but friends ? Is
it

not plain, from these words of Sempronius,

"

To

Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth sudden death

" and from the entrance of the guards upon the

word of com-

mand,

that those guards

were within earshot

Behold Sempro-

How comes it to pass, then, that nius then palpably discovered. instead of being hanged up with the rest, he remains secure in the governor's hall, and there carries on his conspiracy against
comrade Syphax, who enters
the government, the third time in the same day, with his old at the same time that the guards

are carrying away the leaders, big with the news of the defeat of Sempronius ; though where he had his intelligence so soon is
difficult to imagine ? And now the reader may expect a very extraordinary scene ; there is not abundance of spirit indeed, nor a great deal of passion, but there is wisdom more than enough to

supply

all

defects.
;

Syph Our first design, my friend, has prov'd abortive there remains an after game to play My troops are mounted, their Numidian steeds Snuff up the winds, and long to scour the desert. Let but Sempronius lead us in our flight, We'll force the gate, where Marcus keeps his guard, And hew down all that would oppose our passage
Still
;
;

"

A
"

day

Avill

bring us into Cesai*'s camp.

!

Semp. Confusion I have failed of half my purpose Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind. "
of,

Well

he does not

but though he tells us the half purpose he has failed tell us the half that he has curried. But what

does he

mean by
the charming Marcia's
left

" Marcia,
"

behind

He

is

now

in

her own house

nor heard of her, any where else since the play began. let us hear Syphax ;

and we have neither seen her, But now

LIFE OF ADDISON;
" What hinders then, but that thou And hurry her away by manly force
u But what does old Syphax
talk as if she
find
?

413
out,

her

mean by

finding her out

They,

were as hard

to be found as a hare in a frosty

morning.
"
rt

Semp. But how to gain admission

Oh

she

is

found out then,

to gain admission

it

seems.
for access

" But how

Is
6t

given to none, but Juba and her brothers.

But, raillery apart,

why

access to Juba

For he was owned

and received as a lover neither by the father nor by the daughter.

Well
plies

but

let that pass.

;

Syphax puts Sempronius out of pain

immediately

him

and, being a Numidian, abounding in wiles, supwith a stratagem for admission that, I believe, is a non-

pareil.
*'

The

Syph. Thou shah have Juba's dress, and Juba's guards doors will open when Numidia's prince
to appear before them.

Seems
"

Sempronius is, it seems, to pass for Juba in full day at Cahouse, where they were both so very well known, by having Juba's dress and his guards ; as if one of the marshals of France
to's

could pass for the duke of Bavaria

at

noonday, at Versailles, by

But how does Syphax pretend to help Sempronius to young Juba's dress ? Does he serve him in a double capacity, as general and master of his wardrobe ? But why Juba's guards ? For the devil of any guards has Juba aphaving his dress and liveries.

peared with
tion, yet

yet.

Well

though

this is a

mighty

politic invenit
;

methinks, they might have done without

for, since

the advice that Syphax gave to Sempronius was,

" To hurry her away by manly

"
in

force,

my opinion, the shortest and likeliest way of coming at the was by demolishing, instead of putting on an impertinent lady But Sempronius, it disguise to circumvent two or three slaves.
seems,
is

of another opinion.

He

extols to the skies the inven-

tion of old

Syphax

"

Sonp. Heavens

what

a thought

was there

414
"

LIFE OF ATmiSOX.

Now
word.

anpeal to the reader

I

if I

my

Did

not

tell

him, that

have not been as O rood as would lay before him a very

let us lay before the reader (hat part of the scenery of the fourth act, which may show the absurdities which the author has run into, through the indiscreet observance of the unity

wise scene ? " But now

do not remember that Aristotle has said any thing 'Tis true, implicitly he expressly concerning the unity of place. has said enough in the rules which he has laid down for the
of place.
I

chorus.

For, by

making the chorus an

essential part of tragedy,

and by bringing it on the stage immediately after the opening of the scene, and retaining it there till the very catastrophe, he has so
determined and fixed the place of action, that it was impossible for an author on the Grecian stage to break through that unity. I am of opinion, that if a modern tragic poet can preserve the unity
of place without destroying the probability of the incidents, 'tis always best for him to do it because, by the preserving of that as have notice we taken above, he adds grace, and clearunity,
;

But since there are ness, and comeliness, to the representation. no express rules about it and we are under no compulsion to keep it, since we have no chorus as the Grecian poet had, if it c,..ni.ot
be preserved without rendering the greater part of the incidents unreasonable and absurd, and perhaps sometimes monstrous, 'tis
certainly better to break
it.

"

Now comes
his

equipped with

Sempronius, comically accoutred and Numidian dress and his Numidiun guards. Let
bully

the reader attend to

him with

all

his ears

for the

words of the

wise are precious.

i-

Semp.

The deer
fain

is

lodg'd, I've tracked her to her covert.

"

Now
r

would

know why
;

this

deer

is

said to be lodged,

since

w c have
at all

not heard one word, since the play began, of her

being

out of harbour

and

if

which she and Lucia begin the

act,

we consider the discourse with we have reason to believe

let

that they had hardly been talking of such matters in the street.

However,
the deer
is

to pleasure

Sempronius,

us suppose, for once, that

lodged.
is

" The deer

lodg'd, I've track'd her to her covert.

LIFE OF ADDISOX.
u If he had seen her in the open
to track her,
field,

415

what occasion had he

when he had

which, with one halloo, If he did not see her in the open field, how could he possibly track her ? If he had seen her in the street, why did he not set

many Numidian dogs at his heels, he might have set upon 'her haunches ?
so

upon her

in
?

ried at last

the street, since through the street she must be carNow here, instead of having his thoughts upon his

business and upon the present danger ; instead of meditating and contriving how he shall pass with his mistress through the south-

ern gate, where her brother Marcus is upon the guard, and where she would certainly prove an impediment to him, which is the Roman word for the baggage ; instead of doing this, Sempronius
is

entertaining himself with whimsies.

Semp. How -will the young Numidian rave to see His mistress lost If aug-ht could glad my soul,
!

"

Beyond

th'

enjoyment of
?

so bright a prize,

'Tv/ould be to torture that young, gay barbarian.

But hark

'Tis Juba's self!

what noise Death to ray hopes There is but one way left!

'tis

he,

He must
Through
"

be murder'd, and a passage cut

those his guards.
'

Pray, what are

that Juba's

those his guards ?' I thought at present, been Sempronius's tools, and had been had guards

dangling after his heels. " But now let us sum

up

all

these absurdities together.

Sem-

pronius goes at noonday, in Juba's clothes and with Juba's guards, to Cato's palace, in order to pass for Juba, in a place where they were both so very well known ; he meets Juba there, and resolves to

murder him with

little

his

own

guards.

Upon
;

the guards

appearing a
" Ha

bashful, he threatens
!

them

Or

act like

Dastards, do you tremble men or, bv yon azure heav'n

;

" But the guards still remaining restive, Sempronius himself attacks Juba, while each of the guards is representing Mr. Spectator's sign of the gaper, awed, it seems, and terrified by Sem-

Juba kills Sempronius, and takes his own arand carries them in triumph away to Cato. Now my' prisoners, I would fain know if any part of Mr. Bayes's tragedy is so full
pronius's threats.
<&f

absurdity as this

LIFE OF ADD130N,
"
in.

Upon hearing the clash of swords, Lucia and Marcia come The question is, why no men come in upon hearing the
?
?

noise of swords in the governor's hall

nor himself
vants

Where were

his guards

Where was the goverWhere were his ser;

? Such an attempt as this, so near the person of a governor of a place of war, was enough to alarm the whole garrison and yet, for almost half an hour after Sempronius was killed, we

find

be alarmed
poor

none of those appear who were the likeliest in the world to and the noise of swords is made to draw only two
;

women thither, who were most certain Upon Lucia and Marcia's coming in, Lucia
symptoms of an
Is so cast
It

to

run away from

it.

appears

in all the

hysterical

gentlewoman.
!

" Luc. Sure

'twas the clash of swords my troubled heart down, and sunk amidst its sorrows, ihrobs with fear, and aches at every sound
!

"

And

immediately her old whimsy returns upon her

"

I die

Marcia, should thy brothers, for my sake away with horror at the thought.
it

" She fancies that there can be no cutting of throats, but

must
and
;

be for her.
cal.

If this is tragical, I
1

would

fain

know what

is

comi;

upon this they spy the body of Sempronius deluded Marcia, by the habit, it seems, takes him for Juba
says she,

Well

for,

" The face

is

muffled up within the garment.

"

Now, how

man

up

in his

garment,

is, I

could fight, and fall, with his face muffled Beside, think a little hard to conceive
!

Juba, before he killed him,

not by his garment that his face therefore was not mufiled.
his muffled face,
for the

knew him to be Sempronius. It was he knew this it was by his face then
;

Upon

seeing this

man

with

Marcia falls a raving ; and, owning her passion supposed defunct, begins to make his funeral oration. Upon which Juba enters listening, I suppose on tiptoe for I cannot imagine how any one can enter listening in any other pos;

I would fain know how it comes to pass, that during all time he had sent nobody, no, not so much as a candlesnuffer, Well but let us to take away the dead body of Sempronius.

ture.

this

regard him listening.

he, at
first,

Having left his apprehension behind him, But findapplies what Marcia says to Sempronius.

LIFE OF ADDISOX.
ing at
last,

417
happy man, he

with

much

ado, that he himself is the

quits his eavesdropping, and discovers himself just time prevent his being cuckolded by a dead man, of

enough
the

to

whom

mo-

ment

before he had appeared so jealous ; and greedily intercepts the bliss which was fondly designed for one who could not be the better for it. But here I must ask a question how comes Juba to listen here, who had not listened before throughout the
;

play

Or how comes he
listens,

to

be the only person of this tragedy

who

when

love and treason

were so

often talked in so

public a place as a hall ? I am afraid the author was driven upon all these absurdities only to introduce this miserable mistake of

Marcia, which, after all, is much below the dignity of tragedy, as any thing is which is the effect or result of trick. " But let us come to the scenery of the fifth act. Cato appears first upon the scene, in his hand sitting in a thoughtful posture
;

Plato's treatise

the table
sight
is

on the Immortality of the Soul, a drawn sword on by him. Now let us consider the place in which this

presented to us.

The

place, forsooth, is a long hall.

Let us suppose,
pear

that any one should place himself in this posture,

in the midst of one of our halls in

solus in a sullen posture, a

London

that

he should ap-

in his

hand Plato's

treatise

table by him ; on the Immortality of the Soul, trans-

drawn sword on the

lated lately by Bernard Lintot I desire the reader to consider, whether such a person as this would pass, with them who be;

held him, for a great patriot, a great philosopher, or a genera!, or for some whimsical person, who fancied himself all these ? and

whether the people, who belonged to the family, would think that such a person had a design upon their midriffs or his own ?
" In short, that Cato should sit long enough in the aforesaid posture, in the midst of this large hall, to read over Plato's treatise

long hours

on the Immortality of the Soul, which is a lecture of two that he should propose to himself to be private there
;

upon

that occasion
;

that

he should be angry with his son

for in-

then, that he should leave this hall upon the pretruding there tence of sleep, give himself the mortal wound in his bedchamber, and then be brought

back

into that hall to expire, purely to

show

good breeding, and save his friends the trouble of coming up to his bedchamber all this appears to me to be improbhis
;

able, incredible, impossible."

418
Such
presses
is
it,

LI1

!:

OF ADDISON.
There
in
is,

the

censure of Dennis.

as

Dryden ex-

" too pel haps

much

horse play

his raillery ;" but

if his jests arc coarse, his

arguments are

strong-.
is

Yet, as

we

love

better to be pleased than to be taught, Cato

is

read and the

critic

neglected.

Flushed with consciousness of these detections of absurdity in but the conduct, he afterward attacked the sentiments of Cato
;

he then amused himself with petty cavils and minute objections. Of Addison's smaller poems, no particular mention is necesThe they have little that can employ or require a critic. sary
;

parallel of the princes and gods, in his verses to Kneller, is often

happy, but

is

too well

known

to

be quoted.

His

translations, so far as I

exactness of a scholar.

have compared them, want the That he understood his authors cannot

be doubted

but his versions will not teach others to understand

them, being too licentiously paraphrastical. They are, however, for the most pait, smooth and easy and, what is the first excel;

lence of a translator, such as

may

be read with pleasure by those

who do

not

know
is

the originals.

His poetry
judicious to excellence.

commit

polished and pure ; the product of a mind too faults, but not sufficiently vigorous to attain

He

has sometimes a striking

line,

or a shining par-

rv^aph ; but in the whole he is warm rather than fervid, and shows more dexterity than strength. He was however one of our earliest examples of correctness.

The
his

versification

based rather than refined.

which he had learned from Dryden, he deHis rhymes are often dissonant in
;

uses both triplets and his translations than but more in alexandrines, triplets frequently his other works. The mere structure of verses seems never to
lines.

Georgic he admits broken

He

have engaged
in

much
now

of his care.

But

his lines are very

smooth

Rosamond, and
Addison
is

too
to

smooth

in Cato.
critic
;

be considered as a

name which

the present generation is scarcely willing to allow him. His criticism is condemned as tentative or experimental, rather than scientific ; and he is considered as deciding by taste* rather than
')y

principles.
i:

Taste must decide.

WARTOX,

C,

LIFE OF ADDISON.
It is

419
the

not

uncommon

for

those
a

who have grown wise by

labour of others to add

their masters.

little

of their own, and overlook

Adclison is now despised by some who perhaps would never have seen his defects, but by the lights which he afforded them. That he always wrote as he would think it necto write essary now, cannot be affirmed his instructions were
;

such as the characters of his readers made proper.

eral

knowledge which now circulates

in

common

talk

That genwas in his

time rarely to be found.

;

Men

not professing learning were not

ashamed of ignorance and, in the female world, any acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured. His purpose was to infuse literary curiosity, by gentle and unsuspected conveyance, into the gay, the
fore presented
idle, and the wealthy ; he thereknowledge in the most alluring form, not lofty and When he showed them austere, but accessible and familiar. their defects, he showed them likewise that they might be easily His attempt succeeded inquiry was awakened, and supplied.
;

comprehension expanded. An emulation of intellectual elegance was excited and, from this time to our own, life has been grad;

ually exalted,

and conversation purified and enlarged.

Dry den had, not many years before, scattered criticism over his prefaces with very little parsimony ; but, though he sometimes condescended to be somewhat familiar, his manner was in general too scholastic for those who had yet their rudiments to
learn,

and found

it

servations

were framed rather

His obnot easy to understand their master. for those that were learning to

write, than for those that read only to talk.

An instructor like Addison was now wanting, whose remarks, being superficial, might be easily understood, and, being just, might prepare the mind for more attainments. Had he presented Paradise Lost to the public with all the pomp of system and severity of science, the criticism would perhaps have been admired and the poem still have been neglected ; but by the blandishments of gentleness and facility, he has made Milton a
universal favourite, with

whom

readers of every class think

to

it

necessary to be pleased.

He

descended now and then

jwer disquisitions

and by a

serious display of the beauties of Chevychase, exposed himself to the ridicule of Wagstaff, who bestowed a like pompous charac-

YOL,

i.

54

LIFE OF ADDISON7
tcr on

Tom Thumb

and

to

the contempt of Dennis, who, con-,

sidering the fundamental position of his criticism, that Che-vychase

pleases, and ought to please, because it is natural, observes, " that there is a way of deviating from nature, by bombast or tu-

their real bulk

mour, which soars above nature, and enlarges images beyond by affectation, which forsakes nature in quest of
;

something unsuitable and by imbecility, which degrades nature by faintness and diminution, by obscuring its appearances, and
;

weakening
becility.

its

effects."

either bombast or affectation

In Chc-vychase there is not much of but there is chill and lifeless im;
in

shall

The story cannot possibly be told make less impression on the mind.

manner

that

Before the profound observers of the present race repose too securely on the consciousness of their superiority to Addison, let

them consider

his

Remarks on Ovid,

in

which may be found

and refined
;

specimens of criticism

sufficiently subtle

let

them

peruse likewise his Essays on Wit and on the Pleasures of Imagination, in which he founds an on the base of nature, and draws
the principles of invention from dispositions inherent in the

mind

of

man

with

skill

and elegance,* such as his contemners

life

will not

easily attain.

As

a describer of
first

stand perhaps the

Steele observes,
is

of the

and manners, he must be allowed to His humour, which, as first rank.

is

peculiar to himself,

so happily diffused as

to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occur-

never " outsteps the modesty of nature," nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures
rences.

He

neither divert by distortion nor

ies life with so

amaze by aggravation.
he can be hardly said

He
it

cop;

much

fidelity that

to invent
is

yet his exhibitions have an air so

cult to

much

original, that

diffi-

As

a teacher of wisdom, he

suppose them not merely the product of imagination. may be confidently followed. His

it enthusiastic or superstitious ; he apcredulous nor wantonly sceptical ; his moneither weakly pears All the rality is neither dangerously lax nor impracticably rigid. enchantment of fancy, and all the cogency of argument, are em-

religion has nothing in

ployed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of Truth is shown sometimes as pleasing the Author of his being.
*

Far, in Dr. Warton's opinion, beyond Dryden.

C.

LIFE OF ADDISON.
the phantom of a vision
allegory
;

421
in
;

sometimes appears half veiled

an

sometimes

attracts regard in the robes of fancy

and
a

sometimes steps

forth in the confidence of reason.

all is

She wears

thousand dresses, and in

" Mille habet

pleasing.

ornatus, mille clecenter habet.

His prose is the model of the middle style ; on grave subjects not formal, on light occasions not groveling pure without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent elaboration ; always equable
;

and always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. Addison never deviates from his track to snatch a grace ; he seeks no ambitious ornaments, and tries no hazardous innovations.

His page

is

always luminous, but never blazes in unex-

pected splendour.
It was apparently his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness and severity of diction ; he is therefore sometimes verbose in his transitions and connections, and sometimes descends too

much
been

to the

less idiomatical,

anglicism.
feeble,

language of conversation ; yet if his language had it might have lost somewhat of its genuine What he attempted, he performed he is never
;

and he did not wish

and he never stagnates. plitude nor affected brevity

be energetic ;* he is never rapid, His sentences have neither studied amto

;

his periods,

though not

diligently

rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious,

must give

his days

and nights to the volumes of Addison.

is

* But, says Dr. Warton, he so?netimes adds, often so. C.

so^ and in another

MS.

note he

HUGHES.

J OHN HUGHES,

the son of a citizen in London, and of

Anne

Burgess, of an ancient family in Wiltshire, WES born at Marlborough, July 29, 1677. He was educated at a private school j

and though his advances

ungratefully concealed.*

in literature are, in the Biografihia,

very

ostentatiously displayed, the

name

of his master

is

somewhat

At nineteen he drew the plan of a tragedy ; and paraphrased, rather too profusely, the ode of Horace which begins " Integer Vitas." To poetry he added the science of music, in which he
seems
to

have attained considerable

skill,

together with the prac-

rudiments of painting. His studies did not withdraw him wholly from business, nor did He had a place in the office of business hinder him from study.
tice of design, or
? ^veral commissions for ; and was secretary to purchasing lands necessary to secure the royal docks at Chatham and Portsmouth ; yet found time to acquaint himself with modern

ordnance

languages. In 1697 he published a poem on the Peace of Rysiuick ; and in 1699 another piece, called The Court of JVefitune^ on the return
of king William, which he addressed to Mr. general patron of the followers of the muses.

Montague, the

The same

year

he produced

a song on the

duke of Gloucester's birthday.

He

did not confine himself to poetry, but cultivated other kinds

of writing with great success ; and about this time showed his knowledge of human nature by an Essay on the pleasure of being
deceived.

702 he published, on the death of king illiam a Pindaric ode, called The House of Nassau / and wrote another paraphrase on the Otium Divos of Horace.
In
1
c

He was educated in a dissenting academy, of which the Rev. Mr. Thomas Rowe was tutor and was a fellow student there with Dr. Isaac Watts, Mr.
;

Samuel Say, and other persons of eminence. In the " Horse Lyricsc" of Dr. Watts, is a poem to the memory of Mr. Rowe. H.

LIFE OF HUGHES.
in 1703 his ode on music was performed at Stationers' hall ; he wrote afterward six cantatas, which were set to music by

.id

.he greatest master of that time, and

seemed intended

to

oppose

or exclude the Italian opera, an exotic and irrational entertainment which has been always combated, and always has prevailed.

His reputation was now so

to pay reverence to his

far advanced, that the public

;

began

name

and he was solicited to prefix a

preface to the translation of Boccalini, a writer whose satirical vein cost him his life in Italy, and who never, I believe, found

many

readers in this country, even though introduced by such

translated Fontenelle's Dialogues of the

powerful recommendation.

He

Dead ; and

his

version was perhaps read at that time, but is now neglected ; for by a book not necessary? and owing its reputation wholly to its
little notice can be gained but from those who can enjoy the graces of the original. To the dialogues of Fontenelle he added two composed by himself; and, though not only

turn of diction,

an honest but a pious man, dedicated his work to the earl of

Wharton.
take

He

judged

skilfully

enough of his own

interest

for

Wharton, when he went

lord lieutenant to Ireland, offered to

establish

Hughes

with

him and

him
in

but Hughes, having

power, of some provision more suitable to his inclination, declined Wharton's offer, and obtained nothing from the other.
hopes, or promises, from another

man

He
to the

translated the

Miser of Moliere, which he never offered

stage ; and occasionally amused himself with versions of favourite scenes in other plays.

making

tributions to literary undertakings,

Being now received as a wit among the wits, he paid his conand assisted both the Taller,
and Guirdian.
In 1712 he translated Vertot's history to the Creator of

Spectator,

of the Revolution of Portugal ; produced an Ode

the World, from the fragments of Orjiheus, and

brought upon the

stage an opera called Calypso and Telemachus, intended to show that the English language might be very happily adapted to

music.

This was impudently opposed by those who were employed in the Italian opera ; and, what cannot be told without indignation, the intruders had such interest with the duke of
Shrewsbury, then lord chamberlain, who had married an
Italian,

as to obtain an obstruction of the profits, though not an inhibition of the

performance.

LIFE OF HUGHES.

There

\vas at this

translation of the Pharsalia

time a project formed by Tonsc, by several hands ; and Hughe

lished the tenth book.

But

this design, as
is

must
fell to

often haj.

when

the concurrence of

many

necessary,

the groun.

and the whole work was afterward performed by Rowe, His acquaintance with the great writers of his time appears to have been very general ; but of his intimacy with Addison
there
is

a remarkable proof.

It is told,

on good authority, that

Cato was finished and played by his persuasion. It had long wanted the last act, which he was desired by Addison to supply.
If the request

was

sincere,

it

proceeded from an opinion, what;

ever

it

was, that did not last long

first

for

when Hughes came in a

week

show him his by Addison himself.

to

attempt, he found half an act written

He

afterward published the works of Sfienser, with his

lifca,

glossary, and a discourse on allegorical poetry ; a work for which he was well qualified, as a judge of the beauties of writing, but

perhaps wanted an antiquary's knowledge of the obsolete words. He did not much revive the curiosity of the public ; for near
thirty years elapsed before his edition

was

reprinted.

The same

year produced his A{iollo and Da/i/me, of which the success was very earnestly promoted by Steele, who, when the rage of party
did not misguide him,

seems

to

have been a

man

of boundless

benevolence.

Hughes had
ease, by

hitherto suffered the mortifications of a narrow

fortune; but in 1717 the lord chancellor

Cowper

set

him

at

secretary to the commissions of the peace ; in which he afterward, by a particular request, desired his suc-

making him

cessor lord Parker to continue him.

He
when

had now affluence

but such

is

human

life,

that

he had

it

his declining health

could neither allow

His

last

which a

him long possession nor quick enjoyment. work was his tragedy, The Siege of Damascus, after This play, which still consiege became a popular title.

tinues on the stage, and of which it is unnecessary to add a private voice to such continuance of approbation, is not acted or printed according to the author's original draught or his settled intention.

He

had made Phocyas apostatize from his religion

after

which

the abhorrence of Eudocia would have been reasonable, his mis-

ery would have been

just,

and the horrors of his repentance

LIFK OF HUGHES.

.d

The players, however, required that the guilt of Photerminate in desertion to the enemy ; and Hughes,

^ that his relations should lose the benefit of his work,

.ed with the alteration.
j

iltcnd the rehearsal

,ily

was now weak with a lingering consumption, and not yet was so vigorous in his faculties
;

able
that

ten days before his death he wrote the dedication to his pat-

ron lord Covvper. On February 17, 1719-20, the play was repreHe lived to hear that it was well ^nted, and the author died.
;

ved

mployed
"

but paid no regard to the intelligence, being then in the meditations of a departing Christian.
his character
in the

dt
or
s
i

'',

was undoubtedly regretted $ and Steeje paper called The Theatre, to the memlife

His
to

is

"able partiality

written in the Biographia with and an account of him is ;

his relation the late

i,

Mr. Buncombe,
'

hose

"'lice
o,.

deserved the same respect.

transcribe from the cor-

;haracter

1 shall
c.

ence of Swift

pe.

nonth ago," says b .vift, " were sent

me

over, by a friend

John Hughes, esquire. ,, the works of I never heard of the man in my se.
nai
.

They
life,

are in prose

yet I find your

;

as a subscriber.

among this Pope

ies
; ;

too grave a poet for me the mediocrists in prose as well as verse."

He
;

is

and I

returns

"

To

what he wanted

in genius,

answer your question as to Mr. he made up as an honest

but he was of the class you think him."*

is

Spence's collection, Pope

made

to

speak of him with

still

respect, as having no claim to poetical reputation but

from

tragedy.
This,

v
;

is very unjust censure and, in a note in " Pope's Works, asks if the author of such a tragedy as e Siege of Damascus was one of the mediocribus ? Swift and Pope seem v i to recollect the value and rank of an author vho aoulJ write such >

Dr. Warton asserts,

late edition of

C
\*/

SHEFFIELD,
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

OHN SHEFFIELD, descended from a long series of illustrious

was born
in
1

ancestors,

649, the son of

lord

who
tor,

died in 1658.

The young
little

with

whom

he was so and
at

Edmond earl of Mulgrave, was put into the hands of a tusatisfied, that he got rid of him

in a short time,

an age not exceeding twelve years, resolved to educate himself. Such a purpose, formed at such an age,
delights, as
it

and successfully prosecuted,

structs, as it is real.

is

strange, and in-

His
in

literary acquisitions are

more wonderful,

as those years

which they are commonly made were spent by him in the tumult of a military life or the gaiety of a court. When war was declared against the Dutch, he went, at seventeen, on board
the
sailed,

ship in which prince Rupert and the duke of Albemarle with the command of the fleet ; but by contrariety of winds

His zeal for the king's serthey were restrained from action. vice was recompensed by the command of one of the independent troops of horse, then raised to protect the coast. Next year he received a summons to parliament, which, as he

was then but eighteen years old, the earl of Northumberland censured as at least indecent, and his objection was allowed. He had a quarrel with the earl of Rochester, which he has perhaps too ostentatiously related, as Rochester's surviving sister, the
lady

Sandwich,

is

said to

have told him with very sharp re-

proaches.

When another Dutch war, 1672, broke out, he went again a volunteer in the ship which the celebrated lord Ossory commanded ; and there made, as he relates, two curious remarks.
"
I

have observed two things, which

dare affirm, though not

generally believed.

One
55

was, that the wind of a cannon bullet s

though
VOL.

flying ever so near,' is incapable of doing the least

T.

harm

428
and, indeed,

LIFE OF SHEFFIELD.

were it otherwise, no man above deck would escape, other was, that a great shot may be sometimes avoided, even as it ilies, by changing one's ground a little ; for, when the

The

wind sometimes blew away the smoke,

clay,

that
fall

we

c*ould easily perceive

it was so clear a sunshiny the bullets, that were half

apcnt,
us,

into the water,

which gives
;

sufficient

and from thence bound up again among time for milking a step or two on any
*tis

side

though, in so swift a motion,

hard to judge well in what

line the bullet

comes, which,

if

mistaken,

may by removing

cost

man

his

life,

instead of saving it."

His behaviour was so favourably represented by lord Ossory, that he was advanced to the command of the Catharine, the best
second rate ship

He

in the navy. afterward raised a regiment of foot, and

commanded

it

as

colonel.

land forces were sent ashore by prince Rupert ; He in the camp very familiarly with Schomberg. and he lived

The

was then appointed colonel of the old Holland regiment, together with his own, and had the promise of a garter, which he ob. He was likewise made gentletained in his twenty fifth year.

man of the

bedchamber.

He

afterward went into the French ser_

vice, to learn the art of war under Turenne, but staid only a short time. Being by the duke of Monmouth opposed in his pretensions
to the first troop of horse guards, he, in return,

made Monmouth

He was not long after, when suspected by the duke of York. the unlucky Monmouth fell into disgrace, recompensed with the
lieutenancy of Yorkshire and the government of Hull. Thus rapidly did he make his way both to military and
civil

honours and employment

yet,

but at least ; neglect his studies, must have been early considered as uncommonly skilful, it it be true which is reported, that, when he was not yet twenty years
old, his

busy as he was, he did not cultivated poetry in which he

The Moors

recommendation advanced Dry den to the laurel. having besieged Tangier, he was sent, 1680, with

two thousand men to its relief. A strange story is told of the danger to which he was intentionally exposed in a leaky ship, to

some resentful jealousy of the king, whose health he therefore would never permit at his table, till he saw himself in a
gratify

safer place.

weeks

His voyage was prosperously performed in three and the Moors without a contest retired before him.

LIFE OF SHEFFIELD.

429
;

In this voyage he composed The Vision ; a licentious poem such as was fashionable in those times, with little power of invention or propriety of sentiment. At his return he found the king kind,

been angry

who perhaps had never and he continued a wit and a courtier as before.

At

the succession of king James, to

whom

he was intimately

known, and by

whom

he thought himself beloved, he naturally

expected still brighter sunshine ; but all know how soon that His expectations were not disapreign began to gather clouds. was he pointed immediately admitted into the privy council,
;

He accepted a place in the high commission, without knowledge, as he declared after the revolution, of its illegality. Having few religious scruples, he attendand made lord chamberlain.
*

ed the king to mass, and kneeled with the

position to receive the

rest,

but had no disit

Romish

faith or to force

upon others

the priests, encouraged by his appearances of compliance, attempted to convert him, he told them, as Burnet has recorded, that he was willing to receive instruction, and that he
for

when

had taken much pains

all

to believe in

God who made

tire

world and

men

in

it

but that he should not be easily persuaded thai

man was
the last

quits,

and made God again,

successive transmission to
will
fit

A pointed sentence is bestowed by

whom it
its

ever be

censure of transubstantiation, what; value, was uttered long ago by Anne Askew, one of
this

v the
of

first

sufferers

for the protestant

religion,
;

who,

in the

time

Henry VIII. was

is

tortured in
it

the tower

concerning which
to the historian

there

reason to wonder that

was not known

of the reformation.

In the revolution he acquiesced, though he did not promote

it

There was once

a design of
;

associating

him

in

the invitation

of the prince of Orange

but the earl of Shrewsbury discouraged the attempt, by declaring that Mulgrave would never concurThis king William afterward told him and asked what he would have done if the proposal had been made ; " Sir," said he, " I would have discovered it to the king whom I then served." To which king William replied, " I cannot blame you." Finding king James irremediably excluded, he voted for the
;

titles

conjunctive sovereignty, upon this principle, that he thought the of the prince and his consort equal, and it would please the

430

LIFE OF SHEFFIELD.

This prince their protector to have a share in the sovereignty. vote gratified king William ; yet, either by the king's distrust or his own discontent, he lived some years without employment.
his prose

looked on the king with malevolence, and, if his verses or may be credited, with contempt. He was, notwithstanding this aversion or indifference, made marquis of Normanstill

He

by, 1694, but

tions
;

yet at last

opposed the court on some important queshe was received into the cabinet council, with

a pension of three thousand pounds.

At the accession of queen Anne, whom he is said to have courted when they were both young, he was highly favoured. Before her coronation, 1702, she made him lord privy seal, and soon after lord lieutenant of the north riding- of Yorkshire.

He was

then
;

named commissioner for treating with the Scots about the union and was made next year, first, duke of Normanby, and then of
Buckinghamshire, there being suspected
latent claim to the title of to

be somewhere a

Soon

after,

Buckingham. becoming jealous of the duke of Marlborough, he

seal,

resigned the privy

and joined the discontented lories

to the

in

motion extremely offensive

Sophia to England.

The

queen, for inviting the princess queen courted him back with an offer

no
is

less than that of the chancellorship,

which he refused.
house
in the

He

now

retired

from business, and

built that

park which

now

When

the queen's, upon ground granted by the crown. the ministry was changed, 1710, he was made lord
all

chamberlain of the household, and concurred in

transactions

of that time, except that he endeavoured to protect the Catalans. After the queen's death, he became a constant opponent of the
court
;

and,

amused himself by
ary 24, 1720-21.

having no public business, is supposed to have He died Februwriting his two tragedies.

He
dren
;

was thrice married by his two first wives he had no chilby his third, who was the daughter of king James by the
;

countess of Dorchester, and the widow of the earl of Anglesea, he had, beside other children that died early, a son, born in 1716,
died in 1735, and put an end to the line of Sheffield. observable, that the duke's three wives were all widows.

who

It is

The

dutchess died in 1742.

His character is not to be proposed as worthy of imitation His religion he may be supposed to have learned from Hobbes

LIFE OF SHEFFIELD.

431

and his morality was such as naturally proceeds from loose opinions. His sentiments with respect to women he picked up in
the court of Charles
;

were such

as a

gaming

table supplies.

and his principles concerning property He was censured as cov-

etous, and has been defended by an instance of inattention to his affairs, as if a man might not at once be corrupted by avarice and
idleness.

and

to

He is said, however, to have had much tenderness' have been very ready to apologize for his violences of
introduced into this collection only as a poet
;

passion.

He

is

and, if

we

credit the testimony of his contemporaries,

vulgar rank.

But favour and

flattery

he was a poet of no are now at an end criti;

cism

is

no longer softened by his bounties or awed by his splen-

dour, and, being able to take a more steady view, discovers him to be a writer that sometimes glimmers, but rarely shines, feebly

His songs are upon common and and he topics hopes, repents, and despairs, and grieves, to be great, he rejoices, like any other maker of little stanzas
laborious, and at best but pretty.
;
;

hardly tries ; to be gay, is hardly in his power. In the Essay on Satire he was always supposed to have had

His Essay on Poetry is the great work for which he was praised by Roscommon, Dryden, and Pope ; and doubtless by many more whose eulogies have perished.
the help of Dryden.
\vas all his lifetime
to have set a high value for he improving it by successive revisals, so that there is scarcely any poem to be found of which the last edition differs more from the first. Among other changes, mention is

Upon

this piece

he appears

made
the

some compositions of Dryden, which were written after appearance of the Essay. At the time when this work first appeared, Milton's fame was
of
first

not yet fully established, and therefore Tasso and Spenser were set before him. The two last lines were these. The epic poet.

says he,

Must above

Milton's lofty flights prevail,

'

Succeed where great Torquato, and where greater Spenser

fail.

The

last line in

of names continued

succeeding editions was shortened, and the order but now Milton is at last advanced to the
;

highest place, and the passage thus adjusted

432

LIFE OF SHEFFIELD.
Must above Tasso's
lofty flights prevail,
fail.

Succeed where Spenser, and ev'n Milton

Amendments
lofty

are seldom

made
to

-without

some token of

a rent

does not suit Tasso so well as Milton.

celebrated line

One

seems

be borrowed.

The Essay

calls

a perfect character

A
field

faultless

monster, Avhich the world ne'er saw.

Scaliger, in his poems, terms Virgil sine labe monstrum.

Shef-

can scarcely be supposed to have read Scaliger's poetry ; perhaps he found the words in a quotation. Of this Essay, which Drydcn has exalted so highly, it may be
but there are, after

justly said that the precepts are judicious,

often happily expressed

tions,

sometimes new, and all the emenda-

gence

many weak lines, jtnd some strange appearances of neglias, when he gives the laws of elegy, he insists upon con;
;

nection and coherence

without which, says he,

;

'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will But not an elegy, nor writ with skill,

No

panegyric, nor a Cooper's

hill.

Who

Cooper's

would not suppose that Waller's panegyric and Denham's hill were elegies ?

His verses are often insipid, but his memoirs are lively and he had the perspicuity and elegance of an historian, agreeable
;

but not the

fire

and fancy of a poet.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUMK.

S.

ETHERIDGE,
AN

PROPOSES TO PUBLISH BY SUBSCRIPTION,

ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY,
ANCIENT AND MODERN,
FROM THE BIRTH OF CHRIST, TO THE BEGINNING OF THE LAST CENTURY
;

IN WHICH

THE

RISE,

PROGRESS,

AND VARIATIONS OF CHURCH POWER

ARE CONSIDERED IN THEIR CONNECTION WITH THE STATE OF

Learning and Philosophy, and the Political History of Europe During that Period.

By

the late Learned

JOHN LAWRENCE MOSHEIM,

D.D.

and Chancellor of the University of Gottingen.

Translated from the Original Latin, and accompanied with Notes and Chronological Tables,

By ARCHIBALD MACLAINE, D.D.

In
sis

Volumes

.To the whole

is

added an accurate Index*

The following gentlemen have politely given

Work.

their cordial approbation oftlte

Having perused Dr. MOSHEIM'S ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY,

I think that in respect of elegance of style and perspicuity of method, it is the best extant. Like all other human compositions,
it no doubt has imperfections, and the author some probabut as this country has not had the means of information from any work of this kind being published in it before, I cannot help entertaining the pleasing hope, that the general interests of the kingdom of Christ will be thereby promoted.

bly

WILLIAM MARSHALL,

A.M.

Minister of the Associate Church, Philadelphia.

MOSHEIM'S ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY has

approbation and stands in no need of

obtained universal

ROBERT ANNAN,

my recommendation.
A.M.
D.

safety ^ so I do most cheerfully concur with the above recommendations in favour of a very valuable work.

As I can with perfect,

SAMUEL MAG AW, D.

ASHBEL GREEN,

Philadelphia, Oct. 31, 1796. I HAVE never read any single History of the Christian Church which I esteem as any e^'ial to that written by Dr. MOSHEIM.

way

D.D.

Philadelphia, Jan 2, 1797.

The interesting Work recommended with so much propriety by the foregoing Ministers of religion, needs only to be read in order to be admired.

JOHN ANDREWS,
Vice Provost ami Professor of Moral Philosophy,
Pennsylvania^cc. in

D.D.

the University of

Professor of English ami

WILLIAM ROGERS, D.D. the University of PennsylvaniaLetlres, J, HENRY CH. HELMUTH, D.D. Minister of the Lutheran Congregation. JOHN MEDER, Minister of the Church of the United Brethren. FREDRICK SCHMIDT, A.M. Minister of the Lutheran CongregationWILLIAM HENDEL, D.D.
lie-lies

in

Minister of the Philadelphia, JprilVQ, 1797.

German Reformed

Congregation.

Ministers of Philadelphia, in their recommendations of above, do, I am persuaded, express the general opinion of protcstant divines, an opinion which I believe to be just.

The

MOSHEIM'S ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY, which appear

E. D.

GRIFFIN, D. D.

Bartlctt Professor of Pulpit Eloquence, in the Divinity College, Andover. Almost every lover of ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY will ac- ord

with the general testimonies above given in favour of DR. MoSHEIM. cordially approve the design of the publisher, and

We

wish him success,

JOHN LATHROP, D.D. JOHN ELIOT, D. D.

SAMUEL

SPRING,

D. D.

JOSEPH ECKLEY, D. D. THOMAS BALDWIN, D.D. JEDIDIAH MORSE, D. D. JOHN S. J. GARDINER,

LEONARD WOODS,
in the Divinity College,

Abbot Professor of Christian Theology,

Andover.

W. EMERSON.
Although certain portions of ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY, espe-

demand a more rigorous examination and exact statement than are found in these volumes, yet Mosheim's ll'ork as a whole has great merit. It is elaborate and comprehensive, and has been generally read with more confidence than any other complete History of the Church. The notes of Maclaine add to its value ; and if they do not always The undertaksatisfy will at least awaken and assist inquiry. ing of the publisher, in our opinion, deserves patronage.
cially in the earliest ages,

JOHN

CHARLES LOWELL,

T. KIRKLAND, JOSEPH Me. KEAN, J. S. BUCKMINSTER,

D. D.

HORACE HOLLEY, OLIVER BROWN-

.BOSTON,

June

1,

IS 10.

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