grace of delivery, or elegance of manner, he could not make so good a figure in conversation, as many persons of his knowledge, with a happier appearance. Of all authors Mr. Banks was the farthest removed from envy or malevolence. As he could not bear the least whisper of detraction, so he was never heard to express uneasiness at the growing reputation of another; nor was he ever engaged in literacy contests. We shall conclude this article in the words of lord Clarendon. ‘He that lives such a life, need be less anxious at how short warning it is taken from him [1].’
[1] See lord Clarendon’s character of the lord Falkland.
* * * * *
Mrs. LAETITIA PILKINGTON.
This unfortunate poetess, the circumstances of whose life, written by herself, have lately entertained the public, was born in the year 1712. She was the daughter of Dr. Van Lewen, a gentleman of Dutch extraction, who settled in Dublin. Her mother was descended of an ancient and honourable family, who have frequently intermarried with the nobility.
Mrs. Pilkington, from her earliest infancy, had a strong disposition to letters, and particularly to poetry. All her leisure hours were dedicated to the muses; from a reader she quickly became a writer, and, as Mr. Pope expresses it,
‘She lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came.’
Her performances were considered as extraordinary for her years, and drew upon her the admiration of many, who found more pleasure in her conversation, than that of girls generally affords. In consequence of a poetical genius, and an engaging sprightliness peculiar to her, she had many wooers, some of whom seriously addressed her, while others meant no more than the common gallantries of young people. After the usual ceremony of a courtship, she became the wife of Mr. Matthew Pilkington, a gentleman in holy orders, and well known in the poetical world by his volume of Miscellanies, revised by dean Swift. As we have few materials for Mrs. Pilkington’s life, beside those furnished by herself in her Memoirs published in 1749, our readers must depend upon her veracity for some facts which we may be obliged to mention, upon her sole authority.
Our poetess, says she, had not been long married, e’er Mr. Pilkington became jealous, not of her person, but her understanding. She was applauded by dean Swift, and many other persons of taste; every compliment that was paid her, gave a mortal stab to his peace. Behold the difference between the lover and the husband! When Mr. Pilkington courted her, he was not more enamoured of her person, than her poetry, he shewed her verses to every body in the enthusiasm of admiration: but now he was become a husband, it was a kind of treason for a wife to pretend to literary accomplishments.
It is certainly true, that when a woman happens to have more understanding than her husband, she should be very industrious to conceal it; but it is like wise true, that the natural vanity of the sex is difficult to check, and the vanity of a poet still more difficult: wit in a female mind can no more cease to sparkle, than she who possesses it, can cease to speak. Mr. Pilkington began to view her with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, and in this situation, nothing but misery was likely to be their lot. While these jealousies subsisted, Mr. Pilkington, contrary to the advice of his friends, went into England, in order to serve as chaplain to alderman Barber during his mayoralty of the city of London.
While he remained in London, and having the strange humour of loving his wife best at a distance, he wrote her a very kind letter, in which he informed her, that her verses were like herself, full of elegance and beauty[1]; that Mr. Pope and others, to whom he had shewn them, longed to see the writer, and that he heartily wished her in London. This letter set her heart on flame. London has very attractive charms to most young people, and it cannot be much wondered at if Mrs. Pilkington should take the only opportunity she was ever likely to have, of gratifying her curiosity: which however proved fatal to her; for though we cannot find, that during this visit to London, her conduct was the least reproachable, yet, upon her return to Ireland, she underwent a violent persecution of tongues. They who envied her abilities, fastened now upon her morals; they were industrious to trace the motives of her going to London; her behaviour while she was there; and insinuated suspicions against her chastity. These detracters were chiefly of her own sex, who supplied by the bitterest malice what they wanted in power.
Not long after this an accident happened, which threw Mrs. Pilkington’s affairs into the utmost confusion. Her father was stabbed, as she has related, by an accident, but many people in Dublin believe, by his own wife, though some say, by his own hand. Upon this melancholy occasion, Mrs. Pilkington has given an account of her father, which places her in a very amiable light. She discovered for him the most filial tenderness; she watched round his bed, and seems to have been the only relation then about him, who deserved his blessing. From the death of her father her sufferings begin, and the subsequent part of her life is a continued series of misfortunes.
Mr. Pilkington having now no expectation of a fortune by her, threw off all reserve in his behaviour to her. While Mrs. Pilkington was in the country for her health, his dislike of her seems to have encreased, and, perhaps, he resolved to get rid of his wife at any rate: nor was he long waiting for an occasion of parting with her. The story of their separation may be found at large in her Memoirs. The substance is, that she was so indiscreet as to permit a gentleman to be found in her bed-chamber at an unseasonable hour; for which she makes this apology. ‘Lovers of learning I am sure will pardon me, as I solemnly declare, it was the attractive charms of a new book, which the gentleman would not lend me, but consented to stay till I read it through, that was the sole motive of my detaining him.’ This indeed is a poor evasion; and as Mrs. Pilkington has said no more in favour of her innocence, they must have great charity indeed with whom she can stand exculpated.
While the gentleman was with her, the servants let in twelve men at the kitchen window, who, though they might, as she avers, have opened the chamber door, chose rather to break it to pieces, and took both her and the gentleman prisoners. Her husband now told her, that she must turn out of doors; and taking hold of her hand, made a present of it to the gentleman, who could not in honour refuse to take her, especially as his own liberty was to be procured upon no other terms. It being then two o’clock in the morning, and not knowing where to steer, she went home with her gallant: but she sincerely assures us, that neither of them entertained a thought of any thing like love, but sat like statues ’till break of day.
The gentleman who was found with her, was obliged to fly, leaving a letter and five guineas inclosed in it for her. She then took a lodging in some obscure street, where she was persecuted by infamous women, who were panders to men of fortune.
In the mean time Mr. Pilkington carried on a vigorous prosecution against her in the Spiritual Court; during which, as she says, he solemnly declared, he would allow her a maintainance, if she never gave him any opposition: but no sooner had he obtained a separation, than he retracted every word he had said on that subject. Upon this she was advised to lodge an appeal, and as every one whom he consulted, assured him he would be cast, he made a proposal of giving her a small annuity, and thirty pounds[2] in money; which, in regard to her children, she chose to accept, rather than ruin their father. She was with child at the time of her separation, and when her labour came on, the woman where she lodged insisted upon doubling her rent: whereupon she was obliged to write petitionary letters, which were not always successful.
Having passed the pains and peril of childbirth, she begged of Mr. Pilkington to send her some money to carry her to England; who, in hopes of getting rid of her, sent her nine pounds. She was the more desirous to leave Ireland, as she found her character sinking every day with the public. When she was on board the yacht, a gentleman of figure in the gay world took an opportunity of making love to her, which she rejected with some indignation. ‘Had I (said she) accepted the offers he made me, poverty had never approached me. I dined with him at Parkgate, and I hope virtue will be rewarded; for though I had but five guineas in the world to carry me to London, I yet possessed chastity enough to refuse fifty for a night’s lodging, and that too from a handsome well-bred man. I shall scarcely ever forget his words to me, as they seemed almost prophetic. “Well, madam, said he, you do not know London; you will be undone there.” “Why, sir, said I, I hope you don’t imagine I will go into a bad course of life?” “No, madam, said he, but I think you will sit in your chamber and starve;” which, upon my word, I have been pretty near doing; and, but that the Almighty raised me one worthy friend, good old Mr. Cibber, to whose humanity I am indebted, under God, both for liberty and life, I had been quite lost.’
When Mrs. Pilkington arrived in London, her conduct was the reverse of what prudence would have dictated. She wanted to get into favour with the great, and, for that purpose, took a lodging in St. James’s Street, at a guinea a week; upon no other prospect of living, than what might arise from some poems she intended to publish by subscription. In this place she attracted the notice of the company frequenting White’s Chocolate-House; and her story, by means of Mr. Cibber, was made known to persons of the first distinction, who, upon his recommendation, were kind to her.
Her acquaintance with Mr. Cibber began by a present she made him of The Trial of Constancy, a poem of hers, which Mr. Dodsley published. Mr. Cibber, upon this, visited her, and, ever after, with the most unwearied zeal, promoted her interest. The reader cannot expect that we should swell this volume by a minute relation of all the incidents which happened to her, while she continued a poetical mendicant. She has not, without pride, related all the little tattle which passed between her and persons of distinction, who, through the abundance of their idleness, thought proper to trifle an hour with her.
Her virtue seems now to have been in a declining state; at least, her behaviour was such, that a man, must have extraordinary faith, who can think her innocent. She has told us, in the second volume of her Memoirs, that she received from a noble person a present of fifty pounds. This, she says, was the ordeal, or fiery trial; youth, beauty, nobility of birth, attacking at once the most desolate person in the world. However, we find her soon after this thrown into great distress, and making various applications to persons of distinction for subscriptions to her poems. Such as favoured her by subscribing, she has repaid with most lavish encomiums, and those that withheld that proof of their bounty, she has sacrificed to her resentment, by exhibiting them in the most hideous light her imagination could form.
From the general account of her characters, this observation results, That such as she has stigmatized for want of charity, ought rather to be censured for want of decency. There might be many reasons, why a person benevolent in his nature, might yet refuse to subscribe to her; but, in general, such as refused, did it (as she says) in a rude manner, and she was more piqued at their deficiency in complaisance to her, than their want of generosity. Complaisance is easily shewn; it may be done without expence; it often procures admirers, and can never make an enemy. On the other hand, benevolence itself, accompanied with a bad grace, may lay us under obligations, but can never command our affection. It is said of King Charles I. that he bestowed his bounty with so bad a grace, that he disobliged more by giving, than his son by refusing; and we have heard of a gentleman of great parts, who went to Newgate with a greater satisfaction, as the judge who committed him accompanied the sentence with an apology and a compliment, than he received from his releasment by another, who, in extending the King’s mercy to him, allayed the Royal clemency by severe invectives against the gentleman’s conduct.
We must avoid entering into a detail of the many addresses, disappointments and encouragements, which she met with in her attendance upon the great: her characters are naturally, sometimes justly, and often strikingly, exhibited. The incidents of her life while she remained in London were not very important, though she has related them with all the advantage they can admit of. They are such as commonly happen to poets in distress, though it does not often fall out, that the insolence of wealth meets with such a bold return as this lady has given it. There is a spirit of keenness, and freedom runs through her book, she spares no man because he is great by his station, or famous by his abilities. Some knowledge of the world may be gained from reading her Memoirs; the different humours of mankind she has shewn to the life, and whatever was ridiculous in the characters she met with, is exposed in very lively terms.
The next scene which opens in Mrs. Pilkington’s life, is the prison of the Marshalsea. The horrors and miseries of this jail she has pathetically described, in such a manner as should affect the heart of every rigid creditor. In favour of her fellow-prisoners, she wrote a very moving memorial, which, we are told, excited the legislative power to grant an Act of Grace for them. After our poetess had remained nine weeks in this prison, she was at last released by the goodness of Mr. Cibber, from whose representation of her distress, no less than sixteen dukes contributed a guinea apiece towards her enlargement. When this news was brought her, she fainted away with excess of joy. Some time after she had tasted liberty, she began to be weary of that continued attendance upon the great; and therefore was resolved, if ever she was again favoured with a competent sum, to turn it into trade, and quit the precarious life of a poetical mendicant. Mr. Cibber had five guineas in reserve for her, which, with ten more she received from the duke of Marlborough, enabled her to take a shop in St. James’s Street, which she filled with pamphlets and prints, as being a business better suited to her taste and abilities, than any other. Her adventures, while she remained a shopkeeper, are not extremely important. She has neglected to inform us how long she continued behind the counter, but has told us, however, that by the liberality of her friends, and the bounty of her subscribers, she was set above want, and that the autumn of her days was like to be spent in peace and serenity.
But whatever were her prospects, she lived not long to enjoy the comforts of competence, for on the 29th of August, 1750, a few years after the publication of her second volume, she died at Dublin, in the thirty ninth year of her age.
Considered as a writer, she holds no mean rank. She was the author of The Turkish Court, or The London Apprentice, acted at the theatre in Caple-street, Dublin, 1748, but never printed. This piece was poorly performed, otherwise it promised to have given great satisfaction. The first act of her tragedy of the Roman Father, is no ill specimen of her talents that way, and throughout her Memoirs there are scattered many beautiful little pieces, written with a true spirit of poetry, though under all the disadvantages that wit can suffer. Her memory seems to have been amazingly great, of which her being able to repeat almost all Shakespear is an astonishing instance.
One of the prettiest of her poetical performances, is the following Address to the reverend Dr. Hales, with whom she became acquainted at the house of captain Mead, near Hampton-Court.
To the Revd. Dr. HALES.
Hail, holy sage! whose comprehensive mind, Not to this narrow spot of earth confin’d, Thro’ num’rous worlds can nature’s laws explore, Where none but Newton ever trod before; And, guided by philosophy divine,
See thro’ his works th’Almighty Maker shine: Whether you trace him thro’ yon rolling spheres, Where, crown’d with boundless glory, he appears; Or in the orient sun’s resplendent rays, His setting lustre, or his noon-tide blaze, New wonders still thy curious search attend, Begun on earth, in highest Heav’n to end. O! while thou dost those God-like works pursue, What thanks, from human-kind to thee are due! Whose error, doubt, and darkness, you remove, And charm down knowledge from her throne above. Nature to thee her choicest secrets yields, Unlocks her springs, and opens all her fields; Shews the rich treasure that her breast contains, In azure fountains, or enamell’d plains; Each healing stream, each plant of virtuous use, To thee their medicinal pow’rs produce. Pining disease and anguish wing their flight, And rosy health renews us to delight.
When you, with art, the animal dissect, And, with the microscopic aid, inspect
[Transcriber’s note: ‘microsopic’ in original]
Where, from the heart, unnumbered rivers glide, And faithful back return their purple tide; How fine the mechanism, by thee display’d! How wonderful is ev’ry creature made!
Vessels, too small for sight, the fluids strain, Concoct, digest, assimilate, sustain;
In deep attention, and surprize, we gaze, And to life’s author, raptur’d, pour out praise.
What beauties dost thou open to the sight, Untwisting all the golden threads of light! Each parent colour tracing to its source, Distinct they live, obedient to thy force! Nought from thy penetration is conceal’d, And light, himself, shines to thy soul reveal’d.
So when the sacred writings you display, And on the mental eye shed purer day;
In radiant colours truth array’d we see, Confess her charms, and guided up by thee; Soaring sublime, on contemplation’s wings, The fountain seek, whence truth eternal springs. Fain would I wake the consecrated lyre, And sing the sentiments thou didst inspire! But find my strength unequal to a theme, Which asks a Milton’s, or a Seraph’s flame! If, thro’ weak words, one ray of reason shine, Thine was the thought, the errors only mine. Yet may these numbers to thy soul impart The humble incense of a grateful heart. Trifles, with God himself, acceptance find, If offer’d with sincerity of mind;
Then, like the Deity, indulgence shew, Thou, most like him, of all his works below.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] An extravagant compliment; for Mrs. Pilkington was far from being a beauty.
[2] Of which, she says, she received only 15 l.
* * * * *
Mr. THOMAS SOUTHERN.
This eminent poet was born in Dublin, on the year of the Restoration of Charles the IId. and received his early education at the university there. In the 18th year of his age, he quitted Ireland, and as his intention was to pursue a lucrative profession, he entered himself in the Middle-Temple. But the natural vivacity of his mind overcoming considerations of advantage, he quitted that state of life, and entered into the more agreeable service of the Muses[1].
The first dramatic performance of Mr. Southern, his Persian Prince, or Loyal Brother, was acted in the year 1682. The story is taken from Thamas Prince of Persia, a Novel; and the scene is laid in Ispahan in Persia. This play was introduced at a time when the Tory interest was triumphant in England, and the character of the Loyal brother was no doubt intended to compliment James Duke of York, who afterwards rewarded the poet for his service. To this Tragedy Mr. Dryden wrote the Prologue and Epilogue, which furnished Mr. Southern with an opportunity of saying in his dedication, ‘That the Laureat’s own pen secured me, maintaining the out-works, while I lay safe entrenched within his lines; and malice, ill-nature, and censure were forced to grin at a distance.’
The Prologue is a continued invective against the Whigs, and whether considered as a party libel, or an induction to a new play, is in every respect unworthy of the great hand that wrote it. His next play was a Comedy, called the Disappointment, or the Mother in Fashion, performed in the year 1684.–After the accession of king James the IId to the throne, when the duke of Monmouth made an unfortunate attempt upon his uncle’s crown, Mr. Southern went into the army, in the regiment of foot raised by the lord Ferrers, afterwards commanded by the duke of Berwick; and he had three commissions, viz. ensign, lieutenant, and captain, under King James, in that regiment.
During the reign of this prince, in the year before the Revolution, he wrote a Tragedy called the Spartan Dame, which however was not acted till the year 1721. The subject is taken from the Life of Agis in Plutarch, where the character of Chelonis, between the duties of a wife and daughter was thought to have a near resemblance to that of King William’s Queen Mary. ‘I began this play, says Mr. Southern, a year before the Revolution, and near four acts written without any view. Many things interfering with those times, I laid by what I had written for seventeen years: I shewed it then to the late duke of Devonshire, who was in every regard a judge; he told me he saw no reason why it might not have been acted the year of the Revolution: I then finished it, and as I thought cut out the exceptionable parts, but could not get it acted, not being able to persuade myself to the cutting off those limbs, which I thought essential to the strength and life of it. But since I found it must pine in obscurity without it, I consented to the operation, and after the amputation of every line, very near to the number of 400, it stands on its own legs still, and by the favour of the town, and indulging assistance of friends, has come successfully forward on the stage.’ This play was inimitably acted. Mr. Booth, Mr. Wilks, Mr. Cibber, Mr. Mills, sen. Mrs. Oldfield, and Mrs. Porter, all performed in it, in their heighth of reputation, and the full vigour of their powers.
Mr. Southern acknowledges in his preface to this play, that the last scene of the third Act, was almost all written by the honourable John Stafford, father to the earl of Stafford. Mr. Southern has likewise acknowledged, that he received from the bookseller, as a price for this play, 150 l. which at that time was very extraordinary. He was the first who raised the advantage of play writing to a second and third night, which Mr. Pope mentions in the following manner,
–Southern born to raise,
The price of Prologues and of Plays.
The reputation which Mr. Dryden gained by the many Prologues he wrote, induced the players to be sollicitous to have one of his to speak, which were generally well received by the public. Mr. Dryden’s price for a Prologue had usually been five guineas, with which sum Mr. Southern presented him when he received from him a Prologue for one of his plays. Mr. Dryden returned the money, and said to him; ‘Young man this is too little, I must have ten guineas.’ Mr. Southern on this observ’d, that his usual price was five guineas. Yes answered Dryden, it has been so, but the players have hitherto had my labours too cheap; for the future I must have ten guineas [2].
Mr. Southern was industrious to draw all imaginable profits from his poetical labours. Mr. Dryden once took occasion to ask him how much he got by one of his plays; to which he answered, that he was really ashamed to inform him. But Mr. Dryden being a little importunate to know, he plainly told him, that by his last play he cleared seven hundred pounds; which appeared astonishing to Mr. Dryden, as he himself had never been able to acquire more than one hundred by any of his most successful pieces. The secret is, Mr. Southern was not beneath the drudgery of sollicitation, and often sold his tickets at a very high price, by making applications to persons of distinction: a degree of servility which perhaps Mr. Dryden thought was much beneath the dignity of a poet; and too much in the character of an under-player.
That Mr. Dryden entertained a very high opinion of our author’s abilities, appears from his many expressions of kindness towards him. He has prefixed a copy of verses to a Comedy of his, called the Wife’s Excuse, acted in the year 1692, with very indifferent success: Of this Comedy, Mr. Dryden had so high an opinion, that he bequeathed to our poet, the care of writing half the last act of his Tragedy of Cleomenes, ‘Which, says Mr. Southern, when it comes into the world will appear to be so considerable a trust, that all the town will pardon me for defending this play, that preferred me to it.’
Our author continued from time to time to entertain the public with his dramatic pieces, the greatest part of which met with the success they deserved. The night on which his Innocent Adultery was first acted, which is perhaps the most moving play in any language; a gentleman took occasion to ask Mr. Dryden, what was his opinion of Southern’s genius? to which that great poet replied, ‘That he thought him such another poet as Otway.’ When this reply was communicated to Mr. Southern, he considered it as a very great compliment, having no ambition to be thought a more considerable poet than Otway was.
Of our author’s Comedies, none are in possession of the stage, nor perhaps deserve to be so; for in that province he is less excellent than in Tragedy. The present Laureat, who is perhaps one of the best judges of Comedy now living, being asked his opinion by a gentleman, of Southern’s comic dialogue, answered, That it might be denominated Whip-Syllabub, that is, flashy and light, but indurable; and as it is without the Sal Atticum of wit, can never much delight the intelligent part of the audience.
The most finished, and the most pathetic of Mr. Southern’s plays, in the opinion of the critics, is his Oroonoko, or the Royal Slave. This drama is built upon a true story, related by Mrs. Behn, in a Novel; and has so much the greater influence on the audience, as they are sensible that the representation is no fiction. In this piece, Mr. Southern has touched the tender passions with so much skill, that it will perhaps be injurious to his memory to say of him, that he is second to Otway. Besides the tender and delicate strokes of passion, there are many shining and manly sentiments in Oroonoko; and one of the greatest genius’s of the present age, has often observed, that in the most celebrated play of Shakespear, so many striking thoughts, and such a glow of animated poetry cannot be furnished. This play is so often acted, and admired, that any illustration of its beauties here, would be entirely superfluous. His play of The Fatal Marriage, or The Innocent Adultery, met with deserved success; the affecting incidents, and interesting tale in the tragic part, sufficiently compensate for the low, trifling, comic part; and when the character of Isabella is acted, as we have seen it, by Mrs. Porter, and Mrs. Woffington, the ladies seldom fail to sympathise in grief.
Mr. Southern died on the 26th of May, in the year 1746, in the 86th year of his age; the latter part of which he spent in a peaceful serenity, having by his commission as a soldier, and the profits of his dramatic works, acquired a handsome fortune; and being an exact oeconomist, he improved what fortune he gained, to the best advantage: He enjoyed the longest life of all our poets, and died the richest of them, a very few excepted.
A gentleman whose authority we have already quoted, had likewise informed us, that Mr. Southern lived for the last ten years of his life in Westminster, and attended very constant at divine service in the Abbey, being particularly fond of church music. He never staid within doors while in health, two days together, having such a circle of acquaintance of the best rank, that he constantly dined with one or other, by a kind of rotation.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Jacob.
[2] From the information of a gentleman personally acquainted with Mr. Southern, who desires to have his name conceal’d.
* * * * *
The Revd. Mr. JAMES MILLER.
This gentleman was born in the year 1703. He was the son of a clergyman, who possessed two considerable livings in Dorsetshire[1]. He received his education at Wadham-College in Oxford, and while he was resident in that university he composed part of his famous Comedy called the Humours of Oxford, acted in the year 1729, by the particular recommendation of Mrs. Oldfield.
This piece, as it was a lively representation of the follies and vices of the students of that place, procured the author many enemies.
Mr. Miller was designed by his relations to be bred to business, which he declined, not being able to endure the servile drudgery it demanded. He no sooner quitted the university than he entered into holy orders, and was immediately preferred to be lecturer in Trinity-College in Conduit-Street, and preacher of Roehampton-Chapel. These livings were too inconsiderable to afford a genteel subsistence, and therefore it may be supposed he had recourse to dramatic writing to encrease his finances. This kind of composition, however, being reckoned by some very foreign to his profession, if not inconsistent with it, was thought to have retarded his preferment in the church. Mr. Miller was likewise attached to the High-Church interest, a circumstance in the times in which he lived, not very favourable to preferment. He was so honest however in these principles, that upon a large offer being made him by the agents for the ministry in the time of a general opposition, he had virtue sufficient to withstand the temptation, though his circumstances at that time were far from being easy. Mr. Miller often confessed to some of his friends, that this was the fiery trial of his constancy. He had received by his wife a very genteel fortune, and a tenderness for her had almost overcome his resolutions; but he recovered again to his former firmness, when upon hinting to his wife, the terms upon which preferment might be procured, she rejected them with indignation; and he became ashamed of his own wavering. This was an instance of honour, few of which are to be met with in the Lives of the Poets, who have been too generally of a time-serving temper, and too pliant to all the follies and vices of their age. But though Mr. Miller would not purchase preferment upon the terms of writing for the ministry, he was content to stipulate, never to write against them, which proposal they rejected in their turn.
About a year before Mr. Miller’s death, which happened in 1743, he was presented by Mr. Cary of Dorsetshire, to the profitable living of Upsun, his father had before possess’d, but which this worthy man lived not long to enjoy; nor had he ever an opportunity of making that provision for his family he so much sollicited; and which he even disdained to do at the expence of his honour.
Mr. Miller’s dramatic works are,
I. Humours of Oxford, which we have already mentioned.
II. The Mother-in-Law, or the Doctor the Disease; a Comedy, 1733.
III. The Man of Taste, a Comedy; acted in the year 1736, which had a run of 30 nights[2].
IV. Universal Passion, a Comedy, 1736.
V. Art and Nature, a Comedy, 1737.
VI. The Coffee-House, a Farce, 1737.
VII. An Hospital for Fools, a Farce, 1739.
VIII. The Picture, or Cuckold in Conceit.
IX. Mahomet the Impostor, a Tragedy; during the run of this play the author died.
X. Joseph and his Brethren; a sacred Drama.
Mr. Miller was author of many occasional pieces in poetry, of which his Harlequin Horace is the most considerable. This Satire is dedicated to Mr. Rich, the present manager of Covent-Garden Theatre, in which with an ironical severity he lashes that gentleman, in consequence of some offence Mr. Rich had given him.
Mr. Miller likewise published a volume of Sermons, all written with a distinguished air of piety, and a becoming zeal for the interest of true religion; and was principally concerned in the translation of Moliere’s comedies, published by Watts.
Our author left behind him a son, whose profession is that of a sea surgeon. Proposals for publishing his Poems have been inserted in the Gentleman’s Magazine, with a specimen, which does him honour. The profits of this subscription, are to be appropriated to his mother, whom he chiefly supported, an amiable instance of filial piety.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The account of this gentleman is taken from the information of his widow.
[2] These two pieces were brought on the stage, without the author’s name being known; which, probably, not a little contributed to their success; the care of the rehearsals being left to Mr. Theo. Cibber, who played the characters of the Man of Taste, and Squire Headpiece.
* * * * *
Mr. NICHOLAS AMHURST.
This gentleman, well known to the world, by the share he had in the celebrated anti-court paper called The Craftsman, was born in Marden in Kent, but in what year we cannot be certain. Mr. Amhurst’s grandfather was a clergyman, under whose protection and care he received his education at Merchant-Taylors school. Having received there the rudiments of learning, he was removed to St. John’s College, Oxford, from which, on account of the libertinism of his principles, and some offence he gave to the head of that college, it appears, he was ejected. We can give no other account of this affair, than what is drawn from Mr. Amhurst’s dedication of his poems to Dr. Delaune, President of St. John’s College in Oxford. This dedication abounds with mirth and pleasantry, in which he rallies the Dr. with very pungent irony, and hints at the causes of his disgrace in that famous college. In page 10, of his dedication, he says,
‘You’ll pardon me, good sir, if I think it necessary for your honour to mention the many heinous crimes for which I was brought to shame. None were indeed publicly alledged against me at that time, because it might as well be done afterwards; sure old Englishmen can never forget that there is such a thing as hanging a man for it, and trying him afterwards: so fared it with me; my prosecutors first proved me, by an undeniable argument, to be no fellow of St. John’s College, and then to be–the Lord knows what.
‘My indictment may be collected out of the faithful annals of common fame, which run thus,
‘Advices from Oxford say, that on the 29th of June, 1719, one Nicholas Amhurst of St. John’s College was expelled for the following reasons;
‘Imprimis, For loving foreign turnips and Presbyterian bishops.
‘Item, For ingratitude to his benefactor, that spotless martyr, Sir William Laud.
‘Item, For believing that steeples and organs are not necessary to salvation.
‘Item, For preaching without orders, and praying without a commission.
‘Item, For lampooning priestcraft and petticoatcraft.
‘Item, For not lampooning the government and the revolution.
‘Item, For prying into secret history.
‘My natural modesty will not permit me, like other apologists, to Vindicate myself in any one particular, the whole charge is so artfully drawn up, that no reasonable person would ever think the better of me, should I justify myself ’till doomsday.’ Towards the close of the dedication, he takes occasion to complain of some severities used against him, at the time of his being excluded the college. ‘But I must complain of one thing, whether reasonable or not, let the world judge. When I was voted out of your college, and the nusance was thereby removed, I thought the resentments of the holy ones would have proceeded no further; I am sure the cause of virtue and sound religion I was thought to offend, required no more; nor could it be of any possible advantage to the church, to descend to my private affairs, and stir up my creditors in the university to take hold of me at a disadvantage, before I could get any money returned; but there are some persons in the world, who think nothing unjust or inhuman in the prosecution of their implacable revenge.’
It is probable, that upon this misfortune happening to our author, he repaired to the capital, there to retrieve his ruined affairs. We find him engaged deeply in the Craftsman, when that paper was in its meridian, and when it was more read and attended to than any political paper ever published in England, on account of the assistance given to it by some of the most illustrious and important characters of the nation. It is said, that ten thousand of that paper have been sold in one day.
The Miscellanies of Mr. Amhurst, the greatest part of which were written at the university, consist chiefly of poems sacred and profane, original, paraphrased, imitated, and translated; tales, epigrams, epistles, love-verses, elegies, and satires. The Miscellany begins with a beautiful paraphrase on the Mosaic Account of the Creation; and ends with a very humorous tale upon the discovery of that useful utensil, A Bottle-Screw.
Mr. Amhurst died of a fever at Twickenham, April 27, 1742. Our poet had a great enmity to the exorbitant demands, and domineering spirit of the High-Church clergy, which he discovers by a poem of his, called, The convocation, in five cantos; a kind of satire against all the writers, who shewed themselves enemies of the bishop of Bangor. He translated The Resurrection, and some other of Mr. Addison’s Latin pieces.
He wrote an epistle (with a petition in it) to Sir John Blount, Bart. one of the directors of the South-Sea Company, 1726.
Oculus Britanniae, an Heroi-panegyrical Poem, on the University of Oxford, 8vo. 1724.
In a poem of Mr. Amhurst’s, called, An Epistle from the Princess Sobiesky to the Chevalier de St. George, he has the following nervous lines, strongly expressive of the passion of love.
Relentless walls and bolts obstruct my way, And, guards as careless, and as deaf as they; Or to my James thro’ whirlwinds I would, go, Thro’ burning deserts, and o’er alps of snow, Pass spacious roaring, oceans undismay’d, And think the mighty dangers well repaid.
* * * * *
Mr. GEORGE LILLO.
Was by profession a jeweller. He was born in London, on the 4th of Feb. 1693. He lived, as we are informed, near Moorgate, in the same neighbourhood where he received his birth, and where he was always esteemed as a person of unblemished character. ‘Tis said, he was educated in the principles of the dissenters: be that as it will, his morals brought no disgrace on any sect or party. Indeed his principal attachment was to the muses.
His first piece, brought on the stage, was a Ballad Opera, called Sylvia; or, The Country Burial; performed at the Theatre Royal in Lincoln’s-Inn Fields, but with no extraordinary success, in the year 1730. The year following he brought his play, called The London Merchant; or, The True Story of George Barnwell, to Mr. Cibber junior; (then manager of the summer company, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane) who originally played the part of Barnwell.–The author was not then known. As this was almost a new species of tragedy, wrote on a very uncommon subject, he rather chose it should take its fate in the summer, than run the more hazardous fate of encountering the winter criticks. The old ballad of George Barnwell (on which the story was founded) was on this occasion reprinted, and many thousands sold in one day. Many gaily-disposed spirits brought the ballad with them to the play, intending to make their pleasant remarks (as some afterwards owned) and ludicrous comparisons between the antient ditty and the modern drama. But the play was very carefully got up, and universally allowed to be well performed. The piece was thought to be well conducted, and the subject well managed, and the diction proper and natural; never low, and very rarely swelling above the characters that spoke. Mr. Pope, among other persons, distinguished by their rank, or particular publick merit, had the curiosity to attend the performance, and commended the actors, and the author; and remarked, if the latter had erred through the whole play, it was only in a few places, where he had unawares led himself into a poetical luxuriancy, affecting to be too elevated for the simplicity of the subject. But the play, in general, spoke so much to the heart, that the gay persons before mentioned confessed, they were drawn in to drop their ballads, and pull out their handkerchiefs. It met with uncommon success; for it was acted above twenty times in the summer season to great audiences; was frequently bespoke by some eminent merchants and citizens, who much approved its moral tendency: and, in the winter following, was acted often to crowded houses: And all the royal family, at several different times, honoured it with their appearance. It gained reputation, and brought money to the poet, the managers, and the performers. Mr. Cibber, jun. not only gave the author his usual profits of his third days, &c. but procured him a benefit-night in the winter season, which turned out greatly to his advantage; so that he had four benefit-nights in all for that piece; by the profits whereof, and his copy-money, he gained several hundred pounds. It continued a stock-play in Drury-Lane Theatre till Mr. Cibber left that house, and went to the Theatre in Covent-Garden. It was often acted in the Christmas and Easter holidays, and judged a proper entertainment for the apprentices, &c. as being a more instructive, moral, and cautionary drama, than many pieces that had been usually exhibited on those days, with little but farce and ribaldry to recommend them.
A few years after, he brought out his play of The Christian Hero at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane.
And another Tragedy called Elmerick.
His tragedy of three acts, called Fatal Curiosity, founded on an old English story, was acted with success at the Hay-Market, in 1737.
He wrote another tragedy, never yet acted, called Arden of Feversham.
He was a man of strict morals, great good-nature, and sound sense, with an uncommon share of modesty.
He died Sept. 3. 1739. and was buried in the vault of Shoreditch church.
* * * * *
Mr. CHARLES JOHNSON.
Mr. Charles Johnson was designed for the law; but being an admirer of the muses, turned his thoughts to dramatic writing; and luckily being an intimate of Mr. Wilks, by the assistance of his friendship, Mr. Johnson had several plays acted, some of which met with success. He was a constant attendant at Will’s and Button’s coffee houses, which were the resort of most of the men of taste and literature, during the reigns of queen Anne and king George the first. Among these he contracted intimacy enough to intitle him to their patronage, &c on his benefit-nights; by which means he lived (with oeconomy) genteelly. At last he married a young widow, with a tolerable fortune, and set up a tavern in Bow-street, which he quitted on his wife’s dying, and lived privately on the small remainder of his fortune.
He died about the year 1744. His parts were not very brilliant; but his behaviour was generally thought inoffensive; yet he escaped not the satire of Mr. Pope, who has been pleased to immortalize him in his Dunciad.
His dramatic pieces are,
1. The Gentleman Cully, a Comedy: acted at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden, 1702.
2. Fortune in her Wits, a Comedy; 1705. It is a very indifferent translation of Mr. Cowley’s Naufragium Joculare.
3. The Force of Friendship, a Tragedy, 1710.
4. Love in a Chest, a Farce, 1710.
5. The Wife’s Relief; or, the Husband’s Cure; a Comedy. It is chiefly borrowed from Shirley’s Gamester, 1711.
6. The Successful Pirate, a Tragi-Comedy, 1712.
7. The Generous Husband; or, the Coffee-house Politician; a Comedy, 1713.
8. The Country Lasses; or, the Custom of the Manor; a Comedy, 1714.
9. Love and Liberty; a Tragedy, 1715.
10. The Victim; a Tragedy, 1715.
11. The Sultaness; a Tragedy, 1717.
12. The Cobler of Preston; a Farce of two Acts, 1717.
13. Love in a Forest; a Comedy, 1721. Taken from Shakespear’s Comedy, As you like it.
14. The Masquerade; a Comedy, 1723.
15. The Village Opera, 1728.
16. The Ephesian Matron; a Farce of one Act, 1730.
17. Celia; or, the Perjured Lovers; a Tragedy, 1732.
* * * * *
PHILIP FROWDE, Esq;
This elegant poet was the son of a gentleman who had been post-master-general in the reign of queen Anne. Where our author received his earliest instructions in literature we cannot ascertain; but, at a proper time of life, he was sent to the university of Oxford, where he had the honour of being particularly distinguished by Mr. Addison, who took him under his immediate protection. While he remained at that university, he became author of several poetical performances; some of which, in Latin, were sufficiently elegant and pure, to intitle them to a place in the Musae Anglicanae, published by Mr. Addison; an honour so much the more distinguished, as the purity of the Latin poems contained in that collection, furnished the first hint to Boileau of the greatness of the British genius. That celebrated critick of France entertained a mean opinion of the English poets, till he occasionally read the Musae Anglicanae; and then he was persuaded that they who could write with so much elegance in a dead language, must greatly excel in that which was native to them.
Mr. Frowde has likewise obliged the publick with two tragedies; the Fall of Saguntum, dedicated to sir Robert Walpole; and Philotas, addressed to the earl of Chesterfield. The first of these performances, so far as we are able to judge, has higher merit than the last. The story is more important, being the destruction of a powerful city, than the fall of a single hero; the incidents rising out of this great event are likewise of a very interesting nature, and the scenes in many places are not without passion, though justly subject to a very general criticism, that they are written with too little. Mr. Frowde has been industrious in this play to conclude his acts with similes, which however exceptionable for being too long and tedious for the situations of the characters who utter them, yet are generally just and beautiful. At the end of the first act he has the following simile upon sedition:
Sedition, thou art up; and, in the ferment, To what may not the madding populace,
Gathered together for they scarce know what, Now loud proclaiming their late, whisper’d grief, Be wrought at length? Perhaps to yield the city. Thus where the Alps their airy ridge extend, Gently at first the melting snows descend; From the broad slopes, with murm’ring lapse they glide In soft meanders, down the mountain’s side; But lower fall’n streams, with each other crost, From rock to rock impetuously are tost, ‘Till in the Rhone’s capacious bed they’re lost. United there, roll rapidly away,
And roaring, reach, o’er rugged rocks, the sea.
In the third act, the poet, by the mouth of a Roman hero, gives the following concise definition of true courage.
True courage is not, where fermenting spirits Mount in a troubled and unruly stream;
The soul’s its proper seat; and reason there Presiding, guides its cool or warmer motions.
The representation of besiegers driven back by the impetuosity of the inhabitants, after they had entered a gate of the city, is strongly pictured by the following simile.
Imagine to thyself a swarm of bees
Driv’n to their hive by some impending storm, Which, at its little pest, in clustering heaps, And climbing o’er each other’s backs they enter. Such was the people’s flight, and such their haste To gain the gate.
We have observed, that Mr. Frowde’s other tragedy, called Philotas, was addressed to the earl of Chesterfield; and in the dedication he takes care to inform his lordship, that it had obtained his private approbation, before it appeared on the stage. At the time of its being acted, lord Chesterfield was then embassador to the states-general, and consequently he was deprived of his patron’s countenance during the representation. As to the fate of this play, he informs his lordship, it was very particular: “And I hope (says he) it will not be imputed as vanity to me, when I explain my meaning in an expression of Juvenal, Laudatur & al-get.” But from what cause this misfortune attended it, we cannot take upon us to say.
Mr. Frowde died at his lodgings in Cecil-street in the Strand, on the 19th of Dec. 1738. In the London Daily Post 22d December, the following amiable character is given of our poet:
“But though the elegance of Mr. Frowde’s writings has recommended him to the general publick esteem, the politeness of his genius is the least amiable part of his character; for he esteemed the talents of wit and learning, only as they were, conducive to the excitement and practice of honour and humanity. Therefore,
“with a soul chearful, benevolent, and virtuous, he was in conversation genteelly delightful; in friendship punctually sincere; in death christianly resigned. No man could live more beloved; no private man could die more lamented.”
* * * * *
Mrs. MARY CHANDLER,
Was born at Malmsbury in Wiltshire, in the year 1687, of worthy and reputable parents; her father, Mr. Henry Chandler, being minister, many years, of the congregation of protestant dissenters in Bath, whose integrity, candour, and catholick spirit, gained him the esteem and friendship of all ranks and parties. She was his eldest daughter, and trained up carefully in the principles of religion and virtue. But as the circumstances of the family rendered it necessary that she should be brought up to business, she was very early employed in it, and incapable of receiving that polite and learned education which she often regretted the loss of, and which she afterwards endeavoured to repair by diligently reading, and carefully studying the best modern writers, and as many as she could of the antient ones, especially the poets, as far as the best translations could assist her.
Amongst these, Horace was her favourite; and how just her sentiments were of that elegant writer, will fully appear from her own words, in a letter to an intimate friend, relating to him, in which she thus expresses herself: “I have been reading Horace this month past, in the best translation I could procure of him. O could I read his fine sentiments cloathed in his own dress, what would I, what would I not give! He is more my favorite than Virgil or Homer. I like his subjects, his easy manner. It is nature within my view. He doth not lose me in fable, or in the clouds amidst gods and goddesses, who, more brutish than myself, demand my homage, nor hurry me into the noise and confusion of battles, nor carry me into inchanted circles, to conjure with witches in an unknown land, but places me with persons like myself, and in countries where every object is familiar to me. In short, his precepts are plain, and morals intelligible, though not always so perfect as one could have wished them. But as to this, I consider when and where he lived.”
The hurries of life into which her circumstances at Bath threw her, sat frequently extremely heavy upon a mind so intirely devoted to books and contemplation as hers was; and as that city, especially in the seasons, but too often furnished her with characters in her own sex that were extremely displeasing to her, she often, in the most passionate manner, lamented her fate, that tied her down to so disagreeable a situation; for she was of so extremely delicate and generous a soul, that the imprudences and faults of others gave her a very sensible pain, though she had no other connexion with, or interest in them, but what arose from the common ties of human nature. This made her occasional retirements from that place to the country-seats of some of her peculiarly intimate and honoured friends, doubly delightful to her, as she there enjoyed the solitude she loved, and could converse, without interruption, with those objects of nature, that never failed to inspire her with the most exquisite satisfaction. One of her friends, whom she highly honoured and loved, and of whose hospitable house, and pleasant gardens, she was allowed the freest use, was the late excellent Mrs. Stephens, of Sodbury in Gloucestershire, whose feat she celebrated in a poem inscribed to her, inserted in the collection she published. A lady, that was worthy of the highest commendation her muse could bestow upon her. The fine use she made of solitude, the few following lines me wrote on it, will be an honourable testimony to her.
Sweet solitude, the Muses dear delight, Serene thy day, and peaceful is thy night! Thou nurse of innocence, fair virtue’s friend, Silent, tho’ rapturous, pleasures thee attend. Earth’s verdant scenes, the all surrounding skies Employ my wondring thoughts, and feast my eyes, Nature in ev’ry object points the road, Whence contemplation wings my soul to God. He’s all in all. His wisdom, goodness, pow’r, Spring in each blade, and bloom in ev’ry flow’r, Smile o’er the meads, and bend in ev’ry hill, Glide in the stream, and murmur in the rill All nature moves obedient to his will.
Heav’n shakes, earth trembles, and the forests nod, When awful thunders speak the voice of God.
However, notwithstanding her love of retirement, and the happy improvement she knew how to make of it, yet her firm belief that her station was the appointment of providence, and her earnest desire of being useful to her relations, whom she regarded with the warmest affection, brought her to submit to the fatigues of her business, to which, during thirty-five years, she applied herself with, the utmost diligence and care.
Amidst such perpetual avocations, and constant attention to business, her improvements in knowledge, and her extensive acquaintance with the best writers, are truly surprising. But she well knew the worth of time, and eagerly laid hold of all her leisure hours, not to lavish them away in fashionable unmeaning amusements; but in the pursuit of what she valued infinitely more, those substantial acquisitions of true wisdom and goodness, which she knew were the noblest ornaments of the reasonable mind, and the only sources of real and permanent happiness: and she was the more desirous of this kind of accomplishments, as she had nothing in her shape to recommend her, being grown, by an accident in her childhood, very irregular in her body, which she had resolution enough often to make the subject of her own pleasantry, drawing this wise inference from it, “That as her person would not recommend her, she must endeavour to cultivate her mind, to make herself agreeable.”
And indeed this she did with the greatest care; and she had so many excellent qualities in her, that though her first appearance could never create any prejudice in her favour, yet it was impossible to know her without valuing and esteeming her.
Wherever she professed friendship, it was sincere and cordial to the objects of it; and though she admired whatever was excellent in them, and gave it the commendations it deserved, yet she was not blind to their faults, especially if such as she apprehended to be inconsistent with the character of integrity and virtue. As she thought one of the noblest advantages of real friendship, was the rendering it serviceable mutually to correct, polish, and perfect the characters of those who professed it, and as she was not displeased to be kindly admonished herself for what her friends thought any little disadvantage to her character, so she took the same liberty with others; but used that liberty with such a remarkable propriety, tenderness, and politeness, as made those more sincerely esteem her, with whom she used the greatest freedom, and has lost her no intimacy but with one person, with whom, for particular reasons, she thought herself obliged to break off all correspondence.
Nor could one, who had so perfect a veneration and love for religion and virtue, fail to make her own advantage of the admonitions and reproofs she gave to others: and she often expressed a very great pleasure, that the care she had of those young persons, that were frequently committed to her friendship, put her upon her guard, as to her own temper and conduct, and on a review of her own actions, lest she should any way give them a wrong example, or omit any thing that was really for their good. And if she at any time reflected, that her behaviour to others had been wrong, she, with the greatest ease and frankness, asked the pardon of those she had offended; as not daring to leave to their wrong construction any action of hers, lest they should imagine that she indulged to those faults for which she took the liberty of reproving them. Agreeable to this happy disposition of mind, she gave, in an off-hand manner, the following advice to an intimate friend, who had several children, whom she deservedly honoured, and whom she could not esteem and love beyond his real merits.
To virtue strict, to merit kind,
With temper calm, to trifles blind, Win them to mend the faults they see,
And copy prudent rules from thee.
Point to examples in their sight,
T’avoid, and scorn, and to delight. Then love of excellence inspire,
By hope their emulation fire,
You’ll gain in time your own desire.
She used frequently to complain of herself, as naturally eager, anxious, and peevish. But, by a constant cultivation of that benevolent disposition, that was never inwrought in any heart in a stronger and more prevailing manner than in hers, she, in a good measure, dispossest herself of those inward sources of uneasiness, and was pleased with the victory she had gained over herself, and continually striving to render it more absolute and complete.
Her religion was rational and prevalent. She had, in the former part of her life, great doubts about christianity, during which state of uncertainty, she was one of the most uneasy and unhappy persons living. But her own good sense, her inviolable attachment to religion and virtue, her impartial inquiries, her converse with her believing friends, her study of the best writers in defence of christianity, and the observations she made on the temper and conduct, the fall and ruin of some that had discarded their principles, and the irregularities of others, who never attended to them, fully at last released her from all her doubts, and made her a firm and established christian. The immediate consequence of this was, the return of her peace, the possession of herself, the enjoyment of her friends, and an intire freedom from the terror of any thing that could befall her in the future part of her existence. Thus she lived a pleasure to all who knew her, and being, at length, resolved to disengage herself from the hurries of life, and wrap herself up in that retirement she was so fond of, after having gained what she thought a sufficient competency for one of her moderate desires, and in that station that was allotted her, and settled her affairs to her own mind, she finally quitted the world, and in a manner agreeable to her own wishes, without being suffered to lie long in weakness and pain, a burthen to herself, or those who attended her: dying after about two days illness, in the 58th year of her age, Sept. 11, 1745.
She thought the disadvantages of her shape were such, as gave her no reasonable prospect of being happy in a married state, and therefore chose to continue single. She had, however, an honourable offer from a country gentleman of worth and large fortune, who, attracted merely by the goodness of her character, took a journey of an hundred miles to visit her at Bath, where he made his addresses to her. But she convinced him that such a match could neither be for his happiness, or her own. She had, however, something extremely agreeable and pleasing in her face, and no one could enter into any intimacy of conversation with her, but he immediately lost every disgust towards her, that the first appearance of her person tended to excite in him.
She had the misfortune of a very valetudinary constitution, owing, in some measure, probably to the irregularity of her form. At last, after many years illness, she entered, by the late ingenious Dr. Cheney’s advice, into the vegetable diet, and indeed the utmost extremes of it, living frequently on bread and water; in which she continued so long, as rendered her incapable of taking any more substantial food when she afterwards needed it; for want of which she was so weak as not to be able to support the attack of her last disorder, and which, I doubt not, hastened on her death. But it must be added, in justice to her character, that the ill state of her health was not the only or principal reason that brought her to, and kept her fixed in her resolution, of attempting, and persevering in this mortifying diet. The conquest of herself, and subjecting her own heart more intirely to the command of her reason and principles, was the object she had in especial view in this change of her manner of living; as being firmly persuaded, that the perpetual free use of animal food, and rich wines, tends so to excite and inflame the passions, as scarce to leave any hope or chance, for that conquest of them which she thought not only religion requires, but the care of our own happiness, renders necessary. And the effect of the trial, in her own case, was answerable to her wishes; and what she says of herself in her own humorous epitaph,
_That time and much thought had all passion extinguish’d_,
was well known to be true, by those who were most nearly acquainted with her. Those admirable lines on _Temperance_, in her Bath poem, she penned from a very feeling experience of what she found by her own regard to it, and can never be read too often, as the sense is equal to the goodness of the poetry.
Fatal effects of luxury and ease!
We drink our poison, and we eat disease, Indulge our senses at our reason’s cost, Till sense is pain, and reason hurt, or lost. Not so, O temperance bland! when rul’d by thee, The brute’s obedient, and the man is free. Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest, His veins not boiling from the midnight feast. Touch’d by Aurora’s rosy hand, he wakes Peaceful and calm, and with the world partakes The joyful dawnings of returning day,
For which their grateful thanks the whole creation pay, All but the human brute. ‘Tis he alone, Whose works of darkness fly the rising sun. ‘Tis to thy rules, O temperance, that we owe All pleasures, which from health and strength can flow, Vigour of body, purity of mind,
Unclouded reason, sentiments refin’d, Unmixt, untainted joys, without remorse, Th’ intemperate sinner’s never-failing curse.
She was observed, from her childhood, to have a fondness for poetry, often entertaining her companions, in a winter’s evening, with riddles in verse, and was extremely fond, at that time of life, of Herbert’s poems. And this disposition grew up with her, and made her apply, in her riper years, to the study of the best of our English poets; and before she attempted any thing considerable, sent many small copies of verses, on particular characters and occasions, to her peculiar friends. Her poem on the Bath had the full approbation of the publick; and what sets it above censure, had the commendation of Mr. Pope, and many others of the first rank, for good sense and politeness. And indeed there are many lines in it admirably penn’d, and that the finest genius need not to be ashamed of. It hath ran through several editions; and, when first published, procured her the personal acknowledgments of several of the brightest quality, and of many others, greatly distinguished as the best judges of poetical performances.
She was meditating a nobler work, a large poem on the Being and Attributes of God, which was her favourite subject; and, if one may judge by the imperfect pieces of it, which she left behind her in her papers, would have drawn the publick attention, had she liv’d to finish it.
She was peculiarly happy in her acquaintance, as she had good sense enough to discern that worth in others she justly thought was the foundation of all real friendship, and was so happy as to be honoured and loved as a friend, by those whom she would have wished to be connected with in that sacred character. She had the esteem of that most excellent lady, who was superior to all commendation, the late dutchess of Somerset, then countess of Hertford, who hath done her the honour of several visits, and allowed her to return them at the Mount of Marlborough. Mr. Pope favoured her with his at Bath, and complimented her for her poem on that place. Mrs. Rowe, of Froom, was one of her particular friends. ‘Twould be endless to name all the persons of reputation and fortune whom she had the pleasure of being intimately acquainted with. She was a good woman, a kind relation, and a faithful friend. She had a real genius for poetry, was a most agreeable correspondent, had a large fund of good sense, was unblemished in her character, lived highly esteemed, and died greatly lamented,
_FINIS_.